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Part 1 of Tales of the Fourth Era
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2016-06-15
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2022-10-25
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Rise of the Last Dragonborn

Summary:

Family and honor. The eldest of three children, Sonja Ironheart is your typical first born: stubborn, arrogant, and fiercely protective of her younger siblings. That doesn't mean her younger sister, Anja, always appreciates the lines Sonja crosses and when betrayal, loss, and grief rear their ugly heads, it only serves to drive the sisters further apart. But that doesn't stop Sonja from trying to protect the only family she has left. When Anja leaves Cyrodiil for Skyrim, Sonja follows and is caught crossing the border illegally, tipping her headfirst into an adventure of a lifetime. Follows Sonja from the chopping block to the first of the Seven Thousand Steps. Part 1 of 3.

Mainly follows the main quest line, rewrites the Companions quest line, completely changes the outcome of the Civil War. Sonja's adventure in Skyrim is not just her own; the decisions she makes change the lives of those around her and they must find their own way forward.

I'm back. :)

Chapter 1: Unbound

Summary:

Sonja wakes in the back of a cart headed for Helgen with very little memory of the events that put her there. What went wrong when she tried crossing the border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim? She's not quite sure, but now she's headed for the block with the others. When the timely arrival of a massive black dragon interrupts her execution, she escapes Helgen with an unlikely ally. Follows the starting quest Unbound.

Notes:

To view English translations of words and phrases written in the Dovahzul, mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Dovahzul translations are taken from Thuum.org.

Reader Beware: I am very long winded. Everything about my writing is very lengthy and detailed. Few of my chapters are fewer than ten pages long on Word, single spaced. The entirety of this fanfic alone is well over 150 chapters because reasons. If that's not your thing, that's fine, but this probably isn't the fanfic for you. If this is your cup of tea, then you're in luck because I have an ungodly amount of material to deliver unto you.

You have been warned.

That being said, this is one of the lengthier chapters.

Mods that appear in this chapter: Beginner's Shack by Other M on Steam.

Update 12.1.18: Obviously, I own nothing of the Elder Scrolls story I'm playing with; I'm just having fun. For the full "This isn't my shit, please don't sue me" declaration, please see the Disclaimer: Not a Chapter chapter of this fanfic. Thanks.

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of death/execution, serious burns, and threat of death and thoughts of suicide.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja’s body gave a violent jolt and she fell forward; her knees connected with the hard floor of the cart and her forehead smashed into the corner of the bench across from her. She let out a low moan and she heard the muffled grunts of a man’s voice straining against a gag. “Hadvar,” said another voice, “This one’s fallen over. Help her.”

A horse galloped to the side of the cart. With a lurch they came to a halt and the man on horseback dismounted. “How did she fall?” he asked, and she felt the cart sink with his weight.

“I don’t know,” another voice answered, “She was fine a moment ago and then she started shaking until she tumbled forward.”

Large, rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and hefted her back into her seat. “Gods,” Hadvar breathed, “Did you have to hit her so hard Skjan? No wonder she’s shaking. You split her head wide open.”

“She’s a traitor,” another man replied, “She deserves far worse.”

“I swear, Hadvar,” said the man in the cart across from her, “I’ve never seen her before. She’s not with us.”

“Or me,” said the man sitting beside her, “I don’t know what she was doing out there—but she was on her own business.”

“That’s for the General to decide,” Hadvar sighed, “It might not matter, though. She might not make it to Helgen in this state.” He withdrew, mounted his horse and the cart jumped forward, creaking.


It was night and two soldiers had to carry Sonja off the cart. “What in Oblivion happened to this one?” this man spoke with a distinctive Imperial accent; Sonja recognized it but was unable to open her eyes or speak.

“In the heat of battle, Skjan struck her a little too hard, sir,” Hadvar explained, “He said she pulled a weapon on him when he approached. She did leave his face a little worse for wear, but…” he trailed off.

“But what, soldier?”

“We don’t even know who she is, sir,” Hadvar continued in a low tone, “I don’t think she’s one of Ulfric’s and she doesn’t appear to be associated with the horse thief, either.”

“Then what the blazes was she doing out there?”

“I don’t know, sir—but she might be innocent…” Hadvar began.

“I’ll decide that when you reach Helgen,” the other man interrupted, “In the meantime, I’m leaving Captain Rila in charge. I’m riding ahead tonight, to greet the Thalmor emissaries at Helgen in the morning. I expect to see you by late afternoon, tomorrow.”

“Understood, sir,” Hadvar replied, “Should I do anything about the girl in the meantime?”

There was a long pause. “Tend to her wounds, if it will ease your conscious,” he said at last, “But don’t waste too much time.”

“Of course, sir.”


Sonja had fallen unconscious while Hadvar tended to her head injury. The pain was a great deal more intense than she had been prepared for. She did not wake again until the next day. And then she was able to open her eyes and could make sense of the sounds and smells surrounding her. Before, her senses had been a tangled and confused mess of pain and static. She coughed and moaned at the dull throb in her head. “Gods,” she breathed and leaned back. The afternoon sun was a bit too bright for her eyes, but she managed to look around. Snow. Frigid air. The scent of the alpine wilderness. She had finally made it to Skyrim—in the worse way imaginable.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake,” said the blonde Nord seated directly across from her.

“How long was I out?” she asked, her voice raspy and barely above a whisper.

“Three days,” answered the dark-haired man beside her, “The entire time we’ve been traveling.”

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” the Nord in front of Sonja asked.

She looked at him dubiously. “Aye.”

“Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there,” he jerked his head in the direction of the man sitting to her right.

She turned to look at the man, frowning. She didn’t care what he was stealing as long as he wasn’t the reason she was tied up in the back of a wagon with a throbbing headache. “Thief?” she repeated, eyebrow raised, “Of what?”

“Damn you Stormcloaks!” he growled at the blonde, “Skyrim was fine until you came along!” He shook his head and leaned back, scowling, “Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You there,” he turned to Sonja, “You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

Stormcloaks. That was a name Sonja knew. News of the Civil War in Skyrim was not easy to come by in Cyrodiil for the common individual. Generally speaking, all they knew was that there was some overzealous Nord lord who took issue with the terms of the White-Gold Concordat and started a war over it. That it was bad enough to put traveling and trade restrictions on the borders of Skyrim. But Sonja still had friends in high enough places to catch a bit more than the average Imperial citizen. Enough to know the war was far worse than the Empire let on—that the Stormcloaks were winning. She glanced at the small caravan of wagons bearing bound soldiers all dressed in the same blue armor. A dozen Stormcloaks, at least. “I doubt the Empire will be so merciful as to discriminate at this point,” she soberly observed, “Not with so many captured.”

“They’ve been waiting a long time to get their hands on us,” the blonde Nord added apologetically, “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now.” He shook his head, frowning.

“Shut up back there!” the carriage driver snapped, though no one afforded him more than a dark glance.

“What’s his problem?” asked the dark-haired Nord to Sonja’s right. He gestured toward the gagged and bound man across from him.

“Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!” the blonde Nord nearly bellowed.

“Ulfric, the Jarl of Windhelm?” the thief said with surprise, “You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they’ve captured you…oh gods! Where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” the Nord replied evenly, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No! This can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”

Sonja remained silent, her eyes sliding shut for the briefest of moments. She was not yet terrified of the prospect of execution, largely because waking up in the back of that wagon felt like some sort of warped dream. Any moment now, she could wake up and find herself back in her bed in the Imperial City, the entire misadventure nothing more than a vivid nightmare. But when she opened her eyes again, there was only the cold mountain air in her face, the chill of snow on the slope, the scent of pine on the wind, the rough and uneven texture of the wooden bench beneath her body, and the company of her fellow condemned. It wasn’t a dream. The pain in her head and in her bound wrists silently declared her unfortunate situation a reality. She was going to die and maybe she deserved it after the life she had lived. Maybe it had been a long way coming.

“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?” the blonde Nord asked.

“Why do you care?” he replied bitterly.

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

“R—Rorikstead. I’m from Rorikstead.”

“And you?” he turned to face Sonja again, “Where are you from? You look like my kinsmen, but you don’t speak as we do.”

“I have no home now,” she paused, “But my mother was a Nord of Skyrim. From Whiterun.”

“You came to honor your mother’s family?”

“Aye,” she replied curtly. It was more or less true. At least, her younger sister Anja had come to Skyrim to honor their mother’s final wishes and bring her ashes to rest in the Hall of the Dead in Whiterun. Sonja hadn’t thought Anja would make it to the border before turning around and coming back home, but the younger sister proved she was made of sterner mettle than Sonja had credited her with and made it into Skyrim alive. Sonja, herself, had only come to find her sister. Whether to bring her back to Cyrodiil or make a new home in Skyrim, she hadn’t decided yet. There was nothing left for them in the Imperial City, nothing to go back to.

“Then you die with your kinsmen this day,” the blonde Nord offered, no doubt thinking it would be a comfort to her when all it did was remind her of the family she no longer had. “And go with us to Sovngarde.”

“To Sovngarde,” she echoed softly, thinking of her mother. Sonja had never been particularly religious. She had gone to Temple with her father when she was younger because he had insisted upon it, but as soon as she was old enough to refuse, she did. From her mother, she learned of the Nordic faith, of Shor and Talos, but felt it little more than superstition. She wondered if believing in Sovngarde granted the Nord greater peace with dying than her absence of belief gifted her.

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!” a female Imperial officer said urgently to a man accompanying two high elves in dark robes. The suddenness of the officer’s voice caused Sonja to start, and she looked away from the man sitting across from her, aware now that she had been absently staring at him.

“Good, let’s get this over with,” General Tullius growled. Sonja recognized his voice. Vaguely she remembered slipping in and out of consciousness earlier and marking the accent. He was an Imperial amongst Nords. He might have known her father.

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh, Divines, please help me!” the thief exclaimed as he rocked back and forth in his seat.

“Look at him! General Tullius, the military governor,” the Nord sneered, “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him! Damn elves. I bet they have something to do with this!” The procession entered a small town that seemed to have sprung to life around the large fort at the far end. The Nord looked around. “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilad is still making that mead with juniper berries.” He grew quiet and mused, “Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

“I know what you mean…” Sonja said, but it had been a long time since Imperial walls and the soldiers patrolling them made her feel anything but dread and remorse.

The townspeople gathered along the road, coming out of their houses, the inn, and the shops. A father and his son came out of their home and the boy raced to the rail of the front porch. He climbed it and leaned over, examining the soldiers and their prisoners. “Who are they, da?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Go inside, little cub,” his father said sternly, his face hard and concerned.

“Why? I wanted to watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house! Now!”

The boy sighed and turned away. “Yes, father,” he said grudgingly.

The carriage turned the corner and lurched to a stop just outside the courtyard of the fort. The thief looked around anxiously. “Why are we stopping?” he asked, nervously.

“Why do you think?” the Nord shook his head, “End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Sonja muttered darkly.

The soldiers were beginning to unload the prisoners from the other carts. “No wait! We’re not rebels!” the thief exclaimed, desperately.

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” the Nord snapped. Ulfric disembarked with as much dignity as his bindings would allow.

The thief had to be forcibly removed from his seat. “You’ve got to tell them we weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

“Come along lass,” the soldier barked beckoning to Sonja.

She took one last look at the Nord across from her. “I never asked where you were from,” she said as she rose to her feet.

“Riverwood,” he replied, “Just down the road aways from here.”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” she said as she jumped down from the carriage.

“Aye, kinswoman,” he said when he stepped down beside her, “That they should.”

“Step toward the block as we call your name,” the female officer instructed, “One at a time!”

“Empire loves their damned lists,” the Nord muttered under his breath.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” Hadvar called, consulting the list in his hands.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the Nord said as the gagged nobleman stepped forward and strode toward the execution block, coolly.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” Hadvar said with an obvious frown.

Halfway to the block, Ralof paused and turned toward Hadvar. “I want you to take my body to Gerdur, yourself, Hadvar.” The other man nearly refused, his face bunching up in a scowl, but abruptly his expression softened, and he nodded his consent. “I want you to see her face so you can see what the Empire is really doing to the sons and daughters of Skyrim.”

“To the block, prisoner!” the officer barked, “Don’t speak to the prisoners, Hadvar.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hadvar returned his attention to the list as Ralof took his place at Ulfric’s side, but he looked troubled, “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” the thief pleaded with every nearby soldier before he sprinted back the way the carriages had arrived.

The female officer bared her teeth, “Halt!” she growled, but the thief continued to run, nearly disappearing around the bend near the house where Sonja had seen the father and son.

“You’re not gonna kill me!” Lokir yelled triumphantly over his shoulder. He thought he was home-free.

The officer raised a hand, “Archers!” The hand fell, the arrow was loosed, and Lokir fell dead just shy of the porch where earlier the boy had been watching with anticipation. Sonja exhaled sharply, unsure if she pitied Lokir for his cowardice or was envious of the brief freedom he felt before the arrow pierced his heart. “Anyone else feel like running?” the officer addressed the group at large, but her eyes bore into Sonja’s face.

“Wait, you there,” Hadvar pointed at Sonja, “Step forward.” Sonja clenched her fists tightly before moving toward Hadvar. “Who are you?” he asked.

It would be easy enough to give a false name. One that wouldn’t catch any attention and she could go quietly to the chopping block with the rest. The prospect thrilled her a little. Was it wrong to desire an end to everything? All the suffering she had endured? The painful memories she wore as scars across her body? “I am Sonja Draconis of the Imperial City, daughter of Captain Remus Draconis of the Imperial City Guard and Freydis Ironheart of Whiterun,” she replied, honestly, feeling a weight settle heavily in her stomach when recognition sparked in both the General and Hadvar’s faces.

General Tullius marched over to Hadvar and looked Sonja over. “I knew Remus,” he stated, “He was a good man and died bravely.”

“I know of her mother,” Hadvar muttered, “Her family still lives in Whiterun.”

“Hmm,” Tullius was silent a moment, “Why were you found in the company of traitors, Draconis?”

“Inconvenient timing,” Sonja explained, “I’m here in Skyrim to find my sister.”

“A likely story,” one of the Thalmor emissaries interrupted, gliding over to join the conversation, “We cannot trust the word of any of these prisoners. They would say anything to avoid death now. What proof is there that she is who she says she is?”

“Well, she certainly looks like Remus,” Tullius offered, but he paused, “So what do you suggest? Send her to the block with the others?”

“It is the only way to ensure the complete destruction of Ulfric’s rebellion,” the Thalmor said, turning hateful eyes upon Sonja, “If she is innocent, then she is a regrettable casualty.”

Tullius was obviously outraged by the Thalmor’s tactless attitude toward the innocent, but Sonja realized that he didn’t have much of a choice other than to comply. He was not in charge of this summary trial and execution. “Captain Rila, Hadvar, please continue,” the General ordered through clenched teeth.

Sonja straightened and held her head high; she wouldn’t face her death cowering and whimpering, and she had done what she could to save her own life short of running like Lokir. It would all be over soon. “You picked a bad time to come to Skyrim,” Hadvar said sadly, “Kinswoman,” he added quietly.

“To the block prisoner,” Captain Rila commanded.

Sonja turned stiffly and moved toward the block; she stopped beside Ralof who greeted her with a sad, half-hearted smile. “I’m sorry,” he whispered; she didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything to say.

Tullius stood in front of the crowd of prisoners and addressed the bound jarl. “Ulfric Stormcloak, some call you a hero,” he said, “But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war and plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!”

A loud, throaty roar tore through the sky and everyone’s faces titled upward with surprise. “What was that?” the captain asked, searching the skies. It could have been a troll or a bear. Helgen was nestled at the base of a mountain pass. The cries could echo for miles.

Tullius’ gaze lingered on the clouds. “It’s nothing,” he said at length, “Carry on.”

“Yes, General Tullius!” she turned to the Priestess of Arkay, “Give them their last rights.”

The priestess nodded, raised her hands above her head in worship, and began, “As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the eight Divines…”

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with!” A Stormcloak soldier from one of the other carts barreled through his brothers-and-sisters-at-arms to the front.

“As you wish,” the priestess replied indignantly and backed away from the execution block.

“Come on! I haven’t got all morning!” he bellowed fearlessly. Sonja’s stomach tightened. He reminded her of her brother. Foolish. Proud. Fearless. And so young. Too young. He dropped to his knees and Captain Rila forced him forward, onto the block, with her foot in his back. He grinned triumphantly at her and the headsman. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” The headsman gave his answer in the heavy fall of his axe and the young soldier’s head fell into the waiting basket. Blood sprayed everywhere, leaving a fine mist of it on the ground.

“You Imperial bastards!” one of the female Stormcloak soldiers shrieked; she was crying.

“Justice!” yelled an onlooker.

“Death to the Stormcloaks!” cried one of the Imperial soldiers.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” Ralof said to the weeping Stormcloak woman, “Your brother has gone to Sovngarde.”

Sonja felt a profound pain in her chest. She knew what it was like to lose a brother. To watch him die right before her very eyes. She looked to the grieving sister, wanting to say something but failing to find the words. Nothing could ease her pain and the poor girl would face execution soon anyway. “May Talos watch over him,” she said at last. The girl wiped her tears and nodded her gratitude to Sonja. Ralof offered a look of approval.

“Next, the Imperial!” Captain Rila yelled. Some of the onlookers yelled with approval and excitement. They were only there for a show. All they wanted was to see someone die. But a second roar covered the crowd’s cheer and drowned it out. Sonja took the first few steps confidently, almost longingly as she approached the block, but the second roar had caused her step to falter slightly, her eyes searching the sky above. In the pit of her stomach, she felt cold—not because she was headed for the chopping block, but because she sensed something drawing ever closer.

“There it is again,” Hadvar exclaimed, “Did you hear that?”

“I said, NEXT PRISONER,” Captain Rila repeated angrily.

“To the block, Sonja, nice and easy,” Hadvar instructed kindly, as if coaxing a frightened animal to slaughter. Sonja took a few more steps, lingering a second longer on the last one. Her thoughts were of her family and of her failings. She thought wistfully of her younger brother and sister with remorse. Who would honor Thornir’s memory and look after their sister once she was dead? Corvus drifted through her thoughts as well and she closed her eyes in a moment of profound regret and wished she could apologize to her deceased parents. It’s all too late now, she thought darkly, It can’t be undone.

As soon as she was close enough to the block, the captain grabbed her roughly and forced her to her knees. Just as she had done before, she forced Sonja’s head onto the block with her foot in her back. Sonja’s head made a dull thud when in smacked against the thick wooden block. The blood from the last prisoner coated her face and she slid a fraction of an inch further. She looked up at the headsman and held her breath. The large man adjusted his grip on his axe and prepared to heft it above his head, but just before he lifted it, Sonja spied a terrifying and unbelievable sight. Over the headsman’s left shoulder, Sonja could see one of the towers of the fort and soaring just above it was a giant winged beast with smoldering eyes and sharp fangs and claws. It was larger than anything she had ever seen and cut through the sky like a fish through water. Sonja’s eyes widened in disbelief, and she gasped in surprise, unable to formulate the words necessary to describe what she was seeing. The headsman raised his axe, unaware of what flew behind him.

“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius yelled out, spotting the beast. The headsman paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Sentry, what do you see?” the captain asked as she moved to find a better position.

“It’s in the town!” a woman screamed as the beast landed on the tower just behind the headsman. The force of its wings knocked the man over and his axe fell harmlessly to the side. Sonja struggled to sit up from the block.

“Dragon!” The town was a chaotic mess of terrified people and panicking soldiers. Everyone was either trying to run away or engage the dragon in battle. The dragon cut another terrifying roar and the sky above its head darkened. The wind picked up and flaming stones and lightning pelted the earth forcefully. All thought of willfully embracing execution was pushed clean from Sonja’s mind and she struggled to flee with the rest of the panicking prisoners and villagers. She was halfway on her feet when the dragon roared again, knocking her sideways. She hit her head, her ears rang, and her vision blurred. It took her several moments to realize someone was calling her name.

“Sonja! Get up! Come on! The gods won’t give us another chance!” Ralof shouted. Sonja shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. Ralof was in the doorway of the southern tower, waving frantically for her to come toward him. She ran, dodging the falling rocks as best she could, but the last one sent her tumbling forward, through the door into Ralof’s arms. He kicked the door shut and set her on the floor. He was free of his bindings. “Hold still,” he said, “Let me cut you loose.” Sonja obeyed and was soon free. She rubbed her wrists and looked around.

Ulfric was also in the tower, unbound and pressed against the curve of the wall for cover. His dark piercing eyes briefly fell upon Sonja, his expression strange and unreadable. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to say something to her, but then Ralof spoke, claiming his attention. “What is that thing?” the younger Nord exclaimed, “Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” the Jarl replied coolly, but he glanced again in Sonja’s direction thoughtfully. Again, he was distracted as the dragon’s tirade intensified and shook the entire tower. “We need to move! Now!” he ordered.

Sonja’s eyes darted to Ralof. His loyalty lies with his jarl, she thought frantically, I can’t depend on any further help from him. Before Ralof could turn around to address Sonja again, she was already on her feet, scrambling up the stone steps to the second level of the tower, hoping some elevation would grant her some much needed perspective. She didn’t know Helgen’s layout, after all. “Hey, wait!” Ralof called after her.

Just before she reached the top of the stairway, a roar announced the arrival of the dragon. It burst through the weakened wall, killing two Stormcloak soldiers, one of which Sonja recognized as the woman whose brother was executed earlier. The dragon breathed fire into the opening and Sonja retreated several steps, her right hand up to shield her face; the heat seared the skin of her forearm, and she snarled in pain. Her retreat was halted by Ralof who had trailed after her up the stairs. He wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the heat. “Stay down,” he commanded; she didn’t dare disobey and clutched her injured hand to her chest. The fire stopped and the dragon flew away, apparently content that it had killed whoever was in the tower. Sonja and Ralof continued up the stairs and looked out through the giant aperture. “Look!” Ralof pointed to the ruined roof of the adjacent home—the home of the boy. “Jump through the roof and keep going!”

Sonja nodded and prepared to jump from the tower but stopped. “You’re not coming with me?” She hadn’t expected him to earlier, but he did follow her up the stairs.

“My place is with Ulfric,” he said sternly.

“Come with me,” she pleaded.

“Go!” he said, “Before it’s too late.” Sonja groaned and hurled herself from the tower into the burning roof of the nearby house.

The smoldering patches of straw thatch broke her fall. “Damnit!” she cursed and grit her teeth against the pain. The stench of burnt flesh filled her lungs from her own limb and throughout the village as others sizzled in the dragon’s flames. The smoke thickened in the upper level of the house, stinging Sonja’s eyes and she stumbled forward, her good hand clamped over her mouth and nose. There was an opening in the floor where the floorboards had collapsed under the weight of falling debris and fire. She fell through it, unable to see where she was going. Sonja hit the floor with a loud thud that pushed the air from her lungs.

“Sonja?” It was Hadvar. He ran into the burning house and pulled her out, coughing and sputtering. “Are you alright?”

She wheezed and tried to answer him, but the boy caught her attention. He was standing out in the open, trying to shake his father’s mangled corpse awake. “The boy,” she coughed, pointing. Hadvar followed her gesture and ran toward the child. He stopped short as the dragon came swooping low to ground. Hadvar called to the boy, gesturing to him urgently. It took longer than anyone would have liked, but the boy relented and gave up his father’s body to join Hadvar just before the dragon could claim him.

Sonja let out a long low sigh of relief and leaned back against what remained of another destroyed house. She winced and took a look at her arm. The skin was melted and painful, but not bleeding or otherwise oozing; Sonja was surprised that the injury was not much worse. The adrenaline pumping through her body went a long way toward staving off the worst of the pain, but she still took a moment to refocus her energies and heal her injured arm. The healing magic rippled across her arm, and she felt the pain ease, but the flesh did not smooth over and heal. Sonja flexed her hand stiffly and frowned. Damned thing’s nearly useless…But she couldn’t afford to concern herself with her hand much longer. With the pain under control, she stumbled to her feet and ran as soon as the dragon had taken to the sky again. Hadvar followed and yelled to her to stay close to him since he was armed. Sonja scoffed and did little to stay near the soldier. It hadn’t appeared that the other armed men and women were having much effect on the dragon, and she forged ahead, searching for a way out of the town.

The gates had been closed. Why in Oblivion did they do that? It flies! You can’t keep it out with a damned gate! Growling in frustration, she was forced to change direction and headed for the fort proper with Hadvar close on her heels. In the courtyard, Ralof appeared again, crawling out from beneath some fiery debris. “Ralof! You damned traitor! Out of my way!” Hadvar bellowed.

“We’re escaping this time, Hadvar, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us!” Ralof yelled back.

“Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” Hadvar retorted. The two men glared at one another and continued shouting, each beckoning to Sonja to follow him. Without thinking, she took Ralof’s hand and sprinted toward the fort.

Just before she was able to duck through the door after him, she heard the strangest and most terrifying sound. The dragon spoke. “Hi nis Viik dovah, joore! Zu’u los dinok unahzaal![1]” Its voice was monstrous, and the tone of it grate against Sonja’s bones, awakening a very basic instinct to fear, to run, to hide. She bolted inside then, slamming the door shut behind her.


“We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, brother,” Ralof sighed, bending over the corpse of his fallen brother-in-arms and placing a hand across his forehead, brushing some of his dark hair from his face.

Sonja listened to him mutter a prayer over the body. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, feeling the urgency of the situation build outside the door with every shudder of the building, knocking dust and loose gravel from the cracks and pits between the stone. It clashed with the tender reverence Ralof was affording his fallen comrade.

“Many have died already,” he said, standing, “And more will die before the end. It is the way of things.”

“The way of war.”

Ralof cast her a sideways glance and nodded. “Aye, the way of war,” he agreed and then he looked Sonja over in full, appraising every injury to decide how useful she might prove in a fight. “You might as well take Gunjar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Sonja looked at her traveling gear, singed by fire and stained by blood, but still warm, still useful, and still bearing the enchantments she needed to bolster her magic use. “I’m fine,” she said, crossing her arms defensively over her worn fur and leather armor.

Ralof was obviously not convinced. “Take his weapon at least,” he insisted. When Sonja didn’t move, he shrugged, “Suit yourself, but I can’t protect you all the time.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she assured him.

Again, Ralof did not seem convinced, but he didn’t say as much. Instead, he went to the gate that led deeper into the fort and experimentally tried the latch. When it didn’t open, he shook the bars and grunted in frustration. “This one’s locked.” He glanced back at the other gate on the opposite wall. “Let’s see about that one.” He rushed to it only to meet with defeat a second time. “Damn. No way to open this from our side.”

Sonja frowned, beginning to think she should have gone with Hadvar instead, and looked around the room. She wasn’t much of a thief, but she had known her fair share of them, Corvus not least amongst them, and had learned a thing or two about lockpicking. Unfortunately, her lockpicks had been confiscated with the rest of her gear when she was captured and from the barren look of the room, she doubted there was anything she could use to force either gate open.

Before either Ralof or Sonja could come up with another way forward, the sound of heavy booted footsteps, clinking armor, and a commanding voice shouting orders echoed down the hall. “It’s the Imperials!” Ralof hissed, “Take cover!” Sonja stepped back in the shadow of the doorway they had come through and waited, hoping the Imperial soldiers could be reasoned with considering they had bigger problems soaring the skies. But as the soldiers drew closer and the sounds of the officer’s voice grew clearer, Sonja recognized her as the captain overseeing the execution. Captain Rila didn’t strike her as particularly reasonable.

Sure enough, the moment the gate release was activated, and the Imperial soldiers saw Ralof, they drew their swords. “DIE STORMCLOAK!” the captain bellowed, and she lunged, eyes murderous.

Sonja knew Ralof needed her help. He was a good soldier, an excellent fighter, and managed to hold off attacks from both Captain Rila and her underling with sheer quickness alone, but he couldn’t keep it up forever. Eventually, he’d slip up, move too slow, or miscalculate a reaction time and when they were done with him, they’d go after her. She knew this and still she hesitated because for all the danger and necessity of the situation, they still wore Imperial armor. Uniforms her father and brother fought and died in. “SONJA!” Ralof yelled.

His desperate cry for help was enough to spur Sonja into action and she ran out into the middle of the room, catching the edge of Captain Rila’s sword with her conjured one before it met Ralof’s flesh. The purple flames of conjuration licked at the cruel edges of the Daedric weapon and cast an ominous glow across Ralof’s surprised expression. She conjured a second sword and leveraged her weapons against Rila, kicking her backward with her boot firmly planted against her belt. Ralof continued to fight the other soldier while Sonja battled the captain.

At some point during the struggle, Captain Rila managed to catch the edge of the blade in Sonja’s left hand and sent it flying from her grip. The conjured weapon disappeared in a flash of light before it hit the ground. The soft aftershock caused by its shift back into its realm caused the dirt and dust to skitter across the stone floor. But the second Sonja’s hand was relieved of the sword, she gathered flames in it and released several blasts in quick succession into Rila’s face and chest until the captain crumpled beneath the heat of her magic, dead.

The smell of chard flesh filled her nostrils once again as she stood over the dead woman’s body, her Imperial armor chard, but still red and the Imperial crest and rank still visible on her chest. It was a horrifying reminder of how her brother died and she felt her stomach heave. She turned away and leaned heavily against the wall, releasing her remaining conjured sword, as she tried to vomit, but nothing came. She had been unconscious for the last few days and had not eaten. Suddenly, she felt very weak and shivered against the stone. She was revived somewhat when she felt a pair of rough hands grip her shoulders. Gaining momentum by pushing off the wall, she swung her elbow back to catch the nose of whoever had put hands on her. “It’s me!” Ralof declared, narrowly avoiding the force of the blow as he ducked.

“Oh,” Sonja stopped trying to cause him bodily harm and glanced at the second Imperial body Ralof had hacked to death with his axes. She forced herself to look elsewhere.

“You’re a mage.” It wasn’t a question.

“Battlemage.”

Ralof’s expression darkened. “Like those with the Imperial Legion?”

“No, I’m not with the Legion,” she answered sternly, “I’m a spellsword.”

It was obvious from his expression that he did not believe her. “Be careful who you tell that.”

“Why?”

“Nords are not fond of magic.”

Sonja frowned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ralof searched her expression for a long time, noting her unease after killing Captain Rila. “You’ve never killed anyone before?” he asked.

“Too many,” she replied.

“Then why…?”

“We should keep moving,” she interrupted before abruptly kneeling beside Rila’s corpse and searching it for keys. When she found what she was looking for, she tossed the ring to Ralof to open the gate forward while she lingered over the captain’s body. “Forgive me,” she muttered softly. Whether her apology was meant for Ralof for failing to come to his aid sooner, for Rila for taking her life without mercy, or for Thornir for dishonoring his memory, she didn’t know, but she followed her Stormcloak ally deeper into the fort the instant she heard the gate swing back on its hinges. There was nowhere to go now, but onward. If nothing else, she had to fight to find Anja. She couldn’t fail her sister. Not again. 


Getting through the fort had not been easy. Despite the presence of a fire-breathing dragon terrorizing the village outside, the Imperial soldiers and Stormcloaks found themselves too consumed by their desire to kill each other to set aside their differences long enough to save the villagers trapped inside Helgen or to get out themselves. Sonja had been forced to fight her way through more Imperials who only saw her has an ally to a Stormcloak. But she and Ralof made it through the fort and into an adjoining set of tunnels where the wall had collapsed in the dungeons.

Once they stepped out into the bright sun of the afternoon, Sonja raised her hand to shield her eyes. There was another monstrous roar and Ralof grabbed her around the waist, pulling her down beside him behind a large boulder. Overhead, the black dragon soared away, cutting through the air with dangerous grace. “I think it’s gone,” he whispered.

“Let’s get a move on before it decides to come back,” Sonja replied and she stepped out from behind the rock, beckoning for Ralof to follow her. “Where’s the nearest town?” she asked.

“Just a ways down the road,” he answered, “My hometown of Riverwood.”

“Lead the way, then,” she insisted and the pair of them made their way down the slope of the hill to the road.


Sonja had been reluctant to meet Ralof’s sister. She preferred to part ways as soon as they made it to town instead, hoping to take what meager supplies and armor she had scavenged from Helgen to the blacksmith and the general store. “Gerdur can help us,” Ralof insisted, “Get us food and a place to sleep.”

“Her help is for her brother,” Sonja argued, “Not for a stranger.”

Ralof’s brow furrowed. “You are not in Cyrodiil anymore, Draconis,” he said, “All Nords are kinsmen here and we take care of our own.”

“When you’re not busy killing each other, of course,” she pointed out.

Ralof frowned. “Gerdur has enough to spare for the woman who saved her brother’s life,” he continued, “It’s the least I can do.”

Sonja hesitated. Her alliance with Ralof had been conditional on their mutual need to escape the dragon terrorizing Helgen and the Imperial soldiers baying for their blood. Now that the immediate danger was passed, what did she really know of the man offering her food and shelter? Was he trustworthy? What was he playing at, trying to lure her into his family home? “I’ll think about it,” she replied stiffly before pushing passed him to barter with the blacksmith.


After Sonja had made what trades she could and little coin there was to be had, she set out for the inn to see how much a room might be. Night was fast approaching, and Skyrim was far too cold for her to consider curling up under a tree somewhere. As she made her way, she caught sight of Ralof sitting on the giant tree stump near the mill where he had met with his sister earlier. He was leaning back on one hand, tossing pebbles into the slow-moving waters of the river, sipping mead and picking at the assortment of food Gerdur had brought out to him: a loaf of bread, salted meat, an apple, and some soft cheese.

Silently, Sonja jingled her small purse of a scant few coins. She had sold everything that remained of her father’s estate when she left to find Anja. It had been the only way to raise enough coin to go after her at the time, but she’d lost it all at the border. Now she was reduced to the handful of gold she carefully haggled into her pocket. Definitely not enough to afford the inn and a proper meal. Her stomach growled in agreement. She hadn’t eaten in days. Taking Ralof up on his offer of food and shelter was looking more attractive by the second. Swallowing her pride, she abandoned her plans for the inn and made her way to the lounging Stormcloak soldier. “Glad to be home?” she asked as she approached.

Ralof chuckled, “Earlier today, I didn’t think I would live to ever see my home again.”

“I’m not sure if we were lucky to be attacked by a dragon in the middle of our execution or not,” she replied, “What kind of luck sends a dragon to raze a village?”

“And yet, here we are,” Ralof pointed out.

“Indeed,” Sonja actually smiled, surprised that she was genuinely pleased to be alive, despite her earlier death wish. It was the first time Ralof had seen such an expression on her face. Though, to be fair, there wasn’t much to smile about in the midst of an execution and dragon attack. Still, he thought her an attractive woman when brooding, but even more so when she finally cracked a smile. “I was just headed to the inn for the night,” she continued, “When I saw you sitting here and I thought—I might take you up on your offer.”

Ralof’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn’t think you keen on my hospitality.”

Sonja’s smile melted into a frown. “I changed my mind,” she replied defensively, “But if the offer’s no good, I’ll go to the inn.” She turned to leave, but Ralof caught her arm.

“Of course the offer’s still good,” he sighed, “Sit. Eat with me. Let’s give thanks that we are yet breathing to enjoy this meal at all.”

“Alright.” Sonja felt a little of her unease dissipate as she sunk onto the tree trunk beside him. The sun was low, nearly set and some enthusiastic torchbugs were already out. The meal laid out did look very appetizing. She accepted the mead he offered her and drank deeply. Her mother being a Nord, their house had never been in short supply of mead, but it tasted better in Skyrim, somehow.

The golden sunset reflected off the river as they ate, casting a warm glow over their faces. It had been a long time since Ralof had been in the company of a beautiful woman. He had given so much of his life over to Ulfric’s cause that he had quite forgotten about everything else. But, on that day, he could forget about Ulfric and the Stormcloaks. He had just had a brush with death and managed to escape it with Sonja’s help. On that day, he could pretend that his life was simpler. That there was no civil war or injustice. On that day, he could just enjoy a meal with a lovely woman without worrying about the next day, or all the days before it.

They ate and laughed. Ralof didn’t dare ask her more about her past than he had already. It was obvious to him that she was the sort to keep to herself and that was fine with him. He didn’t want to spoil the mood. After the sun went down, they laid back across the stump and stared up at the stars. Ralof told Sonja many stories about the constellations he knew, and she compared them to the ones she heard growing up in Cyrodiil. In the cool night air, she felt almost giddy. It must be the mead…she reasoned; she had had plenty. “Do you fancy a swim?” Ralof asked her jokingly, fully aware of how cold the water would be. There were several lanterns lining the walkways and some of the riverbanks, and in the dim light, the softer currents of the river seemed inviting.

“You know, I think I would.” Sonja hopped off the stump and skipped to the water, shedding her clothing as she went.

She waded into the water in her small clothes, shivering from the cold. Ralof grinned, thanked his lucky stars, and followed her in. Sonja cast a few Fire Runes upstream to warm the water as it flowed toward them and soon enough the pair began to splash and horse about like the drunken louts they were. When the play got too rowdy, Ralof quieted Sonja by pulling her close and kissing her, silencing her loud laughter. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise before she allowed herself to enjoy the moment and deepen the kiss. They stood there, waist deep in the river, kissing, until Sonja’s runes expired, and the current became abruptly cold. They yelped, shivering, and staggered out of the river, gathering their shed clothing and armor along the way.

Not wanting to return to his sister’s house and wake the whole family with their drunken spectacle, Ralof stumbled toward the mill. There was a small shack in the recess near the sawed logs. He opened it and inside were an assortment of storage containers, a bedroll, lantern, weapon rack, and wood axe. “Gerdur set it up for me to use whenever I needed to lay low to avoid the Imperials,” he explained when Sonja looked inside, perplexed, “You can stay here as long as you like. Store what you like, sleep here. Neither you nor your things will be disturbed.”

“Where will you go?” she asked, edging closer to the door, to block the cold from abusing her mostly naked body.

Ralof hesitated. What he really wanted was for her to invite him to stay with her or follow him to the inn but didn’t think luck was on his side when it came to that. “The inn,” he answered eventually, “Delphine likes me well enough. She’ll let me pay her in the morning.”

Sonja nodded absently and looked inside the small shack again. It wasn’t particularly well insulated, or large, or clean, but it offered protection from the elements and safety from wayward threats. Best of all it was free; she didn’t have to shell out coin for it or give her body over to his enjoyment for the night if she didn’t want to. She saw it for what it was: Ralof’s attempt to respect her boundaries, her preference to be alone. It erased the last of any of her lingering doubts. “Thank you,” she said, tossing her things haphazardly over the barrels at the back of the shack, “It’s—cozy.”

Ralof handed over the key to the shack. “It’s warmer than it looks,” he assured amused, and he turned to make the embarrassing trek to the inn, soaking wet, and in his smalls when Sonja caught his arm.

“I think we could make it warmer with two of us in here, don’t you?” she asked, smirking mischievously as she stepped backward, pulling Ralof in after her.


[1] You cannot defeat me, mortals! I am death unending!

Notes:

And that is the end of Chapter One: Unbound! A bit lengthy, but as I've said, it's how I do. :)

Yes, the lovely Miss Sonja Draconis, soon to be Sonja Ironheart, is a battlemage. Kind of like the ones you've seen in The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. I always liked the idea of them, but thought they could be so much cooler. So, I'm playing with that. Plus, I want a mage to rock being a Companion.

Aside from that, the pace of the action will pick up and become more interesting as the chapters continue. Right now, Sonja's just getting her toes wet. She'll be in Whiterun soon and immediately fall into the Companions' questline where she'll meet the ever-brooding, ever-delicious Vilkas. *le sigh*

Since I have the majority of these chapters already written, I'll post them every--idk--one to two weeks-ish after I've edited them again--for the tenth time. On Tuesdays. Because that's when WoW servers reset and my free time is not absorbed by Azeroth. If anyone would like them sooner, I can swing that as well.

Anyway, please feel free to comment, but be kind and constructive. :) If you have any questions, I would be happy to answer them.

Chapter 2: Promises of Sovngarde

Summary:

Vilkas struggles with the Blood and Kodlak calls a meeting in the Underforge to reveal to the rest of the Circle what his research into lycanthropy has turned up.

Notes:

I changed my mind. There are far too many chapters to update weekly. I'll post new chapters as soon as I finish edits and rewrites. Hopefully every other day, at least. So here's Chapter Two. Vilkas PoV angsty shorty. Enjoy. :)

Chapter Text

Vilkas awoke feeling exhausted. The Beast Blood prevented those infected from resting peacefully. It begged for transformation every night—but it demanded it on bright, moonlit nights and the last night had been trying. The Call was seductive and easy to give in to. If Vilkas had been a weaker man, he might have given in to the Beast entirely. As it was, he felt that he had a disturbing understanding of how some became feral creatures, devoid of all humanity. The Wolf was hungry. It could devour everything if I let it. Every day and night felt like a constant struggle against the animal urges warring within his body.

He went to the ceramic washbasin in the corner of his room and splashed water on his face. He had not always struggled with the Beast. It had always been a part of him. He was as much Wolf as he was Nord. It was essential to his identity, but lately he could feel a rift begin to form between the two parts of himself. Steadily, it began to grow. He didn’t understand why, nor did he speak to anyone of it—not even Farkas. His brother was very dear to him; his closest friend and confidant, but Vilkas could not bring himself to tell his brother of such shameful feelings.

“Vilkas,” it was Aela, her voice muffled from behind the door, but still recognizable. Her scent was unmistakable and she carried with her traces of Skjor, as always. The two were rarely separated.

“Yes?”

“Kodlak calls for us.”

“I’ll be there.” She didn’t respond and simply left. Vilkas donned a clean tunic and trousers. He already felt trapped within his own skin; the idea of putting on his armor was unappealing. He stalked out into the hall and made his way to the mead hall above. There were only a few Companions awake at that early hour and they sleepily nursed breakfast in the firelight, yawning. Njada had a particularly sour look on her face, even for her. And Torvar looked to be milking a particularly nasty hangover from the night before.

Without muttering so much as a good morning to anyone, Vilkas slipped outside into the cool Skyrim morning air and stretched. The sun had not yet risen, but its rays were lightening the dark night sky from black to blue. He went to the Underforge and pushed the stone door back with a mighty shove. It was generally too heavy for any of the Unblooded Companions or whelps to open. Even Eorland struggled with it from time to time, but the weight prevented unwelcome visits. The strength of the Wolf allowed the Circle to access it with ease, however. Kodlak, Farkas, Skjor, and Aela were all inside, waiting. Vilkas took his place beside his brother and patiently waited for Kodlak to begin speaking. Skjor and Aela grew restless, but remained silent, nonetheless—regardless of how much they tended to disagree with Kodlak, he was still their Harbinger, their Alpha, and they would not disrespect him.

“Now that we’re all here,” Kodlak said at length, “I can begin.” No one responded. “As some of you may have noticed, I have been spending less time with the sword and more time reading.”

“Aye, we’ve noticed,” Vilkas acknowledged, carefully.

“I’ve been researching our lycanthropic legacy,” Kodlak explained, “I’ve learned a great deal of its origins, history—and consequences.”

“Consequences?” repeated Farkas, slowly. He was not the keenest of the group, but he understood well enough the degree of danger 'consequences' could imply.

“Aye, lad,” Kodlak nodded, “Every curse has its consequences and we have not fully understood our own.”

“This is not a curse!” Skjor exclaimed defensively.

“Hold your tongue,” Vilkas barked, “Let Kodlak explain what consequences he speaks of before you defend a Wolf that will only turn on you.” Skjor and Aela growled.

“We do not only serve Lord Hircine in this life as werewolves,” Kodlak continued once the room quieted, “When the time comes, the Wolf within each of us will carry our souls to the Great Hunting Grounds of Oblivion where we will serve Lord Hircine in the afterlife for all eternity.”

Vilkas’ blood ran cold. He had not felt such a sensation in a very long time. His Nordic and Beast Blood vented so much heat through his body that he hardly noticed when the air was chilled. But at that moment, Vilkas thought all the heat had been sucked out of the room, out of his skin. “We are denied Sovngarde?” he asked, quietly.

“Indeed, we are.”

“I relish the hunt,” Aela declared defiantly, “I will gladly serve Hircine in the Great Hunting grounds after my death.”

“As will I!” Skjor exclaimed. Kodlak seemed displeased, but he remained silent as he turned his gaze to Vilkas to gauge his reaction.

Vilkas looked away and began to pace slowly, thinking. Everything he believed in as a Nord seemed to be at odds with everything he was as a Wolf. He knew now why he struggled with the Beast lately. It was no longer content merely being a part of him; it wanted more. It wanted his soul. It wanted to take Sovngarde from him. “I will not give up Sovngarde,” he said at last, “I am a Nord warrior. Sovngarde is my birthright!”

“I cannot accept it either,” Farkas answered, taking the lead from his brother.

“Nor can I,” Kodlak conceded. Skjor and Aela exchanged uncomfortable glances, “I have been looking for a cure to free me from the curse. I wish to join my ancestors in Sovngarde when I pass from this life. The Hunting Grounds are unacceptable.”

“And once you’ve found a cure,” Aela began, “Must we all take it?”

“No, your lives and souls are your own,” Kodlak answered, “If you wish to keep the Wolf, keep it. I will not fault you for it. As for myself, I am giving up the transformations starting today. I will no longer live as a beast. Regardless of whether or not I can find a cure, I will live out my days without the Wolf.”

“I will abstain from transformations as well,” Vilkas offered in support.

“Me too,” chimed in Farkas.

“I am grieved that you will not share the night with us any longer, Harbinger and Shield-Brothers,” Aela said, “But I respect your decisions.” Skjor merely grunted.

“Return to Jorrvaskr. A new day greets us.” Kodlak dismissed them and the Circle retreated to the mead hall to contemplate events in the Underforge. Vilkas went to his room and locked himself in. He tried to sort through his feelings, but found only anger and betrayal. He had been a werewolf most of his life. Had he known the consequences, he would not have elected to pay such a high price—or allow Farkas to, either. He seethed, alone in his room, pondering with a heavy heart and an angry scowl.

Chapter 3: Helgen

Summary:

Sonja is eager to leave Riverwood, but lacks the gear and funds to do so. Ralof convinces her to stay another day and help him with a personal matter. She accepts, taking the opportunity to help a friend and, hopefully, generate some income.

Notes:

Mods that appear in this chapter: Skyforge Weapons* by Dreogan, translation by Lilim ViperaVenata

*This is a German translation of the original. I was unable to find the original mod on the Nexus or Steam. The author has taken them down for whatever reason, which is a bummer, because they are beautiful weapons. Really made Skyforge weapons and shields stand out and allowed them to be crafted in steel, orichalcum, moonstone, and ebony instead of the generic steel weapons and shields. I'll try to get screenshots from my game next time I'm on.

Trigger Warning: Depictions of death and war, threat of death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It was the clatter of newly cut planks being stacked on the wood pile behind the shack that woke Sonja. She nearly jumped out of her skin and immediately regretted the quick motion as the throbbing in her head intensified. “Ugh,” she moaned into her hands and rubbed the sleep from her face, still tasting the honey on her tongue now staled from sleeping with her mouth open. Carefully, she shifted in an attempt to sit upright in the narrow space afforded her body between the shack wall and Ralof’s larger frame. The slumbering Nord stirred at her movement and flung a heavy arm around her midsection, weighing her back down against his naked body. Trapped.

If she didn’t feel so ill, she might have found the situation amusing. The way he held her so tightly as he slept like a child with a stuffed animal. It was a comfort. Something real to hold onto through the murky and sometimes treacherous waters of slumber—to stave off the nightmares. He was a soldier after all, and war was always a bloody mess, but it was harder when you were fighting your own. She thought of Hadvar and his list. The way he and Ralof looked at each other when the latter demanded the former take his remains back to Riverwood, to his sister. Familiarity. And not just the passing kind when you’ve seen the same face pass you by every day. It was the kind that led to them slinging barbed insults at each other instead of crossing blades. Why else had they chosen not to fight one another when the rest of the Imperials and Stormcloaks couldn’t wait to spill each other’s blood? There were some lines that were harder to cross than others. So she stayed put, letting him hold on a little longer.

Ralof sighed heavily, his breath hot against the back of her neck and his chest hair tickling her spine. “Good morning,” he growled into the thick of her messy black hair.

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” Sonja replied, suddenly aware she had been tracing circles across Ralof’s arm. She ceased immediately.

“You sleep too light.”

“How long will it take to travel to Whiterun?”

There was a long pause as Ralof blinked the sleep from his eyes. “About a day on foot,” he replied, his tone carefully trained to sound uninterested one way or the other, but Sonja caught the edge of reluctance in his voice.

“I should get going, then.” She sat up and Ralof’s hand trailed across her body, wordlessly asking her to stay, but she couldn’t. She had to find her sister. He caught the groove of one of her many scars and followed it over her hip to the lower curve of her back. She stiffened against his touch, waiting for the inevitable question, but he didn’t ask how she earned such a horrific scar. Sensing her unease, he dropped his hand onto the floor between them and silently watched her maneuver the tight space of the shack to get at her clothes.

If she was half Imperial as she had claimed, she certainly didn’t look it. As tall as Ralof with the sturdy build of a warrior, it was easy to forget she was a mage. All muscles and curves and scars. And deep, blue eyes. Hard like ice and difficult to read. She was a little darker than fair-skinned Nords tended to be. Olive like an Imperial, tanned burnt honey from long days spent out in the sun. But if it wasn’t for her accent, he never would have guessed she was anything but pure Nord. “It’s late to head to Whiterun today,” he said casually as Sonja struggled to untangle her smalls.

Sonja cast him a sideways glance. “I can’t stay here,” she stated firmly.

“The mill is running,” Ralof continued, “It’s mid-morning at least. Maybe almost midday. Even if you hurry, you won’t make it before the gates close for the night and you’ll be locked out of the city.”

Sonja frowned. Shivering outside the city gates was not an option in Skyrim’s climate—even in the warmer tundra valley Riverwood sat on the edge of. And there was still the case of her light coin purse. Even if she managed to get into Whiterun before nightfall, where would she stay? In the inn she couldn’t afford? With whatever family still lived in the area, but that she knew nothing about? With Anja, wherever she was, and who would undoubtedly be no less than furious to see her when she did arrive? “I need work,” she said abruptly, “And gear. Most of my things were taken by the Imperials.”

Ralof propped himself up on his elbows. “We lost a lot of men at Helgen,” he said, “A lot of brothers and sisters that won’t be going home to their families. And there were more than those of us brought in with Ulfric. There were the prisoners in the dungeons and the torture chamber.”

“Helgen was a mess,” she agreed, unsure why Ralof had abruptly changed the subject, “It’s a miracle we got out alive.”

“I want to go back,” he informed her, “Before scavengers have a chance to pick the place over.”

“Why in Oblivion would you want to go back?” she asked, dumbfounded, “If scavengers haven’t already descended on the place, there could be Imperials there gathering their dead—or that damned dragon might come back!”

“Why would the beast come back to a village its already burned to the ground?” he asked, “There’s nothing for it there, now. And the Imperials won’t go near Helgen until Tullius orders it and he might not have made it out alive. Then they’ll wait for his replacement’s orders.”

“What is it you hope to find, exactly?”

“I can’t return the bodies of my fallen brothers and sisters to their families, but the Imperials should have records of who was imprisoned there.”

“The Empire and their damned lists,” Sonja replied echoing Ralof’s sentiment from the day before, “To give their families closure.”

“Aye.”

Sonja nodded curtly and tugged on her trousers. She had been and still was a grieving family member who had lost treasured loved ones. Nothing really made the pain go away, but at least she had had her brother and father’s bodies to make her final farewells to and bury in peace. She couldn’t imagine having nothing, never knowing if they were about to walk through the front door at any moment—or never again. “You want my help.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do.”

“Alright,” she agreed, “Let’s go back to Helgen.”


The fires were still burning inside the city walls and the scent of cooking flesh permeated the air for miles around. Wolves circled the edges of the tree line, drawn in by the smell of meat but wary of the fire. In their experience, nothing good ever made fire: humans, giants, atronachs, and now dragons. Their hungry eyes watched as Sonja and Ralof approached the town on horseback, a pull horse borrowed from the mill. They rode up to the front gate which was mostly burned down and kicked in the remaining debris.

Once inside, they milled about a bit, navigating the destruction that had occurred after they had made it inside the fort. Sonja kept an eye out for the ledger Hadvar had been reading from before the dragon attack, sure it had not made it to safety in the ensuing chaos, but found nothing. Ralof identified those of his fellow Stormcloaks that he knew as he removed identical bone pendants hidden amongst their armor. Sonja had seen similar identifying jewelry amongst the Legion. Metal cutouts of the Imperial crest with a soldier’s name and place of origin etched into the back. The more precious the metal, the higher the rank. The Stormcloaks used polished bits of bear bone, carved with the same information. Captains carried fangs and Generals wore claws. One by one, Ralof gathered the bones of the fallen, whispering prayers to the gods to guide his comrades to Sovngarde.

Sonja watched with a muted expression, but Ralof’s efforts on behalf of his brothers and sisters were touching. The night before, she had more or less decided that he was descent man, at least good enough to sleep with, but watching him now, his mettle was obvious. Ralof was a good and honorable man, and she was glad she could help him with such an important duty. But the Imperial bodies laid untouched, unless she gently patted them down for gold. She knew it wasn’t Ralof’s responsibility to see to the dead of his enemy, but they had families too. Most of them even shared kin with the Stormcloaks.

After a brief moment of indecision, Sonja began to perform the same rites for the fallen Imperials, taking their crests, cutting them loose from their cords, and stowing them in a large pouch she had taken off one of the soldiers. She felt a little like a fraud, praying over them since she didn’t think anyone but Ralof could hear her, but it didn’t matter what she believed in. The dead deserved to have prayers whispered over them at the very least. “You commend their spirits to Sovngarde,” Ralof said when he realized what Sonja was doing, “But they have forsaken the Nord way and do not deserve it.”

Sonja looked up at him from where she was hunched over a blonde, blue-eyed Imperial soldier. He looked a little like Ralof, in fact. Not as broad or tall, and not enough to be family, but there was a passing resemblance. “You said you wanted to give closure to the families of the dead,” she said as she removed the Imperial pendant from the soldier’s neck, “How many of those families have one son or daughter fighting for the Stormcloaks, and the other fighting for the Imperials?”

“You don’t know what this war is like,” he snapped, “You grew up in the Imperial City, far from the traditions of our people.”

“Don’t pretend to know anything about my life in Cyrodiil,” she objected defensively, putting the pendant in the pouch with the others, but something else glinted beneath the collar of the soldier’s armor and caught her eye, “My mother honored her heritage.”

“But did you?”

Sonja scowled and stood from the ground to level with Ralof. She didn’t speak, not right away; she held her fist out in front of his face, an amulet of Talos dangling from her grasp. “It was the soldier’s,” she said as Ralof’s eyes followed the swing of the religious medal through the air, “He wore it next to his Imperial crest.”

Ralof took it from her and ran his thumb over the nearly pristine metal, polished from the thousands of times the soldier ran his own fingers over it, whispering prayers for his loved ones, for his fellow Imperials, for his own safety and glory in battle. He would have been arrested or worse had his commanding officer or the Thalmor seen it, but so strong was his faith, it had been worth the risk. Ralof closed his fist around the amulet and looked down at the dead Imperial. “His name was Bormir,” he stated stiffly, “His family owned a mill outside of Falkreath. They did business with my sister.” He finally returned his gaze to Sonja. “It’s easier to believe they turned their backs on us than it is to fight our kin.” He covered his heart with his closed fist, the one still holding the amulet. “May Talos guide him to Sovngarde.” And then he walked away.

Sonja watched him as he returned to tend to the fallen Stormcloaks. He slipped the amulet of Talos over his head and continued the rites without another glance in her direction. She wondered how eager he must have been to join up with the Stormcloaks. How easy had it been then to believe the world was black and white, red and blue? When did it change for him? When did he notice that no war was ever so simple? That empires reduce it to its simplest terms to make it easier to take the lives of others who believe they are in the right as fervently as their opposition believes themselves to be? How many more Imperials lying on the ground around them does he know and what lies does he have to tell himself to keep the horror at bay? She could guess from experience. Knew only too well what war could do to a person, to a people—what it did to her. Suddenly the pouch filled with Imperial crests felt very heavy, indeed.

When she collected every last crest she could find and muttered her last prayer, Sonja waited by the fort for Ralof. He wasn’t long and when he came around the bend of a crumbled stone wall, she nodded her head toward the entrance that Hadvar had tried to take her through the day before. “Shall we?” she asked and Ralof nodded, drawing his weapon in case there were any overeager scavengers inside.

“This is a barracks,” Ralof observed as he looked around the dimly lit chamber. Bunks with chests at the foot of each bed lined one wall of the room and the opposite contained a long table to take meals. Weapon wracks took up every spare inch of wall, some of them still containing Imperial issued swords.

“Any prisoner manifests would be kept in the captain’s quarters,” she said, kicking around the debris for anything valuable and finding a few coin purses in the chests by the bunks.

“You know your way around an Imperial fort.”

“My father was Captain of the Guard, of course I know my way around an Imperial fort,” she pointed out, her roving eyes drawing to a halt at the end of the feasting table. The ledger Hadvar had been reading from teetered on the edge. “Looks like they got their precious list to safety after all,” she mused, striding to it and cracking it against her knee, “No luck, though. Our group of prisoners is the first entry in here. They just started in this one.”

“But the older ones will be in the captain’s quarters?” Ralof asked, looking over Sonja’s shoulder to read the names on the page.

She nodded. “Should be.”

“Let’s get moving then.”


The captain’s quarters were at the base of the stairs across the way from the store room. They had ignored it before, having to choose between to the two doors when the roof collapsed and fortuitously selecting the one that led through to the other side. Sonja’s pouch of crests was two heavier by then. They’d stopped for Gunjar, Captain Rila, and her underling, Ivar. Sonja felt particularly guilty giving Rila her last rites. She wasn’t certain, but it seemed to her that it had to be the worst kind of omen for the killer to pray for the soul of her slain. Regardless of whether or not she believed in such things, it didn’t sit well with her conscience.

As they approached the door to the captain’s room, they heard noises coming from inside, like someone was haphazardly rifling through every drawer, chest, and cabinet. Their pace slowed to silent footfalls as they took position on either side of the door. Sonja edged closer to the door frame, peeking between the jamb and the door to catch sight of the intruder. It was hard to make out who or what it was through such a small slit, but when it seemed to have its back turned to them, Sonja nodded to Ralof and he kicked in the door. They rushed in and got the jump on a very mousy and very nervous Breton mage who instantly hurled ice spikes at them.

Before Ralof had the chance to react, the jagged spear of ice was ripped clean from the air and flung into the adjacent wall, shattering it. Apparently Sonja’s doing, but he had no idea how. She continued to charge forward, her left hand splayed in front of her generating a ward. The mage panicked in the presence of a superior wizard and began to furiously fling more spells only to break against Sonja’s magical shield. When she sensed his magicka reserves drop below half, she cast another spell, the likes of which Ralof had never seen before, and drained the rest of it from his body, her eyes growing cerulean blue. The color drained from the mage’s face and he drew his weapon: a Skyforge moonstone dagger. “That’s mine!” Sonja snarled, dropping her ward and ending the spell, she kicked the smaller man in the gut, sending him stumbling backward. When he righted himself, he met Sonja’s conjured weapon at his throat. “Give it back, or I’ll take it from your corpse.”

The Breton was clearly an idiot, but even he didn’t like his chances against Sonja’s Daedric sword and greater magical talent with his casual practice and much smaller blade. He handed it over with trembling hands. Sonja’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Scabbard too.” Fumbling, the mage loosened his belt and produced the sheath, sliding the dagger inside it and offering it to Sonja. She took it in her damaged hand and lowered the conjured weapon. Seeing a chance at freedom, the Breton tried to dart passed her, but she dropped her sword and caught him by the throat, pulsing the draining magic through her fingertips to keep him from using magic against her. “What else have you taken?” she demanded.

He squirmed against her grip and managed to choke out, “Nothing. I swear!”

Sonja almost believed him until she caught sight of the ring on his middle finger. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was no mistaking the family crest carved into the gold and silver ring. The eye of the serpentine dragon winked back at her, ruby red. Her father’s ring. “I don’t believe you,” she growled.

Realizing that he was caught, the Breton quickly handed over the ring. “That’s it. I swear!”

Sonja snatched it from him and then let him go. “Get out before I change my mind.”

Terrified, the mage ran from her, skirting around Ralof who followed him with the tip of his sword until he was gone from the room. “You should have killed him,” he said, stepping out into the hall to be sure the Breton had indeed left.

“I didn’t want to make a mess,” was the simple reply as she slid the ring onto the forefinger of her left hand, her right too damaged and swollen to for it to fit the finger she preferred.

“That really your blade?” he asked, eyeing her skeptically.

“My mother’s,” Sonja confirmed, tucking the dagger into the back of her belt, “She gave it to me before she died.”

“It’s Skyforge.”

Sonja nodded, uncomprehending.

“Was your mother a Companion?”

She shrugged. “If she was, she never told me.” There were a lot of things her mother didn’t like to talk about. I guess some things run in the family...she thought, darkly.

Ralof sighed heavily, aware that he’d get no better answer from her. “Let’s get what we came for, then.”


Ralof watched Sonja pray over the last Imperial in the last chamber of the fort. They had found what they were looking for in the captain's quarters and now he had two ledgers tucked protectively beneath his arm. But something was bothering him about the confrontation with the Breton mage and he had spent the last hour plucking up the courage to mention it to Sonja. “You’re a powerful mage, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly when he saw that she was finished.

Sonja hesitated as she stood, dusting her knees off. “What makes you say that?” she asked, feigning disinterest.

“The way the scavenger looked at you,” he replied, “Like he was staring down the Mangus, himself.”

She shrugged. “Not powerful, just well trained.”

“I’ve never seen a battlemage use the spells you did,” he objected, “Your eyes glowed like a daemon.”

Ralof had already warned her that Nords were leery of magic, but it was one thing to be told and another to see the discomfort in the eyes of a man she had shared a bedroll with the night before. “It’s flashier than it looks,” she assured in an attempt to alleviate his unease and then she gestured to a nearby rock; it began to float toward her on her command, “Telekinesis. Only works on small objects and is too weak to overpower resistance.” She nodded to it. “Go on, pull back on it.” Ralof looked at her like she was mad. “It won’t hurt you, I promise.” He didn’t look convinced. “Oh, alright, jab it with your sword.” He complied, having reached an agreeable compromise. The second the tip of his blade nudged it a fraction of an inch, the rock fell out of the air. “See? It’s not strong enough to disarm an enemy or send him flying off a cliff or anything, but it’s enough to tug an ice spike into a wall if your timing’s right.”

He poked at the inert rock a second time, just to be sure. “And the glow?” he asked, apparently satisfied with her explanation.

“Ah,” she sighed somewhat guiltily, “Less innocent, I’m afraid.”

“Meaning?”

“Drain magicka,” she explained, “I absorbed his magic into myself so he couldn’t cast anymore spells.”

That certainly was unlike any magic he had ever heard of and it made him intensely uncomfortable. Especially the way she looked. Wild and fierce. Otherworldly. And she snarled at him like—like a dragon. He hadn’t meant to make the comparison, but it sprung to his mind unbidden and he shook his head. “Just promise to never use that witchcraft on me,” he said, chuckling nervously.

She smiled mischievously then. “Don’t give me a reason to.” Ralof had no intention of ever doing so.


“There you are!” Gerdur exclaimed when Sonja and Ralof rode back into town just before nightfall, “I was worried about you! Leaving without saying a word! And with my horse!”

Sonja glanced back at Ralof over her shoulder. “I thought you asked to take the horse?”

Ralof shrugged. “She was busy.”

She hummed her disbelief and slid out of the saddle. “I’ll leave you to face your sister’s wrath alone then,” she replied, hefting a large sack onto her shoulder: pieces of steel armor and what remained of her things that she could find scattered amongst the mess the Breton mage had made of the captain's quarters. She was still missing the bulk of her gear and had been unable to recover any of the gold that had been taken from her. But she’d scavenged enough to purchase what she needed—or so she hoped.

While Ralof received the reaming of the era from his sister, Sonja returned to the shack to sort through her treasures, distracted by the scenarios she was running through her head of what she would do once she reached Whiterun. Halfway through her efforts, she was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “It’s me,” Ralof’s voice called through the wood.

“Enter.”

Ralof peeked inside the shack and grinned down at her. “You look busy,” he said.

“Not too busy for food, if that’s why you’ve come.”

“It is.”

Sonja hastily tucked her gear at the back of the shack and joined Ralof at the stump again for a far more filling meal than the night before with a noted lack of mead. “Did we drink Gerdur out of house and home last night?” Sonja asked, picking at the leg of goat between them, “Where’s the mead?”

“You drink like a Nord,” Ralof chuckled, “No, Gerdur is punishing me for taking the horse without asking.”

The thought of Gerdur chastising her adult brother made Sonja laugh heartily. “Did she ban you from the inn as well?” she prodded, “I’m sure Delphine likes you enough to sell you drink.”

Ralof smiled, his eyes soft. “I didn’t try my luck.”

She hummed her disapproval, but didn’t pester him further. Truth be told, she was glad for the lack of alcohol since she couldn’t afford another late start to the day. But she could tell there was something else on Ralof’s mind; he had an easy face to read. “What’s wrong?” she asked, polishing an apple against her tunic.

“Nothing,” he replied, “I was just wondering if it was the mead that invited me into your bed last night or you.”

Sonja grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward, smashing her lips against his in a graceless kiss that was more teeth than anything else. “The mead helped,” she admitted, “But I enjoy your company.”

Ralof laughed and tangled his fingers in her hair as he pulled her in for another kiss. He didn’t know what to make of this strange woman. This mage from the south who could drink like a Nord and fight like a warrior. Who radiated a strength unbeknownst even to herself and who was beautiful, not only because her eyes twinkled like gems or her smile dazzled when she had occasion to laugh, but because—she asked him where his home was moments before they were supposed to die; because she chose to go with him despite growing up Imperial; because she stayed when he needed her help; because she laid the dead to rest when he could not; because she tried to ease his fear of magic when she knew he was bothered by her abilities. Because she was dangerous and powerful and brave. She was beautiful for so many reasons and it was easy for a man like him to get caught in the gravity of her presence. When she led him back to the shack again to fill the small space with heated skin and desperate gasps of pleasure, he wondered if she had any idea of the affect she had on him.

Notes:

I gave Sonja some spells from Oblivion since Skyrim really streamlined magic and did away with a lot of spells. You may see a lot of Oblivion references because it was the first game of the series that I fell in love with, leading me to check out the earlier games and anxiously await the release of the later ones. Also, I like using existing spells in ways you couldn't use them in game, like the Telekinesis thing. Gives it more utility, I think.

Later on, I do have some spell mods that expand the magical utility for the world in a way I hope is organic to the Elder Scrolls universe. If not--well--they are a lot of fun to play around with and add another level of complexity to magic in general.

Chapter 4: Before the Storm

Summary:

The messenger Gerdur sent to Whiterun is killed, leaving Sonja, Ralof, Faendal, and Sven to track down the bandits responsible. But the message still needs to be delivered and Sonja's willing to take it, herself. Follows the quest Before the Storm with additions.

Notes:

Mods that appear in this chapter: Ebonvale Settlement by Maverick on the Nexus.

Skyforge Shields* (and weapons) by Dreogan, translation by Eriko

*Again, I wasn't able to find the original mod on either the Nexus or Steam, so this Russian translation is the best I can do. It's not the best, but it'll give you an idea of what I'm talking about. Really nice stuff. I will get screen shots up when I get the chance.

~Update: I finally got screenshots for any interested parties. Located in the "Screenshots, Stuff & Things" post of this work. Update 3.2.18: "Screenshots, Stuff & Things" has been removed because links were not working correctly. May repost in the future.

Trigger Warning: Depictions of violent death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja woke to the soft, but persistent knocking on the door of her shack. She groaned inwardly and disentangled herself from Ralof’s arms; he hardly moved. “Who goes?” she called through the door, noting the blue light pouring in through the cracks. Predawn light. It was far too early for a casual visit.

“I-it’s Gerdur,” came the unexpected reply, “Is Ralof with you?”

“Aye.” Sonja pinched Ralof’s side until he stirred.

“What is it, woman? I’m sleeping.”

“It’s your sister.”

“Gerdur?” Ralof called uncertainly, rubbing his face, “What’s wrong?”

“Come out and speak with me,” she insisted, “I’m not going to shout at you through the door.”

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled and both he and Sonja did their best to dance around each other as they dressed.

Once they were decent, Ralof tapped the door open with his boot to find his sister pacing by the fence, looking grim in the dim, early morning light. “What’s the matter?” he asked, now doubly concerned.

“The courier I sent to Whiterun was killed by bandits on the other side of Ebonvale,” Gerdur said flatly, “The guards just came down the hill now.”

Sonja blinked a few times, confused. “Why now?” she asked, “It’s not even dawn yet.”

“There was a witness, a girl on the same road who saw the whole thing,” Gerdur explained, “She was caught in the fight and they took her with them back to their camp in the mountains. She escaped and made it back to Ebonvale in the night, beaten and bloodied, poor thing.”

“And the guard came straight down,” Sonja concluded. Gerdur nodded. “How many were there?”

“Guard said half a dozen.”

“Shit, how’d she make it out alive?”

“Said they were too drunk to follow her.”

“Those bandits need to be dealt with,” Ralof insisted, “Can Ebonvale spare men?”

Gerdur turned stern eyes on her brother. “That message needs to get to Whiterun. If the Jarl doesn’t know about Helgen, how can he protect us?”

“So send another courier to his death,” Ralof shot back, “Those milk-drinking bastards need to be taught a lesson! Preying on unarmed messengers and girls?”

Sonja looked between the siblings as they bickered over what course of action should be taken next. “I’ll go,” she interrupted, drawing Ralof and Gerdur’s argument to an abrupt end.

“What?” Ralof demanded.

“I said, I’ll go after the bandits,” she clarified, “Me, you, grab a couple more if you want to, but they’re bandits. They’re thugs. They barely know which end of a blade to hold onto.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Gerdur warned, “The jarl’s had a bounty on them for weeks and no one’s gotten near them.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Sonja replied, “I’ll take care of your bandits.”

“And what of the message to Whiterun?”

Sonja nodded. “I’ll take care of that too.”

“Why?”

“Because it needs to be done.” Because she was about to overstay her welcome in Riverwood. Because one more night straddling the handsome, blonde Nord was only going to lead to more trouble than a couple of casual nights were worth. Because she had to keep moving forward and find her sister. Because she had a penance to pay.


Sonja plopped down on a rock just outside White River Watch and smeared the blood over her armor in an attempt to wipe it away. It didn’t work. She made a sound of disgust and dropped her head back to stare into the clear blue sky, breathing deeply. Ralof had managed to find two more willing and able-bodied volunteers to join the party against the bandits. A Bosmer hunter named Faendal and a bard from the inn named Sven who was far too good looking for his own good and was only too aware of it. The pair bickered the entire way over who deserved the attentions of a lovely Miss Camilla until Sonja snapped at them to save their fighting for later, if they were both yet living.

Inside, Faendal had a close call with the bandit chief, but Sonja had managed to drop him with a slurry of ice spikes before he overwhelmed the Bosmer. Sven mostly danced around one bandit until Ralof rescued him which only made the entire party like him even less. Afterward, they stood outside to catch their breath and decide their next course of action. Ralof dropped onto the ground beside Sonja, staring off across the valley of Whiterun Hold. “The Jarl needs to be told of the dragon,” he said at length, “We’ve already lost two days.”

“I told your sister I would go and I will,” Sonja said, intentionally keeping her gaze glued to one point in the sky. “I was planning to move onto Whiterun today, anyway.”

Ralof nodded. “I had hoped you were thinking about staying in Riverwood—for a while,” he admitted quietly, not wanting to be overheard by Faendal and Sven.

She smiled humorlessly. “A tempting offer, but I didn’t come all this way only to shack up with the first handsome Nord I met,” she pointed out, “No offense.”

“None taken.” He truly understood why she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stay and he couldn’t blame her. Family. Kin was always important enough to risk everything; it wouldn’t be right if she stayed in Riverwood. No matter how badly he wanted her to. And it was a bit of an unreasonable desire when he thought about it. A whole three days he’d known her and he was acting like a lovesick boy pining for his first love. She hadn’t even left, yet! Still—he’d felt more alive with her the last couple of days than he had in a long time. Maybe it was escaping Helgen with their lives or maybe it was the way her eyes looked into his in the sleepy moments after sex, when she curled her body against his for warmth and lack of space. Looking through him instead of at him.

Suddenly, he didn’t care if Faendal and Sven overheard their conversation or saw his affection for her; he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, turning her head to meet his as he leaned in for a hard kiss. She squealed in surprise. Not loud enough to hear, exactly, but he felt the whisper of it in the back of her throat when it vibrated against his tongue. When he pulled away, Sonja looked back at him with slightly rounded eyes and kiss-bruised lips; it made him want to kiss her again, but he leaned his forehead against hers instead. “I can’t go to Whiterun,” he said, “Jarl Balgruuf has declared the city neutral in the war. Neither Stormcloak nor Imperial is welcome.”

“Ralof, I…” she began.

“You need to be careful,” he continued, almost urgently, “This place is dangerous. Skyrim is nothing like Cyrodiil. And no one takes kindly to a mage. Carry a weapon if only for show. Don’t give anyone the opportunity to pick out your weaknesses.”

Her brow furrowed. “I won’t,” she promised.

“Good.” He kissed her again. “Whiterun is just west of us,” he said when they parted and pointed in the general direction of the city, “You can see Dragonsreach at the top of the hill from here. The Jarl lives there.”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she muttered, squeezing his hand briefly, “For everything.”

“I’ll write to you when I make it back to Windhelm,” he said, “After the attack on Helgen has quieted and we know where we stand in the war again. To see how you’re settling in.”

She hesitated, considering discouraging his letters, not wanting to form stronger attachment than she could easily break. But she found herself caring enough to want the confirmation of his safety that the letters would bring. So she nodded instead. One short, curt jerk of her head in consent before she hauled herself to her feet and trudged down the slope to her bag propped against a nearby tree. “You’re going alone?” Faendal asked when Sonja shouldered her bag.

“Aye. Ralof can’t enter the city and you two have to get back to underwhelming Camilla, so…” She shrugged.

“I’ll go with you,” the elf offered, “I owe you for saving my life in there.”

“You don’t owe me anything…” Sonja began, dismayed by the rate at which she seemed to be gathering life debts. She had only just managed to part ways with the first man whose life she saved only to be saddled with the honor of a second.

“I owe you my life,” Faendal contradicted, “At least let me accompany you to Whiterun, then you can decide whether or not you want me around.”

“You realize that leaves the lovely Camilla exposed to the charms of Sven, here, right?”

Faendal glared at the bard who was smiling back at him rather smugly. “How could I forget?” he grumbled.

“And you’re alright with that?” she asked, hoping the threat of losing his love to a man he clearly loathed would be enough to tempt him back to Riverwood.

“No, but—I don’t leave a debt unpaid, so…you lead, I follow.”

Sonja quirked an eyebrow at the Bosmer and then glanced back at Ralof who was listening to the exchange with great interest. More uninvited company, though she had to admit she admired the elf’s pluck. “Alright,” she allowed, “I could do worse for company.” Faendal scrambled down the slope to join her and they made their way back to the main road.

“May the gods watch over your battles, friends,” Ralof called after them.

“Talos guide you,” Sonja called back and then she disappeared through the trees. 


They reached Whiterun by early evening. Upon approaching the walled city, Sonja’s attention was drawn to one of the nearby farms just across the path from the stables. There were several people in the field fighting with a giant. Sonja had never seen a giant before. They weren’t common in Cyrodiil; she had only read about them in books at university. The old tomes didn’t do their sheer size justice. “Quickly now,” she said to Faendal and the two of them sprinted down the road to the edge of the farm property. Faendal was already loosing arrows as he ran along. He wasn’t kidding about his skill; he was decent with a bow. Sonja’s injured hand made it impossible for her to use a bow properly and she was useless with one anyway, so she gathered ice in her hands, frost crawling up her forearms as she prepared to launch ice spikes at the giant’s body. Before she could do anything, Faendal caught her hand. “They are Companions,” he hissed, “No magic unless you want to brawl with them afterwards.”

Sonja rolled her eyes. “Think they’d care if we save their lives?” The look on the elf’s face suggested they would. “Fine. We do this the hard way,” and she drew the steel axes hanging off either hip. Faendal had taken them off the bodies of a couple of the bandits at White River Watch to sell when he got back to Riverwood, but after Ralof’s impassioned plea that Sonja carry a weapon at all times, he offered them to her and she grudgingly accepted. He didn’t know how well she could handle a weapon since she had mostly used ice spells against the bandits, but she certainly didn’t seem uncomfortable with the notion as she gripped the axes in either hand with a confidence that bespoke experience.

Sonja sprinted along the edge of the group of warriors gathered at the giant’s feet, skirting the range of the heavy club that crashed into the earth every so often as the creature attempted to defend itself. Giants were thick-skinned, so most quick strikes glanced off its hide with no effect. The large, powerful Nord with the greatsword had had the greatest success, but that only made him the primary target of the giant’s club, so he was too busy avoiding it to inflict further damage. I need his strength…she thought, trying to formulate the best way to give the Nord the opening he needed to bring down the giant. Circling around the back of the distracted creature, she spied the soft plane of flesh behind its knees. Her body tensed like a taught bowstring and then released in a whirlwind of power, pushing the strength of her core into each blow as she cut through the tendons in the back of the giant’s legs.

An earsplitting roar of pain issued from the creature’s mouth as it fell forward, catching its fall with its massive hands. On its hands and knees, it was largely defenseless and the large Nord with the greatsword seized the opportunity, hefting his weapon high and lopping the giant’s head clean off in one, swift movement. The great creature slumped, lifeless and hit the ground with a loud thud and puff of dust. “Glory to the Companions!” declared the Nord and the others with him cheered their approval.

Splayed across the ground, it struck Sonja how very human it looked and she wondered who had started the fight: the warriors or the giant? “That was amazing!” Faendal called as he jogged over to Sonja who still stood behind the giant, silently examining the ritualistic scars carved into the creature’s flesh. “Sonja?” he prodded, unsure why she looked so sullen when she had just helped the famous Companions fell a giant. She merely grunted in response.

“Well, you two handled yourselves well,” said one of the warriors, a Nordic huntress from the looks of her. Tall, but lean with a wild look in her white-blue eyes made only more intense by the dark green war paint smeared across her features; her wind-swept red hair tumbled down her bare back. She wore very little armor in open defiance of the cold weather, but Sonja didn’t doubt it was light and silent and perfect for stalking prey over great distances. She favored a bow, unsurprisingly, and slung the beautifully carved wood and ebony weapon across her body, gently knocking the quiver of matching arrows on her back. Skyforge by the looks of them. At least the carving of knots along the limbs and on the arrow tips matched those on the hilt of Sonja’s own Skyforge dagger. The Huntress crossed her arms over her chest and looked both Sonja and Faendal over with a critical, almost predatory, eye. “You could make for decent Shield-Siblings,” she said after her brief appraisal.

“Shield-Siblings?” Sonja repeated, glancing at Faendal for clarification.

“It’s what the Companions call their brothers-and-sisters-in-arms,” the elf offered; Sonja nodded, understanding.

The Huntress raised an eyebrow. “An outsider, eh?” she said, picking up on Sonja’s ignorance, “Never heard of the Companions?”

“Vaguely,” Sonja admitted, “My mother told me stories when I was a child.”

The Huntress hummed her disapproval, but continued her explanation. “We are an order of warriors. Brothers and sisters in honor and glory. And we show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough.”

Mercenaries? That certainly didn’t keep with the stories her mother used to tell. “The fiercest warriors in all of Tamriel,” she called them. But honor and glory didn’t put food on the table and Sonja was no stranger to accepting gold in exchange for her own set of highly trained skills with spells and a weapon. She hadn’t been lying when she told Ralof she had been a spellsword—for the last couple of years anyway; she needed to make a living after all. So the promise of coin for familiar work was appealing. “How does one go about joining the Companions?” she asked, gesturing between herself and Faendal, “Could we join?”

The Huntress shrugged. “Not for me to say. You’ll have to talk to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorrvaskr. The old man’s got a good sense for people. He can look in your eyes and tell your worth. If you go to him, good luck.”

Sonja nodded. “Thanks…?”

“Aela,” the Huntress finished.

“Sonja—Ironheart,” she said, choosing to use her mother’s name instead of her father’s, thinking it would illicit a friendlier reaction than an Imperial surname. “Good to meet you.”

Aela’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Did you say your family name was Ironheart?” she asked.

Sonja hesitated, exchanging glances with Faendal, and hoping that she had not made a mistake in declaring herself an Ironheart. “Aye,” she confirmed, carefully, “My mother was Freydis. Her family lived here in Whiterun.”

“The Killing Frost.” The Huntress’ words were almost spoken with reverence.

“What are you on about?” Sonja asked, bewildered and looking to Faendal who seemed equally confused.

“Farkas! Come here!” Aela barked at the Companion with the greatsword, he was lingering by the main road with a much shorter, tanned woman—another Companion bearing a Skyforge shield and axe.

They were waiting for Aela to be done speaking with the strangers, but when the large man heard his name called, he came. “Stay here,” he said to the woman, who merely nodded, but watched with dark curious eyes as Farkas joined the Huntress. He was tall, even for a Nord, and broad, almost mountainous. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back out of his handsome face; his nose was a little crooked from being broken many times, and from the smear of black war paint, the same hungry white-blue eyes as the Huntress peered down at them. He wore heavy, steel plate armor, chased with knots of ebony and trimmed in black wolf fur, depictions of the wolves edging his pauldrons, collar, gauntlets, belt, and boots. The same depictions that decorated the Huntress' leather armor, but not the girl by the road who carried Skyforge weapons and wore far less magnificent however well-crafted and maintained steel-studded armor. “What do you want?” he asked when he joined them, his voice a deep growl.

“She claims to be Freydis Ironheart’s daughter,” Aela said, pointing to Sonja.

Farkas looked at her in disbelief. “The Killing Frost?”

“What in Oblivion does that mean,” Sonja demanded, “Did you know my mother, or not?”

“Barely,” Aela answered, “We were children when she left.”

Sonja felt realization prick around the edges of her understanding. “L-left what? Whiterun? Skyrim?” she stammered, already knowing what their answer would be.

“The Companions,” Farkas grunted.

Sonja removed the dagger from the back of her belt as if staring at it would suddenly make everything clear again, but it didn’t. She knew her mother had secrets. She spoke little of her life in Skyrim before she left to marry Remus and settle in the Imperial City. Though she raised her children with an understanding of their Nordic heritage, she never told them of the family she had left behind. Even her tales of the Companions were heavily edited into bedtime stories for children. Sonja wondered what knot of regret was so painful, Freydis couldn’t untangle it even on her deathbed nearly thirty years later. “My mother was a fucking Companion,” she breathed in disbelief.

“She never told you?” Faendal asked gently.

“No.”

“Come to Jorrvaskr and speak with Kodlak before you go to your family home,” Aela urged, taking the Skyforge moonstone dagger to be confirmation enough that Sonja was who she said she was, “He can tell you what you want to know.”

“Better than her family can?” Sonja asked incredulously.

“Did she tell you stories of her sisters?” she asked, pointedly.

“No.”

“Some wounds heal faster than others,” Farkas stated.

“Aye, when Freydis left, it wasn’t on good terms with her family,” Aela agreed, seeming to understand her Shield-Brother’s cryptic statement, “The Companions lost a fierce and brave warrior, but we do not rule over our Shield-Siblings. If they wish to leave, they can; no one tries to stop them.”

It was all a bit much for Sonja who had only come to find her sister. She had barely come to terms with the idea of meeting her mother’s family when she found out she still had living relatives in Whiterun. Now discovering there had been a feud made Sonja reluctant to meet them at all. “I have business in Dragonsreach, first,” Sonja said at length, “Afterwards—perhaps…”

Aela and Farkas exchanged glances, obviously curious as to what business Sonja could have with the Jarl, but they didn’t pry. “Honor and glory, Ironheart,” Aela nodded in farewell, and then she and Farkas turned to walk up the hill to Whiterun’s gates.

“Ay,” Faendal said, tapping Sonja’s elbow, “You alright?” he asked.

Sonja glanced sideways at him and shrugged him off. “Let’s go,” she said, stalking off up the hill after the Companions who reentered the city without incident.

When she and Faendal reached the gate, they were halted and denied entrance. “The city’s closed with the dragons about,” the guard stated, “Official business only.”

“We have an important message for the Jarl,” Sonja explained, “Riverwood needs protection.”

“Alright,” the guard said with some disbelief, “I’ll let you through, but we’ll be watching you.”

Sonja hummed her indifference, and the guard unlocked the gate, allowing the pair to enter Whiterun. She hesitated only a fraction of a second before entering the town that her mother had been born and raised in. Would Whiterun somehow reflect Freydis? Would she see all the pieces of her mother’s personality scattered across its residents and their homes? Was her determination hiding in the tree she tried every day to climb? Was her strength lingering around the forge where she learned to smith? Was her courage imprinted on Jorrvaskr? In the end, it turned out she hardly knew her mother. Could Whiterun change that?

And Anja. She must have made it as far as Whiterun, at least. Was she inside, drinking at the inn, charming the coin purses off every obliging belt? Or was she with their mother’s family, having somehow repaired whatever rift existed between them and Freydis when she left? Or had she kept to herself, quiet and careful? Had anyone seen her? If she passed through, would anyone remember her?

When Sonja finally stepped through the gate, she stopped at the top of the small bridge over the water that ran through little canals all through the city, and took it all in. It was dark now and most of the people had gone inside for the evening meal so it was quiet, but large braziers and lanterns lining the walkways had been lit, casting warm, dancing firelight across the row of houses and shops edging the main road. It was a charming city that reminded Sonja of Bruma: sturdy homes built to hedge against the cold and nudged against each other as if huddling for warmth. They weren’t so tightly packed alongside as they were in cities like Skingrad or the Imperial City, itself, but close enough to perhaps know a thing or two about your neighbors’ business that they preferred you didn’t. Sonja wondered which of these was the one her mother grew up in. Was it the one just beside the forge or the one across the street? In every spare space between houses, in their gardens, and along the walkways, plants, flowers, and trees from the tundra grew in abundance, nourished by the encouragement of the residents who needed them for food or alchemy and the close proximity of good clean water. It was an ideal Nordic village, but Sonja had a hard time conjuring the ghost of her mother to walk the streets of Whiterun.

“She really never told you about any of this?” Faendal asked as he watched Sonja’s eyes glide across the city with a disappointed frown.

“No,” she sighed, “Not a damn word.”

“Come, Dragonsreach is this way,” he said, nodding to the staircase on their left, leading to the next district. The houses were fewer and larger on that level with more space and privacy between them. As they approached the far end, Sonja’s attention was drawn by the large, wilting tree at the end of the path. It was apparent that the tree had once dominated the district, its branches reaching high over the carved wooden beams encircling it and providing shade for those who sat beneath it. But it was bare and shrunken now, a spiral scar wrapped around it from the tip of the tallest branch down to the roots, cutting deep into the bark and exposing the softer, fragrant wood. Sap hemorrhaged from the wound, thick and sticky.

Beyond the tree and up a small flight of stairs was a large building, easily one of the oldest in Whiterun. The ancient Atmoran architecture jutted at sharp, intimidating angles in the braces the walls. The roof was the most fascinating feature however, as it was a large boat, overturned. Through the cracks in the ancient bow, firelight peeked through, turning the curve of the ship into a reflection of the dome of the starry night sky. “Jorrvaskr,” Sonja stated, recognizing it from her mother’s stories.

“Aye, you can hear the singing from here,” Faendal nodded.

She tilted her head slightly like an animal pricking its ears into the air to listen for predators and caught the boisterous melody of a drinking song. Going to Jorrvaskr after she was done at Dragonsreach suddenly seemed a lot less appealing. There were a lot of voices singing that song and she wasn’t in the mood to deal with a bunch of drunken warriors. “Come on,” she nodded and they turned away from Jorrvaskr to climb the long stairway to Dragonsreach.

The massive Nordic palace loomed over the city of Whiterun with a commanding grandeur that was visible from anywhere within the lower two districts and farther still. It had been the silhouette of Dragonsreach that had guided them to the city from the mountains, the sharp jutting of rock upon which Whiterun sat towering over the flat valley floor. It reminded Sonja of White-Gold Tower glistening in the sunlight like a beacon visible for miles at the heart of Cyrodiil—somewhat tarnished since the Great War and no longer the inspiring symbol it had once been.

Guards milled about outside, patrolling, changing shifts, and coming and going from the barracks beneath the keep. Sonja and Faendal caught the attention of several of them and received a few threatening warnings. “Disrespect the law, and you disrespect me,” growled one guard.

“Cause trouble in Whiterun, and I’ll haul you into the Dragonsreach dungeon myself,” sneered another.

Sonja glared, but otherwise did not respond as she and Faendal approached the great wooden doors into the palace and entered. At the far end of the hall, they could hear voices arguing. Sonja exchanged glances with Faendal and made her way toward the wooden stairs. Before she took more than a couple of steps, Faendal touched her elbow, softly, “Would you like me to stay by the door, or…?”

“I didn’t think you asked to come along just to wait at the door,” Sonja replied, “Besides, how often does a citizen get to meet his Jarl? That would be something to tell Camilla, wouldn’t it?”

Faendal smiled. “It would, indeed.” So he followed her. As soon as they came over the top of the steps a Dunmer woman who stood beside the throne noticed them; she drew her sword and approached. Sonja and Faendal slowed their pace and raised their hands slowly to show they meant no ill will.

Once the elf was near enough, she spoke, “What is the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

“We have news about the dragons, about Helgen,” Sonja informed the elf, “The people of Riverwood sent us to seek aid from the Jarl.”

“I can see why the guards let you in,” the elf replied, surprised, “Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak to you personally.” She turned and gestured for them to follow her back toward the throne, passed the feasting tables and the huge, roaring fire.

“Who’s this, then?” the Jarl asked as Sonja propped her foot on the lowest step of the dais.

“That’s close enough,” the elf growled. Sonja put up her hands and halted.

“I am Sonja and this is Faendal of Riverwood,” Sonja answered, about to bend at the waist to bow before the Jarl when she caught herself. It wasn’t very Nord-like. So, she mimicked the gesture of respect she had seen Ralof make: a closed fist over the heart and a nod of acknowledgement.

“Sonja,” the Jarl repeated, thoughtfully stroking his blonde beard, “What is your family name?”

She shifted her weight between her feet and reluctantly replied, “My father was Draconis and my mother was—Ironheart.”

“So Freydis would be your mother,” he said, nodding slowly as if confirming his own suspicions.

“Aye.”

“You look like her.”

First she’d ever heard of it. She’d always thought herself to resemble the severe features of her father more than the fierce beauty of her mother who was every inch a typical Nord woman: blonde, blue eyed, and fair-skinned. “Did you know my mother?” she asked, intrigued just how much influence her mother had on Whiterun before she ran off with her father.

“You could say that,” he smiled softly, but did not elaborate, “Whiterun welcomes the daughter of one of its highly regarded warriors.”

“Thank you,” she bowed her head uncertainly.

“Now why have you come to Dragonsreach? Irileth wouldn’t have let you through without good reason.”

“I have news of the dragon attack on Helgen.”

The Jarl leaned back in his chair and considered Sonja. “There were few survivors from Helgen,” he said, “But enough to spread word. Other smaller settlements have been attacked also. I am not opposed to believing a dragon is on the loose, but until I can be sure, I must assume man, mer, or beastfolk are behind these attacks. All I have is hearsay, so, unless you’ve seen this dragon with your own eyes…”

“I have,” Sonja interrupted, “I was at Helgen.”

Jarl Balgruuf straightened in his throne. “You were at Helgen?” he asked, eyeing her skeptically.

“I was—a guest of the Empire when it attacked,” she answered carefully, “I escaped, but last I saw, it was headed this way. If it hasn’t attacked Whiterun, yet, I’d wager it soon will.”

“By Ysmir, Irileth was right!” he exclaimed, thumping his fist on the arm rest of his throne. He turned to the Imperial man standing to his right. “What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

The man he addressed seemed to be taken aback by the Jarl’s words, but Irileth spoke instead, “My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It’s in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains…”

“The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” Proventus exclaimed, suddenly able to speak, “He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him…”

The Jarl held up his hand, “Enough!” he hissed, “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl.” She bowed and hurried from the hall.

“We should not…” Proventus began.

“I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” the Jarl interrupted.

Proventus bowed his head. “Very well,” he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties.”

The Jarl nodded, “That would be best.” He dismissed Proventus with a wave of his hand before returning his attention to Sonja. “Well done. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.” He stood from his throne and rubbed his chin, trying to decide what would be most appropriate for Sonja’s service. “I’ll see you both properly outfitted with better armor and weapons,” he said after a pause.

Faendal’s surprise was apparent on his face, but Sonja merely raised an eyebrow. A full, well-made set of unenchanted armor for one person could easily cost several hundred gold, at least, never mind outfitting them both. It was an unusually charitable gift that made Sonja wonder if it was also advanced payment for a favor the jarl had yet to ask. “Very generous of you, my jarl,” she observed, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he warned with a touch of good humor as he stepped off the dais, “There is something I want you to do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps?”

There it is. “How can I refuse after so fine a reward?” she replied, pointedly.

Her response earned her an amused chuckle. “Freydis’ daughter you most certainly are,” he commented. “Come back tomorrow morning. My Court Wizard is working on a special project that may require your assistance.”

“If we are capable of helping, we will,” Sonja assured.

“Very good.” He was pleased. “Your reward will be ready when you return.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sonja and Faendal bowed their heads before turning to leave.

Notes:

Alrighty, I did play up Nords' dislike of mages--particularly the Companions--a touch more than necessary. But it's not overly dangerous, per se, more like given a circumstance like the giant confrontation, they might react negatively to magic use that would lead to a brawl to prove warrior superiority over weakling mages. Ya know, fists only, no magic, no crying.

Also, I made Whiterun, and Skyrim in general, larger and denser. In-game, there's like a hundred people who live in Skyrim which is fine for the purposes of the game, but leaves the towns and cities feeling too desolate in the story.

And finally, as you may have noticed, Sonja doesn't really have much interaction with Gerdur to therefore get the quest to go to Whiterun to deliver word about the dragon attack on Helgen. In the game, it makes complete sense to go immediately. But, if you were Sonja and you had spent the last few days all beat up and unconscious in the back of a cart headed for execution and then had that execution interrupted by a fire-breathing lizard with a major attitude problem, forcing you to now flee that fresh hell, you'd be in no condition to travel any further than the first safe place you found: Riverwood. So, Gerdur sends a courier instead and Sonja gets to take a breather with Ralof...sorta...but, the messenger gets killed, so *shrugs* what can you do?

~Update: I forgot to mention this previously, but if you want denser cities filled with extra foliage and other pretties, there are a few different mods on both Nexus and Steam that will accomplish just that. I included links for general searches of "Enhanced Cities" for both sites.

Chapter 5: The Unbroken

Summary:

Not wanting to deal with the Companions of Jorrvaskr or her mother's possibly hostile sisters, Sonja and Faendal go to the Bannered Mare to enjoy a drink and some much-needed food--perhaps scare up a lead or two about her missing sister--when hell breaks loose and Sonja finds herself in the middle of a bar brawl.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja frowned in the evening air, glaring down from the perch of Dragonsreach at the lower districts. She was trying to decide what her next move should be. Anja? Jorrvaskr? Relatives? Sleep? Her stomach growled, noisily adding food to her mental debate. “At least we have work,” Faendal said brightly, tucking his thumbs in his belt as he joined Sonja on the top step of the stairway, “The jarl’s already paying well. What do you think he needs us to do?”

Sonja glanced sideways at him. “Faendal?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I owe you a life debt…”

“Aye, but we’ve made it to Whiterun and I don’t really need you following me around,” she said, turning fully to look at him, “And, despite the way you bickered with Sven like a child over a toy you didn’t want to share, you don’t strike me as a fool. You know I don’t want you around and yet you’ve lingered.”

The Bosmer only seemed slightly put off by Sonja’s directness, but shrugged his indignance away. “Delivering that message to the jarl was important,” he answered reasonably, “I wanted to see it through.”

“And after we’ve completed whatever little task he has planned for us tomorrow?” she pressed, “Will you take your reward and go back to Riverwood to continue your less than thrilling romance with a disinterested Camilla?”

Faendal narrowed his eyes. “Why do you keep saying things like that? ‘Underwhelming.’ ‘Less than thrilling.’ ‘Disinterested.’ You don’t know what she’s like, what her heart wants!” he snapped defensively.

Sonja smirked. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I might not be able to pick Camilla out of a line of trolls, but you know her better than anyone else, don’t you?” she prodded.

“I don’t follow.”

“She’s bored. You’re bored. All of Riverwood is bored, but no one dares to leave, except you. Sven's songs of honor and glory would pale in comparison to the elf who actually lived it.”

Faendal crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t try to refute her. “All I know is that in the one day that I’ve known you, I’ve killed bandits, met Companions, killed a giant, and met a jarl,” he replied.

“If you want a flutter, play cards, race horses, bet on a fight, but don’t risk your neck following me around because, yes, I attract all sorts of interesting trouble and one day, it will catch me,” she said as she started down the stairs at a breakneck speed, “When it does, what do you think will happen to you? You’ll never see Camilla again.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re infuriating!”

“You need a guide,” Faendal stated sternly when they reached the bottom of the stairs, “I don’t know why you came to Skyrim, but I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

“Who says I’m looking for anything?” Sonja asked, spinning around at the base of the Gildergreen to glare suspiciously at the Bosmer.

“Everyone comes to Skyrim looking for something,” he said, “Opportunity, safe haven, long lost family, adventure, fame, fortune…” He paused, looking her over. “You don’t strike me as the kind to run from her problems, so I’m guessing you’re chasing them.”

Sonja shrugged. “Maybe I’m searching for fame and fortune, and I just don’t want to split the coin with you.”

Faendal shook his head. “Not convinced,” he replied, “When we spoke to the jarl, you failed to collect on the bounty for those bandits. A hundred gold? That’s not something you forget about unless your mind’s elsewhere. And when the jarl said he was going to give us better armor and weapons, you hardly blinked.”

“You’re observant.”

“I’m a hunter. It pays to notice things.”

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue thoughtfully. “Alright, fine,” she sighed, “Let’s say I am looking for something. What makes you the best for the job?”

“I traveled a lot before I settled in Riverwood. I know Skyrim’s wild country better than anyone in the hold.”

Her gaze narrowed, thoughtfully. “I’m not paying you,” she said, “I don’t have the coin.”

“Something tells me coin won’t be an issue with the trouble you attract.”

She hummed her agreement on that before forcefully extending her hand. The gesture made the smaller Bosmer jump, much to her amusement. “Fine. You have a deal.”

The elf grinned and gripped her forearm, shaking firmly. “I knew you’d see reason.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “First order of business: guide me to the inn.”

“That’d be the Bannered Mare. Owner’s Hulda,” Faendal prompted, happily taking the lead and strolling into the lower district, “Right this way.” 


When Sonja and Faendal entered the inn, their senses were immediately flooded with the smell of hot food and good drink. There was a bard singing and playing a lute by the fire and many of the patrons were singing along, drinking, and laughing. Sonja scanned the customers, looking for any sign of Anja amongst them, but found no sign of her. Only loads of happy drunks. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved, but followed Faendal to take a seat at the counter.

The Nord woman behind the counter grinned at them. “What can I get for you? Food? Drink? Both?” she asked in a thick Nordic accent.

“Both,” Sonja nodded, “Stew and ale for me.”

“Same,” Faendal said.

“Right away,” she nodded and then called across the inn to the woman in the other room at the cooking spit, “Two stews, Saadia.”

“Yes, Hulda,” the Redguard woman replied.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Hulda asked as she put the bottles down on the counter in front of them.

“That obvious?” Sonja asked, popping the cork and taking a swig of the ale.

Hulda chuckled. “Small town,” she explained, “We notice new faces.”

“Notice any others recently?” Sonja asked, casually tapping her fingers against the bottle.

The barkeep’s eyes narrowed in mistrust. “A lot of people come and go,” she said slowly, “Why?”

Sonja flashed what she hoped was her most winning smile. “Just making conversation,” she assured.

“Right.”

It was obvious Hulda didn’t trust that the newest patrons at her bar weren’t up to no good, but before Sonja could do anything to allay that concern, their food arrived—and a fight broke out. So mesmerized was Sonja by the steaming bowl of hearty venison stew, that she didn’t immediately register the angry voices coming from the corner of the room. It wasn’t until one of the regulars, a homeless man named Brenuin with coin to spare only for mead, was thrown backward into her, causing her to spill the precious food onto the floor, that she realized anything was wrong at all. “For fuck’s sake,” she growled, kicking her stool back and shaking the remnants of the stew from the front of her armor.

“Got a problem, milk-drinker?” taunted a very angry, very tall Nord woman wearing steel plate armor from the corner of the room.

It took Sonja a moment to process that the woman was talking to her. She was still trying to cope with the abrupt loss of her food and how an inebriated beggar figured into the situation. Once her brain caught up, she realized everyone was staring at her, waiting to see how she’d reply. “Are you talking to me?” she asked dumbly.

“Milk-drinker and an idiot.” The crowd laughed and Sonja’s face grew hot with anger.

“That’s enough Uthgerd,” Hulda chastised, “You’ll scare off my customers.”

Uthgerd ignored the innkeep. “What say you, whelp?” she sneered at Sonja, “Have you a problem?”

Sonja ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth and stooped to grab the beggar off the floor, hoisting him forcefully to his feet, but it was a gesture far less kind than it appeared. Sonja had intentions to pound out Uthgerd’s face and she didn’t want to trip over a beggar in the process. “Not like the one I’m going to give you, Skeever-shit,” she snapped. The room cheered, ready for a fight. A drunken Brenuin hobbled off unsteadily, confused and thinking the cheers were for him.

“Take it outside!” Hulda insisted, “I won’t have more of my things broken by you drunken blowhards!”

“With pleasure,” Uthgerd growled, glaring daggers at Sonja as she pushed passed her, headed for the door.

It took more self-control than Sonja would have liked to admit to keep from slamming the bitch’s face into the countertop. She could be very cranky when she was hungry. Instead, she sucked on her tongue and glared at Faendal who had watched mutely through the entire exchange. “What?” he asked defensively, “I’m your guide, not your bodyguard.”

“If there’s betting, put coin on me,” she hissed, before turning on her heel to march out into the market square.

“How much?” he called after her, digging into his coin purse.

“All of it!”

The inn all but emptied behind her when she stepped outside. Uthgerd was standing by the well, already stripped of her armor from the waist up, the cool night air blowing through her thin, stained tunic and pieces of steel plate piled at her feet. She was grinding her fist into the other in anticipation.

With harsh, impatient motions, Sonja removed her own armor and weapons, shedding them onto the ground until Faendal appeared to watch over her things. The night air nipped at her bare midsection where half her tunic had been torn away to make a bandage on the fly once, long ago. The cropped garment revealed the cruel twist of many scars, not least of which the long, gnarled one that coiled around her waist like a snake. The ragged V of her collar was loosely knotted shut over the weave of the breast band binding her chest, exposing her neck and collarbones. In the shadow of her chin, one could barely make out the whisper-thin scar that marked her from ear to ear. Yet another painful reminder of misplaced trust.

She removed her father's ring and handed it to Faendal. "Don't lose it," she warned and the elf slipped it onto his own finger for safekeeping. “Terms?” Sonja asked, returning her attention to Uthgerd and cracking her knuckles ominously.

Uthgerd scoffed at her, though where this confidence was coming from, Sonja couldn’t fathom. They were more or less a straight up physical match. Uthgerd was taller, but leaner. She didn’t know what training the surly warrior may have had, but Sonja knew what kind of punches she, herself, could throw and Uthgerd was seriously underestimating her. “Just fists,” the cocky Nord replied, “First to yield loses. No weapons, no magic, and no crying.”

“Fine words for your tombstone,” Sonja taunted and the rabble goaded them on.

The Nord woman glowered, a muscle flexing along her jaw as she clenched her teeth. “How about we make this interesting?” she asked.

“You talk a lot for someone who wanted to put me on my ass.”

“A hundred gold says I knock your hide to the ground,” Uthgerd proposed.

“I’ll take that action.”

When Uthgerd charged Sonja, she ducked, causing the raging warrior to clock one of the onlookers clean across the jaw, staggering him. And the crowd loved it. Sonja capitalized on the momentary confusion and punched Uthgerd hard in the gut. She doubled over in pain, but recovered quickly, “That the best you can do?” she sneered before taking another heavy swing at Sonja and connecting. The wench has got an arm after all, Sonja thought as she took a few steps back to put some distance between them. Uthgerd had a longer reach than she did and more power from hefting a massive steel hammer around, but Sonja was quicker and didn’t lack for strength, herself.

So, they danced around each other, getting punches in where they could as the bets for and against them mounted until they were sweaty and breathless. In an effort to put an end to the fight, Sonja darted in close to attack Uthgerd’s weak side, but the Nord was ready for her. She blocked Sonja’s attack with her forearm, opening up her chest, and then proceeded to wail on her face before Sonja could put her guard up again. Each blow was like a hammer and Sonja staggered backward into the well, her vision blurred and her nose was definitely broken. “Had enough, yet?” Uthgerd demanded, pulling back a few punches short of knocking Sonja out cold.

Sonja spit blood onto the cobble and chuckled, a little punch-drunk. “You hit like an old woman,” she taunted and Uthgerd’s face screwed up in murderous determination. She bolted at Sonja again, ready to wring her neck. Her hands wrapped around Sonja’s throat and Faendal was calling for an end to the fight, trying to struggle passed some of the onlookers who had crowded in too tightly.

Before anyone could pull Uthgerd away or the guards could be called, Sonja brought her fists down on Uthgerd’s elbows, breaking her grip and causing her to lean too far forward. Sonja jerked her head sharply into the Nord woman’s face and felt her nose give way against her brow with a satisfying crack. Coupled with a swift knee to the gut, Uthgerd was on her hands and knees, cupping her bleeding nose.

The market square went silent. Only the thudding footfalls of the guards could be heard echoing through the night as they approached the scene. “What’s going on here?” one of them demanded of the group at large.

When no one immediately answered, he turned his attention to Uthgerd who had rolled onto her back and was pinching her nose in a daze. “Uthgerd the Unbroken,” he scoffed, “You look pretty broken to me down there in the dirt. What’d you do? Finally pick a fight you couldn’t win? It’s about time someone knocked your sorry hide to the ground, ya bloody snow-back.”

“We didn’t haul you in for killing that boy up at Jorrvaskr out of respect for the Companions, but you’ve assaulted a citizen now, Uthgerd,” the second guard warned, “Nothing to do now but take you to the dungeon to rot like you deserve.”

The guards took a collective step toward Uthgerd while the crowd stepped back. Sonja was dazed and bleeding and in pain, but she wasn’t about to let the poor warrior get dragged up to Dragonsreach for a fair fight she had agreed to. “Now wait a moment,” she slurred through the blood as one of her eyes began to swell shut, “There’s nothing to see here, but a little disagreement between friends. Right, Gerdy?” Uthgerd winced, though it was hard to tell if it was from the pain in her face or the shame of having a stranger come to her rescue.

The guards paused and looked Sonja over. “You call this friendly?” the first one asked skeptically as he pointed to the rough condition of Sonja’s face.

She shrugged then winced from the pain of shrugging before groaning from the pain of wincing. Fully aware she was a mess, Sonja leaned over and offered Uthgerd her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman accepted it and Sonja hauled her to her feet with great effort. “Gods, you’re heavy,” she grunted before Faendal finally pushed through and helped her support Uthgerd’s weight. “See? We’re all friends here,” she said, nodding to the guards.

Though their faces were hidden behind their faceguards, it was easy enough to imagine the unconvinced looks on the guards’ faces, but as long as Sonja kept to her story that nothing untoward had happened, they couldn’t arrest Uthgerd unless someone else stepped forward. “Is that the truth of it?” the second guard asked of the crowd. There was a general grumbling of the affirmative. “I guess that’s it then,” he sighed, looking to his comrade.

“Stay out of trouble,” the first guard warned before returning to patrol.

“We’ll be watching you, Uthgerd,” the last guard added, “Mind that temper of yours or it will get you killed.” And then he, too, was gone.

Sonja groaned and then awkwardly moved back toward the Bannered Mare with Uthgerd’s arm flung across her shoulders. “See what I mean by trouble?” she grunted to Faendal who shouldered Uthgerd’s other arm.

“Trouble?” he repeated, “We made four hundred gold tonight.”

“Did everyone bet against me?”

Faendal laughed. “All but me.”


Uthgerd and Sonja returned to Uthgerd’s usual spot at the corner of the dining room and sank into the two chairs beside the small table. Faendal went about collecting his winnings from the other patrons before he went outside to retrieve the ladies’ armor from the market square. Sonja kicked her feet up on the table and hailed a barmaid. A pretty blonde Nord with green-hazel eyes came over. “Oh Uthgerd,” she sighed, taking in the sorry sight of both women, “Not again.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Olfina,” Uthgerd slurred through a fat lip, defensively.

Olfina shook her head. “What can I get for you?” she asked Sonja.

“Couple of meads and another bowl of stew, some bread and cheese,” she replied, leaning her head back against the wall. “You hungry?” she asked Uthgerd. The other woman shook her head. “That’s it then,” Sonja concluded and Olfina walked away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Uthgerd said after a moment’s awkward silence.

“Do what? Order food?”

“Lie to the guards.”

Sonja shrugged. “I picked the fight as much as you did.”

Uthgerd grunted her disagreement. “Best fight I’ve had in years, though,” she admitted.

“You throw a good punch, yourself.”

The warrior extended her hand. “Not that you don’t already know, but the name’s Uthgerd.”

“Sonja.” They shook firmly as Olfina returned with food and drink.

“Not starting any more fights tonight, I see,” she commented, visibly relieved.

“Night’s still young,” Uthgerd replied cheekily, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Olfina chuckled. “Stay out of trouble,” she chided and then darted off to serve another customer.

Uthgerd grunted again and Sonja was beginning to wonder if that was the woman’s main form of communication. “I tore your face up pretty bad, didn’t I?” she said as Sonja sank onto the floor from her chair to be closer to the food on the short table.

“You’re none too pretty, either.”

“Good luck eating around that bleeding mouth.”

Sonja paused, considering her food thoughtfully; Ralof’s warning against her magic echoing through her mind. “You’re not going to like this,” she said, looking up at Uthgerd from the floor.

“What?” She watched as Sonja raised her hands to her face and the bright pulse of healing magic glowed off her fingertips, engulfing her features. “Ysgramor’s balls, you’re a fucking mage?” she sighed, disheartened.

Sonja’s pretty and completely healed face grinned up at her in response, a few new scars the only indicator that she had recently been in a fight. “No weapons, no magic, no crying,” she said, repeating Uthgerd’s earlier words, “Want me to toss a little your way?”

“No.”

Shrugging, Sonja dug into her stew. “Suit yourself,” she said through a mouthful of food. Uthgerd grumbled to herself and watched as Sonja tugged the cork out of one of the bottles of mead and started eagerly chugging the golden liquid down. “This one’s yours,” she said, sliding the second bottle toward Uthgerd.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Shut up and drink with me.” Reluctantly, Uthgerd snatched up the bottle, uncorked it, and tried to find the least painful way to get the alcohol past her split lip with little success. “Here,” Sonja said after watching Uthgerd struggle for a few moments, “Take this. You’re putting me off my dinner.” She plopped a chunk of conjured ice into Uthgerd’s hand.

“More magic?”

“It won’t hurt you any, just put it against that mess of a face of yours.”

Uthgerd looked ready to refuse again, but thought better of it. A chunk of ice was a lot less direct than allowing Sonja to cast spells on her, so she gingerly pressed the slick disk against her broken nose. She’d see Danica in the morning for proper healing—not that Sonja seemed incapable judging by the nearly flawless way she mended her own wounds. Just faint scars through her eyebrow, under her eye, and across her lips. Hardly noticeable. She wondered why she hadn’t finished the job and left no marks at all. Though if the rest of Sonja’s body was an indicator, perhaps there was a simpler answer: she wasn’t vain enough to care to. Uthgerd, herself, preferred to ache a little while longer at least. Pain was a part of the fight. She needed to feel it. She needed the punishment. A way to mitigate her near constant anger at the world for her own failings.

“So why you in trouble with the guard anyway?” Sonja asked between bites, pulling Uthgerd out of her mental self-flagellation, “They didn’t like you none too much.”

“Few months ago, I had some trouble at Jorrvaskr.”

“Big trouble from the sound of it.”

“All I wanted was a chance to prove myself against a Companion like anybody else who goes to join,” Uthgerd growled, “‘Too hot-headed,’ they cried. Weak, pathetic cowards the lot of them!”

“You killed a Companion?” Sonja asked, sucking meat from between her teeth.

“Aye.”

“And they didn’t strike you down where you stood?”

“They wanted to,” Uthgerd assured, “That Huntress had an arrow ready for my heart, but the big one—one of the twins, I think—Farkas stopped her. Their Second sent me away, saying I wasn’t Companion material—and neither was the Whelp if he couldn’t last five minutes against me.”

“Poor lad,” Sonja muttered and then downed the last of her mead, signaling to Olfina that she wanted another.

Uthgerd groaned to think of the whole horrible event all over again. “It wasn’t my fault!” she insisted, “I told them over and over that it was an accident! They wanted me to prove my worth, so they threw me up against this young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin-hairs. I guess they thought a woman wasn’t strong enough to hurt him. I-I didn’t mean for him to die! Why would I want that? I just—I just lost control.”

Sonja chewed on her last bite of stew and considered Uthgerd. “Like tonight?” she asked at length, referring to the woman’s attempt to strangle her.

“Aye,” she sighed miserably, “Like tonight.”

Sonja nodded absently and tore her bread into smaller pieces to sop up the remaining liquid in her bowl. She hadn’t ever lost control the way Uthgerd had. Maybe lost her temper a time or two, but she was always aware of where that unspoken line was and never crossed it. But mistakes she had made in the past had been both directly and indirectly responsible for the deaths of innocents—even loved ones. She pursed her lips, on that she could see eye to eye with Uthgerd and understand that pain, that rage, that unquenchable desire for violent action just to ease the ache in her heart. She needed to move passed it. They both did. “You needn’t worry that I pity you,” Sonja said casually, “You pity yourself enough for the two of us.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Uthgerd snapped.

“My life hasn’t exactly been milk-drinking and skipping through fields of blue mountain flowers.”

“Now who’s whining?”

“Still you, my friend,” Sonja laughed, “But a few more drinks will fix that. Then you’ll let me fix what I’ve broken of your face and you’ll be back to your surly, beggar-tossing self in no time.”

Uthgerd glared at her sideways. “And you? What are you doing here in Whiterun?” she asked before taking a massive swing of her mead.

Sonja considered dancing around the question, preferring to keep to herself, but decided against it. Uthgerd had been honest with her and she needed to ask somebody about her sister. A local and regular of the inn wasn’t a bad start. “I’m looking for my sister,” she explained, “She may have come through. Our mother was born and raised here and when she passed, she wanted us to bring her ashes back. Anja didn’t wait for me. She came alone and I’m worried for her.”

The warrior considered Sonja’s words. “There’ve been a lot of travelers through here recently on the way to Solitude,” she said, thoughtfully, “What’d she look like?”

“She’s a few years younger than I,” she replied, hoping for a lead, “About a head shorter, Imperial, slight frame, blonde hair, blue eyes. Favors maces, of all things. Might go by the name Kit.”

Uthgerd snapped her fingers. “That’s it,” she said, “Kit. I remember her. Charmed all the regulars into paying for her drinks and popped Mikael a good one when he got fresh with Carlotta.”

Sonja smirked. “Sounds like Anj, alright.”

“She didn’t stay long. Said she had business at the Hall of the Dead and then skipped town. You might check with the priest, Andurs, and the carriage drivers that pass through, but I don’t know which she left with or where she was going.”

It wasn’t much, but it was more that she had five minutes ago. Sonja raised her bottle to Uthgerd. “Good on you. I’ll check into it in the morning.”

Just then, Faendal walked up to the table and dropped a sizable purse in front of Sonja. “From throwing punches to raising drinks,” he said, amused, “You’ll get along just fine in Skyrim.”

Sonja picked up the purse and weighed it in her hands. It, along with the purse she collected from Uthgerd, was a good start, but she’s need more if she was going to find Anja. Gold coins could buy information that silver tongues could not. But she didn’t have any plans to go around starting fist fights for coin. First, it was that job for the jarl and then steady work through the Companions, if she was lucky enough to pass their little test, of course. “If all I have to do is fight and drink, I think I can manage,” she joked, setting the gold back on the table.

“The heat of battle is the fire that forges the strongest blades,” Uthgerd said, “It’s an old Nord proverb. A true Nord never misses a chance to test her worth. That’s Skyrim. That’s the Nord way. Remember that and Skyrim will become your home.”

“Words to live by,” Sonja said, raising her mead a second time and drinking deeply.

Notes:

I don't know if it's because he was my first follower in the game or what, but I am very fond of Faendal. I like him as my little sidekick, but I felt like he needed a better reason to follow me around other than 'cause I did some note-passing for him once. So what? I did that shit in grade school and all it got me was held back from recess. Lame. So, I hope this is better.

Also, I like Uthgerd because her story bums me out. :( I don't usually take her around as a follower, but I always brawl with her for the coin and the sad story of how she lost control and killed a dude. Plus, since Sonja's future romance is with Vilkas, I thought it was a little piece of Companion backstory that adds a little character even though it was overlooked or disregarded in-game.

Chapter 6: Family Reunion

Summary:

Sonja doesn't get the luxury of putting off meeting her mother's family any longer. Later, she and Faendal receive their reward from Jarl Balgruuf and accept their next job from him.

Notes:

Mods that appear in this chapter: Witchplate by Telthalion on Nexus, Witchplate - Armor Set by Wartinald on Steam.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“IRONHEART!” Hulda bellowed, her voice carrying through the inn and disturbing many of the drunks passed out at various tables—or in Brenuin’s case, under one. Guests who paid for a room remained undisturbed, sleeping soundly behind closed doors, except for Sonja who had rented the loft room and left the door to the gallery open.

She sat bolt upright in her bed, snorting loudly and grasping for blankets to cover her bare legs. Her hands clutched at naked air, so she forced one weary eye open and found that Faendal had hogged them all, wrapped into a warm little cocoon with pointed ears and a sandy brown pony tail sticking out the top. She glared at him. He was definitely sleeping on the floor next time.

Vaguely aware that someone had called her name and that’s what had dragged her from sleep, Sonja flung her legs over the side of the bed and retrieved her trousers from the floor, hopping on one leg as she attempted to don them while walking. Of course she tripped and stumbled forward, stubbing her toe on the frame of the open door. “Mara’s bleeding heart,” she cursed loud enough to disturb the patrons downstairs. But not Faendal; he slept like the dead. She did draw the attention of Hulda, however, as well as the older woman she was speaking to with far too much enthusiasm for the morning.

“You alright, Sonja?” Hulda asked. Her expression silently declared that Sonja looked a mess.

“I thought you called for me,” was the confused, somewhat garbled response.

“No.”

“Oh…” Sonja scrunched up her face, thinking. What had she heard when she woke up? It hadn’t been her first name and she hadn’t given Hulda a family name…oh…Her eyes darted to the woman. A shield-maiden, covered in ebony mail and black wolf fur, and armed with a fine ebony and steel sword and shield. She was a severe looking woman somewhere in her fifties, if Sonja had to guess, but her hair had already turned to silken silver and was braided back from her face like a crown; the loose half of her tresses hung over her shoulders and down her back into the hood of her black cloak. The way Sonja’s mother used to wear her hair. And startlingly familiar blue eyes stared up at her from beneath hawkish gray eyebrows with the same intimidating suspicious glint Sonja knew only too well. This woman had to be one of her mother’s sisters.

“How about some breakfast then?” Hulda asked, drawing Sonja’s attention away from the woman who very likely was her aunt.

“Aye,” Sonja nodded, “That’d be good.”

“I’ll send Saadia up right away.”

“Good morning, Hulda,” the woman said suddenly, tearing her gaze away from Sonja, “There’s much to do today and naught but me to do it.”

“But you only just got back, Hera!” Hulda insisted, “You didn’t even tell me how your visit to Markarth went.”

“Later, Hulda, I promise,” she assured and then she was gone. Sonja watched her disappear from the inn in a flash of silver as the sunlight struck her hair before the door snapped shut behind her. Hulda looked put out and snapped at Saadia more harshly than she meant to. The waitress jumped and went about trying to prepare Sonja’s breakfast more quickly.

Sonja melted back into the room, frowning. Suddenly, the sight of the sleeping elf was a bit more than she could bear at that moment and she planted a foot in what she assumed was the small of his back. “Wake up,” she hissed, shoving him clean off the bed.

The Faendal-cocoon hit the floor with a dull thud and a strangled cry of surprise. “What in Oblivion did you do that for?” he asked, fighting against the twist of the blankets as he scrambled to his feet.

“You stole the covers,” she replied irritably.

Faendal looked at her, bewildered. “And you snore like a troll, but I didn’t throw you out of the bed!”

“Shut up and get dressed,” she snapped, “Saadia’s bringing breakfast.”

Faendal grumbled to himself a few moments longer as he cast about for his tunic. It was stuffed under the pillow. But Sonja did catch a few words: “So much for sharing a bed like adults…damn harpy…tossing and turning all night…”

Sonja tuned him out before he incited her anger again, but her thoughts turned to other things no more pleasant. There was no doubt that Hera knew who she was—or at least was suspicious. The way she looked at her and then all but bolted from the inn. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome. Aela had spoken true. There was bad blood between Freydis and her sisters, and Sonja couldn’t help but wonder if Anja had gone poking around in the old family feud before leaving—if that was the reason she left. Maybe Hera knew where she’d gone. 


Sonja tucked the hem of the new tunic she purchased from Belethor’s General Goods Store into her trousers as she kicked the door of the bathhouse open, stepping out into the mid-morning air. Her long black hair was messily twisted into a large, wet knot at the back of her head. A chill ran through her when a breeze blew over her warm, damp skin, but she was glad to be clean. It had been a long while since she last had access to bathwater and clean clothes. The soaps, lotions, and other hygienic sundries she bought at Arcadia’s Cauldron bathed her senses with a pleasing mixture of lavender and mint. Perhaps it was a little unnecessary to buy such soft items, especially with the hard work she had ahead of her, but it certainly felt worth the extra couple gold coins to feel civilized again.

She and Faendal made their way down the walkway, circling around Arcadia’s, headed for Dragonsreach. Sonja was still dressing, her belts caught in her teeth and her armor slung over her shoulder. She wasn’t really looking where she was going, only catching the general presence of others in her peripheral so she didn’t bump into anyone. “I didn’t take kindly to your sister poking around,” said a voice only recently familiar. Sonja turned so abruptly, Faendal ran into her, but before he could utter a single complaint, he turned to see at who Sonja was staring. Hera leaned against one of the carved beams of Arcadia’s covered storefront, an intricately carved ivory pipe caught between her teeth. “What makes you think I’d like you any better?” she finished, stoking her pipe with the magical flames dancing off the tip of her forefinger.

“We’re not poking around,” Faendal objected, but Hera gave him a chilling look.

“I’m not stupid,” she snarled, “Why else would you be here?”

“Hera, right?” Sonja asked cautiously.

“You know that’s my name.”

“Not ‘til this morning.”

“Don’t play dumb. At least your little whelpling sister showed me more respect.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “I think you’re confused about why I’m here.”

“Anja was clear enough,” Hera shrugged, “Wanted to make amends on behalf of your mother. Tried to get me to read one of her old journals. ‘It will explain everything,’ she said.”

Sonja had no idea to what journal Hera was referring, but it seemed that Anja was far better informed than she was when it came to their mother’s family. “Did you read it?” she asked.

Hera scoffed. “No,” she answered, “I told her to leave. If Freydis wanted to make amends, then she’d have to drag her cowardly ass back to Skyrim and do it herself instead of sending her daughters.”

“Freydis is dead, Hera,” Sonja informed her coldly, “She died a few years back. I didn’t come here for you.”

The storm gathering in the older woman’s face cleared briefly as realization sunk in. “How—how’d she die?” she asked, her eyes softening.

“Clearing a mine outside Anvil of goblins for the Fighters Guild,” Sonja answered, wondering how much of the grief filtering through her aunt’s expression was real.

“She died with honor, then?”

“Took as many of them with her as she could.”

Hera nodded and straightened from the beam. “Was she buried in Cyrodiil?”

“No. She was burned on the pyre.” Sonja remembered that day well. After the death of her father, she and her mother took jobs with the Fighters Guild, picking up bounties, or taking whatever halfway decent work came their way to pay the taxes on their home in the Imperial City. When Freydis didn’t check back in with the Guild Hall in Anvil, Sonja got nervous and convinced a friend in the guild to go with her to the mine to see what was taking her mother so long. In hindsight, she knew what she would find when she entered that mine, but she still wasn’t prepared to find her mother’s corpse. The only solace she had was in ridding the mine of every last goblin. Then she took Freydis’ body back to Anvil and they built a pyre for her on the shore. It rained, and Sonja and Anja spent the rest of the day huddled under the same blanket, standing vigil until the flames went out and all that remained of Freydis was a pile of ash and bits of bone. That was the last time Sonja had been close with her sister. “Anja brought her ashes to rest here,” she concluded softly.

“So she’s come home, then?”

“Aye.”

Hera sighed heavily and the action made her look older. “I wondered why the letters stopped coming…” she admitted, “I thought she just—finally gave up when I never wrote back.”

“Letters? What letters?”

“Your mother wrote to me every month for nearly thirty years,” she explained, “She told me what Cyrodiil was like—why she left with your father—when you were born—when Anja and Thornir were born—your schooling, your training—how beautiful you all were—when you were hurt and Thornir was killed—when Remus died. All of it—until the very end.”

“You read them all?”

“Every last one.”

Sonja’s hands balled into fists at her side. “And you never once wrote back?” she asked, remembering how hard Thornir’s death had been on them all. How hard it was on them still. Sonja had been too injured to be of much use. Anja had been devastated. Remus had been consumed with the need to avenge his son, and Freydis—she was the strongest of them all, but felt the loss of her child in a way only a mother could. Her baby was dead. She could have used the support of her estranged sisters; they all could have.

“No,” Hera replied, bitterly, “I was too proud.”

“A-and the others?” Sonja asked, her voice raising dangerously high, “Your other sisters? Were they all too proud, also?”

“It’s not that simple…”

“The hell it ain’t!” she nearly bellowed, “She lost a son! And you couldn’t take the time to pick up a quill? What about when da died? All because you were afraid to lose face!” Her face was very close to Hera’s now and she could smell the fragrant tobacco from her pipe on her breath. “Tell me, aunt, who’s the real coward? Ma for leaving or you for never allowing her to come back?”

Hera glared silent daggers at Sonja, but made no attempt to speak. There was nothing to say. Even if she broke down, tore her hair, and begged for forgiveness, Sonja wouldn’t have listened to her and Hera wasn’t the type for a show of remorse of that degree anyway. She was too proud. Too damned proud. “Sonja, we shouldn’t keep the Jarl waiting,” Faendal reminded her softly.

Sonja blinked, her fury momentarily smothered. “Aye,” she agreed, turning away from Hera, “We’ve a job to do.”

“What business have you with the jarl?” Hera asked before she could stop herself.

“None of your concern,” Sonja snapped, and she and Faendal disappeared through the crowded market square, headed for Dragonsreach.


The smell of the morning meal wafted through the main hall of Dragonsreach and had they not already eaten, the smell would have been torturous. “Do you think we could eat again?” Faendal asked under his breath.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she muttered, still in a foul mood from the unexpected family reunion she had just moments before. They mounted the steps and made their way down to the Jarl at the end of the table on their right. He was nearly finished with his meal and was drinking deeply from a goblet. “My Jarl,” Sonja greeted, “Sorry to disturb your meal. Should we come back later?”

The Jarl waved her off. “It’s no trouble,” he said and he stood from his seat, “Have you eaten? Please help yourself to my table. There is plenty.”

“Hulda fed us well,” Sonja assured, but she did pluck an apple from a bowl. Faendal helped himself to a snowberry turnover.

Balgruuf smiled, amused, and gestured to the man sitting at his left. “This is my brother Hrongar,” he introduced, “A thane of my court. He will show you to the armory where you can claim your reward.”

Hrongar stood from his chair to greet them, nodding first to Sonja and then Faendal. He was a handsome man, much like his brother. Younger, broader, clad in scaled horned armor and carrying a fine steel greatsword. His head was shaved, but he sported the same impressive blonde beard, only his was tied with a bit of leather cord. “Come with me,” he beckoned and they followed him as Balgruuf settled back into his meal.

Halfway to the armory, they crossed paths with Balgruuf’s steward, Proventus. “Ah, are these the mercenaries the jarl’s hired to help Farengar?” he asked, casting a disinterested glance at Sonja and Faendal.

“This is Freydis Ironheart’s daughter,” Hrongar responded, pointedly.

“Hera’s niece are you?” Proventus spared a second glance for Sonja.

Sonja crossed her arms over her chest. “And my friend, Faendal of Riverwood, a skilled ranger,” she added, irritated that everyone seemed to forget the elf existed when they addressed her.

Proventus’ eyes flit toward Faendal briefly. “Farengar will be pleased to have some real help this time,” he sighed and then turned to continue into the main hall.

“Walk with me,” Hrongar said before Proventus could get too far.

Confused, but mildly intrigued, the steward complied, falling into step beside the thane. “Something on your mind, Hrongar?” he asked.

The thane nodded. “You must help me,” he said, “We need to convince my brother to do more for the war effort.”

The steward cast a nervous glance back at Sonja and Faendal. “This would better be discussed in private, don’t you think?” he asked severely.

“So you can avoid me when next I ask?”

“What would you have me do, Hrongar?” Proventus snapped, “Your brother is the jarl. You know I can’t question his judgement.”

“I’m not asking you to defy the jarl,” Hrongar assured in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just to open his eyes. Use subtlety and suggestion to turn his thoughts to the war. You’re his steward, he’ll listen to you.”

“Leave me out of your intrigues,” Proventus said haughtily, “If you have something to say to the jarl, say it with your own tongue.” And then he abruptly turned on his heel and marched off, pushing passed Sonja and Faendal, and muttering, “Good day.”

“Fool,” Hrongar hissed, but continued to the armory, unabashed. Sonja and Faendal exchanged looks and shrugged, unsure what to make of Hrongar’s lack of discretion in so openly discussing court intrigue in front of them. It wasn’t really surprising that there would be some friction amongst the jarl’s court in the midst of a civil war, but that Hrongar was flirting with overstepping his bounds was worrisome. Sonja didn’t know much about Nordic politics, but her impression of Skyrim so far did not lead her to believe Balgruuf would go easy on his brother if he found out. There’d be a fist fight, at the very least…she thought.

When they entered the armory, several odds and ends of armor had been laid out for them to choose from. There weren’t many full sets. “Take what you need.” Hrongar leaned in the doorway while they browsed their options.

Faendal lucked out and managed to find a sleek leather and steel mail set that would require very little alteration to fit his lean frame. “You wouldn’t happen to be any good at making armor, would you?” he asked, checking the chest piece against his body.

“A little,” Sonja answered, abandoning her examination of a battered elven cuirass to see what Faendal had gotten his hands on. “Oh, this is an easy fix,” she assured, “I can have it done in a couple of hours.” She handed it back to him and he carefully gathered the entire set up in his arms.

“Where did you learn to smith?”

Sonja didn’t answer right away. “From my mother,” she replied, “She had a talent for it. Said she studied with the greatest once…” She produced the Skyforge dagger from her belt. “Made things like this.”

Faendal looked impressed. “Then she must have studied with Eorlund Gray-Mane,” he said, letting out a long low whistle, “Best damn steel in all of Skyrim, but only a very select few wield his Skyforged weapons and armor.”

“The Companions,” she finished, “Yes, I noticed that. Guess I know why she never said anything, then. But I’m not any good at the forge. I can make repairs and a few simple weapons, arrows and daggers and the like, but ma was something else.” She sighed and returned the dagger to her belt before browsing through the armor again to find something she could use. Faendal watched the persistent frown tug at the corner of her mouth and felt his own expression morph to mirror hers.

“I’m—sorry about your aunt, for what it’s worth,” he said, “I know that can’t be easy.”

“I just wish ma had told me about them,” she muttered, irritated, “I’ve had this whole other family I know nothing about—and they’re pissed for gods know what reason.”

“Maybe it was for the best.”

“What good could have possibly come of her saying nothing?”

Faendal shrugged. “What good could have come of her telling her children they had family that wanted nothing to do with them?”

Damn him, he’s right. Sonja chuckled humorlessly. “You’re not as dumb as you look, friend,” she replied.

“Too bad you are.”

His response earned him a good-natured punch to the arm and a real laugh. Hrongar cleared his throat loudly, wordlessly encouraging them to finish their business so he could get back to his. “It’s enchanted, by the way,” she informed him before they refocused their attention on the task at hand, “The cuirass is, at least. It will help you to recover quickly.”

“Enchanted, ay?” He looked the armor over again. “I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything so fancy my entire life.”

Another pointed throat-clear issued from the doorway. Sonja rolled her eyes, but made an earnest attempt to find suitable armor while Faendal turned his attention to the weapons, particularly a nice elven bow. After a few moments more, Hrongar impatiently cleared his throat a third time. Perhaps Sonja was being too picky, but she was having a difficult time finding anything suitable amongst the mismatched pieces of armor. It wasn’t until she noticed a shining quicksilver and ebony gauntlet edged in familiar runes sticking out of a chest pushed against a wall and covered in cobwebs and dust, forgotten, that she found something not only worthwhile, but unexpected.

When she kicked back the lid of the trunk, Hrongar came storming into the room. “You’re only to touch what’s been laid out for you,” he insisted, but he calmed some when he saw what Sonja was looking at, “Oh, that. It’s pretty enough, but too thin to take a beating and ill-fitting.”

Sonja smirked and reached into the chest, removing the cuirass. “Do you even know what it is?” she asked, running her fingers over the row of runes that curved over the chest.

“Some garbage a battlemage was wearing,” Hrongar shrugged.

“It’s not garbage; it’s witchplate,” she replied, “And well-made, too. No battlemage worth his salt would let this go willingly. How’d you come by it?”

“He was causing trouble in town,” Hrongar explained, “Something about a gambling debt, I think. The guard dragged him in after he attacked the man he owned money. Killed him outright. We held him in the dungeons until my brother turned him over to the Legion for sentencing. Kept his gear though, as recompense for the death of one of his citizens.” He scratched his chin, thoughtfully. “Too bad it’s useless. We’ve had every smith in the hold take look at it and no one can repair it.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t think to ask your Court Wizard about it?”

Hrongar shrugged. “What does a mage know about armor?”

“Only a mage can use it properly.”

“And how would you know that?”

Sonja answered him by way of pulsing magic into the cuirass, causing the ebony runes to glow bright cerulean blue and Hrongar to take several steps back. She smiled, vaguely satisfied that he found her powers unsettling and tugged at the buckles of her armor. “It’s made almost entirely of quicksilver,” she explained as her leather harness fell to the floor, “A soft metal unless reinforced with something stronger like moonstone or malachite, but witchplate uses magic.” She pulled the new cuirass on over her head. The armor was comically large and shapeless on her torso, but another charge of magic remedied that immediately. The witchplate easily conformed to her body like liquid, solidifying at the proper fit. “Like a glove.”

“Y-you’ve used this armor before, then?” Hrongar asked uneasily.

“Aye,” she confirmed, “Had a set just like it at university. It’s expensive and usually reserved for—advanced classes. It belongs to the school until you graduate, but I left before then, so I had to return it.” That was the heavily edited version of events, anyway. “I’d like this one if you don’t mind. I don’t think you’ll miss it.”

Hrongar nodded a little too readily. “Help yourself.”


Jarl Balgruuf was reseated at his throne by the time Sonja and Faendal returned to the main hall. When he caught sight of Sonja dressed head to toe in witchplate and sporting an elven sword, he did a subtle double take before looking pointedly to his brother who merely shrugged. Apparently satisfied with such an inadequate response, Balgruuf cleared his throat and stood from his throne. “I’m glad you’ve found suitable reward for your efforts,” he said, taking curious note of how snuggly the witchplate hugged Sonja’s curves when it had previously fit no one else. “Come,” he said, beckoning for Sonja and Faendal to follow him to the Court Wizard’s chambers just off the great hall. “Let’s go find Farengar. My Court Wizard. He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and—rumors of dragons. He can be a bit—difficult. Mages. You know.”

“Totally insufferable lot,” Faendal said in feigned agreement. Sonja punched his arm again. “Ow,” he muttered, “That one hurt a little.”

“Insufferable or not, we’d be in a lot more trouble without them,” the Jarl allowed. They entered the mage’s study. A Breton man in a blue robe stood behind the desk, pouring over volumes and papers. “Farengar, I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project,” the Jarl said to the man, “Go ahead and fill them in with all the details.”

Farengar looked up and Sonja instantly felt the subtle aura of his magicka. He was definitely a Master Wizard. Of which school in particular, it was hard to tell, but he didn’t have the distant gaze of a conjurer or illusionist. No, he moved with purpose and focus, absent softness. Destruction, if she had to guess.

The Court Wizard looked her over as closely as he had examined his own books, his eyes trailing over the runes faintly glowing across her armor. Then his eyes flit to Faendal and gave him an equally intense study. “So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?” he asked, his gaze shifting briefly back to Balgruuf, “Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into dragons.” He whipped the book in front of him shut and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me,” he admitted, “Well, when I say 'fetch,' I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

Sonja and Faendal exchanged glances. And then Sonja shrugged. “Alright,” she said, “But what does this have to do with dragons?”

“Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker—perhaps even a scholar?” the mage asked, pointedly.

“You could say that,” Sonja confirmed vaguely, unwilling to get bogged down the specifics of her education and training.

Farengar hummed knowingly, but whether he found her answer unsatisfactory or not, she could not tell. He circled around to the front of the desk and leaned against it, crossing one leg over the other casually. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities,” he continued, “One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything which falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons—where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

“So what do you need us to do?” Faendal asked.

“I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow—a Dragonstone, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites,” Farengar elaborated, “Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet—no doubt interred in the main chamber—and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.”

“Right. Simple,” Sonja frowned, “Fine. We’ll get your stone for you.”

“This is a priority now,” the Jarl interjected, “Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly. Before it’s too late.”

“Understood,” Sonja nodded, “We’ll leave as soon as we’re able.”

“You seem to have found me able assistants, Jarl Balgruuf,” Farengar said, casting another glance over Sonja’s witchplate armor, “I’m sure they will prove most useful.”

“Succeed at this, and you’ll be rewarded,” Balgruuf promised, “Whiterun will be in your debt—I will be in your debt.”

“We won’t fail,” Sonja assured.

“May the Nine watch over you,” Balgruuf said, and Sonja and Faendal took their leave.

Notes:

Alright, Hera! I lurve her. She's cranky and salty and smokes a pipe! Love me some crazy old biddy and I hope you guys do too because she goin' nowhere. That's right, she and Sonja are going to have a "Come to Talos" meeting, if you will. Yay! Family drama!

Kay, also my imagining of the witchplate armor mod is a wee bit different than the screenshots on the site show. I like the idea of there being quite a few more runes all over the armor in general. Also, I made the utility an equally magical experience because it's mage armor; it should behave differently than the normal stuff.

Chapter 7: Exit Strategy

Summary:

There are a few last minute preparations that need to be made before Sonja and Faendal can trek off across Whiterun Hold for Bleak Falls Barrow. So they split the work and go their separate ways in order to leave as soon as possible. In an attempt to avoid another confrontation with her aunt, Sonja is steered toward Jorrvaskr instead of the intended Warmaiden's where she meets a certain surly Companion for the first time.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja had to admit that she was feeling a lot better encased in the silken weight of the witchplate armor. The cool metal was familiar, made her feel safer than her ragged leather garb had, and reminded her of a time when her days had been filled with the wonder and excitement of scholarship and training. Before everything had gone horribly wrong. And then she was quickly backsliding into melancholy again. That deep, dark hole that pressed in on her like a tomb until she thought she’d be crushed beneath the weight of it. “Hey, are you listening to me?” Faendal’s voice pulled her back and she looked at him, eyes rounded as if she was surprised to see him walking beside her.

“Yeah—no, sorry—what?”

Faendal’s brow furrowed in concern, but he repeated himself. “I said, we’re getting a late start to the day, so we’ll need proper gear to make camp. Belethor’s should have what we need.”

“Right. Sounds good to me.”

Quick, hawkish eyes still examined her face. “Why don’t you work on my armor while I get what we need?” he suggested, “Warmaiden’s is down by the gate. Adrianne might be persuaded to let you work in her shop if you’ve got the skill.”

Sonja nodded. “Right. I’ll do that.”

Faendal still seemed a little unsure, but shrugged. She was a grown woman and obviously very capable of taking care of herself. He’d add ‘nursemaid’ to the list of things he wasn’t to her right after ‘bodyguard’ and ‘bedmate.’ Shifting his pack off his shoulder, he traded her for her coin and then parted ways. Sonja hefted the bag onto her back and made to cut through the Wind District to the staircase nearest the gates, but caught a flash of silver on the other side. It was Hera. She and the older woman locked eyes briefly and then she made a beeline for Sonja.

Not wanting to engage in another heartwarming familial encounter, Sonja glanced around for an excuse to go anywhere else and her eyes settled squarely on the doors of Jorrvaskr. “Sonja…” Hera began when she intercepted her near the base of the Gildergreen.

“Don’t,” Sonja snapped, “I don’t have time for you.” And she darted up the steps to the mead hall.

“You’re a stubborn wench just like your mother,” Hera called after her, but she did not follow. If she wanted Sonja to hear what she had to say, then she’d have to wait until her niece was less pissed off. Though, if she had even an ounce of the infamous Ironheart temper, Hera could be waiting for a very long time.

Upon nearing the building, Sonja could hear the clanging of swords and shields coming from around the back and wondered if perhaps she’d been too hasty in selecting an exit strategy since training at Jorrvaskr seemed to be in full swing. She hesitated to go inside. Instead she veered left, thinking of viewing the Companions practice as an excuse to come and go without causing much fuss. Surely they were used to onlookers. The Fighters Guild certainly had its fair share of admirers, but when she rounded the corner and saw only sweating warriors beating the Oblivion out of assorted dummies and each other, she sighed heavily. She just couldn’t catch a break.

Before she could slink off unnoticed, one of the older warriors saw her. “Keep fighting,” he growled at the pair sparring in front of him, “I’ll be back.” And he stalked toward Sonja with a powerful, predatory grace. “What do you want, whelp?” he sneered when he drew near.

He was only an inch or two taller than she, but he still managed to somehow stare down his nose at her, his cold white-blue eyes glaring amidst smears of black war paint. “Is this how you greet everyone who comes to Jorrvaskr?” Sonja asked, shifting her weight to one hip and steadily returning his gaze.

“Aye.” He crossed his bulging arms over an equally strong chest, causing the inked skin of his right bicep to stretch taught over the muscle beneath it. The motion wafted the scent of sweat and sandalwood into Sonja’s face, but it wasn’t altogether displeasing. The man, himself, was easy on the eyes even with his expression twisted into such a persistent brood. A handsome Nord man with short black hair and a strong, square jawline. Sonja was certain she had never met him before, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he somehow looked familiar. “Answer the question,” he said, drawing Sonja’s roving eyes back to meet his.

Something in the way he looked at her or hidden in the tone of his voice, she felt that he was somehow issuing a challenge. An arbitrary test of her will. A subtle assertion of dominance, and her pride—nay, the very mettle of her being—wouldn’t allow her to back down. She could tell he was used to intimidating others and he certainly cut an impressive shape through his sweat-soaked tunic, but she’d taken on bigger and scarier in her time so she didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Eorlund,” she replied, remembering it was Faendal’s gear that sat heavy across her back.

The warrior pointed at the ridge above their heads. “Skyforge,” he said simply.

Sonja kept her eyes glued to his and nodded. “Man of few words.”

“Don’t need many.”

“Or know too few?” His gaze narrowed to hostility and she grinned, the undeclared winner of the unspoken tug-o-war. “Thanks for the help,” she said brightly, “On about your day, Companion.” And she took several steps backward, maintaining eye contact as long as she could before sprinting up the steps to the Skyforge. 


“Again!” Vilkas barked at Torvar and Njada as they performed the moves he had just taught them for the twentieth time. They were amongst some of the oldest Companions, not yet part of the Circle and nor would they ever be, but they were good, strong warriors. Training with Vilkas was a refresher to keep their skills sharp more than anything else, so they were completely frustrated that the surly warrior insisted on running them ragged like newly recruited whelps. Still, they paid their longtime friend and mentor the respect of doing as he commanded. In the training yard, Vilkas was king—even above Skjor who no longer trained with anyone but Aela. “Feet further apart!” he snapped, smacking the flat of his sheathed greatsword against Torvar’s calf. The man winced, but did as he was told—for now. There were limits.

Vilkas continued to growl irritably as he watched his fellow Companions run through it again. They’d been going through it for hours now and moved with sureness and skill. But it wasn’t perfect. It was never perfect. And he needed it to be perfect. He took a steadying breath and leaned against his sword. No, he didn’t need perfection, he needed release. It’d only been a week since he and Farkas had agreed to give up the change with Kodlak and he was already feeling the consequences. He felt hungry and restless, taught like a bowstring, and it made his skin itch. What he needed, what every last fiber of his body yearned for, was to Change. To give in. To let go and shed his humanity like the second skin it was.

He shut his eyes, disgusted. Those were not the thoughts of a true Nord, but of a coward. What good was he if he couldn’t keep his word and control his Beast? How had he not suffered before? Had he been a slave to his basest desires in order to keep the Wolf well-fed and happy? He used to relish the slaughter, the hunt, the grit of the job under his fingernails as he struck down whatever unworthy he was paid to, all the while touting honor and glory. It seemed false now. Just pretty dress for an ugly truth. Now, he was painfully aware of it all and did everything he could to starve the Beast inside him.

And that’s what he felt like: a starving scavenger. Thin and paranoid. He hadn’t taken any jobs to feed the Wolf’s thirst for blood. He hadn’t taken a woman to his bed to mindlessly rut into until he was spent and subdued. And he refused to let the Beast out of its cage. So he was a mess. A tangled knot of tension and it spewed at the others in the most frustrating ways. Like in the training yard when he was too hard on Torvar and Njada or when he snapped at newcomers. Like the woman from earlier…

He hadn’t exactly been polite when he caught the scent of someone new approaching. Lavender, mint, and tobacco smoke. The oils and waxes on her armor and blade. The smell of a woman, of a warrior. Just another whelp looking to prove herself…he had thought and he might have ignored her so someone else could take her to Kodlak had not the Wolf been so insistent he look out of pure carnal curiosity. Just a glance…he thought, Just one. Her armor glinted brilliantly in the sun and she looked like some shield-maiden from a story: whole and perfect and glistening. Damn his Wolf. It would not due to have her anywhere near Jorrvaskr, today. Not with eyes so blue he could make out their color from halfway across the training yard. So he went to send her away, to scare her off, to make her think twice about wanting to join the Companions because if, in the unlikely event, she should pass Kodlak’s test, she’d just be one more burden to bear against his humanity and he couldn’t stand it.

Usually, his presence alone was enough to menace inexperienced whelplings into nearly messing themselves. But she stood her ground as he approached, watching him with interest, and when he was close enough he realized he was not dealing with a typical bright-eyed, foolish hopeful. She wore strange armor the likes of which he had never seen before, but being near it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was definitely enchanted and the runes chased into the metal smoldered blue. She was either a mage or wealthy enough to afford enchanted gear; either way, it was unusual for her to show up at Jorrvaskr. Neither set Vilkas’ mind at ease because it meant she was poking around where she didn’t belong or about to offer a job of which he likely wanted no part. Skjor handled the rich.

And her face…She had too many scars to be anything but lucky or good. Her right temple bore a jagged knot of puckered darkened skin, curved against the invisible hilt that once struck her. Chasing her jawline from left ear to chin was another scar, deep and smooth and deliberate; someone took their time giving her that one. The rest were small and superficial, the day to day marks of someone who trained hard and fought harder. Nearly invisible scratches over the bridge of her narrow nose, through the sharp slant of her dark eyebrows, in the cradle of the lines under her eyes, across her high cheekbones, and over the pout of her full lips. Brawler’s marks, most of them.

“What do you want, whelp?” he growled, allowing some of the hunger of the Beast to creep into the glint of his eye. Not enough to give himself away, but enough to put her off. On a basic level most people knew when they were prey in the eyes of a deadly predator. But not her. She didn’t flinch or look for an escape. Her heart didn’t even flutter with the thrill of fear. His eyes flit to the small V of her collar, but she didn’t gulp or swallow to alleviate a mouth suddenly gone dry.

She was unafraid and stared back at him unabashed by his tone. “Is this how you greet everyone who comes to Jorrvaskr?” she asked. Disregard. An open challenge.

“Aye.” He felt the Wolf gnaw on the back of his neck, urging him to accept her test and show her who was stronger. She was already sizing him up; her deep blue eyes taking in his height and girth as if trying to determine what good he’d be in a fight. Or in the sack…he almost groaned to think of it and he hated himself for being reduced to such a base and stupid animal lusting after flesh. Didn’t matter how pretty he thought her; there was a time and place for such thoughts and it certainly required knowing her longer than five minutes. “Answer the question,” he snapped in an effort to push the conversation forward, closer to its end so he could be rid of her.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. A short twitch of a gesture, come and gone in a blink of an eye as she locked back onto his gaze. “Eorlund,” came the simple answer.

An outsider…he realized. Everyone in Skyrim knew where the Skyforge was and the name of the man who worked it. But even still, she should have seen the massive stone hawk on the ridge above them. Was she playing dumb? Or had he simply caught her when she stopped to watch the Companions train on her way to Eorlund? He pointed. “Skyforge.”

She didn’t look. She didn’t blink. Those big blue eyes staring through him instead of at him. “Man of few words,” she observed.

“Don’t need many.”

“Or know too few?” He felt his brow furrow and the Wolf growl in the back of his throat. An unexpected insult to his intelligence, but before he could respond, she was already moving, taking her small victory and retreating. “Thanks for the help. On about your day, Companion.” And she was gone, leaving Vilkas somewhat flummoxed and sourer than ever. He stalked back to the training yard and proceeded to vent his frustrations out on Torvar and Njada for the next couple hours.

“Food’s ready,” Tilma’s small voice called over the din of the yard, but no one heard her except the Circle.

Vilkas’ eyes snapped open. The other Circle members were already headed inside to take the afternoon meal with the other Companions trailing after them, and he considered the sweating and tired Shield-Siblings he had worked over all morning. “Go inside,” he ordered, “You’ve done well. Get some rest.”

Torvar didn’t need to be told twice, but Njada lingered a moment, her hard face glaring up at him. “You alright?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

She nodded, obviously not satisfied with his answer, but it wasn’t her way to pry. Instead, she slapped his shoulder forcefully, as close to a gesture of affection as it got for Njada, and went inside. Tilma stood by the doors to Jorrvaskr, staring softly at Vilkas; her expression wordlessly bid him to join his Shield-Siblings, but he had no desire for food. Not when he was wound so tight, he thought he might snap. So he drew his greatsword instead, tossing the scabbard into the dirt as he approached the nearest training dummy and proceeded to thrash it to pieces.


Sonja had never seen a forge the likes of which Eorlund Gray-Mane had the honor of working. It wasn’t just its sheer size, though that was part of it. The massive hawk with wings outstretched seemed to fly right out of the stone itself and perch on the lip of the great hearth. The white hot smoldering coals cast a warm orange glow across its body, sharpening the cruel curve of its beak with shadow. It almost looked alive. And the heat was something else. Intense. It reminded Sonja of the dragon’s breath. Not the fire itself, but the sweltering air that shimmered around it—hot and heavy—with that same tingle of magic dissolved in the subsequent clouds of smoke.

And standing in the middle of this ancient wonder was a great Nord man wearing simple hide armor, exposed to the heat and the spark of hot metal between the head of the hammer and the face of the anvil. The rhythmic clang of raw metal the very heartbeat of the forge. The bulk of his shoulders was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and soot, and a long, glorious mane of white hair hung over them. It was obvious that he must be none other than the famous Eorlund Gray-Mane because he was the only one working the Skyforge, but Sonja thought she could have picked him out from a crowd in the market place. It was his arms and shoulders that gave him away and not just for their impressive size, but for all the little pockmarks from an errant ember or searing spark. The man looked carved of stone and metal himself; no less a fixture than the hawk that presided over his work.

When she approached, he caught sight of her in the corner of his hazel eye. “Got a lot of steel to shape,” he stated, having little interest or concern for any who were not Companions.

“I—I just wanted to talk for a moment,” she said, suddenly realizing what a bad idea it was to bother the smith. The man was obviously busy. With steel as renowned as his, it almost seemed sacrilegious to interrupt.

“I ain’t much for talkin’.”

Sonja sighed heavily. “Right.” She looked up at the hawk again. “This forge is incredible,” she said more just to state aloud how impressed she was with the Skyforge than to goad Eorlund into speaking with her, but that was the result nevertheless.

“Aye,” he grunted, pausing to take a swig from the clay jug balanced on the seat of the nearby grindstone, “My clan-fathers have worked it since the first Gray-Manes came to Whiterun. Skyforge Steel is all the Companions will use, for good reason.”

“So I hear.”

Eorlund took another sip from the jug, draining it and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He looked at her sideways as he did so. “Skyforge Steel is my art and honor,” he said, “The Companions need the best so they come to me, but I work for no one else. Skyforge blades are gifted upon a warrior for honorable deeds, not how much coin is in their purse. You want little knick-knacks or simple blades, see my wife in the market. She’ll sell you whatever you want if you have the coin.”

“Look, I just wanted to use your workbench,” she assured, sliding Faendal’s bag off her shoulder, “I have some repairs I need to make…”

“Adrianne not letting other smiths use her tools anymore?” he asked incredulously.

“Well—no, I didn’t ask her.”

“Bother her before you bother me.” He turned his attention back to his work.

“Wait!” She dropped the bag and removed her mother’s dagger from her belt, holding it out in her open palm for him to see.

Eorlund looked at her again, prepared to deliver a response even more blunt than the last—if such a thing were possible—when the moonstone scabbard of the dagger caught his eye and he squinted at it. “Bring it here,” he beckoned and Sonja obliged. He plucked it out of her hand and turned it over, examining the craftsmanship carefully. “This is the work of an old apprentice of mine,” he said after several agonizing seconds of silence, “How did you come by it?”

Sonja stared at the small weapon in the blacksmith’s large hands, almost wishing she had allowed him to dismiss her. “Freydis was my mother,” she answered and her eyes darted to his face to watch his expression register recognition.

“Freydis is back in Skyrim?” he asked, surprised and pleased.

“No.”

He frowned, confused, thinking he had misheard her when it clicked. Sonja had spoken in the past tense. “When did she die?”

“Three years ago.”

He pursed his lips and handed the weapon back to her. “That’s too bad,” he said, “She was a talented smith and honorable Companion—a good friend.”

“She was a good mother, too,” Sonja returned the dagger back to its place on her belt.

“May Shor watch over her soul in Sovngarde,” he prayed and then he gave a little decisive nod, “You can make your repairs here. Just don’t bother me while I work.”

“You won’t even notice me,” she promised and then she took Faendal’s gear to the workbench and began to make the adjustments the elf needed.

Sonja worked silently and deftly which suited Eorlund just fine. He did cast a few glances her way every now and then to see how well she handled the armor. She seemed to get along well enough; it seemed her mother had taught her well, but there was no outstanding demonstration of intuition or creativity in the way she approached the repairs. She didn’t have her mother’s knack for it and that was too bad. Sonja found herself struggling now and again with the more delicate work because her right hand was still so stiff, but she managed.

As time wore on, the heat of the forge got to her and she paused long enough to remove her cuirass and pauldrons. The cool air blowing through her sweat-soaked tunic felt amazing and she took a moment to enjoy it and the sounds of combat drifting up from the yard before completing the work on Faendal’s equipment. When she was finished, she carefully set about cleaning and oiling the metal links to protect them from rust and the leather gussets and ties to guard against mildew. Before she could pack the armor away back into Faendal’s bag, her attention was drawn again to the training yard when she heard the monstrous roar of a man before the heavy thwacks of his weapon against wood. Eorlund seemed unperturbed by the disturbance, but Sonja wandered to the edge of the ridge and curiously peered down.

The yard was empty but for one man, the one that had greeted her. Well, ‘greeted’ is a strong word…Harangued, harassed, hassled, insulted, yes. But not greeted. He was attacking one of the practice dummies with his Skyforge greatsword. The massive blade swung through the air, singing, crashing into the poor, inert dummy over and over again. He handled the weapon with a fluidity and ease that Sonja had to admire; he made it look so easy. Each move precise and powerful, and every muscle of his body working in concert to channel the force of his entire body into the swing of the blade. It looked like a dance, graceful and effortless. The way Anja would handle a dagger or Sonja would cast spells. It was natural talent honed by training. All control and speed and strength.

The effort of the exercise heated his body until, he too, felt the need to strip away a layer of clothing and tossed his shed tunic where he had thrown his blade’s scabbard. Then he continued to assault the dummy with a renewed vigor that seemed to be about more than just training. “That’s Vilkas Jorrvassen,” Eorlund said without looking up from his work, “Training master of the Companions.”

“Jorrvassen?” Sonja repeated, “After Jorrvaskr?”

“Aye. He and his brother came to the Companions with no family name. So Kodlak named them sons of Jorrvaskr.”

“He do that for everybody?”

“No. He does not.”

“He must have been very impressed with them, then?”

“Something like that.”

Sonja nodded, but continued to watch as Vilkas finally shattered the training dummy with a mighty blow. Splintered wood skittered across the dirt, but he caught a few on his arm and across his face. The vibration from the blow rippled through the sword and made his elbow ache. He snarled, chest heaving from exerting himself, but he seemed calmer than before, like he finally worked something out by obliterating the dummy. Then he abruptly looked up at her as if he’d known she was watching all along.

She blinked, surprised, and stared back a little guiltily, suddenly feeling that she had trespassed on a private moment. He nodded to her. A proper wordless greeting. Perhaps even an apology? And she nodded back. Acknowledgement. But then he looked away as if he’d heard someone or something approaching Jorrvaskr. “SONJA!” Faendal called, coming around the side of the mead hall with a well-supplied pack on his back and another in his arms. She waved to him, wiping her hands on a rag as she returned to the workbench to gather up Faendal’s armor. “There you are,” he was saying as he leaned against the wall and looked up at her, “I was looking for you at Warmaiden’s.”

“I came here instead,” Sonja replied, slipping back into her armor and shouldering Faendal’s bag. The pulse of magic drew Eorlund’s attention.

“I can see that.”

Sonja scoffed and then turned to Eorlund. “Thank you for letting me use your tools, Master Blacksmith,” she said, extending her hand.

Eorlund gripped her forearm firmly, the heat of his hands warming her skin. “A mage who knows something about smithing and wears armor, ay?” he said, “I’ll be damned.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

The blacksmith grunted, amused, but not put off by her magic use. He worked the most magical forge in all of Skyrim, after all, and so had more of an appreciation for things mystical than other Nords tended to have. Though he’d never admit as much. “Come back when you need repairs again,” he said, “Maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two Freydis didn’t show you.”

Sonja smiled. “I’d like that.” And she turned to leave.

“Wait,” he called her back and tossed a small blue vial at her. She caught it and turned it over in her hands. “Moonstone doesn’t rust, but it does tarnish,” he explained, “One drop of that will keep your blades clean.”

She nodded. “Thanks.” And then hurried down the stairs to Faendal who traded her one heavy bag for another.

“We should get going,” Faendal said before he shed his bag and started changing into the new armor Sonja had just fixed for him, “It’s already midday.”

“As soon as you’re ready then.”

“I take it you told him about your ma?” he said, nodding to the Skyforge.

“Aye.”

“I thought so. Eorlund doesn’t usually like sharing.”

“I wouldn’t either if I worked such a forge.”

Faendal hummed his agreement. Sonja’s gaze wondered back to the training yard, but there was no sign of Vilkas. He must have gone inside. “Ready?”

Sonja’s attention snapped back. “As I’ll ever be,” she said and they made their way down to the city gates.

Notes:

I didn't get the idea to expand the Skyforge with a workbench from a mod; it's just one of those things that I think you kind of just generally wish for if you spend a lot of time in and around Jorrvaskr, which is why there are multiple mods on both the Nexus and Steam that will expand your Skyforge for you. I included links for general searches of "Skyforge" if you wanted to check them out.

Also, I'm messing with the hierarchy of the Companions a little bit and assigning more detailed responsibilities to certain Companions like Vilkas who is largely responsible for general training. I want them all to be more involved than just handing out jobs and waiting for you to return with good news. Plus, I want Vilkas to be an equal badass to Sonja when she's revealed to be Dragonborn, not just another who's in awe of her Thu'um and general kick-assery. So, he'll have accomplishments and fame of his own.

Chapter 8: Bleak Falls Barrow

Summary:

Sonja and Faendal travel to Bleak Falls Barrow to find the Dragonstone for Farengar and Sonja encounters her first Word Wall. Follows the quest Bleak Falls Barrow with some additions.

Notes:

To view English translations of words and phrases written in the Dovahzul, mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Dovahzul translations are taken from Thuum.org.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Is somebody there?” the voice of a frightened man echoed down the corridor, anxious and a touch hopeful, “Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?”

Sonja and Faendal exchanged glances. “Another bandit?” he asked.

“Maybe?”

“Oh gods! Don’t let it get me! Please! HELP!”

They sprinted down the hallway, following the sounds of the man’s cries for help to the next room. The entryway was closed off with thick columns of spider web, stark white and sticky. Faendal swung his weapon at it before Sonja could stop him and the steel blade stuck in the stiff strands, useless. He tugged at it, but could not pull it free. Sonja unceremoniously yanked him back by his belt and melted the web with a fistful of flames.

The web easily relented to the fire. It sizzled, releasing its grip on Faendal’s sword. “Leave it,” she hissed and charged through the opening, stepping over the heated metal.

Inside, the chamber was covered in an intricate weave of silken thread. At the far end, the Dunmer who had been crying for help was snuggly tangled in the web, squirming helplessly. As soon as he saw them, he wriggled more vehemently. “Thank the gods!” he whimpered hysterically, “Quick! Before it comes back!”

Before either Sonja or Faendal had the chance to move toward him, they heard the approach of the giant spider above them. The hard plates of its exoskeleton sliding against each other as its many legs lowered it out of the funnel of its web and onto the stone floor. Its grotesque venomous mandibles clicked hungrily at the newly arrived food: Sonja and Faendal. “Keep it away!” the Dunmer started screaming, terrified, “Oh gods! Get it away! Don’t let it get me!”

The spider twitched angrily in the dark elf’s direction as if momentarily torn between silencing a very annoying, very helpless prey and engaging two armed enemies. “Fool, stop screaming!” Sonja snarled, conjuring two Daedric swords and rushing the spider, dodging its numerous legs as they stabbed at her. Faendal began unleashing several arrows into its face to cover Sonja’s approach, but one of the horrible, hairy legs caught her hip and left hand, pinning her to the ground. She gritted her teeth against the pain and tried to wriggle her hand out from under the sharp claws of the spider as they clicked dangerously across her armor.

Having caught prey, the giant arachnid moved forward to descend upon its food, putting more weight on Sonja’s wrist and hip. Her armor groaned beneath the pressure and she sliced at the spider with her damaged right hand to no avail. It was too weak. “FAENDAL!” she bellowed, her eyes widening in terror as she felt the full weight of the spider against her wrist and then the bones promptly give way beneath it. She screamed, the pain giving her enough strength to stab through the spider’s leg. The wounded limb retracted and the spider’s mandibles spread, issuing a skin-crawling screech. While Sonja scuttled away, cradling her broken wrist, Faendal took careful aim between the spider’s fangs and let fly an arrow.

The spider’s fangs and forelimbs twitched frantically in an attempt to remove the arrow stuck in its face, but Faendal loosed several more, killing it. The giant creature went limp, its body thumping loudly against the floor. “I hate spiders,” Sonja muttered, shuddering against a web-covered wall.

The Dunmer they had raced to save momentarily forgotten, Faendal rushed to Sonja’s side, dropping to a knee. “Are you alright?” he asked. She glared at him in response. “I mean, how bad is it?” he amended, realizing he had asked a stupid question.

“Just broken,” she hissed, wincing as she tried to move her injured hand.

“Oh, is that all?” was the sarcastic reply.

“Hey!” the Dunmer called from behind the giant spider, hidden by the massive arachnid carcass, “What about me?”

“Shut up!” Sonja and Faendal called in unison. The Dunmer grumbled obscenities under his breath and flexed against the web impatiently, but otherwise remained silent.

“I can heal it, but I need your help,” Sonja continued.

“Whatever you need,” Faendal agreed without hesitation.

Carefully, she extended her injured hand toward him, holding it in precise alignment with the rest of her arm. “Hold it just like this,” she instructed, “Very still.”

“‘Kay,” he breathed, barely moving his mouth as if a larger action would unravel Sonja’s wrist right before his eyes. She appreciated his concentration because the healing magic absorbed all of hers as it mended the crushed and displaced bits of bone.

When she was done, she rolled her wrist experimentally while Faendal held his breath. “Good as new,” she assured and then hobbled to her feet, casting a bit more magic at her bruised hip to ease the discomfort of walking.

“Close call, though,” Faendal added as he retrieved his sword now that it had time to cool, relieved his traveling partner wasn’t grievously injured.

“Aye,” she agreed, kicking around the spider to get to the Dunmer on the other side, “Thanks for having my back, though. You could have run and left me to my fate.”

“Hey, I said I wanted this, remember?” Faendal pointed out, “You’re more use to me alive.”

Sonja smirked as she ducked under a heavy leg that stuck out at an odd angle, pausing to hold it aloft so Faendal could pass through. A small kindness for saving her life. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since I arrived in Skyrim,” she said.

“Ralof no good with pillow-talk?” he teased. She glared and dropped the leg on his head. “Ouch! I was only joking!” She rolled her eyes, but was amused, not truly offended by his ribbing.

When she finally approached the Dunmer, he looked thoroughly irritated to have been left hanging for so long. “You did it. You killed it,” he grumbled irritably, “Now cut me down before anything else shows up!”

“Not so fast,” Sonja tutted, “Were those your men we had to fight through to get here?”

A cloud passed over the Dunmer’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, “I came here alone.”

“Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?” Faendal repeated the names they had heard him call out earlier.

“Yeah, alright, fine,” he sighed, “What of it?”

“Lot of thieves like you?” Sonja said, crossing her arms, “What’re you after?”

“Cut me loose and I’ll tell you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you after the Dragonstone?” she demanded.

The Dunmer looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” he admitted, “I’ve come here for treasure—but I’ll share it with you if you cut me loose.” He paused to see how well received his bribe was, but when it was apparent that they did not believe him, he added, “Can’t expect to get through the rest of this crypt on my own, can I?”

“He might know something we don’t,” Faendal pointed out.

“Yes, the claw!” the Dunmer exclaimed, seizing on the opportunity to prove himself useful, “I know how it all works: the claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I know how they all fit together! Help me down and I’ll show you. You won’t believe the power the Nords have hidden there!”

“Claw?” Faendal repeated suspiciously. “What claw?”

“A golden claw that—came into my possession recently and…”

“You stole it from the Riverwood Trader!” he accused, “They were robbed a couple weeks ago and the only thing missing was that claw! You bastard! Camilla was devastated!” Sonja raised an eyebrow. She had only visited the general store once during her stay in Riverwood—apparently while Camilla had been out with Sven—and the only thing the owner could talk about was the missing family heirloom.

Realizing that he’d made a mistake, the Dunmer quickly tried to backtrack. “N-no! It’s not that claw, I swear! I-it belonged to my—it was a family—I bought it…”

“Let’s cut him down so I can kill him!” Faendal declared.

“Wait! Wait! You can have the bleeding claw after you cut me down!”

“Not good enough!”

“Now, now Faendal,” she admonished, “He might know something we don’t.”

The Bosmer glared at her. “Fine! But I want the claw first!”

“Does it look like I can move?” the trapped elf snapped, “You’ll have to cut me down first!”

Sonja cocked her head to one side, thoughtfully. A ‘door in the Hall of Stories’ had sounded promising, As in a door that could lead to the main chamber and the Dragonstone. “Fine,” she relented, “Let me see if I can get you down.”

“Sweet breath of Arkay!” the Dunmer chuckled, “Thank you!” Sonja grunted in response while Faendal fumed on behalf of his love’s honor. She began to light the edges of the web on fire, trying to control the blaze as much as possible to keep from harming the mer trapped in the strands.

Her efforts didn’t stop him from whimpering when the flames got too close, however. “Stop sniveling, a little fire never hurt a Dunmer,” Faendal said irritably.

“Easy for you to say,” the dark elf complained, until he felt the tension in the web slacken, “It’s coming loose! I can feel it!”

“Just a bit more,” Sonja muttered and then the Dunmer fell to the ground in a heap. Neither Sonja nor Faendal moved to help him upright, but he didn’t seem to notice as he scrambled to his feet, yanking threads of silken web from his armor in the process. The moment he righted himself, he cast one half-crazed look at Sonja and Faendal before bolting down the corridor behind him. “You fools!” he taunted, his voice carrying back to them, “Why should I share the treasure with anyone?”

For a single, stunned heartbeat, they stood confounded by the mer’s irking mixture of greed, dishonesty, and pure stupidity before charging after him. “Faendal,” Sonja said as they ran to the next chamber, “You can kill him.”

“I was planning on it.”

The deranged mer didn’t get very far. When they reached a large burial chamber filled with desiccated Nord bodies, they arrived in time to see him run through by a walking corpse with an ancient greatsword. “Draugr!” Faendal exclaimed. Sonja gathered flames in her hands and, together with Faendal, attacked the undead.


“Why can’t the dead stay dead?” Faendal groaned as he took several steps back from a particularly dusty draugr coated in cobwebs. He was trying to shake the webs from his armor, but only succeeded in getting them stuck to his fingers. He took another step backward and the heel of his boot caught the edge of a large circular stone set into the floor. The sound of stone scraping against stone whispered through the air as the pressure plate sunk down, kicking up a soft puff of dust, and then the groan of ancient metal as an entire wall of barbed iron swung around out of the shadows to impale whatever poor soul had triggered the trap. But Faendal wasn’t there anymore. He was on the floor several feet away with a bloody nose from Sonja’s forehead striking his face when she leapt across the room to push him out of the way of the murderous wall of jagged, rusty spikes.

“Hircine’s ass, that hurts!” he whined into his hands, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“What happened to ‘I’m a hunter. It pays to notice things’?” Sonja asked jumping to her feet, slurring her words together in a voice low enough to be somewhere in Faendal’s register.

He glared up at her. “Is that supposed to be an impression of me?”

“Watch where you’re going,” she chastised as she pulled him up from the floor, “A dead guide is a poor guide.” Faendal grumbled, but did not disagree. “Here, let me see,” she ordered and he grudgingly removed his hand from his face. His nose was a little crooked; definitely broken, but not severely. “Not so bad,” she assured him.

“Oh, would you like one to match?”

Sonja answered him by way of firmly grabbing his nose and forcing it into place while casting a healing spell. He cried out and tried to jerk away from her, but her other hand caught him behind his neck, steadily holding him in place. “There,” she said when she was finished, “You can’t even tell.”

Faendal squirmed out of her grasp and wriggled his nose experimentally. “Huh,” he grunted, “Doesn’t even hurt.”

“I have a light touch.”

“Nothing about you is subtle.”

Sonja’s brow puckered slightly, but she shrugged. “True,” she agreed and then she went to the dead Dunmer’s body and searched for the claw. “Here,” she said, tossing the golden statue to Faendal, “You can give it back to Camilla yourself when we’re done here.”

Faendal caught it and smiled gratefully. “Thanks.” He nodded. Sonja straightened with a small, leather-bound journal in her hands. She turned it over thoughtfully and cracked it open. “What’s that you got there?”

“Arvel the Swift’s journal,” she answered.

“The Swift?” Faendal repeated, “That would have been good to know before we cut him loose.”

“Like he would have given us his real name had we asked for it?”

Faendal scoffed, agreeing. “So what’s it say?”

Sonja frowned. “Lot of nonsense mostly,” she replied, “Wanting to make it big, set up for life, blah blah blah. And then one day, he’s in Riverwood, getting supplies for his crew and he’s passed a note by the innkeep—what’s her name? Delphine?”

“Aye.” Faendal inched closer to read over her shoulder.

“Said she didn’t know who it was from,” Sonja continued, “But the note set up a meeting for later, after dark, in the woods south of Riverwood.”

“Then what?”

“He went, of course. Met a woman who hid in the shadows and wore a hood so he never saw her face—but he’s reasonably certain she wasn’t elven—anyway, she told him about Bleak Falls Barrow and all the treasure inside—that there was something else there too.”

“She hire him?”

“Aye. He could have all the treasure inside, but she wanted what was interred in the main chamber…”

“The Dragonstone?”

Sonja shrugged. “She didn’t say what it was specifically and Arvel was sold as soon as he heard the word ‘treasure,’ so…”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Exactly.”

“She told him about the claw?”

She nodded. “And where to find it.”

“He was set up.”

“Or we were.”

Faendal’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Farengar wasn’t exactly forthright about how he learned of Bleak Falls Barrow,” Sonja pointed out.

“Aye, but we didn’t ask, either,” Faendal argued, “You don’t think Jarl Balgruuf’s Court Wizard would really do something like this, do you?”

Sonja shrugged. “Maybe not,” she allowed, “Or maybe he paid the wrong person to find the Dragonstone before us. It certainly sounded like he had had a hard time finding good help recently. Maybe whoever he hired before turned out to be capable of far worse than Farengar had intended.”

It was a dark possibility and Faendal didn’t like it. “We shouldn’t make assumptions about the jarl’s court,” he said at length.

“We should tell Farengar about the woman, anyway,” Sonja insisted, “Just in case. He should know there was someone else looking for the Dragonstone, too.”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“We’ll worry about it when we get what we came for,” she assured him, though it was a small comfort. Faendal nodded and fetched his bow. It had gone tumbling across the room when Sonja tackled him. Then he joined her, carefully stepping around the pressure plate.


“At least Arvel wasn’t wrong,” Sonja commented as the ancient Nordic puzzle door slowly sank into the floor, clearing the way into the main chamber. They had fought their way through room after musty room of undead sentinels. When Sonja had asked Faendal what ‘draugr’ were exactly, his only answer had been, “The stuff of Nordic nightmares.” Not quite the answer she had hoped for, but the draugr certainly seemed to live up to their terrifying reputation. Lying in silent, grave slumber until someone walked passed, then their ancient bones groaned when they suddenly sprung to life. But Sonja and Faendal had made it through to the Hall of Stories.

The scholar in Sonja had wanted to stop and closely examine each beautifully carved relief on the walls, but her nerves had been raw from constantly jumping at the smallest of sounds, thinking it might be a draugr. She could only focus on getting the Dragonstone and leaving as soon as possible. The puzzle door had been straightforward once they realized the correct combination was on the claw itself.

Sonja stepped through and climbed the stairs into the large cavernous main chamber. She looked around and let out a long, low whistle. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Don’t get too distracted,” Faendal muttered, “After what we went through to get here, I don’t want to know what’s guarding that Dragonstone.” They advanced on the large stone wall at the back of the chamber. Sonja ascended the steps, casting careful glances around the room, searching for a threat. She saw nothing, but as she reached the top of the platform, she heard whispering and paused. “You alright?” Faendal asked.

“Yeah,” she breathed, “Check the chest over there. I’m going to look at—some—thing…” Faendal nodded and went to the chest near a large stone coffin. Sonja made her way toward the wall. The curved stone seemed to beckon to her like open arms. Ancient carvings swirled over its surface like ripples from the center carving where two large eyes glared down at her. As she approached, the whispering grew louder, blossoming into full-blown chanting.

“It’s not here,” Faendal called.

“Can’t you hear that?” Sonja asked, “I think—it’s coming from the wall…”

“I can’t hear anything, Sonja…Sonja?” She didn’t answer. Instead she moved closer and her eyes trailed down from the ominous carving to the smoother lower portion of the wall etched with what looked like claw marks. But the marks were organized and arranged into groups. Words? Sonja was mesmerized and stepped into the shadow of the wall.

The chanting was so loud that it reverberated in her chest; her heart was as loud and rhythmic as the drums. The strange characters began to glow and pulse, faster and faster until she was inches from them. Then all the words but one darkened. The room around her seemed to melt away into the darkness until the only thing Sonja could see was the solitary word glowing hot blue in front of her face. Tendrils of blue and gold light snaked out from the pointed edges of the foreign characters and reached for her. She took an instinctive step backward, but no further. She watched—half amazed and half terrified—as the light touched her chest, passed through her skin, and filled her core with a torrent of force. Fus. The foreign markings on the wall began to make more sense. She still couldn’t understand them, but they began to seem less alien to her, the longer the light poured in and pumped through her veins.

Sonja felt so full that she was dizzy, her head light and spinning. Then it all came to an abrupt end. The word ceased to glow, leaving her in the darkness alone until she felt two strong, but oddly delicate hands take her roughly by the shoulders and shake her. “Sonja!” She recognized the voice, but had trouble putting a name to it. “Sonja!” It existed somewhere beyond the word, beyond the darkness. “Sonja, wake up. Open your eyes!”

“Faendal?” Sonja said weakly and she opened her eyes, unsure of when she had closed them. Faendal was standing over her in the curve of the stone wall, his hands on her upper arms. “What happened?”

“You were hearing things,” he said, his face pale, “You were looking at the wall and then all of a sudden you went rigid. There was a light and you…floated.”

“I what?” Sonja said, sitting up a little too quickly. Her head spun.

“You floated a few feet in the air,” Faendal continued, “And then you just fell—collapsed.”

“Divines,” Sonja breathed and she struggled to get to her feet; Faendal helped her. “I—I thought I was—I don’t know what I thought…”

“We should get out of here,” Faendal said, “The Dragonstone isn’t here. We need to get back to Whiterun and tell Farengar what happened.”

Sonja sighed and rubbed the dull ache in her head. “You’re right,” she agreed, “I—I don’t feel well…” She slid sideways, suddenly feeling very nauseous and weak.

Faendal caught her and sank a little, unprepared for her weight. “Easy,” he grunted, ducking under her arm for better leverage, “You good enough to walk?”

“Aye,” she snarled irritably, “Let’s just get out of here.”

They took two steps back the way they came, but no further. The stone lid on the coffin popped up and slid off with a crash. A well-armed draugr sat up and took a deep rattling breath; its dead eyes glowed blue like the words on the wall. Its ancient bones and mummified flesh creaked and stretched stiffly as it flung its decayed body from its tomb.

“Gods be damned,” Sonja whispered, “This is never going to get easier, is it?”

Faendal shook his head. “We’re not that lucky.”

The draugr screeched at them, drew its weapon, and charged. Faendal blocked the brunt of its attack with his shield while Sonja moved unsteadily to flank it. The draugr was more powerful than the others they had faced, but it was still slow and cumbersome. It wasn’t until the undead warrior opened its mouth and roared, “Fus!” at Faendal that Sonja realized just how powerful it was. The force of the shout hit the elf square in the chest and knocked him clean off his feet, sliding backwards into the wall and striking the back of his head. The undead took a few halting steps toward Faendal to finish him off, but Sonja pelted its back with weakened ice spikes the consistency of snowballs. It was enough to get the draugr’s attention.

It took far more effort than it should have to concentrate on the draugr when it charged her, but Sonja was able to sidestep the swing of its great sword and coat the creature in a slurry of ice and snow. Frost was the specialization of the Destruction School she was most comfortable with which was why, in her weakened state, she found it easier to cast than anything else, but in the fight against the draugr, it was a mismatch. The undead warrior was mostly immune to the spell’s damaging effects because it wasn’t made of live flesh that could suffer frostbite; its body couldn’t die of hypothermia, but the hardened ice could slow its advance and Sonja was able to put distance between her and it. She went to Faendal and tried to shake him awake, but he merely groaned, his eyes fluttering as his head lulled to one side. Blood clung to the back of his skull, staining his sandy brown hair. “Shit,” she breathed and hastily tried to cast a healing spell only to feel the dangerous drain of it against her magicka. She was barely conscious herself—which gave her an idea.

The ice slowing the draugr melted and Sonja staggered to her feet, using both hands to cast a drain spell. The undead responded by squaring its shoulders to her, taking a deep, rattling breath, and shouting, “Fus!” once more. The air was nearly knocked from Sonja’s lungs, but she was not thrown the way Faendal had been. Unsure if the creature was weakened by her spell, she continued to suck energy from it to sustain herself until she was able to conjure a weapon.

She caught the edge of its blade with her own, her other hand continuing to drain the draugr until she could toss a sloppy healing spell back at Faendal. With a jolt, the mer sat bolt upright, revitalized by the spell and scrambled to his feet. He charged into the draugr and viciously bashed into its neck with his shield while Sonja forced herself to cast flames, too weak for more powerful pyromancy. The desiccated flesh easily caught fire and soon it was entirely engulfed, screaming and flailing in its attempt to reach for Sonja. She stepped back beyond its grasp and continued to push the spell out with all her might until the flames burned blue. Faendal raised a hand to protect his face from the heat and retreated several steps. “That’s enough Sonja!” he called to her, stranded by the wall of her fire, “It’s dead!”

The spell was released, but it had been too much in her weakened state. The last thing Sonja saw before she fell unconscious was the scorched stone of the floor, a pile of ashes that was once the draugr, and a carved pentagonal stone nested in the midst of it. The Dragonstone.


Tiid Unslaad. A moment that lasts eternities stretches long against my back, sliding over the scales and catching on my wings. It hurts, this curse the joorre have laid upon me with twisted Rok se Suleyk. I feel the tightness on my being. The limit where once I was boundless. Kreh Joor Thu’um. It is more than I can fathom for I am beyond such small boundaries of existence. But the ache of it lingers.

I do not enter this new kalpa easily. Vennesetiid pulls on my being, wanting to wash me away with it, but I claw at the fissure when it comes and I am born into this new time, roaring, speaking my flame across the skies. Yol Toor Shul! Then the tiid se dez catches up to me. The millennia that have passed like seconds; the events that have left their mark upon the world, shaping it into something so similar and so irrevocably different than before. Joorresil Tahrovin. I do not see them as they happened. I do not experience them as they were lived, but I feel them pressing in, crowding time with a deep, mortal stain. Nid Lingrah. It has gone on long enough. I must take back what is mine. Rel Thur Du!

The first joor village calls me down from the skies. Something lurks there. Kos se Suleyk. I can smell it on the air and descend upon the joorre. I revel in their fear! Faas Ru Maar! But in the smoke, roiling in the panic of the joorre is something familiar. Meddovah. Something dangerous. I want it. Piraak Al Krii. I want to kill it. I need to, but I don’t know what it is. I can only feel it pulling on my bones. Daan. Doom.

I turn my gaze upon those below me and my eyes fall upon a joor. Bron. Female. Gro Zahrahmiik. My claws ache to tear into her flesh. She trembles before me. “Dragon!” Even after millennia they still know what I am and I toy with their insignificant lives, ending them as I please. Raining molten fire from the skies to crush their brittle bodies. They try to fight me in their terror, defending their pointless existences and invoking the names of gods that will not hear them. It is my birthright to consume them all in this life and the next! Zu’u los Dinok Unslaad! Motaad us Alduin!

Sonja sat bolt upright in the bedroll beneath her, upsetting the thin blanket draped across her middle. For a few confusing seconds, she looked up into the vaulting ceiling of the chamber as if she expected to see a dragon looming above her, but then she blinked away her terror and stilled her breathing. It had only been a dream and it was quickly fading from her memory until only vague flashes of black scales and teeth remained.

She was still in Bleak Falls Barrow, though relocated to the first room where she and Faendal had found some of Arvel’s bandits had made camp. In fact, that’s where she had woken up: in the midst of the encampment. Her own bedroll and been laid alongside one that must have belonged to one of Arvel’s crew. It was worn and a bit dirty, but provided adequate padding between her and the floor. Across the fire, Faendal’s bedding remained neatly rolled and propped up his bag. She glanced around the darkened room, but he was nowhere in sight. The only light came from the fire which meant the sun must have set since no outside light filtered through the smaller windows near the ceiling. Beyond that, she could hear the howling wind whistle through the cavern, cold and snowbound, and wondered if the storm was bad.

“Faendal?” she called, uncertainly, but only her voice answered. She flung back the blanket to stand only to discover she was not wearing trousers. Her armor and pants were piled neatly by the chest on the other side of the fire. Unsteadily, she pushed herself to her feet and padded over to her belongings, grabbing at the waist of her pants. They were mostly covered in spider goo and draugr dust. Making a face, she shoved her legs inside them, hastily doing up the laces and shoving her feet into her boots before fetching a cloak from her bag. She wrapped it snuggly around her body and then made for the door at the far end of the chamber.

As she approached, the door swung open and blew in a slurry of snowflakes and a small, hooded figure. She raised her hands, prepared to throw spells, though she was still feeling a bit weak. When the figure righted itself, it flung back its hood to reveal Faendal’s face, rosy from the cold. “You’re up!” he observed, “I was starting to worry.”

“What happened?” she asked, shivering and pulling her cloak tighter around her body.

Faendal sniffed and rubbed some feeling back into his cheeks. “You passed out,” he stated as if she didn’t know, “I carried you most of the way back, but you started to wake up a little bit and fight me. Made it damn difficult to keep carrying you. So, you sort of stumbled your way up here, mumbling under your breath, and I made sure you didn’t hurt yourself along the way.”

“And then what? You thought it was a good time to undress me?” she asked pointedly.

The Bosmer scoffed. “Nope, that was all you,” he assured and headed back to the little camp, “You felt the warmth of the fire and stopped dead. Started pulling off your armor like you couldn’t get it off fast enough and got so close to the flames, I had to pull you back because I was afraid you’d burn yourself.”

Sonja blinked owlishly. “I don’t remember that,” she said.

Faendal looked a little worried, but not surprised. “You weren’t right when it happened,” he agreed, “You fought me for a little bit, trying to get back to the fire, but you eventually stopped and drifted off right in my arms.” He shrugged. “So I made camp,” he concluded, “You weren’t in any shape to go back down the mountain. I thought maybe I could find help in Riverwood if Ralof hadn’t left for Windhelm already, or at least Ebonvale has a healer, but…”

“The storm,” she finished.

“The storm,” Faendal agreed, “Damn Skyrim weather is unpredictable sometimes. I got down to the tower at least. The snow was so thick, I was afraid I’d lose my way.”

“Why’d you go to the tower?”

He held up a brace of rabbits she hadn’t noticed before. “Dinner,” he responded, “I saw them earlier when we first came through and planned to grab them on the way back down so we wouldn’t have to hunt, but with the storm moving in, everything’s gone to ground or bed down until it blows over, so…”

“Can’t hunt in a blizzard.”

“I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Sonja nodded. Food sounded very good at the moment, but she still felt exhausted so she made her way back to her bedroll and plopped down on top of it, tenting her legs to keep the spider entrails from smearing on her bedding. “Did we get it?” she asked as Faendal kicked around the camp looking for a pot to cook the rabbits in.

“Get what?”

“The Dragonstone.”

“Aye, it’s in my bag,” he said, returning to the fire with a large stewpot. He rooted through his bag with one hand and removed the heavy stone tablet. Sonja sat up to take it, resting her forearms against her knees. Faendal had wrapped it in scraps of linen to protect it from chipping away against the other items in his bag. She pushed the rags aside, sloppily folding and tossing them to the foot of her bedroll, and held the stone in her hands. “I’ll admit, I thought the Dragonstone would be some sort of gem or made of solid gold, or something,” Faendal sighed as he set to work preparing the rabbits, “Not a hunk of rock. Doesn’t seem particularly valuable to me.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Sonja said, “But whatever is carved on it might be.”

“I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Faendal shrugged, “Let’s hope Farengar has better luck.”

Sonja hummed her agreement. She ran her fingers over the lines etched into the stone’s surface, caked with dust and ash from its draugr guardian. The contrasting dirty white against the gray made the images easier to make out and she turned the face of it toward the firelight to better see them. The shape was still hard to decipher, but it seemed vaguely familiar. She blinked a few times feeling more tired than before. Perhaps after some sleep and in better light, the Dragonstone would make more sense. She turned it over in her hands and stared at the inscription on the back. The same kind of markings covered the stone in the main chamber, but she didn’t know what to make of them. Not yet. But strangely, it felt as if she were on the cusp of understanding. That their meaning lurked beneath the thinnest veil comprehension. As if it were a language she had merely forgotten how to speak.

That thought made her skin crawl and she laid back across her bedroll, setting the Dragonstone on the bedding beside her and staring up into the ceiling absently. Soon enough, the smell of food wafted through the chamber, exciting her hunger until her stomach was growling loudly with impatience. She sat up and peered into the pot at the bubbling rabbit stew. Faendal had even managed to find some proper vegetables amongst the bandits’ stores to add to it: an onion, a couple potatoes, and a few carrots. He always carried his own provisions of salt, frost mirriam, elves ear—and garlic—which she thought was weird at first until they made first camp together and Faendal prepared the best meal she’d ever had out in the wilds. A bit of seasoning and the flavor of a pungent bulb really went a long way toward making camp dining a new and enjoyable experience for her. They had yet to crack into the hardtack they had purchased.

When the stew was ready, Faendal served her a hearty helping and they ate in content silence, drinking what remained of the bandits’ cheap ale. After Sonja had her fill, she decided that she had had the right idea about her trousers earlier and kicked them and her boots onto the pile of her gear again before slinking back to her bedroll. She haphazardly flung her blanket and cloak over her body, her bare shins and feet poking out but warmed by the campfire. Her right arm cradled her head as she traced the jagged characters on the back of the Dragonstone with her left hand until she fell asleep.


Faendal stared at Sonja from the other side of the campfire. She was sleeping soundly now which he decided was a good sign. At least better than the restlessness before. She had tossed and turned fitfully, sweating a vivid nightmare. Teeth gnashing and hands clawing. He hadn’t told her about that and he didn’t want to. She seemed fine now; that’s what was important. Whatever strange magic took hold of her in the main chamber seemed to have faded and she slept easy, the Dragonstone cradled against her thigh.

He silently cleaned camp while she slept. Taking the remaining stew off the fire to keep it from scorching. They could have the left overs for breakfast before heading down the mountain in the morning—provided the snow storm was over by then. Then he laid out his bedroll and removed his gear, settling comfortably with his back propped against a chest of the bandits’ equipment and his bare feet warmed by the fire. He wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet and instead rooted around in his bag until he removed a leather bound journal he newly purchased from Belethor’s before they left Whiterun the day before last.

He’d already started writing in it the first night they camped out on the tundra, recording the strange chain of events that had led him to accompany such a bizarre and enchanting woman. His eyes flit across the fire to her again. Her expression was slack and peaceful and the curves of her body shimmered through the heat mirage of the fire. Yes, he saw what the appeal was. There really was no mystery to her beauty. At least, not for him, even if his heart belonged to another woman. Powerful in body and will. Smart and practical. Intimidating. She had a presence that could dominate a room even when she tried to remain anonymous. That’s why Ralof fell into bed with her; why Uthgerd wanted to fight; and he was sure that’s how Hera figured her out so quickly.

But, even for all that, she had her softer spots. Her sister being the most obvious of them all, but he knew she had gone with Ralof back to Helgen. He had seen the bag of Imperial crests amongst her things. All she needed was the coin to hire a courier and those souls would finally be laid to rest. He knew she had volunteered to go after the bandits and deliver the message about the dragon to the jarl. Sure, she needed to get to Whiterun anyway, but she didn’t have to complicate the journey by looking for fights that had nothing to do with her. And that’s what it was that made her so alluring. That strange, semi-suicidal compulsion she had to help people. But it didn’t make him melt the way it did Ralof, or bristle the way Uthgerd had. It made him want to follow her. Not just to bask in the glory of her future victories or the honor of her deeds, but to pull her ass out of the fire when she needed it because she wasn’t as indestructible as her attitude suggested.

He inked his quill and wrote ‘Bleak Falls Barrow’ across the top of a new page, but instead of starting at the beginning of their adventure in the crypt, he started with the end and drew her as he saw her through the fire, sleeping, across the bottom of both pages. The careful crosshatch of the sketch took hours to complete and when he was done, he paused to admire his artwork and let the ink finish drying. Looking at it, an old saying drifted through his mind and, thinking it more than appropriate, he penned it down the slope of her arm and over the rise of her hip: “Let sleeping dragons lie.” And then he drifted off, himself.

Notes:

As stated in the beginning notes, I get all my Dragon Tongue translations from Thuum.org in addition to the Wiki pages for Dragon Language and Dragon Shouts. For phrases that don't occur in-game, I get a little creative with the interpretation because there are no words in the Dragon Tongue for things like "change," but I try to be as accurate as possible.

Sorry this took longer to update than I've been doing lately, but this weekend was a bit crazy for me. So much editing and rewriting to do and so little time! I'll try to crank the next couple out sooner to make up for it. :) Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Chapter 9: Sating the Wolf

Summary:

Vilkas needs a little something to take the edge off the call of the Blood...

Notes:

Vilkas PoV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Vilkas sat dour at the feasting table while his Shield-Siblings drank deeply and shared stories of their conquests. Little jobs, most of them, but honest work. They had a right to be proud, if not a bit boastful. But Vilkas was in no mood for it. The moon was full outside. Even with the blizzard blotting out the sky, he knew. He could feel it. All the Circle could, but he was the only one in agony. Skjor and Aela Changed often enough that brief restraint wasn’t difficult. The weather was too poor, even for werewolves to go for a run. And Farkas wasn’t bothered by the Blood one way or the other. Vilkas was envious of his brother’s resilience. The larger twin never seemed put off by anything, whereas Vilkas felt he suffered enough for the two of them. He couldn’t even enjoy the mead at the table, afraid that too much alcohol would relax him enough for his control to slip. So he ate his supper, barely taking pleasure in the taste of it and washed it down with cup after cup of water.

His sour temper had been noticeable to all of Jorrvaskr over the last couple of days and not just to the Circle, either. Companions and whelps alike steered clear of him in the training yard if they could help it. Most of the time they couldn’t and so had to suffer his wrath from dawn ‘til dusk, their only reprieve at meal times when Tilma called them in. Farkas had taken to sparring with him more frequently to take some of the edge off before training sessions with the Newbloods. It helped a little, but not much.

Now, he was hot and anxious, and the howl of the wind outside seemed only to taunt him. Frustrated, he stood from the table in the middle of one of Torvar’s drunken slurs. “Where you going?” Farkas asked, tearing his attention away from his Shield-Brother’s story.

“I need some air,” Vilkas grunted.

“But it’s snowing.”

“I saw the storm roll in too, brother,” he snapped irritably, “I know it’s snowing.”

Farkas sighed heavily. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Alright,” the larger twin relented.

Though everyone was pretending to listen to Torvar’s story, every pair of eyes was on Vilkas as he stalked to the door. Even Torvar watched him go. No one tried to stop him or rebuke him for not feasting with his Shield-Siblings when he disappeared through the front door. Snow briefly fluttered inside the mead hall until he slammed the door shut behind him. There was a brief moment of silence in his absence as the Companions exchanged troubled glances, but then the next story began. Only Farkas’ eyes kept wondering back to the door, waiting for his brother to return. Kodlak was better at hiding it, but he, too, worried for Vilkas.

Outside, Vilkas rolled his head back in the snow, letting it collect in his hair and on his face. It helped a little, but he could still feel the call of the Blood so he began to pace. He wore the snow down until his feet shuffled against the stone of Jorrvaskr’s steps. It didn’t help the ache, so he wondered the town in the snow and wind, enjoying the whip of the cold against his face because it gave him moments of clarity—though clarity didn’t necessarily make him feel much better.

Abstaining from the Change wasn’t working for him. He was getting worse and began to harbor a genuine fear that he might slip and become feral. The thought repulsed him, but he acknowledged that he had to find a way to cope. There had to be some way to sate the Wolf long enough to give him peace so he could think clearly, so he could be a proper Companion and perform his duties without wanting to eviscerate Newbloods for their inexperience with a weapon. Beating the Oblivion out of the training dummies helped, but not as much as he would have liked or needed. It was a short-lived release and he needed something stronger.

He hadn’t exactly intended to show up at her door, but his feet and led him there nevertheless and once confronted with the decision to knock or walk away, found his hand rapping against the wood. It took her a moment to answer. She hadn’t been sure she had heard properly through the sounds of the storm, but she cracked the door an inch or so to guard against the cold invading her small home. “Vilkas?” she said, surprised, and opened the door a little further to look him over.

Vilkas sidled up next to the door to block the wind with his body. “Ysolda,” he said, “I’m sorry for stopping by unexpectedly…”

“Nonsense. Come in,” and she stepped aside.

Vilkas pushed through the door and closed it behind him. He brushed the snow from his hair and off his shoulders roughly until he heard Ysolda come up behind him with a towel she must have purchased from one of the Khajiit trading caravans. “Thanks,” he grunted, accepting it.

She nodded mutely and watched him with expressive brown eyes. She looked confused, but pleased to see him which only made him feel guilty. He hadn’t come to rekindle their long-dead romance. They had been an item once in the year before. It had started as a one-night stand that grew into something more. He hadn’t been in love, or anything, and it hadn’t been serious—at least, not for him. More or less, he considered their previous relationship a courtesy. He enjoyed her company, enjoyed sharing her bed, and in return for availing himself of those things, he paid her the respect of not frequenting other beds. And he had liked her, he supposed. She was soft and sweet and kind. In the tender moments of their sex, she had been a balm to all the aches he hadn’t even known he had. But he had grown bored as he tended to. His visits to her bed became less frequent until they stopped altogether. Their affair never really had a proper end to it; it just faded away.

And that’s what he needed now: a balm. A salve for the mounting tension in his chest and to just disappear afterwards without complaint or guilt. “I-I missed you…” she said softly when he set the towel aside.

This is a bad idea…he thought and in a moment of panic, his eyes flit toward the door. His discomfort must have showed openly in his face, because she was quickly backtracking. “I mean—my bed’s grown cold without you in it,” she amended, steering the conversation away from emotional and more comfortably aiming at the physical, “Especially on nights such as this.”

He should have done the right thing. He should have left and found some other way to vent his frustration, but his head was so twisted with the Wolf’s desire that he couldn’t think straight and his mouth was crashing into hers. Easy and willing as she had always been. He felt his body slide into familiarity as he did the little things he knew drove her wild. Her small hands fumbled with his armor, but she remembered where all the buckles were without looking, without breaking the contact of her lips against his or the roving of his hands down her back. And soon they were all heavy breathing and a trail of shed clothes and armor as they stumbled backward to her bed.


The blizzard stopped sometime during the night and Vilkas considered returning to Jorrvaskr without waking Ysolda, but then he looked at her sleeping face in the dying light from the fire on the hearth and thought better of it. She deserved more than he had given her when they had shared something resembling a commitment and she deserved more from him now. He’d wait until morning to make his apologies to her face; it was the least he could do after she had given him so much peace.

Notes:

Just a little Vilkas struggles. A shorty, so I thought I'd get it up as soon as possible.

Also, upon finishing editing this chapter, this song popped into my head and now I can think of nothing else.

Chapter 10: Jorrvaskr

Summary:

Sonja and Faendal return to Whiterun to deliver the Dragonstone, and Sonja meets Farengar's mysterious associate. Later, the pair go to Jorrvaskr to see if they are worthy of the Companions. Loosely follows the quest Take Up Arms.

Notes:

Sonja PoV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Oh! There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red

‘Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead!”

Faendal sang boisterously at the top of his lungs as they neared Whiterun. The Bosmer had been glowing with effervescent happiness since the day before when he returned the golden claw to Camilla and received an enthusiastic kiss for his troubles—though Sonja had collected seven hundred and fifty gold from her brother afterward, despite Faendal’s insistences that they had retrieved the claw out of the goodness of their hearts.

“And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade

‘As he told of bold battles and gold he had made!”

After they had restocked their supplies, they poked around the inn for Delphine to ask her a few questions about what they had learned from Arvel’s journal, but the innkeep was out and Orgnar didn’t know when she’d be back, so they left despite Faendal’s attempt to convince Sonja to stay a day longer in Riverwood to see where things went with Camilla. In retribution for cutting his time short with his beloved, he sang loudly and off key the entire way back. Though Sonja tolerated it because she was convinced Faendal’s singing scared any nearby wolves and sabre cats away.

“But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red

‘When he met the shield-maiden Matilda, who said…”

He paused, sucking in a massive breath of air.

“‘Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead!

‘Now I think it’s high time that you lie down and bleed!’”

Sonja groaned at the wheedle in his voice at the end of that particular phrase and dragged her hands over her face in exasperation. “When will this end?” she pleaded theatrically as they approached the stables.

“And so then came clashing and slashing of steel

‘As the brave lass Matilda charged in, full of zeal!”

Faendal answered gleefully,

“And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more—

‘When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!”

The horses whined with displeasure as Faendal concluded his song, wavering so violently on the last note that it caused Sonja’s skin to crawl. “I don’t know why you insist on singing that song,” she declared, “What does lopping the head off a blowhard have to do with kissing Camilla?”

“Absolutely nothing!” Faendal laughed, “It’s just fun to sing!” He took a deep breath. “Oh! There once was…”

But Sonja slapped her hand over his mouth before he could continue. “I will end you if you start up again,” she warned, but she was smiling.

“Oh, you’re just in a foul mood because Ralof’s already left for Windhelm,” Faendal teased, batting her hand away.

Sonja groaned. “Careful, friend, you’re starting to become more trouble than you're worth having around…” She had been a little disappointed that she had missed the handsome Nord before he left Riverwood because, at the end of the day, she had enjoyed the brief time she had spent with him and cared how he was getting along, but she hadn’t been in any mood to tolerate romantic overtures. Hence why Faendal didn’t get the extra half-day with Camilla before they left. That and the Jarl had stressed how important it was that they return with the Dragonstone as soon as possible. ‘…before it’s too late,’ to be exact.

Faendal disregarded her warning with a careless wave of his hand. “You like having me around,” he insisted and it was a little true, though she’d never admit it.

As they turned up the road toward Whiterun, Sonja slowed and eyed the carriage driver parked outside the stables. He was an older gentleman with a shaved head and he was absently humming ‘Ragnar the Red’ to himself now that Faendal had gotten the tune stuck fresh at the forefront of his thoughts. A different carriage from the one that had been there when Sonja and Faendal had left Whiterun days before. She had stopped to ask him if he remembered picking anyone up matching Anja’s description, but he hadn’t. According to Faendal, there were only five carriages that traveled between cities, so if Sonja hung around in Whiterun long enough, she’d be able to speak with them all and possibly have a better idea of where Anja was headed next—hopefully.

So, she approached the carriage driver who smiled welcomingly at her. “Need a lift?” he asked, brightly.

Sonja shook her head. “I was wondering if you remember picking up a young Imperial named Kit?” she asked, “About a head shorter than me, blonde, blue-eyed, carried a mace—could charm the club from a giant?”

The carriage driver chuckled. “No, sorry. I think I’d remember a girl like that.”

“Right,” she sighed and glared up at him; not threateningly, but intense. Searching his features for dishonesty. The man had an open, friendly face. He didn’t look the part of a liar, but then again, the truly talented liars never looked the part. Even still, she doubted he was false with her and so flashed a brief, friendly smile to make up for openly scrutinizing him and nodded good-bye. “Thanks.” She patted the horse and then she and Faendal headed up the hill.

Out of respect for Sonja’s disappointment, Faendal made a sincere attempt to stop grinning from ear to ear. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he said as they neared the gate, “But now there’s only three drivers left. One of them’s got to remember her, right?”

“What if they don’t?” she asked, her expression twisted with visible worry which was an unusual departure from her stoic frown, “Are there other ways of leaving the city?”

“Besides just walking out the front gate like we do?”

“Anja wouldn’t do that.”

Faendal looked at her sideways. “I know she’s your sister, but—how can you be so sure?” he asked, “Maybe she was so pissed at Hera, she couldn’t wait around for a carriage and just left.”

“Anja’s—small,” Sonja said carefully, “Petite. Avoids confrontation, sticks to the shadows sort. Her mace isn’t for bludgeoning; it’s for grappling. Put a bow in her hands and she’ll put one between your eyes from a hundred paces off in poor light.”

“Sneak-thief.”

Sonja nodded mutely.

“Not the type to go charging off across the open tundra alone.”

“No.”

Faendal hummed thoughtfully. “Well, there’s not many ways for the common folk to travel between cities besides the public carriages. Unless she bought or stole a horse…” He looked pointedly at Sonja who did not deny that it was beyond the realm of possibility for Anja to have made off with such a valuable prize. But they hadn’t heard of any stolen horses lately, and even with the civil war raging and dragons destroying Helgen, horse theft was still noteworthy news. “Before the war, it wasn’t uncommon for people to travel with the trade caravans,” he continued, “Especially out of Whiterun’s Great Marketplace.”

Sonja snorted. “Great Marketplace? I’ve seen that tiny little square outside Hulda’s. I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘Great’.”

“I sometimes forget you’re not from Skyrim,” the elf admitted, chuckling to himself, “The market inside the city isn’t the Great Marketplace. Jarl Balgruuf’s father didn’t want to—muck up his city with the riffraff and thieves that followed trade caravans, so a huge market was built across the road from where Honningbrew Meadery is now. That’s why that old draugr, Sabjorn, built his place out there. Dozens of hungry and thirsty merchants, hundreds of customers? It was perfect, until trade started to dry up because of the wars. The Market’s all overgrown now. Can’t even tell it’s there anymore.”

“The Great War hobbled the Empire at large, but I didn’t realize it had such a permanent impact on trade in Skyrim,” Sonja stated, her voice oddly flat as if she were trying not to sound emotional about it one way or the other.

“Hammerfell accounted for a large chunk of the goods that passed through here, so when the Emperor released them from the Empire, Whiterun lost half its trade. The Civil War, a few bad winters, and a few bandit attacks took the rest. Shipments are guarded by troops now so no one just travels along anymore.” He shrugged. “Unless she left with one of the Khajiit caravans.”

He laughed. It was meant as a joke, but Sonja stopped short of the gate and stared at him. “The what now?”

“Khajiit caravans?” he repeated, confused as to why she looked so irritated, “There’s a group of Khajiit that travel between cities, peddling their wares. The only ones not afraid to travel Skyrim nowadays.”

“I haven’t seen them in the market…”

Faendal shook his head. “You wouldn’t. They’re not allowed inside the city. They camp outside the walls.”

Her expression darkened. “Why?”

He winced. She was from the Imperial City. Though largely populated by Imperials, Cyrodiil was still far more diverse than Skyrim tended to be. Nords were leery of outsiders as a general rule, but especially if they were mer or beastfolk. That didn’t mean there weren’t plenty roaming all over Skyrim, though. Mer, at least. He was proof. Admittedly, beastfolk were kind of rare and kept to themselves in traveling caravans or were forced into assemblages. Khajiit in particular had a bad reputation for stealing. It set citizens on edge. “They—well, they make the people of Whiterun—nervous, so they…”

“Aren’t welcomed.”

“More or less.”

Sonja kept her face very blank, but he could see it in her eyes: the outrage. “How often do they come through?” she asked.

“Depends. If they have good business in one town, they won’t close up shop right away unless they’re chased off early, so…”

“You don’t know.”

“No, but—someone in the market might know. They are the only line of trade between cities that isn’t an Imperial or Stormcloak shipment.”

She nodded and they resumed walking into the city. “If Anja didn’t take a carriage out of here, then she probably tagged along with the Khajiit.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Sonja didn’t answer right away. “She used to run with a Khajiit back home,” she answered, “Spent more time with him and his family than she did at home. She knows their customs. It would have been easy for her to befriend them. Even here where they’re no doubt a little wary of the humans they do business with.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll ask around the marketplace later,” she continued, irritably, “We should get up to Dragonsreach first.”


Farengar had a visitor with him when Sonja and Faendal arrived. An older woman in leather armor. Sonja couldn’t quite make out the features of her face because she had her hood drawn up which only made her suspicious after reading Arvel’s journal. So she inched closer to catch some of their conversation without immediately alerting them of her presence. The two of them examined a text open on the desk. “You see?” Farengar said to the woman, “The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier. I’m convinced this is a copy of a much older text. Perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other later texts.”

“What’s the hold up?” Faendal asked, leaning around Sonja to see inside the mage’s study.

“He’s with somebody,” she hissed, pushing him back before they noticed his head poking into the room, “Looks like we’ll have to wait.”

“Well, I’m going to wait by the bottles of mead over there,” Faendal said and he wondered over to the table laden with mead, ale, and wine.

Sonja rolled her eyes and resumed eavesdropping on Farengar’s conversation. “Good,” said the woman, her voice deep and stern, “I’m glad you’re making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers.”

“Oh, have no fear,” Farengar assured, “The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I’m now able to devote most of my time to this research.” Sonja’s brow furrowed. Is Farengar working for her?

“Time is running, Farengar, don’t forget,” the woman replied, “This isn’t some theoretical question. Dragons have come back.”

Farengar waved her off. “Yes, yes,” he said, “Don’t worry. Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable—Now, let me show you something else I found—very intriguing—I think your employers may be interested as well…”

He turned to rifle through his desk drawer, but the woman looked up and spotted Sonja. “You have a visitor,” she said, drawing Farengar’s attention.

“Hmm?” he looked up from the drawer, “Ah, yes, the Jarl’s protégé! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn’t die, it seems.”

Seeing no way to excuse herself so their conversation could revert back to whatever else the woman’s employers might be interested in, Sonja strode into the room, crossing the study with swift, powerful steps. “I’ve got a present for you, Farengar,” she said.

“Ah!” Farengar rubbed his hands together excitedly as Sonja set her bag on the edge of his desk and reached inside to remove the Dragonstone. “The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow!” he declared gleefully when Sonja removed the linens protecting it and handed it over to him. “Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way.”

He meant it as a compliment, Sonja was sure, but that didn’t stop her from smiling sourly. “I’m glad I could be of service,” she said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, but the court wizard either did not pick up on it or ignored her, he was so wrapped up in the examination of the Dragonstone. She snapped her fingers at him until he looked up. “We got your stone for you, now what?” she asked.

“That is where your job ends and mine begins,” Farengar stated matter-of-factly, “The work of the mind. Sadly undervalued in Skyrim. If you are seeking a reward for your services, I’m sure the Jarl will see to it.”

Sonja nodded curtly, more than a little disappointed she wasn’t privy to the information on the Dragonstone, but hoping she might be able to speak with the Jarl about it later. Perhaps if she expressed an interest, he’d let her in on Farengar’s research. What in Oblivion am I thinking? she wondered, momentarily surprised by her own motives, I don’t have time to chase dragons! I have to find Anja! But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Dragonstone was somehow important to her.

Before excusing herself, Sonja’s eyes flit toward the woman who was still standing behind Farengar’s desk, though she was leaning her hip against the edge now, arms crossed, and looking Sonja over with an intense, calculating scrutiny. Farengar noticed the women eying each other and gestured to the woman. “My…associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork,” he said, “She discovered the Dragonstone’s location, by means she has so far declined to share with me.”

“Must keep some professional secrets,” the woman said quietly.

“I’m sure,” Sonja added darkly, now certain that she was the woman Arvel mentioned in his journal.

“So, your information was correct after all,” Farengar continued, “And we have our friend here to thank for recovering it for us.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed at Sonja. “You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that?”

“Me and my associate,” Sonja gestured over her shoulder toward Faendal who was drinking deeply from a bottle of mead, “Only ran into a bit of trouble while we were there. A group of bandits after treasure.”

“The draugr are capable of warding off most grave-robbers,” Farengar stated, “But an entire bandit clan might prove troublesome. They didn’t destroy too much of the crypt, did they?”

Sonja shook her head, mildly irritated that the court wizard showed more concern for the crypt than for Faendal and her safety. “They hadn’t gotten very far by the time we showed up,” she explained, “Faendal and I took care of them ourselves, but their leader—as fortune would have it—had the key to enter the main chamber in his possession—recently stolen from the home of someone in Riverwood.”

Though Farengar was surprised and was going on about what the presence of the bandits could mean for the course of his research, the woman didn’t so much as blink, but Sonja saw the slight tightening in her jaw. “Nice work,” she said, stiffly, while Farengar continued to rant, “Just send me a copy when you’ve deciphered it, Farengar.”

The Court Wizard stopped mid-sentence and nodded a little brusquely. “Of course,” he assured.

“I’ve got to go, now,” she said and she swept out of the room, passed Sonja and dodged glances from Faendal.

Farengar hummed a bit of disappointed surprise that his associate didn’t linger long enough to hear his breakthroughs in person, but returned his attention to the Dragonstone. “Watch out for her,” Sonja warned once she was sure the woman was out of earshot, “I think she might be more invested in your dragon research than even you are.”

“Your concern is unwarranted and unwanted,” the court wizard scoffed, “Leave such speculation to your betters.”

Sonja frowned. “Suit yourself,” she sniffed and dropped Arvel’s journal on the corner of his desk, “What do I know, anyway? I’m only a better brute than those the Jarl usually sends. Read it and see for yourself.” Farengar barely spared a glance for her or the journal when she turned to leave. But as she left, she glanced at the massive map of Skyrim covering a wooden partition dividing the room in half. Vaguely, something fit together in her mind, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, so she left the study, pensive and irritated.

The main hall was largely empty but for Jarl Balgruuf’s kids running amok, a poor elderly cleaning lady who attempted to tidy up after them, and the usual guards. The Jarl and his court were nowhere to be seen. Sonja approached the nearest guard. “Where’s the Jarl?” she asked.

“War Council,” the guard replied.

“When will he be done?”

The man shrugged. “Any minute? Hours from now? Depends on how irritated he is with his steward.”

Sonja sighed. “I’ll come back later.” And she turned on her heel, nodded to Faendal to follow her, and promptly left Dragonsreach.


“So, what do we do now?” Faendal asked through a mouthful of apple as he leaned against a fruit and vegetable stand, thoroughly irritating its owner, Carlotta. She shooed him away angrily and Faendal scuttled off, apologetic.

Sonja watched the exchange and had she not been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, would have found the situation amusing, but she chewed thoughtfully on her own apple instead while Faendal gave Carlotta and her stand a wide berth. “No one knows shit about the Khajiit caravans,” she said more to herself than Faendal, “Nothing to do for it now, but wait until they come through again.”

“We could go to the Hall of the Dead,” Faendal pointed out, “Speak to the priest there.”

“No.”

The Bosmer raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because I said so,” she snapped. Because she wasn’t ready. Because she was afraid that walking into that temple and finding her mother’s ashes interred so far away from her father’s would hurt. It was a silly fear, she knew, and she would go to the Hall of the Dead eventually. Just not yet.

Faendal put his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, no need to take my head off over it,” he said, “We’ll wait for the drivers and the caravans. In the meantime, let’s get a room at the Mare again and toast to a job well-done.”

“Jorrvaskr.”

The elf’s eyes lit up with an almost mischievous smile. “You want to join the Companions?”

“It’s familiar work,” she reasoned, “I did as much for the Fighter’s Guild back in Cyrodiil. If Anja’s traveled far, I’ll need the coin to chase her and loosen a few tongues along the way if she proves elusive.”

“No honor and glory in it for you?”

“Honor and glory won’t find my sister.”

“Well, there are worse reasons for wanting to join the Companions,” Faendal sighed, “But hopefully it’s enough to get us in. They say the Harbinger can look at a warrior and know his heart—who knows, maybe he won’t mind having a battlemage join his ranks. Stranger things have happened.”

“My magic was never a problem back home.”

“You’re in Skyrim now,” Faendal reminded her, but he nodded his head toward the stairs and they made their way to Jorrvaskr.


As soon as Sonja and Faendal stepped into the light of the great fire of the mead hall, a fight broke out between a stout Nord female and a lean Dunmer male. The dark elf didn’t stand a chance. A mismatch. The Nord threw all her weight behind every punch and her fists came down on him like hammers. He was quick, at least, and able to dodge most of her attacks, but she connected more often than not. “What in Kynareth’s name?” Faendal exclaimed, though he sounded more amused than surprised. He and Sonja exchanged glances as the rest of the hall converged on the fighters and surrounded them, cheering and goading and making bets.

The Dunmer lasted longer than Sonja thought he would, but the brawl ended with a heavy punch from the Nord across his chin. He went down, heavy and loose. The Nord grunted her victory and wiped the sweat and blood from her face before helping the fallen elf to his feet. “Remember this the next time you mouth off to me,” she said good-naturally. The Dunmer spit blood from his mouth on the floor and chuckled, nodding. Sonja smirked, reminded of her own fight with Uthgerd a few nights prior. There were just some things a person had to work out with a good fight.

An older man with silver, balding hair laughed harshly, pleased with the brawl, and clapped the two fighters on the back. “Take Athis to get patched up,” he commanded and then his focus changed. He turned his one good eye on Sonja and Faendal, “We have newcomers,” he growled. The elf, Athis, and the Nord, Njada, walked away while the older man stalked over to them. “What business do you have with the Companions?” he asked.

“We’re here to join,” Sonja answered, “Are you the man we speak to?”

He laughed, hoarsely. “You want Kodlak,” he said, “I’m Skjor.”

“Where can I find Kodlak, then?”

“Below,” he gestured toward a staircase at the far end of the hall, “I’ll take you to him.” The three of them made their way to the staircase and descended to the lower level of Jorrvaskr. “His chambers are at the end of the hall.” He pointed.


Vilkas frowned at the game board in front of him, considering his next move and finding his mind wondering. At least it was better than the fugue the Blood usually left him in. After spending the last couple of nights with Ysolda, he was able to think more clearly. Though just barely and it did nothing to make him feel any better about using her—despite her insistences that she wasn’t looking for anything serious, just a little nightly company. He didn’t believe her. Not with the way she looked at him. Irritated, he moved one of his game pieces carelessly. “Come now, Vilkas,” Kodlak sighed, “It’s like you’re not even trying.”

“Forgive me. My mind is elsewhere.”

“After a move like that, I’m tempted to give you another try like I did when you were just a boy learning to play Tafl,” the Harbinger teased, “But I won’t.”

Vilkas smirked at the memory. “I would be insulted if you did.”

Kodlak barked out a laugh and then turned his attention to the board, planning his next move. Vilkas watched him. The white-blue eyes of the Wolf steadily pouring over the board as if they were tracking prey. Even in Kodlak’s aging face, they looked as fierce as ever and Vilkas wondered if abstaining from the Change was any harder for Kodlak than it was for him. “You are elsewhere again,” the Harbinger said suddenly without looking up from the board, “What is troubling you this day?”

“The Wolf,” Vilkas admitted, “I feel it grow stronger every day.”

“It’s hungry,” Kodlak nodded, “When did you last Turn?”

“Two nights before we met in the Underforge.”

“You have been true to your word, Vilkas.” Kodlak nodded approvingly. “But it is not going to be easy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be,” Vilkas brooded, “I just didn’t think it would be so damned hard.” A soft breeze pushed through the hall from the open door at the base of the staircase and slipped beneath the door to Kodlak’s chambers. On the heels of the draft was the foreign scent of strangers, and Vilkas’ concentration shifted. Two of them.

“It will become easier in time.” Kodlak said distractedly, also picking up on the scent of the strangers. A man and a woman. Elf and Nord.

“But I still hear the call of the blood,” Vilkas growled. He scented smoke, lavender, and mint. The woman from the other day…he realized, The mage. Sonja. He sniffed the air again and picked up the scent of oiled leather and animal blood. The elf was with her too.

“We all do,” Kodlak sighed heavily, finally pushing his game piece into position, apparently already content with what his sense of smell could glean of the strangers coming down the hall, “It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome.”

Vilkas hesitated, his concentration still torn between the unexpected return of the mage woman, the game he was losing, and his conversation with Kodlak. “You have my brother and I, obviously,” he assured, “But I don’t know if the rest will go along quite so easily.”

“Leave that to me,” Kodlak nodded, confidently, “But, not now. We have a stranger in our midst.” Sonja paused just before her fingers wrapped around the latch, surprised; she had only caught the tail-end of Kodlak and Vilkas’ conversation and had not thought either of them aware of her presence on the other side of the closed door. “Enter,” Kodlak called, his voice stern, but not unkind.

Sonja pushed back the latch and stepped into the room with Faendal directly behind her. Vilkas looked her over. He couldn’t see her face. She wore a black hood embroidered with the same strange runes covering her armor; the silver thread pulsed the same bright blue as the metal. But there was no mistaking her scent or that bizarre, magical harness. Across her back she sported the same elven sword he had seen her with last time.

“I’ve heard a lot about the Companions,” Sonja said sparing a brief glance at Vilkas before giving her attention over to Kodlak, “I even had the pleasure of witnessing them in action against a giant. And we’ve come here, before you now, to join your noble ranks.” Vilkas grunted with laughter. The gall of this woman! A mage join the Companions? The very idea made his skin crawl.

Kodlak leaned back in his chair, a good-natured smile on his face. “Did you, now?” he asked, “Here, let me have a look at you.” Sonja stepped forward and pushed back her hood. Her long plaited black hair slipped forward out of the hood and dangled over her shoulder. A determined frown trained her features. The Harbinger gasped. Not loudly or obviously. Just the softest, sharp intake of air at the back of his throat. If Vilkas had not the hearing of the Wolf, he would not have heard it. “What is your name, lass?” he asked

“Sonja…” she replied, her mouth halfway through forming the first syllable of her family name before she caught herself, “Just Sonja.”

“We don’t take criminals,” Vilkas warned, thinking of no other reason why she would refuse to give her full name.

“There are other reasons for silence, Vilkas,” Kodlak chastised softly as he looked Sonja over thoughtfully, “It wouldn’t be the first time that someone joined to escape the long shadow cast by a legacy, good or ill.” Vilkas grunted his acknowledgement, but held his tongue otherwise. “And you?” Kodlak nodded to the Bosmer, “What name do you go by?”

“Faendal Willowbrook of Riverwood.”

Kodlak smirked. “No past to outrun there.” Faendal shook his head and Kodlak’s eyes turned again to Sonja. “Hmm, yes, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “A certain strength of spirit.”

Vilkas turned to Kodlak, bewildered. Surely, his Harbinger wasn’t serious. “Master, you’re not truly considering accepting her?”

“I’m nobody’s master, Vilkas,” Kodlak corrected, “And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts.”

“Apologies,” Vilkas conceded, “But perhaps this isn’t the time…” Because Kodlak didn’t know everything. Vilkas had felt the magic when she donned her armor days before when she was working at the Skyforge, had heard Eorlund call her a mage. There was no place for magic at Jorrvaskr. Kodlak had to know. “What business does a mage have joining the Companions?”

Sonja stiffened and glowered at Vilkas. “I won’t deny it. I am a mage,” she growled, “But I am also a warrior. I do not rely on spells alone to protect myself.”

“So you say,” Vilkas argued and then gestured to her sword, “I’ve yet to see a mage who knew what end of a blade to hold onto.”

Her eyes flashed, but her voice was eerily flat when she spoke, “Let me take your little test and we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Kodlak stroked his beard, thoughtfully. “Spell-slinging does not befit a Companion,” he said at length, “We honor the old way: the warrior traditions of Ysgramor and rely on our strength and skill with a blade to see us through.” Vilkas nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, thinking Kodlak was about to turn her away. “But…” The younger man looked to his Harbinger, not liking the tone in his voice. “She claims to be a warrior. So, let’s give her the chance to prove it.” A smile of relief twitched at the corners of Sonja’s mouth.

“Harbinger…” Vilkas began.

“How are you in a battle, girl?” Kodlak asked, ignoring the Companion.

“Good enough to stay alive, but I have much to learn,” she said sternly, “And I am eager to learn it.”

“That’s the spirit,” the Harbinger said approvingly, “Vilkas, here, will get started on that.” He gestured to the surly Companion. “Take her out to the yard and see what she can do,” he paused, “Test the elf as well, if he is willing.”

“Aye,” Vilkas grumbled reluctantly, standing from his seat; he left the room with Sonja and Faendal on his heels.


Sonja didn’t much care for Vilkas’ attitude. Their first meeting hadn’t exactly left a great impression and meeting him for a second time did nothing to change that, but it was up to him whether or not she and Faendal were worthy enough to join the Companions, so she’d do as he said…For now…she decided as she rearranged her hair and pulled her hood back over her head. She followed him out into the yard where some of the younger members were practicing against dummies, targets, and each other. Vilkas strode out into the middle of the practice yard and growled or barked at the others to clear out. “The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this,” he said loudly for the sake of the onlookers, “Just take a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don’t worry, I can take it.” There was collective laughter from the crowd. Skjor leaned against the stone wall on the other side, arms crossed, smirking and watching.

Sonja removed her pack and handed it to Faendal. “Take my sword,” he muttered, drawing it and holding it out to her, “You do better with two when you’re not using magic.”

She almost didn’t take it, but thought better of it. “Wish me luck,” she said, and with a sword in each hand, she advanced on Vilkas. The Companion was amused; he had been certain she would take her friend’s shield, instead, so she had something to cower behind when she was overwhelmed, but that thought was pushed clean from his mind when she launched her body at him, the swords in her hands barreling down on his raised shield in quick, even strikes. Her muscles were trained in strength and rhythm and her blows were calculated, strong, and unrelenting; they came, one after another without pause.

But the injury on her right arm severely restricted the force of her power swings. He spied the pink sear of burned flesh covered by her gauntlet. Her tendency to favor that side was easily exploitable, so he stepped forward, countering her attack with his full weight behind his shield. She was knocked off balance for an instant and Vilkas took advantage of the opening to slide up next to her and pull her hood from her head. “Lose the hood,” he growled in her ear, holding her swords against her chest with his shield, “It narrows your vision.”

“Get off me,” Sonja snarled and she shoved Vilkas away.

Testing her defensive abilities next, he attacked her. She caught the edge of his sword with her blades. No matter how viciously he came at her or what feints he tried to pull, she didn’t flinch or panic. She just watched. Those big blue eyes of hers taking in every move he made, learning, anticipating; she was always ready for his next attack. But she was tiring. Whether from lack of experience fighting without magic or simply from a lack of proper physical conditioning, he didn’t know.

In her exhaustion, her defenses slowed and Vilkas was able to relieve her of both swords, knocking her to the ground with his boot in her ribs. She landed on her back and grunted painfully, but scurried to her feet almost as soon as she had hit the ground, prepared to fight him unarmed if she had to. By all rights, he should have ended the test right there, but something nagged inside him to keep pushing her, to see how far he could push the little mage before she broke. He feigned at her again and her eyes flit to follow him, her body tense and balanced on the balls of her feet, but he came at her from a different angle. For a moment, she was caught off guard and stumbled in the wrong direction, catching Vilkas’ shield with her hip, but then she was free and clear, ducking under his extended sword arm.

That’s when he felt a hard, sharp jab between his neck and the collar of his armor. He paused long enough to see what it was and even then, it took him a moment longer to process what it meant. She was poking him with her sheathed dagger. Had the fight been real, the naked blade would have caused fatal damage. The crowd fell briefly silent, themselves unsure of what to think and half anticipating Vilkas to lose it on another recruit. He was actually impressed with her determination and quick-thinking. Not a grand demonstration of strength or skill, but definitely clever, and he certainly had never known a mage to handle a beating half as well as she. Though no master swordswoman, she had potential with a bit of proper training.

He dropped his arms and sheathed his sword, nodding. “Not bad—for a mage,” Vilkas said, “But, next time won’t be so easy.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow, her hand absently drifting to her sore ribs, “You call that easy?”

A twitch of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he did not smile fully. “You might just make it,” he continued, “But for now, you’re still a Whelp to us, Newblood. So you do what we tell you.”

A muscle twitched along Sonja’s jaw, but she didn’t move. “So I’m in?”

“Aye, Whelp. You’re in.” She smirked and went to retrieve her weapons, returning Faendal’s. She didn’t particularly like being referred to as ‘whelp,’ but she knew what it was like joining a group like the Companions. You had to work your way up from the bottom, earn respect, and prove yourself. She didn’t have a problem with it. Her skills would speak for themselves, even if she had to downplay her magic a little bit. Vilkas turned his attention to Faendal, “How about it, elf, did you want to give it a go?”

“You bet,” he answered eagerly and Sonja took a seat at one of the tables on the porch to watch Faendal’s trial.


That night, Sonja enjoyed a particularly long visit to the bathhouse to soak her aching body after her spar with Vilkas, but the hot water seemed to sap her remaining energy. She was too tired to do much else. I’ll go to Dragonsreach in the morning, she decided as she ran water through her long hair. “Why didn’t you tell them your family name?” Faendal asked suddenly from halfway across the bathhouse where he soaked in the large stone tub.

Sonja nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, sloshing some of the water from the bowl she was using to rinse her hair. “Can I not do as I please?” she asked.

“They’ll find out anyway. That Huntress and the big one—what was his name? Farkas?—already know,” he reminded her, “You don’t think it will come up when they notice you walking around Jorrvaskr?”

She was quiet for a long time as she worked a comb through her hair. “I used my mother’s name because not everyone is friendly with the Empire,” she said, “I didn’t know she had an entire life and family I knew nothing about—that I would have to tell so many people of her death and see fresh sadness.” She paused and loosely plaited her hair at the nape of her neck. “It’s heavy, this life of hers. I didn’t want the Companions to welcome me because I was her daughter. I wanted to prove myself.” Perhaps it was silly wanting the approval of the Companions. She had accomplished much on her own in Cyrodiil. She knew herself and her abilities and had never wanted for validation from others. But there was something intimidating about meeting the Harbinger—just one man—who could look at a warrior and see her worth. If she was to be weighed and measured, she wanted it to be for what she was and not for who her mother was.

“The Companions wouldn’t take you if you weren’t worthy,” Faendal assured, “Even if you were the Jarl, himself. They’ve no use for milk-drinkers.”

She shrugged. He was probably right, but she didn’t have the luxury of growing up with the Companions' reputation. Just bedtime stories her mother used to tell. “That may be so, but they called my ma the Killing Frost,” she replied, “I wonder what deeds earned her that title?”

Later, they trudged back to Jorrvaskr, hungry and tired. When they returned to the mead hall, the Companions had already begun the evening feast and they happily joined their new Shield-Siblings. “Ironheart! You’ve come to join us, after all,” Farkas declared approvingly when he caught sight of Sonja as she walked through the door.

Sonja winced. Though it had been inevitable, she was still not completely prepared for the looks of interest and surprise. The entire Circle looked her way at the mention of her surname. The other Companions too, but not with the same comprehension, having joined after Freydis had left Skyrim. “Aye,” Sonja nodded, feeling uncomfortable beneath the gaze of so many eyes, “Well met, Farkas.”

“This is Freydis’ daughter?” Kodlak asked, looking to Sonja for confirmation. Her mouth thinned and she gave one curt nod in response.

Vilkas had been very young when Freydis left the Companions, but had admired her battle prowess as he had admired all the Companions of that time. She was larger than life to him. A legend of his childhood. And though Sonja had impressed him earlier, something did not match up. How could the daughter of the fearsome Freydis Ironheart, the Killing Frost of Jorrvaskr, be a mage? And why, for Talos’ sake, did she seem ashamed or, at least, embarrassed of her heritage? He looked to Kodlak to see how the old man would react for he had loved her dearly as family and was sorriest to see her go.

Kodlak looked Sonja over curiously. His eyes reexamining her face and picking out familiar features until he could assemble a likeness to her mother. “Did you know two of your aunts were also Companions?” he asked, “Hera, the eldest, and Hilde, the second youngest. And your grandfather before them. One of his brothers and their uncle? There has been at least one Ironheart in Jorrvaskr since they settled in Whiterun.”

Sonja shook her head. “No. I didn’t know.”

“She never spoke of it?”

“She didn’t speak of a great many things.”

The Harbinger nodded, his expression soft and sad. “Freydis always had a silent way about her.” He cleared his throat, his tone stern again. “How did she die?”

“Clearing out a mine of goblins. She went down fighting.”

“A good death, then.”

She bit her tongue. It was the Nord way to die a glorious and noble death, but being picked apart by goblins had not been the end Sonja had wanted for her mother. It had not been quick or valiant. It had been bloody and violent. “Aye,” she replied, numbly, “A good death.”

Kodlak raised his mead tankard. “To Freydis!” he declared and the Companions raised their own drinks, “One of the fiercest warriors Jorrvaskr has ever seen! A woman so deadly, they named her after the icy winds of Skyrim! Shor has guided another daughter of Skyrim to Sovngarde!”

“To Freydis!” they all echoed. “Glory in battle; honor in life; Sovngarde in death!” They all drank deeply from their mugs, toasting a long since passed Shield-Sibling. Sonja drank also, watching the others over the rim of her cup. With the exception of Kodlak, they were all too young to have really known Freydis; they drank, instead, to the memory of the warrior they had heard stories about, the Killing Frost. Even still, Sonja was touched that her ma inspired such reverence merely with the recollection of her actions and wondered why she would have left this life behind.

“It is an honorable tradition you carry on, lass,” Kodlak concluded.

“Be worthy of it,” Vilkas added.

Rather than glare or otherwise take offence as he expected her to, she pursed her lips, an unreadable gleam in her eye, and nodded curtly. “I will,” she said, tipping her mug in their direction and sipping. Vilkas looked at her, unsure of what to think, but one thing was for certain: he might be wary of this outsider, this mage who fought like a warrior, but she definitely left an impression.

Notes:

Hello my lovely readers. Sorry this took a couple of days to post, but I am on vacation with my fiancé and his family! Which means I have almost no down time--they're a very active bunch of individuals--but I will do my best to get another chapter up this week!

And don't worry, I didn't forget about the attack on the West Tower! I just like to break things up a little. :) Plus, I wanted Sonja to get into the Companions before anyone knew she was the Dragonborn. I mean, she was already reluctant to tell them she was an Ironheart for fear of that legacy looming over her head, right? Didn't want to overcomplicate the issue with the weight of being Dragonborn also. But it is coming up! ;)

Update (things I forgot to mention when I first posted this chapter): I invented the Great Marketplace for Whiterun because I was always hearing how the town used to be the hotspot for trade in Skyrim because of its central location, but I didn't see any evidence of this. The town, in-game, is small as hell and even in my reimagining of it, there's simply not room for a booming inter-hold, inter-province trading center. So I made one up.

Also, I included a link to the wiki page on Tafl games if anyone was interested in knowing more about it. You can click on the one that appears in the story or on this one right here if you got all the way to the end and didn't notice it.

Chapter 11: Dragon Rising

Summary:

Sonja and Faendal are called to Dragonsreach to deal with a dire situation at the Western Watchtower. Follows the quest Dragon Rising.

Notes:

Good news everyone! I'm back! Sorry this took so long! Hoping to get back to regular updating once more. Enjoy! :)

Trigger Warning: Depictions of death, threat of death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Fire raining from the sky. Pelting the ground with heavy fists of flaming stone. Dancing flames racing across the plains, climbing higher up the walls. Consuming everything. The world melts beneath the heat and hunger of it. Thick, dark furls of smoke rise out of the chaos, curling into the orange, angry sky. The smell of it chokes and smothers and the roar of the fire can only be matched by the roar that tears through the air. And the screams. A thousand voices praying, crying, and begging for mercy.

It all degrades into an oppressive weight of sound, stench, and light, and it presses down on her until it’s so heavy she feels like she’s about to break, shatter into so many pieces she won’t be able to ever put herself back together again. Then, just when she thinks she’s about to give way, it all gets worse. Louder. Brighter. More toxic.

And through the din vibrating her skull until she’s stumbling, disoriented, she hears a voice. Just one, small voice that grows louder by the second, calling her name with mounting urgency. “Sonja! Sonja! Sonja!” It’s Thornir. It’s her baby brother. Alive and whole and walking through the flames unharmed. She wants to cry and hold him and tell him she loves him, but her head feels like its split in two from the assault on her senses. “Sonja,” he says, “You have to wake up.”

But she’s confused. She doesn’t understand. He touches her face lovingly and she feels his hand on her cheek. He’s real. He’s really with her. But he just keeps looking at her with sad blue eyes. Eyes that match her own. She wants to tell him they have to run to safety, that they have to get away from the fire, but her mouth won’t move. “Sonja,” he whispers, kindly, “You need to go.”

She wants to tell him that she wants to stay with him. That she doesn’t have to go anywhere. But she can’t. So she just grabs at his arm, trying to hold him to her body and tell him she remembers when he was a baby. But he doesn’t go to her. Instead, he grips her arms and shakes her hard. “SONJA!” he yells, only it’s not his voice anymore, “WAKE UP!”

Sonja jolted awake, her head spinning, and blinked blindly in the darkened room. It was the middle of the night and she was lying in the bottom bed of one of the bunks of Jorrvaskr’s barracks. The voice she had heard and the hands on her shoulders belonged to Vilkas who loomed over her, still dressed in his Wolf Armor. He was irritated and the moment she looked at him with any kind of lucidity, he straightened and glared down at her. “There’s a messenger here for you,” he growled, “From Dragonsreach.”

“Wha…?” she slurred, kicking off her blankets and rubbing her eyes. Her face was wet. With some horror, she realized she had been crying in her sleep and glanced at Vilkas, wondering if he had noticed, but he was turned away from her. Farkas had just stumbled down the hallway, wanting to know what was going on.

“It’s nothing,” Vilkas assured, “I’ll handle it.”

“The Jarl’s men are here,” Njada answered. The whole of the barracks had awakened in the ruckus. Vilkas had not been quiet or gentle in his attempts to rouse Sonja.

“Why are the Jarl’s men here?” Sonja asked as she grabbed for her trousers which had been kicked under the bed when she disrobed to go to sleep.

“I was sent to escort you and Faendal Willowbrook to Dragonsreach,” a guard said from the hallway, poking his head into the room, “It’s urgent.”

“You were told to wait upstairs!” Vilkas snapped and the guard took a couple uncertain steps backward.

While Vilkas ordered Njada to take the guard back up to the mead hall because she happened to be standing closest to him, Sonja stifled a yawn as she yanked on her trousers and grabbed at the hem of her tunic to tuck it in only to realize she was wearing her torn one because it was the only clean shirt she had. Making a sound halfway between defeat and exhaustion, she threw her cloak around her shoulders to cover up the poor state of her clothing and tried to push past Vilkas, but he caught her arm. “Whatever business you have with the Jarl, it does not follow you here,” he warned, “We do not deal in politics. We do not pick sides. We are Companions and we follow the legacy of Ysgramor only.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and roughly pulled her arm loose from his grip. “No one asked different of you,” she replied, “My business at Dragonsreach will stay my own.”

“Good.”

She turned away from him, headed for the hall. “You coming Faendal?” she called to the other side of the barracks were the Bosmer was hopping on one leg into his own trousers.

“Aye,” he grumbled before catching his own cloak in his teeth and stumbling out behind her, lacing up his pants as he went.


The air inside Dragonsreach was electrified with anticipation and anxious motion. The guards went about their patrols anxiously and the Jarl’s children sat at one of the tables, blurry eyed, and eating sweet rolls, wakened by the commotion of the night that demanded their father’s attention. But the Jarl was not at his throne. The messenger led them to the staircase leading to the second level of Dragonsreach. As they passed Farengar’s study, Irileth, a guard, and the mage were walking out of his private rooms. He was looking quite disheveled, having just been roused from sleep himself, but bright-eyed and excited. “A dragon’s been sighted nearby,” the Housecarl was saying to him.

“A dragon?” Farengar asked, barely containing his obvious glee, “Are you sure?”

Irileth nodded gravely. “I’ve already sent for Ironheart and Willowbrook.” She nodded to Sonja and Faendal in greeting and the pair exchanged glances.

“A dragon?” Faendal repeated.

You sent for us?” Sonja said at the same time.

“How exciting!” Farengar almost squealed, bursting with enthusiasm, “Where was it seen? What was it doing?”

Irileth raised a critical eyebrow. “I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you,” she chastised as they ascended the stairs, “If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don’t know if we can stop it.”

“Of course,” the court wizard grumbled with disregard.

“The dragon that attacked Helgen had no fear of cities,” Sonja pointed out gravely, “An entire Imperial garrison was stationed there and it laid waste to the town in less than an hour.”

“Were the soldiers able to wound it at all?” Irileth asked as they reached the top step.

Sonja shook her head. “No,” she answered, “I saw it fly off afterward. Not a scratch.”

“Damnit,” the Dunmer cursed.

“But…”

Irileth looked at Sonja sideways. “What?”

“The Imperials efforts were divided at Helgen,” she said, slowly, “Half of them were trying to fight the dragon and the other half were trying to keep the Stormcloaks from escaping. The dragon had surprised them all. It was chaos.”

Irileth stopped abruptly just before the huge wooden doors leading to the Great Porch and turned to glare up into Sonja’s face with her intense red eyes. “If you had the manpower, could you take that dragon down?” she asked, her voice deep and deadly serious.

Sonja’s eyes widened slightly. “I was a prisoner,” she objected, “I ran. I didn’t stay to fight it off…”

“But you escaped.”

“I had help.”

“You’ll have help now.”

Sonja hesitated.

“Can you do it?” Irileth demanded.

“Yes.”

“Good,” the elf nodded and pushed the door open. Sonja, Faendal, and Farengar followed her through.

The Jarl was waiting by a large table at the far end of the long, stone porch. The dramatic view from the balcony of the valley and the mountains beyond was cast aglow in the shifting auroras of Tamriel’s northern skies. Not quite enough to see clearly for miles, but enough to mark out the vague edges of the distant mountain peaks. The table was covered in maps and blue and red flags marking the movements of nearby Stormcloak and Imperial troops. He looked worry worn, but hardened and ready to manage whatever chaos had come through the door with his Housecarl. As soon as his eyes alighted on the guard accompanying them he spoke, “So Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?”

The guard looked terrified. “Tell him what you told me,” Irileth coaxed, “About the dragon.”

“R—right,” he stuttered and then he took a deep breath to regain his composure, “We saw it coming from the south. It was fast…faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”

Balgruuf crossed his arms and began to pace. “What did it do?” he asked, “Is it attacking the watchtower?”

“No, my lord,” the guard replied, “It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life…I thought it would come after me for sure.”

Balgruuf clapped the guard on the shoulder reassuringly. “Good work, son. We’ll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You’ve earned it.” The guard nodded nervously and allowed himself to be guided away. Balgruuf addressed his Housecarl, “Irileth, you’d better gather some guardsmen and get down there.”

The elf nodded. “I’ve already ordered my men to muster near the main gate.”

“Good,” Balgruuf said, “Don’t fail me.”

“I also sent for Ironheart, my Jarl,” she continued.

Balgruuf nodded, smiling faintly at his Housecarl’s efficacy, for if she had not summoned Sonja, he would have. “Irileth was wise to send for you,” he said, “There’s no time to stand on ceremony, my friends. I need your help again. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon.” He drew closer, his voice becoming even more sincere as he addressed Sonja. “You survived Helgen,” he said, his voice almost an entreaty, “So you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here.”

Sonja nodded curtly. “I told Irileth that I would do what I could,” she informed him, “I make the same promise to you.”

“Good.” He nodded approvingly. “You will be richly rewarded for all you have done for us. I swear it.”

“I should come along,” Farengar blurted out, “I would very much like to see this dragon.”

“No. I can’t afford to risk both you and Irileth,” Balgruuf objected, “I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons.”

Farengar frowned, but conceded. “As you command.”

The party turned to leave, but Balgruuf’s words halted them. “One last thing, Irileth,” he said, “This isn’t a death or glory mission. I need to know what we’re dealing with.” Then softer, “And I need you to survive this.”

“Don’t worry, my lord. I’m the very soul of caution,” Irileth assured, “I will return, muthsera.” She used the honorific like a term of affection and Balgruuf at once softened in the eyes and tensed in his shoulders. His Housecarl was his oldest and most trusted friend. They had gone into battle together a hundred times before he became Jarl. He’d never get used to sending her in alone without being there to fight at her side. Then she turned away from him, striding across the Great Porch in quick, purposeful steps, Sonja and Faendal trailing behind her.

“Should I alert the Companions?” Sonja asked as they neared the door.

“Would they come?” Irileth asked skeptically.

Sonja thought of Vilkas’ warning before she left Jorrvaskr. He had been very clear that the Companions are and will remain a neutral party in matters of state. But dragon hunting had nothing to do with politics. There were no sides to choose between the dragon and the safety of Whiterun—a city the Companions called home as much as any other citizen living safely within its walls. The only thing that might give the Companions pause to join them against the dragon was a lack of coin. There was no money to be had. Defending Whiterun was not a job. It was a duty. No one would reward them for their efforts unless the Jarl decided it was appropriate. But the glory to be had in defeating a dragon? A creature unseen for centuries? They might actually be upset if I didn’t ask them to help…“It’s their home too,” Sonja said reasonably, “They are strong and competent warriors. Our chances of success only go up if they agree to help.”

“I don’t like it,” Irileth stated, “They love drink as much as they love to fight. But you’re right. Go, gather your Companions if you think it necessary.”

Sonja nodded to Faendal and the pair ran ahead, zipping through the remainder of Dragonsreach on their way to Jorrvaskr. “Sonja,” the Bosmer said as they reached the stairs leading to the Wind District, but she didn’t respond; she just kept running, “Sonja!” She ignored him, “Sonja! Stop!” he caught her arm at the foot of the stairs and tugged hard, causing her to her stumble.

“Steady on,” she snarled, righting herself, “What’s your problem?”

My problem?” he repeated, irritated, “What’s yours?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Dragons? Are you serious? What have you gotten us into, now?”

“If you don’t have the stomach for it, stay here.”

“Like Oblivion I’ll stay here,” he snapped, “But tell me the truth, Sonja, do you really know what you’re up against this time?”

Sonja hesitated, images from her dream in Bleak Falls Barrow flashing through her head. She remembered next to nothing of it. Just vague feelings and impressions. But it was more than just her dreams. It was more than escaping Helgen. It was more than just being observant of a dragon’s weaknesses. It was something she could feel in her bones. “Yes,” she admitted, meeting her friend’s gaze evenly, “I do.”

Faendal narrowed his eyes at her, but nodded. It was good enough for him. “Alright,” he said, “Let’s go.” They hurried into Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas, Farkas, and Tilma were the only ones in the mead hall when they entered. Tilma was puttering about, unable to go back to sleep now that she was awake. Vilkas was speaking in hushed, angry tones with his brother. He was awaiting Sonja’s return so he could lecture her about messengers coming to Jorrvaskr all hours of the night. She’d only been a Companion less than a day and already she had done something to aggravate him. Farkas was attempting to counsel him against it, but the dour twin had already made up his mind. “There you are,” he said when Sonja approached them, “I don’t know what your business is with the Jarl and I don’t care to know, but…”

“Shut up and listen,” Sonja interrupted, waving him off.

“Watch your tongue Newblood!” he growled.

“I don’t have much time,” she said over him, “There’s a dragon attacking the Western Watchtower. That is my business with the Jarl. No politics. No complications. He asked me to help and I, in turn, am asking the Companions.”

“A dragon?” Vilkas repeated, nearly struck speechless by the information Sonja fired at him.

“Yes,” Sonja nodded, “A flying, fire-breathing dragon from ancient times.”

The twins exchanged skeptical glances. “That’s impossible,” Vilkas insisted.

“I saw it with my own eyes at Helgen,” Sonja objected, “It’s not impossible.”

“You were at Helgen?” Farkas asked, surprised.

Sonja spared him a glance, but was not prepared to go down that line of conversation. “Any of you who will fight should meet me at the gates,” she said as she headed for the stairs to don her armor and wake the others, “This is not a job. There will be no coin. I can only promise you a good fight.”

When she entered the barracks, she and Faendal made a ruckus waking the others and Sonja explained the situation to them while she changed into her armor. “Is this a joke?” Torvar asked when she was finished.

“No joke,” Sonja shook her head, “We need blades and bodies. If you don’t want to help, then don’t, but we have to go.” She barreled out the door, frustrated, thinking she had failed to convince any of them to go with her. But when she returned to the upper level, the entire Circle was waiting for her. She hadn’t even heard them walk by when she was in the barracks.

“We protect our own,” Kodlak stated, “Whiterun will not burn if we can help it.” He nodded to Vilkas. “You and Farkas are responsible for the Newbloods,” he said, “Keep an eye on them all. Bring them back safe. Keep your brother and he’ll keep you.”

“Yes, Harbinger,” Vilkas nodded.

Sonja couldn’t help but smirk at them all, something sort of edgy and dangerous. It struck Vilkas as almost wolfish. The sound of the others coming up the stairs behind her made her bark out a single, harsh laugh. She wasn’t expecting to have such a show of strength and support, even if they were mostly motivated by the chance to fight a dragon. “Honor and glory,” she said, smiling wryly.

“HONOR AND GLORY!” the Companions all but bellowed in response and then they all, with the exception of Kodlak, marched out of Jorrvaskr to join Irileth at Whiterun’s gate where a group of guards was standing, waiting for her instructions.

The Dunmer Housecarl looked surprised to see the Companions, but they were more than welcome. Not just for numbers, but for the morale boost their mere presence provided her men. “Alright, now that everyone’s here,” Irileth continued, casting an approving glance over the well-armed warriors gathering around her, “Here’s the situation: a dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower.” The guards responded with surprise and whispers of unrest. “You heard me right. I said a ‘dragon.’ I don’t care much where it came from or who sent it. What I do know is that it’s made the mistake of attacking Whiterun.”

One of the guards spoke up, “But Housecarl, how can we fight a dragon?”

“That’s a fair question,” Irileth conceded, “None of us have ever seen a dragon before or expected to face one in battle. But we are honor-bound to fight it. Even if we fail, this dragon is threatening our homes, our families. Could you call yourselves Nords if you ran from this monster? Are you going to let me face this thing alone?” The men cried out that they would not. “There is more than our honor at stake here,” Irileth continued, “Think of it: the first dragon ever seen in Skyrim since the last age! The glory of killing it is ours! If you’re with me! Now what do you say? Shall we kill us a dragon?” The men and the Companions roared an affirmative.

The party made their way out of the city and toward the Western Watchtower. The orange glow of the fires was visible from the gates, reflecting against the thick furls of black smoke spiraling upward. They gathered by a boulder just across the path from the tower while Irileth took in the scene. The tower was one attack short of rubble. “No signs of any dragons right now,” the Housecarl observed, “But it sure looks like he’s been here. I know it looks bad, but we got to figure out what’s happened. If that dragon’s still skulking around somewhere. Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we’re dealing with.” The group broke up into pairs and spread out to cover the area. “Ironheart, what are your thoughts?” Irileth asked, turning to Sonja who stood to her left, silently observing the watchtower.

“Something’s off,” Sonja admitted, “The dragon that attacked Helgen wouldn’t strike a single, lonely tower with a handful of guards in the cover of night and then disappear.”

“You speak of it as though it thinks,” Irileth observed, “It’s a beast.”

“Even beasts have habits,” Faendal interjected, “Sabre cats stalk their prey, pick off the weakest of a herd. They don’t look for unnecessary trouble. Cave bears scavenge unless provoked. They don’t look for a fight if they don’t have to. Elk travel in herds on the move and follow their food. They don’t poke around where they shouldn’t.”

“I get it,” Irileth snapped, “But what does that have to do with a dragon?”

“Do you know why all those beasts behave the way they do?” Sonja asked.

Irileth hesitated, thinking it a trick question. “Because they’re scared,” Faendal answered, “Afraid of other predators. Of being prey. Of hunters. Man and mer villages with hunting parties and torches. They’ve learned to stay away.”

“The dragon I saw had no fear,” Sonja concluded, “The more fire, the more destruction, the better. This all feels wrong.”

“Your feelings aren’t helpful,” Irileth responded, but her eyes narrowed towards the sky, expecting to see the figure of a dragon descending upon them.

Sonja shrugged. “You asked my thoughts, I gave them,” she said, “Without a dragon attacking us, I can’t exactly tell you the best way to kill it.”

“Noted,” the Housecarl nodded, “Keep your eyes peeled.” And then she moved out to join the rest of the men and search the area for clues as to what happened to the dragon.

Sonja watched her go. “You think there are more of them?” Faendal asked when Irileth was out of ear shot.

“What?”

“More than one dragon?” he clarified.

“No one’s seen a single dragon in centuries,” Sonja replied, “Let alone more than one.”

“You keep referring to the dragon at Helgen as though it’s different from whatever did this,” Faendal pointed out, gesturing to the tower as they approached.

Sonja hadn’t realized she was doing it, but he was right. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew it to be true. She didn’t how or why; it just was. “Looks like there are guards still in the tower,” she said, changing the subject, “Let’s go check it out.” Faendal opened his mouth to argue, but quickly shut it, aware that it was no use pursuing a topic she had no wish to discuss. So they approached the tower, one eye warily on the sky.

“No, get back!” cried one of the guards when he caught sight of Sonja and Faendal climbing over the rubble to get into the tower, “It’s still here somewhere. Two of us just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it.”

“What did you see?” Sonja demanded, climbing the stone ramp, “What did it look like?”

The guard didn’t respond; he was looking up, terror written on his face. “Kynareth save us! Here it comes again!”

Sonja’s eyes shot skyward just in time to see the dragon swoop above them. It let out a bloodcurdling roar and circled the tower. “It’s not him,” she breathed when the dragon flew by close enough for her to make out its size, shape, and color, “It’s not the dragon from Helgen.”

“How can you tell?” Faendal asked as he began launching arrows at the dragon’s underbelly.

“I just can,” she said and she gathered lightning in her hands. “Aim for its wings!” she bellowed at the surrounding soldiers, “They’re soft. Tear them up badly enough, it can’t fly. Force it to land!”

Everyone launched into action, sending wave after wave of arrow into the sky after the dragon. Most of them bounced uselessly off its scales, but enough of them hung fast in the membranes of its wings to cause the dragon pain. It landed at the base of the tower and breathed fire at those nearest it. Vilkas, Farkas, and Skjor charged the beast as soon as the fire died down, Torvar, Njada, and two Newbloods, Hroki and Tor, on their heels while Aela, Athis, and Ria provided cover fire with the other soldiers. Sonja leapt off the tower and sprinted toward the wounded beast, flanking it with ice spikes and lightning bolts, while Faendal loosed arrow after arrow into the small spaces between scales. The twins kept the dragon busy while the others made short work of its wings, crippling its ability to take off again.

The beast roared in pain and snapped ferociously at Vilkas and Farkas, forcing them to retreat several yards to stay out of the way of the dragon’s fierce fangs. But with the twins removed from the fight, the others were exposed to the fury of the beast. “Fall back!” Vilkas roared, but he was drowned out by the dragon as it gnashed, snapped, and clawed at his Shield-Siblings.

Torvar half dragged Njada back, out of the range of the writhing spiked tail. But the Newbloods were too slow. The dragon caught Hroki in its mouth, shaking vigorously, crunching through his body and instantly killing him. Tor was nearly crushed beneath its claw, but Sonja tackled him out of the way. They tumbled, sliding sideways from the force of her momentum. “MOVE!” Vilkas bellowed, sprinting toward them.

The dragon had flung Hroki’s body from its mouth and was clawing its way toward Sonja and Tor. The Newblood was paralyzed by fear, but Sonja was already on her feet, grabbing him by the front of his armor and hefting him upright before pushing him toward Vilkas. “RUN!” she screamed at him. He was still stupefied, but he managed to take a few stumbling steps forward, enough to get out of the way. But Sonja wasn’t so lucky.

She had made to follow him, to run to safety, but in the precious seconds she spent in saving his life, the dragon closed in on her. Its hideous mouth opened, revealing thick, sharp fangs and a wicked tongue. Fire exploded from its gaping maw. Sonja felt the heat of it as the flames raced toward her, the hot air blowing forcefully against her body. She only had a split second to think, to save her own life, and she flung her hands up to protect herself.

“SONJA!” Faendal cried in horror as he watched the flames envelop his friend.

Vilkas pulled Tor the last few steps and out of the way before sprinting forward. He didn’t have a plan. All he could think was to do something. Anything. The Newbloods were his responsibility. He couldn’t let Sonja die—even though it was unlikely she survived the flames. But he stopped short, the heat too intense to get any closer.

The dragon’s breath ceased and much to everyone’s surprise, Sonja was still standing, sweating and char clinging to the edges of her face, but whole and unharmed, the warbling magic of a ward shimmering in front of her outstretched hands. Even the dragon seemed confused and in the brief moment of its hesitation, she was moving. She charged it, covering her approach with an ice spike to one of its large, golden eyes. Its head rolled back as it roared out in pain and its clawed wing scratched at the ice lodged in its eye. While its neck was exposed, Sonja drew her elven sword and struck at it will all her might. The dragon’s roar was cut short and its head fell forward.

It was still alive—but only just. The beast sputtered, choking on its blood and gasping through the wound in its throat. It glared at Sonja with its good eye. “Dovahkiin,” it growled and it seemed to Sonja that it was surprised, “NO!” Sonja’s brow knit with confusion, but she didn’t puzzle over it too long; the dragon tried to snap at her. She dodged it, grabbed a hold of one of the many ridges on its snout, and hoisted herself onto its head, carefully avoiding the sharp spikes that snaked down its back. A terrifying roar tore from her lips as she drove her blade deep into the dragon’s brain. The beast went limp. Sonja jumped off the dragon and wiped the blood from her sword and the sweat from her brow. The blood was hot to the touch, but did not burn. She rubbed the slick liquid between her fingertips thoughtfully before trying to wipe it away, suddenly revolted.

Vilkas could hardly believe what he had seen. We took down a godsdamned dragon! It bruised his pride that Sonja had been the one to strike the killing blow, especially since he had been forced to call a retreat in order to protect his Shield-Siblings, but after the stunt she pulled saving Tor and despite her magic use, even he thought she’d earned it. She hadn’t lost her head or become paralyzed by fear. She had come up with a solid strategy to drag that fire-breathing lizard down where it belonged. And then she…the way she climbed that dragon’s head…Fearless. Absolutely fearless. He was impressed. She hadn’t disappointed. She had promised them a good fight and she had delivered. Even though they had lost a Newblood, they could have lost much more. It was sad, but the death of Whelps was not uncommon. He would be honored properly at Jorrvaskr, but dying while facing the first dragon to be seen in Skyrim in centuries—there were worse ways to die. He looked at Sonja who was still standing over the dragon with a look of shock on her face. She isn’t like the other Newbloods…he thought, but he’d never admit it, least of all to her.

The guards and other Companions started to close in on the massive reptile corpse, curious to see the beast up close. Vilkas approached her to congratulate her and give her a stern reprimand for going in for the kill without back up. Damned dragon could have bit her damned head off, after all, he reminded himself, finding a fault to cling to so as not to give her too much credit. They all stopped short when the dragon’s body suddenly burst into flame, however. The scales and delicate flesh of the wings curled up beneath the fire. Everyone stepped back from the heat. Except Sonja. She was rooted to the spot, entranced by the way the flames looked as the they overtook the dragon’s flesh and bone. The heat didn’t bother her either; she liked how it felt on her skin. The light put off by the fire intensified and took on a force and movement all its own. It reminded Sonja of what happened in Bleak Falls Barrow which only made her all the more intrigued.

“Sonja!” Faendal called, climbing off the tower, his voice strained from worry, “Step back from the fire!”

She barely heard him, but she nodded and took a half step back before the light reared up like the great beast beneath it and struck her full in the chest, lifting her several feet into the air. It felt like her skin was on fire—but it didn’t hurt; it felt good. The vastness of the light entering her body was tremendous, deep, and ancient. His name was Mirmulnir…Sonja roared, half pain and half pleasure, half mourning and half rejoicing. She didn’t know what it was exactly, but she felt something awaken inside her, stretch, and shake off the dregs of a dreamless sleep. And then a torrent of force rattled through her bones, thrumming against her ribcage. She inhaled deeply, gasping, taking in the cold night air until she felt as though her lungs would burst. And then she let it go. A gale roared out of her throat in a single, powerful Shout, “FUS!” The ground vibrated from the force of it. Those nearby took several steps backward and covered their ears in surprise and fear.

When it was all over, Sonja landed unsteadily on her feet, hunched over and breathing heavily. Faendal was at her elbow, saying something to her, but she didn’t understand him. There was a loud ringing in her ears that made it difficult for her to concentrate. He seemed to be concerned about her eyes, but she couldn’t make it out. Suddenly, Vilkas was in her field of vision. He seemed angry and he was gesturing violently until he looked her full in the face, then he seemed confused and concerned. He grabbed her face roughly, peering intently into her eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked and Sonja was finally able to understand him.

“Let go,” she snarled, shoving his hands away. She looked a little crazed, possessed. Draconic, Vilkas thought. Somehow her features looked sharp, cruel even. It wasn’t as if anything had physically changed in her face—except the golden glow of her eyes—it was just a feeling, an impression that her snarling, disgusted expression imparted. It reminded him a little of newly turned werewolves. The gleam of the Beast in the eye. The glint of hunger in the mouth. The rage of an animal, of a much stronger being trapped inside such a weak, inferior body. Vilkas took a decided step back to give Sonja some air, but Faendal stepped closer.

“What happened?” the Bosmer asked, reengaging Sonja’s attention.

Her fierce eyes locked onto his face and she looked as if she were going to snap at him too, but she didn’t. Whatever roiling internal agony was fueling her irritability was lessening. The golden gleam of her eyes softened and something like recognition zipped through her face as if she was realizing where she was and who was with her for the first time. Her eyes flit to Vilkas and then beyond to the other Companions and Irileth.

“Mara’s bleeding heart, what did I do?” she nearly whispered.

“Was—was it like what happened before?” Faendal asked in an undertone. That caught Vilkas’ attention, but Sonja looked around nervously, noticed his interested gaze, and refused to answer Faendal’s question.

“She’s Dragonborn,” said one of the guards, “She has to be. I can’t believe it.”

Vilkas and Farkas exchanged glances and muttered, “Dragonborn?” in disbelief. The word echoed through the crowd in disbelieving and reverent whispers alike.

Sonja turned her gaze on the guard; she felt strangely disconnected from the people surrounding her. “Dragonborn?” she repeated. Dovahkiin.

“In the very oldest tales back when there was still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power,” the guard explained, “That’s what you did, isn’t it? Absorb the dragon’s power?”

“His name was Mirmulnir,” she corrected automatically which only served to draw more excited attention and surprise, “Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what happened.”

“But you Shouted! That can only mean one thing,” the guard insisted, “You must be Dragonborn.”

“The Greybeards can Shout and they are not Dragonborn. Ulfric Stormcloak can Shout and he is not Dragonborn,” Vilkas pointed out, refusing to believe so easily—though with some effort. The way she looked after killing that dragon, after the light and the Shout and her eyes? It was harder not to believe. “Where did you learn? Who was your teacher?”

Sonja’s brow furrowed and something like panic was beginning to unfurl in her chest. She looked at Vilkas, her eyes wide and fading back to deep blue. “I can’t Shout,” she nearly whispered, “I don’t even know what that is.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what it is?” he demanded, “You just Shouted a moment ago! You shook the ground beneath you!”

“I did what?”

“Do it again.”

“I can’t…”

“Do it again.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Do it again!”

Sonja’s jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed, but she moistened her lips and tilted her head skyward. For a moment, she just stared into the sky as if a reasonable explanation to her current, bizarre situation would suddenly present itself. But the heavens were silent. Beautiful and full of light, but quiet. So she inhaled deeply through her nose, her ribcage expanding beneath her armor as her lungs filled, and then she felt muscle memory take over as if she had always been able to do what she was now attempting for the first time. “Fus!” she Shouted, the ancient magic rippling through her body from head to toe, forcing out a powerful burst of air skyward. Her eyes widened in muted surprise.

“My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn,” chimed in another guard now that it was apparent to him, at least, that Sonja really was Dragonborn, “Those born with the Dragon Blood, like old Tiber Septim, himself.”

“I’ve never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons,” countered a third man.

“There weren’t any dragons then, idiot,” replied the second guard, “They’re just coming back now for the first time in forever. But the old tales told of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power,” he turned back to Sonja, “You must be one.”

“What do you say, Irileth?” the third guard asked, “You’re being awfully quiet. Do you believe in this Dragonborn business?”

“Hmm, some of you would be better off keeping quiet than clapping your gums on matters you don’t know anything about,” Irileth replied coolly, but she kept a careful eye on Sonja as she said so. “Here’s a dead dragon,” she continued, “And that’s something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don’t need some mythical Dragonborn. Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Housecarl,” one of the guards objected, “You ain’t a Nord.”

Irileth turned flashing eyes on him and said with indignation, “I’ve been all across Tamriel. I’ve seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I’d advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends.” Some of the men grunted in agreement, including Aela. But the rest remained unconvinced. They muttered amongst themselves as to whether or not they believed Sonja was Dragonborn.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the irritated Housecarl growled, “Report back to Whiterun immediately!” There was only the briefest moment of hesitation. “NOW!” The guards fell into formation and marched back to Whiterun, still whispering amongst themselves.

Irileth turned her attention back to Sonja. “The Jarl will want to speak with you also,” she said, “Return to Dragonsreach as soon as possible. He’ll want to hear your report of events. I have to see to the men first.”

Sonja nodded distractedly and Irileth addressed Skjor. “Thank you, Companions,” she said, “Without you, I would have lost many men just trying to knock the damned thing out of the sky. I’m sorry for the loss of one of your own.”

“He will be properly honored,” Skjor responded, nodding to the Housecarl, “He died in honorable combat.” Irileth nodded silently and then marched off after her men. “Come, Shield-Siblings,” he continued, “We must return to Jorrvaskr and tell our Harbinger of this glorious battle.” He looked at Sonja, curiously. “I don’t know what I saw,” he said, “But the Dragonborn is said to be a fierce warrior. You may have given Vilkas a thrashing, but that doesn’t mean you’re worthy of walking the path of Talos.” There was some grumbling both from those who agreed and disagreed with him. Vilkas bristled, obviously insulted by Skjor’s insinuation that Sonja had given him a beating during her test.

“I never claimed to be,” Sonja responded stiffly, “I don’t know…” She was cut off when the ground began to shake violently.

Thunder cracked the night, but there was no lighting preceding it, nor cloud in the sky. The sound of voices calling, imploring, rode the tail of it, declaring, “DOVAHKIIN!

The call drew Sonja’s eyes in the direction of the tallest mountain peak nearby and she shuddered. “What in Oblivion was that?” she demanded, almost desperately.

“The Greybeards,” Vilkas answered, “At High Hrothgar on the Throat of the World.”

The Companions all exchanged bewildered glances. “She is Dragonborn!” Farkas insisted and the others agreed.

Sonja didn’t know who the Greybeards were or what importance they held. All she knew with any kind of certainty was that call was meant for her and she was scared half to death of it. None of it made any sense. She wasn’t in Skyrim because she was Dragonborn! She had come chasing after her infuriatingly irresponsible younger sister. And she only understood the title ‘Dragonborn’ insofar as it applied to the Tiber Septim bloodline of kings. She was related to no royalty! Whatever had happened back at Bleak Falls Barrow and now with the dragon was a mistake. A coincidence. She must have been caught in the middle of bad magic—twice. That’s all. This isn’t…I can’t be…no…why…how…no, no, no… “This isn’t right…” she insisted, but somewhere at the back of her mind—a part she tried fervently to ignore—it felt absolutely right and that terrified her.

The Companions all looked as shocked as she was. Only Skjor and Aela maintained disbelieving expressions, though their skepticism went no deeper than that. “Didn’t I tell you lot to get back to Jorrvaskr?” Skjor barked.

The Companions reluctantly began to drift away back toward Whiterun until only Vilkas remained. “See me when you’re done with the Jarl,” he commanded, his voice stern but not unkind.

“Is that an order?” she asked, sharply.

“We are the Companions,” he replied, “We own no man, mer, or beast. We give no orders.”

“Skjor seems fond of giving them.”

“That’s Skjor.”

Sonja wanted to refuse him if only to regain some of the agency she felt she lost the moment the guards began declaring her Dragonborn. But there was something in his face that made her reconsider. More than the challenge that had caught her attention the first time they met. More than the dour twist of his expression or even the cocky smirk he had during her trial. Understanding. As if he could possibly understand what it was she was feeling. “Yes, Companion,” she agreed finally and he turned to walk back up to Whiterun.

“You alright?” Faendal asked when everybody had gone.

“Do I fucking look alright?” she snapped, but she took a deep breath, gathering all the wayward strands of her emotions and tucking them neatly inside, bottling up all the anger and confusion she was feeling in the wake of such tremendous possibility. “Yes,” she said at length, “I’m fine.”

Faendal didn’t believe her, but he knew her well enough by then to know that he wouldn’t get much more out of her. “Then we’ve a job to finish,” he reminded her.

She nodded as if revived by his words. “Right,” she said, her voice hard and determined, “We shouldn’t keep the Jarl waiting.”


Balgruuf looked anxious to see what kind of news Sonja had to report. “So what happened at the watchtower?” he asked when she and Faendal were near enough, “Was the dragon there?”

“We killed the dragon, but the watchtower was destroyed,” Sonja explained.

“I knew I could count on Irileth,” Balgruuf said fondly, “But there must be more to it than that?”

“There is,” she hesitated, weighing her options in her head; if she didn’t tell the Jarl now, he’d only hear it from one of his guards later. “The men—they called me—Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?” Balgruuf repeated, “What do you know about the Dragonborn?”

“Next to nothing,” Sonja admitted, her response marked again by hesitation, “Just what the men were whispering about.”

“So it’s true, the Greybeards really were summoning you.” The Jarl seemed intrigued and leaned back in his throne pensively.

“Yes—I heard them Shouting from the mountain.”

“We all heard them.”

“But no one’s told me who or what they are,” Sonja stated, some of her frustration working its way into her tone, “I don’t like being left in the dark.”

“They are Masters in the Way of the Voice,” Balgruuf clarified, “They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World. The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice—the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu’um or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift.” He looked too his brother, “You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards…”

“Didn’t you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?” Hrongar asked, “That was the Voice of the Greybeards summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn’t happened in—centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim, himself, was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora.”

“Hrongar,” Proventus interrupted, “Calm yourself. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as she may be, I don’t see any signs of her being this—what—Dragonborn?” Sonja didn’t like how they spoke about her as if she wasn’t even there and shifted her weight from one foot to the other impatiently.

Hrongar’s face flushed with anger and Sonja thought he was going to punch the Imperial advisor. “Nord nonsense? Why you puffed up, ignorant—these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the first Empire.”

Balgruuf held up a hand to draw the argument to a close. “Hrongar, don’t be so hard on Avenicci.”

“I meant no disrespect, of course,” Proventus cooed insincerely. “It’s just that, what do these Greybeards want with her?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Sonja interjected, pointedly.

Proventus and Hrongar exchanged barbed glances, but finally fell silent. Their differing opinions on the matter would only spark another argument between them. So Balgruuf spoke instead. “Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you and the Greybeards heard it,” he answered sternly.

The Jarl was right. She felt it. An awakening. Something that had once lain dormant was now awake, aware, and hungry. It heated her blood in a powerful way and everything felt a little sharper. Not so much that it was immediately noticeable, but she felt the tingle of it across her skin. Whatever change took place inside of her was not yet done. She could sense that there was more to come. Her expression narrowed, closed off and blank, her eyes staring off focus just over Balgruuf’s left shoulder. She didn’t seem particularly intimidating him. A strong warrior build, certainly, but nothing like the presence and bearing of her mother. But her eyes—the eyes were sharp and determined. And cold. They reminded Balgruuf of fire and ice all at once.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If they think you’re Dragonborn, who are we to argue?” he reasoned, “You’d better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There is no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It’s a tremendous honor.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. It didn’t feel like a tremendous honor. It felt like a trap, a sink hole of responsibility she’d never be able to escape, and she still didn’t fully comprehend the gravity of what it meant to be Dragonborn. It was just a word, attached to a strange feeling, attached to stranger magic. “I will consider it,” she replied, darkly, wanting more than ever to disappear into a quiet, dark space so she could think in private, “But for now, I have other responsibilities.”

“This supersedes them all,” Balgruuf insisted, “But—do as you wish. Perhaps it is best for you to go when you are ready so the Greybeards have a willing student.”

He paused, smiled wistfully, and continued in a softer voice, “I envy you, you know? To climb the Seven Thousand Steps again. I made the pilgrimage once. Did you know that?” He chuckled softly. “No, of course you don’t. High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place—very disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what’s going on down here. They haven’t seemed to care before.” He sighed.

“Times are changing,” Sonja replied blankly, “Perhaps they deem the larger world worth a second glance.”

“Perhaps,” then, “No matter,” he said, his tone hardening to official, “I wanted to reward you for the great service you have done for me and my city.” He gestured to one of the nearby guards who came closer, bearing a steel battleaxe. It looked like one of Eorlund’s. Not the same works of art he turned out for the Companions, but a special commission piece he must have done for the Jarl at some point. Still beautiful and well made. “By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun,” Balgruuf continued, “It’s the greatest honor that’s within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office.” He took the battleaxe from the guard and held it out to Sonja.

For a moment, she blinked at it, unsure what to make of any of it: the dragon, the Shout, the Greybeards, being Dragonborn, the Jarl offering her a title in his Hold. It all felt bound together in some way; if she tugged the thread loose of one, it would all unravel and accepting Balgruuf’s battleaxe somehow meant she was accepting being Dragonborn. Don’t be stupid, she chastised herself mentally and hefted the heavy weapon from his hands before enough time had elapsed to make it insulting. “Thank you, my Jarl,” Sonja nodded.

“I’ll also notify my guards of your new title,” he continued, “Wouldn’t want them to think you’re part of the common rabble, now would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn.”

Sonja winced at the use of the title, but Balgruuf either did not notice or did not care. Instead, he turned his attention to Faendal to reward the elf for his services. The bold Bosmer was negotiating the terms of a land grant near Riverwood, but Sonja was hardly listening. Her mind was full of fire and force. Of thu’ums. Her grip on the battleaxe tightened and the leather on the haft groaned beneath her fingers. Faendal had been right about one thing, if nothing else: she wasn’t the type to run from her problems; she tended to chase them. If she was Dragonborn—gods forbid—there was no changing it. It writhed at the very core of her now. She could feel it.

Notes:

So, a few tiny things: I moved the little meeting about the dragon to the Great Porch because it's a more dramatic meeting place and I think the only reason why you don't meet in there in-game is to avoid another loading screen; I've added a couple extra Newbloods to Jorrvaskr otherwise Sonja and Faendal would be the only ones which is weird since the Companions used to number in the hundreds and now only consist of a handful; also, those Newbloods are named after the two guards that were killed at the Western Watchtower in-game before your arrival, Hrothi and Tor; and finally, I always get a frickin' battleaxe from Balgruuf as a reward and I'm like, "WHAT IN OBLIVION AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT? I'M AN EFFING MAGE FOR MAGNUS' SAKE!" I didn't change anything with that last one, I just decided to keep with the tradition of my past games.

Oh, and, in case you couldn't tell, I am a huge fan of weird, messed up dreams. They're the best. And I love using them to reflect character's faults and fears or as a vehicle for foreshadowing. Or, as with the Alduin dream, to temporarily and intimately connect two characters that are otherwise at odds.

Since I made the events of Bleak Falls Barrow more dramatic, I had to make absorbing the first dragon soul more dramatic, but the weakness and floating nonsense will not happen every time she learns a new word or absorbs another dragon soul. It's a first time, only time sort of thing.

Also, I updated the end notes of the previous chapter with some stuff I forgot to comment on or provide links for if anyone is interested in checking them out.

Chapter 12: A Bad Con

Summary:

Sonja wasn't the only one affected by the absorption of the dragon's soul...

Notes:

Sonja does not physically appear in this chapter.

To view English translations of words and phrases written in Ta'agra (language of the Khajiit), mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Ta'agra translations are taken from The Ta'agra Project.

Trigger Warning: Assault and battery.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“This one is sad to see you go,” the Khajiit admitted as he watched the little blonde Imperial woman pack her small bag.

She glanced up at him, smiling brightly, her blue eyes twinkling in the light from the fire outside their tent. “Aw, come now, Kharjo, none of that,” she teased in a simpering, mocking tone, “I didn’t peg you for a soft-touch.”

He wasn’t. Not usually. But the little Imperial had brought it out of him with her easy smiles, silver tongue, and knowledge of Khajiit ways. She had first gained the trust of Ri’saad in Whiterun, sharing the sweet tobacco cut with the vara of their homeland. They had sipped zrajit and shared stories, and the Imperial had always demonstrated proper etiquette: refraining from drinking or smoking too much and allowing the elder to speak first. She had even taken the Skooma with grace. Slowly and very little, enough to enjoy its effects without degrading into a stumbling idiot. And the next day, she had brought gifts of food from the market they were not allowed to enter. So, later, when she wanted to leave Whiterun and travel with them, Ri’saad accepted.

She had gone with him clear to Solitude, searching. Looking for something, though what, Kharjo didn’t know. When she was ready to move on, Ri’saad gave his blessing to Ma’dran and the Imperial traveled with them until Windhelm. That was where Kharjo had met her, when Ma’dran was vouching for her trustworthiness, calling her a friend to the Khajiit. Ahkari, his caravan master, had been reluctant to allow a human to travel with them, especially since theirs was one of the most dangerous routes. From where it started in Dawnstar, passing through Windhelm, and finally ending in Riften, there were not many friendly to the Khajiit. But her companion, Zaynabi, had convinced her otherwise and the Imperial joined their caravan.

She had earned his trust in retrieving his Moon Amulet for him after the caravan had been attacked by bandits. She’d risked life and limb to track those thieving marauders down, slipping into their camp at night while they slept and taking the amulet off the bandit chief, himself. When she returned victorious, Kharjo was shocked anyone, let alone a human, would risk so much for him. He’d asked her why she had done it and her simple reply had been, “Because I know what it’s like to be homesick.”

Her name was Kit, or so she had said, but she had admitted to Kharjo once, when she was wrapped warmly in his arms beneath the cover of his bedroll, that her real name was Anja. He wasn’t angry with her for lying and did not reveal her secret to the others. Instead, he called her vari because she was sweet to his senses. Their relationship wasn’t sexual, but it was sensual. The difference in their anatomy and mating rituals made such things—difficult. Mostly, Kharjo was afraid he’d hurt her delicate skin with his teeth or claws. She didn’t have fur to guard against the pain of a love bite or the rake of his hands across her back. The anatomy of his mouth made it hard to kiss her, particularly with his fangs. And the act of sex, itself—well, he wasn’t certain it would be as pleasurable for her. So they nuzzled and petted and rubbed, sharing a bedroll, and she dropped little kisses along his muzzle to make him purr deep in his chest.

Though not typically attracted to others outside his own race, he found himself drawn to her and had grown more than a little fond of her throughout the course of their travel. And now she was leaving. Perhaps she would rejoin them someday in the future if she ever tired of Riften, but he doubted she’d ever leave. Not with the opportunity of joining the Guild. Her race didn’t remand her to stay outside the city gates. She was free to walk where he wasn’t, and that made him both a little sad and happy for her. “Will this one see you again?” he asked softly as she hefted her bag onto her shoulder and prepared to leave.

She smiled at him, wide, but her eyes had lost a little of their brightness. “No, kitten, I don’t think so,” she said almost apologetically and she touched his face, tenderly stroking him from chin to pointed ear where she scratched him lightly. His eyes lulled a little, enjoying the sensation. “It’s been good, though,” she promised, winking and tweaking one of his whiskers before she turned to leave.

“Wait,” he insisted, catching her arm, “For you.” He held out a little bundle of goods: a packet of the koomurrka tobacco, two vials of Skooma, a bowl of moonsugar, and a little purse filled with lesser gems and one flawless sapphire that reminded him of her eyes.

She jiggled the bag of jewels and looked up at him, confused. “You need these to pay your debt to Ahkari,” she objected, “I can’t accept this.”

“Skyrim is not kind to Khajiit, but it is also unkind to those without coin,” he pointed out, “It will help you with the Guild.”

Anja hesitated, wanting to refuse his offer, but knowing he was right. “I will repay you, trevan. I promise.”

Kharjo smiled. “Then this one will see you again, someday,” he replied, resting his head against hers.

She smiled wryly and hummed her agreement. “I suppose so,” she allowed.

Sala kha’jay, ishana,” the Khajiit purred when they parted.

Ja’fith khaja,” came the final reply and then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness as she hiked up the hill to the city gates.


“Hold there. Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor’s tax,” one of the guards at the gate demanded. The other guard made an audible sound of disgust, but otherwise said nothing.

“Visitor’s tax?” Anja repeated, looking between the two guards, “For what?”

“For the privilege of entering the city,” the guard chuckled and held out his hand, “What does it matter?”

Anja laughed and said in a bright, loud voice, “Look, this is obviously a shakedown…”

“Shh!” the guard pleaded, looking around anxiously, “Alright, keep your voice down! You want everyone to hear you? I’ll let you in. Just let me unlock the gate.” He turned promptly and unlocked the gate, propping it open for Anja to pass through.

“Thank you,” she said, smirking and winking to the guard when he stepped aside to let her pass; he grunted and Anja had the sneaking suspicion that his treatment of her was the harbinger of similar situations yet to come. My kind of city…

When she entered the city, she hadn’t walked ten paces when she overheard a conversation between an Imperial man and a Nord woman. The woman—Mjoll—had a run-in with the Thieves Guild that day, only one of many from the sound of it. The man she was speaking to—his name was Aerin—was concerned, but not about the Guild; he seemed to fear someone named Maven Black-Briar far more than the Guild itself. Worst kept secrets of the Thieves Guild. But she passed by them, headed for the inn.

On her left there was a large, imposing Nord man with dark hair and beard standing in the shadows of one of the houses. He was sizing her up with narrowed eyes. She had noticed him when she first walked in and assumed that he might be a thief searching for the right hustle, but she didn’t expect him to speak to her. “I don’t know you,” he growled, “You in Riften lookin’ for trouble?” Oh no, he’s the welcome wagon, she realized.

Anja eyed him suspiciously. “Just passing through,” she replied at last.

“Yeah?” he scoffed, “Well, I got news for you: there’s nothing to see here. Last thing the Black-Briars need is some stranger stickin’ their nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I see.” Anja crossed her arms over her chest. “And who might the Black-Briars be?”

“They have Riften in their pocket,” the man explained, “And the Thieves Guild watchin’ their back, so keep your nose out of their business. Me? I’m Maul. I watch the streets for ‘em. If you need dirt on anything’, I’m your guy…but it’ll cost you.”

“How about giving me a free sample?” Anja asked softly, “I can be sporting. Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. If you got dirt, I’m not necessarily clean, myself.”

Maul’s eyes trailed down the curves of her body and halted at the mace on her hip. He debated whether or not he should take her at her word on that account. She definitely looked the part of a thief, at least, and there was something smooth in her manner of speaking and body language that suggested she could sweet talk a prison guard into a cell, lock it, and throw away the key without once rousing his suspicion. “Then we’re speaking the same language,” he replied at length, “Good. So what do you want to know?”

“I’ve heard rumor of a Facesculptor here in town,” she said in an undertone, “Is there any truth to that?”

“There might be,” Maul nodded, “If someone were lookin’ for her, she could be found in the Ragged Flagon—Guild territory.”

“Splendid,” Anja purred, “And where could I find the Ragged Flagon?”

“In the Ratway. There’s an entrance on the lower level by the orphanage.”

“The Guild looking for recruits?”

Maul nodded. “Always,” he said, “My brother, Dirge, works in their hideout. I used to run with them, myself, but took a job with Maven after they started hitting a rough patch. If you want to get in on that action, find Brynjolf in the market place. I’m sure he could use someone like you.”

“Say you sent me?”

“If it helps.”

“Thanks for the help, big guy,” she replied, smiling sweetly, “A girl sure does appreciate it.”

“Any time,” Maul replied, his voice husky, “I hope you come lookin’ for me again soon.”

I wouldn’t bet on it, Anja thought wickedly, but she winked and said, “I might again, real soon,” before continuing on her way across the wooden bridge to the inn, the Bee & Barb.

There was a woman and a man arguing on the bridge as she crossed. Something about a shipment being robbed and a debt to be paid. Anja’s pace slowed a bit so she could catch the conversation in its entirety. “I’m really getting tired of your excuses,” the woman, a pretty Nord with a very angry expression on her face, said, “When you borrowed the money, you said you’d pay it back on time and for double the usual fee.” Poor sod, never make promises too good to be true.

“I know I did,” the Redgaurd replied desperately, “But how was I to know the shipment would get robbed?”

The woman shrugged. “Next time, keep your plans quieter and nothing would have happened to it.” Anja audibly inhaled and shook her head. Classic move.

“What?” he exclaimed, horrified, “Are you telling me you robbed it? Why? Why are you doing this to me?” Anja actually felt bad for the poor kid. He was too young to know when he was cutting deals with the scheming.

The woman smiled wickedly, arms crossed firmly over her chest, wordlessly declaring her indifference to his plight. “Look, Shadr,” she said, “Last warning. Pay up or else. All I care about is the gold. Everything else is your problem.” Then she sauntered off into the inn, leaving poor Shadr to his thoughts.

Anja knew better than to get involved. She really did. Not only was it poor manners to disrupt another thief’s con, it was downright dangerous, but even she could tell just from looking at the guy that there was no way he had the money to pay off his loan. It was a bad job. Can’t squeeze blood from a stone…she thought darkly before she strutted over to Shadr and plopped down onto the bench beside him.

He cast a sideways glance at her and saw that she was staring intently at him, her arms splayed across the railing of the bridge and her legs crossed and stretched out in front of her, lounging. “Hello Shadr,” she greeted brightly.

His eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “What do you want?” he asked, defensively.

Anja wasn’t offended by his tone. After the conversation she had just overheard, the poor kid was entitled to a little snark. “I’m about to make all your troubles go away,” she replied. Again, she watched another man’s eyes rake over her body, but this time, he was obviously confused. He had misconstrued her reply. She rolled her eyes and sighed, “With your debt, sweetie. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Oh,” he said, sheepishly avoiding her eyes, “How you gonna do that?”

“Well, first, why don’t you tell me what happened?” Anja rolled her hip, angling her body toward him and resting her chin on the heel of her palm, the other arm now gracefully draped along her leg, resting on her knee, “And I’ll see what I can do.”

“I was able to work out a deal with the stables in Whiterun to sell me some of their tack and harnesses,” he explained, “I borrowed some gold from Sapphire to pay for the shipment, but it got robbed before it even arrived. Now Sapphire wants her money back and if I don’t pay her, I think she’s going to kill me.”

“Who were you going to sell them to?” she asked.

“What?”

“Who were you going to sell the tack and harnesses to?” she repeated somewhat irritably, “If you borrow money to buy something, you gotta sell something to make the money back to pay the loan off. And from the sound of it, you were intending to make quite a bit if you were promising Sapphire double her investment.”

“Uh, well—the Stormcloaks don’t have the same resources the Empire does…”

“And they won’t buy from shady or disreputable sources?”

“Their honor forbids it.”

Anja hummed her interest. That’s an angle I can work. “Work at the stables, do you?” she asked, checking her nails for dirt as if she was unconcerned with Shadr’s fear for his life.

“Y-yes,” he answered, unsure why she was changing the subject, “Horses are all I know. I’ve been riding since I could walk. Back in Hammerfell, I helped my family raise horses at our farm. I hope to open my own stables one day, but with Sapphire baying for my blood…”

“Right, right, I get the picture,” she waved him off and looked him over carefully. She’d already made up her mind to help when she took a seat beside him. Everything else was theatrics. Damn her heart if she didn’t have a soft spot for people like Shadr: those barely scraping by. They hardly had enough to feed themselves more often than not, there wasn’t much left over to steal. And Sapphire was asking for more than she could reasonably expect. It was a bad con, if nothing else. Poorly planned and executed. From a professional standpoint, something had to be done. Anja clicked her tongue. “Alright,” she said, “I’ll help you.”

Shadr instantly brightened. “You will?” he said in disbelief, “Oh, thank you!” He made to throw his arms around Anja in gratitude, but she was already on her feet and safely out of his reach.

“No touching,” she warned.

“Right. Sorry.” Shadr turned sheepish again. “I’ll be at the stables if you need to find me,” he informed her, “And be careful with Sapphire. She mixes with all sorts of nasty people.”

She watched him make his way back to the city gate before disappearing inside the Bee & Barb, herself. Upon entering, she was greeted by the rantings of an impassioned Priest of Mara in the middle of the dining area entreating all citizens of Riften to give up their sinful lives and embrace the charity that Mara teaches. Anja blinked, not expecting such an ironic welcome and somewhat charmed by the futility of it all. She scanned the room, hazy from the smoke of tobacco and noisy from the priest and the patrons speaking amongst themselves, ignoring him. Sapphire was at the bar, ordering a drink and speaking to a Nord man dressed in noble finery. Anja made her way toward her.

Just before she reached them, the man stood from his seat, tipped the barkeep, and laughed at Sapphire. “Be it on your head to sell those harnesses, lass,” he warned, “Tonilia wants none of it. No takers.”

Sapphire growled and waved him off. “I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.”

“I never do,” he assured, chuckling and striding off for the exit into the market square.

Anja watched him go, noting the quick, fluid movements that marked him as a thief, before taking his vacated seat. “What can I get for you?” the Argonian woman asked from behind the counter.

“A drink for me,” she answered, throwing her arm around Sapphire, “And for my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” the other woman growled, shrugging Anja’s arm away and pushing away the ale when it was served.

“You will be,” Anja promised as she took a deep drink from her own bottle.

Sapphire glared at her. “And why’s that?” she asked.

“I’m going to give you a little business advice that will solve your equine woes.”

“My what?”

Anja rolled her eyes. “The little snag you’re running into with the stable boy,” she clarified.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” she coaxed, “You paid out a pittance with the promise of fortune, only you got too greedy and ended up with nothing.”

“I got the shipment,” Sapphire snapped, “That’s hardly nothing.”

“Right. Congratulations on stealing a shipment of specialized equipment only a select few can use or otherwise afford,” Anja scoffed, “It’s too bad you’re not an honest, if naive, little stable boy with the right contacts to generate some coin off them.”

Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she asked.

“Well, first, to tell you how spectacularly bad your scheme was,” Anja teased delightedly, “I mean, you need to know your mark. There’s no way Shadr’s going to be able to lose the shipment and pay you back. You’re just wasting his time and yours making demands he can never meet. Might as well have killed him when you asked for the money, but I’m guessing the price for murder is greater than what you can get trying to push those harnesses. With sloppy work like that, it’s no wonder the Guild’s hit a rough patch.”

Sapphire’s mouth thinned into a straight line. “Who said I’m with the Guild?” she asked.

“Every lovely inch of you, darling,” Anja answered, batting her eyelashes at Sapphire and blowing a kiss, “Might as well wear a sign.”

“Was there anything else? Or were you just going to sit there and insult me?” She was beginning to look murderous.

“It seems to me, the best thing you can do and still come out ahead is give Shadr the shipment you stole, let him make his sales and pay you back,” she reasoned.

“I could just beat the information on his contacts out of him,” Sapphire returned, “Keep everything for myself.”

“You could,” Anja agreed, “In fact, why don’t you do that instead?” She downed the rest of her mead, dropped a couple of coins down on the bar and prepared to leave a very confused and angry Sapphire to sit alone and surly. “Oh, wait, that’s right,” she said, slapping her hand to her forehead, “I forgot. The Stormcloaks will never buy your ill-gotten goods, will they? Damned Nord honor and all that. In fact, they might even be honor-bound to kill you for even trying to sell them stolen merchandise.”

Defeat began to creep over Sapphire’s features. “He was going to sell to the Stormcloaks?”

Anja hummed her confirmation. “Who’d you think he was going to sell to?” she asked, “Not a lot of folk buying horses these days, are there?”

“Nocturnal’s tits,” Sapphire swore, “Fine. Tell Shadr to expect his shipment tomorrow, but I want my gold at the beginning of next week.”

Anja smiled and held out her hand to shake on it. “You’ll get paid as soon as he does, sugar, no need to fret,” she promised and Sapphire reluctantly took her hand, “Pleasure doing business with you.” She turned to leave, but Sapphire yanked her back.

“The only reason I didn’t carve that smart mouth of yours from your face is because you’re getting me paid,” she snarled menacingly, “Next time you go meddling in my business, I’ll gut you. I swear.”

Anja laughed out loud which only enraged Sapphire more. “Oh honey,” she sighed, “I’ve faced down bigger and badder bitches than you before.”

“Why you!” Sapphire’s hand reached for the dagger on her belt, but Anja kicked the barstool out from under her while slamming her head against the edge of the bar.

“Oops!” Anja exclaimed, looking down on a disoriented Sapphire, “You really should be more careful, love! I’ll see you around!” And she calmly sauntered out of the Bee & Barb to tell Shadr the good news.


Later that night, Anja was sleeping peacefully in a room she purchased for the night at the Bee & Barb—or as peacefully as she was able after bashing the head of a Thieves Guild member into a bar. The innkeep had slid her a bit of a discount for knocking Sapphire silly, apparently having no love for the Guild. Anja took advantage of the Argonian’s generosity while secretly relishing the fact that she had every intention of seeking out and joining the infamous group of thieves in the morning. Her dreams were uninteresting and mundane at first, but at some point during the night, she began to dream of her twin brother, Thornir.

He is alive and whole and happy again, and it fills her with joy to see his smile. But then the sky darkens and fire begins to rain from the heavens. She is scared and calls out for her twin, but he is nowhere in sight. She wonders through the debris, looking for him, until she stumbles upon the remnants of a city marketplace. Sonja stands at the center, blue eyes glowing brilliant gold, and bellowing into the sky, desperately trying to stop the storm. But she can’t and the hailing fire intensifies, filling the air with smoke until Anja is choking on it. She tries to call out to Sonja for help, but she can’t speak. And then Thornir’s voice fills her head, “It’s only just beginning.”

Anja stirred so violently in her sleep, she fell of the bed, landing on her side with a dull thud. Rubbing the sore spot, she stood from the floor and looked around the darkened room. Just another stupid nightmare, she reminded herself and instantly she missed Kharjo’s company. The large Khajiit had made her feel safe at night, even through the dreams. Briefly, she entertained the idea of sneaking back out to the caravan camp for the night, but dismissed it. She’d only go back to repay him and nothing more. No point stringing him along with false hope. So she sighed and rubbed the tense muscles of her neck, preparing to go back to sleep when her world spun.

It was as if the room had shifted. Suddenly, she was staring up at the ceiling, unsure of how she’d lost her balance. And then her body was on fire. Every inch of her skin ablaze with heat with no apparent source. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she heard the faint sound of drums in the distance, echoing up through the floor boards. Then it was over. Just as abruptly as it had begun. Weakly, she staggered to her feet and dropped down onto her bed, too exhausted to figure out what had just happened to her. A few moments later, she was asleep again.

She didn’t slumber long. Sometime after she had shut her eyes, the entire inn was shaken with the rumble of thunder and unified voices crying out together, “DOVAHKIIN!” Anja jolted awake, still hazy, and didn’t immediately register the sound of her room door crashing open, covered by the sound of the call.

Sapphire, the man dressed in finery at the bar earlier—though now dressed in dark leather armor—and two other unknown Nord men barged inside uninvited. Anja was slow to react and jumped out of her bed sluggishly, tangled in the linens. Her unwelcomed visitors were momentarily distracted by the rumbling walls, but Sapphire only had eyes for Anja. She stormed across the room and punched her square in the jaw. Anja stumbled back, but the strange men grabbed her arms and held her upright. The angry thief struck her again, this time in the stomach, and she doubled over in pain. “That’s enough, Sapphire,” the man by the door said, refocusing his attention on the task at hand, “We didn’t come here to kill her.”

“Why not?” Sapphire snarled and she drew back to hit Anja once more, but the man caught her arm.

“I said enough, Sapphire,” he repeated.

“Fine.” She yanked her arm free of his grasp and stormed off to pout by the doorway.

Satisfied Sapphire was done throwing a fit, the man turned his attention to Anja. He was handsome. Tall with laughing green eyes and hair such a warm brown, it looked a little red. That quick, intelligent, and dangerous look about him. Anja might have instantly liked him if he hadn’t ambushed her in the middle of the night. “Sapphire says you meddled in a con she was working,” he said, his accent thick and foreign—maybe a little Breton.

“Aye. So?”

The man smirked. “Didn’t your ma ever teach you it was bad manners to stick your nose in other people’s business?” he asked mockingly waving a disapproving finger at her.

“What I lack in manners, I make up for in good business sense,” Anja replied sharply, “More than you can say for your woman over there. Running a shite hustle like that? All your people that incompetent?”

“Watch your tongue,” snarled one of the men restraining her, but the man she had been talking to seemed amused.

“Aye, Sapphire said she was finally going to get paid,” he replied, “I can’t complain about that. Coin in her pocket is coin in mine.”

“Brynjolf, I presume,” Anja smirked, “What a pleasure.”

The use of his name tugged an open grin from his face. “Asking around about me were you, lass?” he asked, “Looking to make a bit of coin?”

“Always.”

“Funny way of getting my attention, don’t you think?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Aye and you got a few new bruises in the process.”

“Finder’s fee.”

Brynjolf chuckled and eyed her thoughtfully. “Never done an honest day’s work in your life have you, lass?” he observed.

“That obvious?”

“I can tell,” he replied coolly, “It’s all about sizing up your mark, lass. The way they walk. What they’re wearing…” His eyes drifted down Anja’s body; she was hardly dressed, sporting only her smalls and an old, torn tunic. “Not much, in your case. But it’s a dead giveaway.”

“Sounds like Sapphire could learn a thing or two from you.” She blew Sapphire a kiss and the woman tried to charge her until Brynjolf cut her off.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he asked, amused.

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Quite charming, indeed.”

Anja smirked and did her best to look cute through the growing bruise she felt blooming on her jaw. “Alright, I admit, I may have overstepped my bounds a little,” she allowed, “But it gets you paid, by my thinking, that makes us even.”

“It does, does it?” Brynjolf laughed, “But you interfered with a Guild job. Intruded on our territory. Right in our very backyards, in fact. We don’t take kindly to freelancers. Now lass, by my thinking, you still owe us.”

“Can’t you slide a girl a break?” she pouted.

“Not even for one as pretty as you.” At his comment, Sapphire made a sound of disgust.

“Flatterer.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“An audition,” he offered, “Wealth is my business. Maybe you’d like a taste?”

Sapphire’s eyes flashed with anger. “You can’t be serious, Bryn!” she nearly shouted, “You said you were going to make her pay!”

“All in good time, lass,” he replied impatiently, “All in good time.”

Anja quirked an eyebrow at him. “Sounds to be more in my favor than yours,” she agreed.

Brynjolf shrugged. “If you’re half as good as you make yourself out to be, then we both benefit,” he reasoned.

“Gold in my pocket, puts gold in yours?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s the job?”

“I’ve got a bit of an errand to perform and I need an extra pair of hands.” Over Brynjolf’s shoulder, Sapphire seethed.

“Details?”

“Meet me at my stall tomorrow morning in the market and I’ll fill you in.”

Anja narrowed her eyes playfully at Brynjolf. “Tease,” she simpered.

The thief grinned at her and winked. “Vipir, Thrynn, let’s go,” he nodded to each man holding her arms and they released her, casting menacing glances her way before heading out the door.

Sapphire glared daggers at Anja. “Watch your back,” she warned and then stormed out of the room.

Brynjolf lingered and nodded, still smiling, “It’s been a pleasure,” he said and then he, too, was gone. Anja staggered, sore and exhausted, back to her bed and laid down. Her mind so full of the conversation she had just had that she had almost entirely forgotten about the strange event that preceded it. Soon she was asleep again, this time the whole night through.

Notes:

So, Anja is basically my secondary Dragonborn character because I had a hard time reconciling a person who would become the Harbinger of the Companions with someone who would become the Master of the Thieves Guild. They just seem very different to me. Nearly opposites in fact. Some people swing it, and that's fine, I've enjoyed reading those fics, but for me, I just can't see Sonja doing it, so Anja does it instead. It is important to note that Anja is not Dragonborn--at least not in the sense that Sonja is. More on that later in the story; it's a plot point.

Also, there will be plenty of chapters about Anja throughout the course of the story that have absolutely nothing to do with Sonja, much like this one. I was considering containing Anja's story in a separate post in an attempt to mitigate confusion, but it might end up making things more confusing in the end, so...we'll see.

And last, but not least, as mentioned in the beginning notes, I got all of my Ta'agra (Khajiit language) translations from The Ta'agra Project. Since Ta'agra is not a complete language on the wiki, I had to find a fan-based one, but I like them and think their work is pretty legit. Please, check out their site for your own pleasure and fanfic needs.

Chapter 13: Echoes in the Night

Summary:

Hearing Sonja's thu'um for the first time and the Greybeard's call from other perspectives.

Notes:

A shorty. :)

Sonja does not appear in this chapter.

To view English translations of words and phrases written in the Dovahzul, mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Dovahzul translations are taken from Thuum.org.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Arngeir woke suddenly, the darkness of High Hrothgar pressing in against his eyes as he blinked away his sleep. He heard his brothers stir around him. They, too, awakened by the disturbance, the shuddering in the stone, the vibration in the air. It could only mean one thing. Wordlessly, they left the warmth of their beds, dressed in their thick woolen robes, and gathered in the center chamber before the altar of Kyne. They stood on the corners of the stone compass in the floor marking the cardinal directions and raised their hands and faces in worship. They listened. Opening their minds to the whisperings of Skyrim; the Voices of all living and undead beings called out to them, but there was only one that sang, bright and clear and powerful. Effortless. It hummed like a heartbeat in the chest of a great winged beast. So, it is time…and they began to pray.


Ulfric Stormcloak was not asleep. He was in his war room, pouring over a map of Skyrim flagged with red and blue markers, trying to decide on his next move. “I think we both agree that taking Falkreath is the next step,” Galmar sighed, running his big hands over his face in exhaustion. They had been debating for the better part of the night.

“It would seem so,” Ulfric agreed, “Turning Falkreath would increase our territory and place us within striking distance of Whiterun.”

“So what’s stopping us?” the Housecarl demanded, “If we act now, we might be able to take the Hold before Tullius even knows what happened.”

“Are you sure he even made it out alive?” the Jarl asked.

“Reports confirm he yet lives.”

“That man is hard to kill; I’ll give him that.”

“Falkreath is still reeling from the attack on Helgen, if we move in through the pass…” Galmar continued.

“We don’t have enough men in the area to make that push,” Ulfric objected, “Not after your little rescue party.” Upon hearing of Ulfric’s capture, Galmar had launched a large scale rescue attempt to intercept the Imperials before they even made it to the pass into Cyrodiil, but Tullius and his men had had a head start. If they hadn’t doubled back to Helgen, Galmar’s men would have never been able to catch up with them. They had been in the midst of infiltrating the fort to surprise the Imperials and save Ulfric when the dragon attacked.

“Would you rather I had left you to die?” Galmar asked incredulously.

Ulfric smirked. “Of course not, old friend,” he assured, “But that dragon did as much damage to our men as it did to Tullius’.”

“Aye,” the Housecarl agreed, “That it did.” Between the Imperials and the dragon, itself, they had suffered greater casualties than they had anticipated, hobbling their efforts along the Rift-Falkreathian border—at least, for now.

Ulfric scratched his dark beard thoughtfully. “Have you heard back from Ralof, yet?”

“He made it out alive,” Galmar replied, “Him and Draconis. I received word this morning. His on his way back now.”

“Good.”

Galmar nodded. “He’s a good man. A good soldier,” he said, “It’d be a waste if he died at Helgen on a fool’s errand.”

Ulfric glared at his Housecarl. “Have you something to say, Galmar?”

“I don’t understand why you sent him back to protect the woman,” the general stated, “We were all but home-free and you sent him back into that hell. Did you know her?”

“I knew her mother.”

“We all did, but that doesn’t explain why you wanted her safe.”

Ulfric hesitated. “Do you know why we returned to Helgen instead of pushing through to Cyrodiil as Tullius had originally planned?” he asked.

“Ran into trouble on the border. That horse thief and Draconis, right?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, “Tullius’ men were wound so tight, waiting for an ambush on the pass that they mistook that milk-drinking snow-back for a threat.” It had been chaotic. Imperial soldiers leaping off their carts to search the area for attackers. Ulfric and a few others had taken advantage of the situation and tried to escape, cutting into the forest in the hopes of losing the Imperials. It wasn’t a particularly well-conceived plan. There was only two ways to go: up the pass or back down it. And Ulfric had pushed through the tree line, running smack into a very confused young woman.

She had conjured a weapon to defend herself and gathered flames in her offhand, but hesitated when she realized he was bound and gagged. Her deep blue eyes looked him over and apparently decided he was worth trusting. Whatever stayed her hand, he wasn’t certain, because in the next moment, an Imperial soldier flew through the trees at him. She pushed him out of the way and was tackled by the soldier instead. They wrestled while Ulfric struggled to regain his footing, bound as he was. When he finally righted himself, he was too late. The soldier had knocked the woman’s head open and was about to cut her throat. So Ulfric had done the only thing he could and flung his body into the soldier, knocking him sideways and saving her life. More soldiers arrived, he was recaptured, and Sonja was taken into custody.

“She saved my life,” he concluded, “I felt honor-bound to return the favor and she trusted Ralof.” He had heard her plead with him to go with her before she leapt from the tower. There had been no glimmer of recognition when she looked at Ulfric; she didn’t remember what had happened before the soldier had bashed her head in.

“So you sent him back in.”

“And they got out together.”

Galmar scoffed. “Luck.”

“Talos smiled on us all that day,” Ulfric replied, “But yes—they were lucky.”

The Housecarl growled like the old bear he was and rubbed his face. “It’s late and there is much to do tomorrow,” he said, pointedly.

Ulfric clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, old friend,” he urged, “I will be a while longer yet.”

Galmar opened his mouth to make argument, but quickly shut it. He was tired. So he nodded and left Ulfric to stew over the map alone. As soon as his old friend was gone from the room, Ulfric took the opportunity to rub his own exhaustion from his face. He was feeling a little humbled after his capture at Imperial hands even though everything had turned out almost entirely in his favor. He had his life, the Imperials lost an important foothold in Falkreath Hold, and his men were emboldened by the rumor that he had summoned a dragon to free him from imprisonment. Even when he refused responsibility for the dragon, his men happily amended their rumor to say the beast was sent by Talos, himself, to free a True Son of Skyrim. That was harder to refute since he didn’t know the minds of the gods. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps it was not. It was not his place to decide.

What he really needed at that moment was inspiration. Something to leap out at him from the map so he could get back to fighting a war. So he stayed awake, staring at the red and blue flags, silently willing them to show him his next move. Absently, he began to pray. To Talos. Silent thoughts, repeating in his mind, Talos guide me with your might. Show me the way. And there was an answer in the tremor of the air, disturbing the stillness of the night.

A thu’um.

Wide and powerful, as deep and ancient as any from a dovah—but it wasn’t. The soft, almost fatalistic note of mortality hummed beneath it, declaring the shouter to be earthly, to be finite. And feminine. But it was so loud. Even he, after years of neglecting his Greybeard training, could still hear it, still feel it and know what it was. There were few beings in all of Tamriel that could call across the country and be heard like that. If it wasn’t a dragon and it wasn’t a Greybeard, then it could only be one thing, but he was almost fearful to admit his suspicions even to himself. He felt it, though, in the pit of his soul, where he conjured up the strength of his thu’um, that it was the very sign for which he had been praying.

Wordlessly, he left the war room and entered the main hall. His guards greeted him with respectful nods or bowed heads, but they did not otherwise speak to him unless spoken to. It wasn’t until Ulfric neared the doors leading out into the courtyard that a guard asked if she should fetch his Housecarl for him, but Ulfric refused her, assuring her that he was only looking for a moment of fresh air, and stepped out into the night.

It was snowing. Typical Windhelm weather. Fat snowflakes falling lightly through a windless sky, coating the ancient, stone city in a fresh, soft blanket of white. The heat of his breath hanging heavy in the air in front of him as he walked just outside the radius of the light from the braziers. Just far enough to be out of the reach of their warmth and the glare of their fires. He looked up, in the general direction of High Hrothgar, though he couldn’t rightly see it through the darkness and the gathered clouds, and waited. If he had heard the strange thu’um, then surely they had heard it too, and if it was what he thought it was—if she was what he thought she was, then he needed to know. He needed to hear it declared from the Throat of the World.


Their praying concluded, the Greybeards dropped their hands to their sides and filed one by one out the front of the ancient temple. The wind was always cold at the top of the mountain and the thin, brusque air nipped at their faces, but they did not care. They moved with purpose down the steps and to the edge of the path where it dropped down into sheer cliffs. They looked west, in the direction of Whiterun where they had heard the thu’ums of the Dovahkiin. Without any outward indication of when to begin, all four men breathed as one, pulling the chilled, eddying air deep into their cores where it was warmed by the heat of their bodies, and thu’umed across the country in a single voice, “DOVAHKIIN!” The call was made. Now all there was to do was wait for an answer.


Ulfric felt the power of the Greybeards’ combined thu’um rattle against his chest. It almost made him want to join in, but he didn’t. Instead he laughed out loud and happily informed his guards and anyone in the immediate area who trembled with fear at the sound of the call that the Dragonborn had returned to Skyrim at last. It was exactly what his cause needed: divine vindication. He was supremely confident that the Dovahkiin, a True Nord, would never join the Imperials. That she would join his cause and the Stormcloaks would be able to take Skyrim back from the Empire once and for all.

But first she had to learn from the Greybeards. Her power needed to grow and when she was ready, she needed to find her way to Windhelm and join him. So, he went back inside the Palace of Kings and headed straight for his bedroom. Galmar caught him in the main hall, asking what had happened. “The Greybeards have called for the Dragonborn,” he answered as he mounted the steps to the next level, “Talos-kin walks amongst us once again.”

“Are you sure?” the Housecarl asked, flustered.

“I feel it in my bones.” And he disappeared into his room.

Galmar followed and watched, curious, as his Jarl inked his quill and selected a blank sheet of paper. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Writing a letter to a friend,” was the only reply.


 

Dovahkiin,

You caused a bit of a stir in Whiterun when you demonstrated the power of your Thu’um. Not everyone is anxious for the return of the Dragonborn.

I, for one, desire to see you grow and develop your talents. Skyrim needs a true hero these days.

You should turn your attention to Shalidor’s Maze. I understand it holds a mysterious source of power that can only be unlocked by the Dovahkiin.

Sincerely,

Aan Fahdon

Notes:

So, I've always wondered who could be my friend who's constantly sending me letters about thu'ums. Since the dude seems personally invested in my success as Dragonbron, appears to be eerily all-seeing, and understands what the hell a word wall is and how to use one, I arrived at the conclusion that my mystery pen pal is either Ulfric Stormcloak or an avatar of Talos.

The avatar of Talos is easy enough to explain. It isn't unheard of for Divines to get a little more directly involved than usual when it's important enough. And being a god and everything, of course Talos knows when and where Sonja uses her Shout and can easily point her in the direction of another word wall. But that's too easy so I went with Ulfric instead.

Now, in my imagining of Ulfric, he retains his Greybeard training and, incomplete as it is, this enables him to sense when the Dragonborn has thu'umed even if he--and indeed no one else--is around to hear her. I extrapolated this ability from something Arngeir says when you ask him to teach you more words: "We've sensed the whisper of a word..." (or some such) So, not only can they hear you, but they hear everyone and everything else. No wonder they live on a mountain, shit gets noisy. But this is also how Ulfric could possibly know the location of other word walls...at least, in my head. *shrugs* Make of that what you will.

Chapter 14: The Book of the Dragonborn

Summary:

Sonja struggles to adjust to the idea of being Dragonborn and Vilkas makes an offer to help her.

Notes:

Sonja PoV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja returned to Jorrvaskr to speak with Vilkas as he had asked of her, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. Not yet. It was all a bit more than she was prepared to handle at the moment. But she had few places to go instead. Almost unbidden, her feet carried her to the last place she had felt safe before she had left town for Bleak Falls Barrow and started this whole mess: the Skyforge.

The perpetually smoldering embers glowed warmly against the underbelly of the great stone hawk. Though Eorlund wasn’t there at that early hour to stoke the hearth with the bellows, she was vaguely aware it must have been just as hot as it had been before because Faendal skirted the edge of the outcropping in an effort to put a little cool air between him and the forge. But Sonja didn’t feel it. Not anymore. The heat was pleasant now and did not cause her to so much as sweat. She ran her gloved fingers over the corner of the workbench where she had worked on Faendal’s gear only days before, oblivious to the change headed her way. It was a surreal feeling to stand there and look back: how the days stretched out like decades forever separating her from the person she had been then.

Her fingers slipped from the workbench. The faint whisper of her leather glove gliding across the hard surface murmured like a secret of a moment when she touched a point in time that had seemed so insignificant before, but was now startlingly important. She turned away and moved to the edge of the platform where she had stood on the outcropping and watched Vilkas fight. But she didn’t go there to think of him or how his body moved. From that jutting of rock, she could better see over the city walls, down into the valley below where everything was soft and quiet in the predawn light. The world still slept. Oblivious and unchanged.

Sonja’s eyes followed the waters of the White River as they snaked calm and silver around the curve of the mountains, disappearing into another corner of Skyrim she had yet to explore. Her gaze followed the valley floor, carved and rocky, as it vaulted upwards, leaping into mountain peaks where the soft wisps of low hanging clouds and morning mist caught on the jagged edges of stone faces. She followed the pointed peaks ever upward until she was staring up at the tallest of them all: the Throat of the World. Stoic and unmoving as mountains are, covered in a cloak of snow and mist, but she felt it almost glare down upon her, heavy, as if it knew who and where she was. As if it could think. As if it had been the mountain that had called to her and not the Greybeards. Real, solid dread gripped her then; the grasping fingers of it clutching at her ribs to crush the courage from her. She heard it in the weak flutter of her heart. Felt it in the tremble of her body. Everything was different now. Everything had changed.

The rising sun cast new, yellow light across the Throat of the World and Sonja’s eyes were pulled back down the serrated edges to the fold of the mountains in the distance where the sky had turned golden and rosy. The sun had not yet breached the cold silhouette of the horizon, but it was close and Sonja unconsciously held her breath in anticipation. A brilliant sliver of light brooked the sharp V of mountain ridges, setting the sky on fire and swallowing up the night. Sonja felt a knot develop in her throat and her eyes sting with unshed tears; she exhaled, releasing the breath held captive in her lungs, and felt relief wash over her. Yes, everything was different now; everything had changed; but it was never more than she could handle. She was too strong and had come too far to crumble now.

Over her shoulder, she heard Faendal jump. “Get some rest,” said a gruff voice and Sonja turned to see who was intruding on her moment of solitude. It was Vilkas. He had startled Faendal who had begun to doze off against the workbench.

“‘S that?” the Bosmer snorted and then looked around confused, “‘M ‘wake.”

“No you’re not,” Sonja sighed, “Go back to Jorrvaskr and get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere today.”

Faendal rubbed his eyes and glanced up at Vilkas who stood over him, silent and surly as ever, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ya sure?” he asked, suddenly feeling protective.

“Aye.”

He pressed his hands flat against the stone to push himself upright when a large Nord hand suddenly shoved itself in his face. Vilkas was offering to help him up. Deciding it better to take his hand than deny it, Faendal gripped his forearm, but before he could position himself to stand upright, the larger Companion was already pulling him to his feet as if he weighed little more than a bag of potatoes. He stumbled a bit, but then dusted himself off. “You know where to find me,” he said to Sonja before heading down the stairs.

Once he was gone, Vilkas turned his attention back to Sonja who was staring off into the sunrise again. He wasn’t sure how to speak to her. There was a disconnect he was having problems reconciling between the tough little mage girl he thought her to be and the image of the unstoppable Dragonborn about whom he had heard stories during his youth. After she had struck the killing blow and absorbed the dragon’s soul, it had been easy to see her as otherworldly with her gnashing, draconic features and glinting golden eyes. But she was back to normal now. Human. A far cry from the legends he had heard.

And she seemed painfully aware of it. The anxiety etched across her face and her eyes staring blankly into the distance. Though she was feet from him, she was miles away, trying to fit together the pieces of this new existence laid before her. He had wanted to help her because she reminded him of a scared animal, of a newly turned Wolf. But that desire had waned by the time he had reached Jorrvaskr and realized it was folly to involve himself in something he had no business meddling with. It was only at Kodlak’s urging that he was there now. His Harbinger had thought it best he spoke with her instead, and so there he was, trying to make good on Kodlak’s advice. “What did the Jarl say?” he asked.

“It’s not Companion business,” she replied sharply.

“Not why I was asking.”

She glanced at him. “What do you care?” she asked, “I’m just a Newblood.”

“And the Dragonborn.”

Her mouth twitched into a frown. It was going to take some time before she could hear that title without flinching, she was sure of it. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Aye.”

“Well—there’s nothing to say. I didn’t know I was—Dragonborn—I didn’t lie to you.”

“I didn’t say you had.”

She fidgeted, irritated by his unusually cool disposition. From what little she knew of Vilkas, he seemed to always run hot and moody. “He told me that if I really was the Dragonborn, I needed to go to High Hrothgar as soon as possible,” she answered.

Vilkas nodded. “Only they will be able to tell whether or not you are truly Dragonborn,” he said.

“I didn’t think sucking the soul from a dragon left much room for debate.”

“It is the way of things.”

She barked out a dry, sour laugh. “Why are you really here, Vilkas?” she asked, “Are you kicking me out of the Companions?”

He chuckled humorlessly. “You really do know so little, don’t you?” he said, “I could see it in your eyes at the tower. Fear. Afraid of what it meant to be Dragonborn. Afraid of the power you’ve been granted.”

Sonja looked at him then. “Oblivion take you, of course I was afraid!” she exclaimed, “I don’t know anything about being Dragonborn! I wanted to argue with them, deny it. Insist that they were wrong, but—I can feel it.” She ground her closed fist into her chest where she felt the dragon. “I could feel that dragon’s soul slither into my body.” She looked momentarily disgusted. “He had a name. It was Mirmulnir and he was powerful, angry, and cruel. That’s what’s inside me, now. Writhing like a snake. Do you know what that’s like?”

“More than you know,” came the startlingly unguarded reply. He was thinking of the Wolf and how it tore at his insides, making demands of his time and ruling over his thoughts and feelings. He didn’t know if it was exactly the same. If having a dragon inside you was any more or less painful, but he understood the alienation. The break between what was and what would forever be.

Sonja let out a little strangled cry of relief. She didn’t know if he was lying for her sake or had wrestled with his own demons in the past, and it didn’t matter. It was nice to know she wasn’t alone. That someone might be able to conceive what she was feeling. “So what do you want from me?” she asked.

“It takes about a week to get to Ivarstead on foot,” he said, “The fastest route is through the pass by Helgen. And then the climb up the mountain? I’ve heard the Seven Thousand Steps are treacherous for those who are not prepared.”

“You want me to leave.”

“Skyrim is not kind to the weak…” he began.

“I am not weak,” she interrupted indignantly.

“I didn’t say you were!” he insisted, “But you are inexperienced.”

She scoffed. “I got along fine enough before. I will get along well enough now.”

“I heard you at the watchtower, that dragon was not the same as the one that attacked Helgen,” he replied, his patience thinning, “There are more out there.”

“They can be killed.”

“But not by you alone.”

Sonja hesitated, her jaw grinding her teeth against each other painfully. “What are you saying? Speak plain.”

“Even Talos was an accomplished warrior before he went to High Hrothgar,” Vilkas replied, “I fear what may become of you if you go unprepared for the trials ahead. I will train you, if you let me. I will make you stronger.”

“Why do you care? Why do any of you care?”

He answered her by way of unfolding his arms and holding out a book to her she had not realized he had. It was thick and worn. An ancient tome. Musty with brittle, yellowing pages and the Imperial emblem embossed on the front cover. “Because I am a Nord,” he said, “And when the gods send a Dragonborn, there is a reason.”

Sonja accepted the book and cracked it open to the first page.

The Book of the Dragonborn

By

Prior Emelene Madrine

Order of Talos

Weynon Priory

Year 360 of the Third Era,

Twenty-First of the Reign of

His Majesty Pelagius IV

“Where did you get this?” she asked, bewildered by the excellent shape the old volume had been kept in.

“It’s Kodlak’s,” he answered, “Return it to him when you are finished.” And then he left her standing there, in the sunlight, staring down at the book with a furrowed brow.


Those blessed by Akatosh with “the dragon blood” became known more simply as Dragonborn.

Sonja pinched the bridge of her nose wearily. She had tried to get some sleep before tackling the book Vilkas had given her, but she was restless and filled with strange dreams. She ended up fishing the book out from under her bed and propping it against the headboard. Faendal slept soundly on the other side of the barracks, snoring so loudly Sonja was considering smothering him with a pillow. As if sensing her murderous intent, Faendal gave one last particularly harsh snort before rolling over and falling silent. Only taking a brief moment to enjoy the sudden quiet, Sonja skimmed through the page to find her place, but her eyes caught on the first sentence of the next paragraph.

Because of this connection with the Emperors, however, the other significance of the Dragonborn has been obscured and largely forgotten by all but scholars and those of us dedicated to the service of the blessed Talos, Who Was Tiber Septim. Very few realize that being Dragonborn is not a simple matter of heredity—being the blessing of Akatosh Himself, it is beyond our understanding exactly how and why it is bestowed. Those who become Emperor and light the Dragonfires are surely Dragonborn—the proof is in the wearing of the Amulet and the lighting of the Fires. But were they Dragonborn and thus able to do these things—or was the doing the sign of the blessing of Akatosh descending upon them? All that we can say is that it is both, and neither: a divine mystery.

“Well that’s clear,” she muttered sarcastically to herself and then skipped down a little further, avoiding the following paragraph that described how the Dragonborn Emperors were not related to each other, but then a shocking realization completely stole away her attention: the gods were real.

She was a student, a scholar, a mage. And her education had included a lengthy history course covering the important events of millennia passed and mythic histories. But a huge part of her had never fully believed, never completely gave herself over to faith in otherwise silent beings. Even when she took her Conjuration courses, she acknowledged the existence of the planes of Oblivion and the creatures that dwelled there. She knew they existed because she was pulling them through Aetherius. She could see them, touch them, smell them. But any talk of Daedric Princes she had chocked up to the same mythos as the Divines. It was just a story. It had to be. Because what gods of mercy and love would let Thornir die in their father’s arms?

She squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t just a story anymore. She was living proof. She could feel the truth of it in her bones that she was connected to something larger and timeless. The Divines were real. The Daedric Princes were real. And all of them, in their combined power and influence had looked upon Mundus and wreaked havoc on its inhabitants. They had looked upon her in her darkest hour, saw that her doomed brother needed saving, and did nothing. It had hurt feeling like she could have saved him if she had simply been quicker. It was worse knowing she was born the Chosen of Akatosh and still failed to protect her baby brother.

She rolled onto her back and lay the open book flat across her belly as she stared blankly into the bedframe of the bunk above her. This Dragonborn business was heavier than she thought and she hadn’t even made it halfway through the first chapter. Suddenly, she felt tired beneath the weight of it and finally closed her eyes, drifting off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.


Lastly, we come to the question of the true meaning of being Dragonborn,” Faendal read aloud, startling Sonja from sleep with the volume of his voice, “The connection with dragons is so obvious that it has almost been forgotten—in these days when dragons are a distant memory, we forget that in the early days being Dragonborn meant having “the dragon blood.” Some scholars believe that was meant quite literally, although the exact significance is not known.

“What are you reading?” she groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes.

There was a shuffling of papers as Faendal checked the first page. “The Book of the Dragonborn,” he answered with a bit of over dramatic flair.

I’m supposed to read that, not you,” she growled, but she didn’t move to take it from him.

“Funny. I didn’t know you could read with your eyes closed.” He flipped back to the page he had left off at and scanned the text to find his place again.

“I’m sleeping, you ass,” she muttered, “I was up before dawn, same as you.”

“And I’m up already.” She could practically hear the shrug in his tone.

You didn’t absorb the soul of a dragon.”

There was a long pause before Faendal spoke again. “You really did, didn’t you?” he said quietly, “I admit I thought it was a dream when I first woke. Just the feast not sitting right.”

Sonja’s face screwed up in consternation beneath the drape of her arm. “You and me both, friend.”

She heard the snap of the book as he closed it and set it on the floor. “Come on,” he said, “The feast is almost ready. You need to eat.”

Her arm moved a fraction of an inch so she could peek up at him. “I’ll be up,” she assured him, “Save a place for me.”

“Always.” And he left the room.

In his absence, she rolled onto her side and picked the book up again, cracking it open against the linens to the page Faendal had been reading from. She found where he had left off and continued reading.

The Nords tell tales of Dragonborn heroes who were great dragonslayers, able to steal the power of the dragons they killed. Indeed, it is well known that the Akaviri sought out and killed many dragons during their invasion, and there is some evidence that this continued after they became Reman Cyrodiil’s Dragonguard (again, the connection to dragons)—the direct predecessor to the Blades of today.

I leave you with what is known as “The Prophecy of the Dragonborn.” It is often said to originate in an Elder Scroll, although it is sometimes also attributed to the ancient Akaviri. Many have attempted to decipher it, and many have also believed that its omens had been fulfilled and that the advent of the “Last Dragonborn” was at hand. I make no claims as an interpreter of prophecy, but it does suggest that the true significance of Akatosh’s gift to mortalkind has yet to be fully understood.

Sonja experienced only the slightest sense of trepidation before allowing her eyes to drift further. It was an eerie feeling, reading a prophesy that may or may not refer to her. She didn’t know if she was the Last Dragonborn, after all. There could be more to follow, or possibly more existing simultaneously if the bit about the line of succession was credible. Unconsciously, she held her breath as she read the final paragraph.

When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,

When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped,

When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles,

When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls,

When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,

The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.

Sonja flexed her fingers against the sheets of her bed and then slammed the book shut. She was already teetering on the brink of being overwhelmed, adding that fresh hell would only make things worse. She had to draw the line somewhere, a point at which she could close off and feel nothing. And that was it. That last paragraph of vague prophesy she would not heed. Wordlessly, she flung herself from her bed and yanked on her boots, doing her best to forget the last words she had read, but they were seared into her memory.


Sonja joined the feast that night after she had gone to Belethor’s to buy some new clothes. Having only one pair of trousers and two tunics—one of which was torn in half—was becoming tiresome when she wanted to change her stinking clothes for a set of less stinking ones. She hit the bathhouse for a quick rinse and then returned to Jorrvaskr. Her Shield-Siblings were already enthusiastically enjoying the food, but they all cheered when she entered. They were relishing the defeat of the dragon the night before and it was only fitting the Dragonborn sit at a place of honor: right between Kodlak and Vilkas, apparently.

She had tried to steer towards Faendal, but Farkas gleefully raised her onto his shoulder and carried her to her seat. She did her best not to squeal girlishly in surprise and ended up making a weird sound halfway between a squeak and a cough. The mountainous twin took his seat beside his brother, laughing. Even the usually dour Vilkas had a small smirk, apparently amused by Sonja’s obvious discomfort. When she was settled and Vilkas had filled her cup with mead, Kodlak raised his own mug and the rest of the Companions followed. “Of our conquests, we have many,” he said, “Of our triumphs, only few are as glorious as slaying a dragon!”

The Companions roared, but Sonja felt a little half-hearted. Of course, to them the hunt, the kill, had been glorious and exhilarating, but to her it earmarked the beginning of a new, unknown chapter.

“And if that were not enough, the gods saw it fit to guide the Dragonborn to join our ranks!” Kodlak continued, tipping his cup to Sonja.

“Dragonborn or no, she’ll have to prove herself just like the rest of us,” Skjor added and there was some nervous laughter in the wake of his words as his Shield-Siblings were unsure if he was making a joke or not.

A flash of irritation tugged at Kodlak’s expression, but he chuckled good-naturedly instead. “Of course, of course,” he assured, waving his Second off.

“I would expect no less,” Sonja replied, digging her nails of her free hand into the wood grain of the table, “As one of the Circle said to me before, ‘Be worthy of it,’ and I shall be. How could I call myself Ironheart, Companion—or Dragonborn, otherwise?” She almost choked on the last title, but managed to hold it in.

“Fine words,” Kodlak approved, “With finer intent attached to them.”

“Let’s see it turned to finest action,” Vilkas added.

Sonja raised her cup. “Honor and glory to the Companions,” she said, taking her cue to make the final toast since she was Dragonborn, “And to the memory of our fallen Shield-Sibling, Hroki Fjormundson.” She paused. “May T-Talos watch over you,” she concluded.

“Glory in battle; honor in life; Sovngarde in death!” came the usual response and then they all drank deeply from their mugs.

The feast began in earnest then and Kodlak was calling for someone to tell the story of what had transpired at the watchtower. He had already heard it from the Circle, of course, but that was not the point. Storytelling was an honored tradition of the Companions. “Tell the Harbinger, Sonja!” Ria urged, her face open and bright, “It is your story, after all.”

Sonja might have been irritated with the girl if she were not so young and asking out of an honest desire for a good story. “I am a poor storyteller,” she replied, “You would be bored.”

“You were in the thick of it!” Torvar objected, “Struck the killing blow!”

She opened her mouth to refuse again, but Faendal cut her off. “Stories are told about the Dragonborn; she does not tell them, herself,” he said. She gave him a silent expression of gratitude.

“Perhaps you should tell it then,” Athis suggested, “Since you follow her around everywhere she goes.”

Faendal hid his indignity well by taking a deep swig of his drink. “Who am I to refuse?” he asked with mocking humility before clearing his throat and launching into the story of what transpired at the Western Watchtower. Sonja ignored him, or at least did her best to do so, but occasionally Faendal’s voice would rise with the action and draw her attention. She had to hand it to him, he was a very good storyteller.

Vilkas watched Sonja from the corner of his eye as she ate and tried to ignore Faendal’s retelling of the events at the watchtower. She seemed more at ease than she had been before, still wound so tight she looked as if she were expecting an ambush at any moment, but it was an improvement over looking so terrified she was about to bolt like a frightened rabbit. She hid it well, he’d give her that. Lounging in her chair, resting heavily on one armrest and looking as disinterested as possible. She was dressed down to a short blue tunic, off the shoulders and the color of her eyes, tucked into the waist of a black pair of trousers, and cinched in with a soft, quilted black corset. Casual. Comfortable. Low key. Her knee-high boots tapped absently against the floor, punctuating Faendal’s story with the soft beat of her sole against the stone he could hear only because of the Wolf. The only real thing that gave her away was the forefinger of her damaged hand which was scratching at the armrest with such determination, she was beginning to carve a groove into it.

“Have you considered my offer?” he asked in an undertone so as not to disturb others who were listening to Faendal speak.

She glanced at him. “I have,” she confirmed.

“And?”

She paused, thinking. “I knew someone back in Cyrodiil a little like you,” she said at length, “Uthgar Frost-Hammer. Big man, built like Eorlund. Strong. Dour. Sharp mind.”

“Sounds Nordic.”

“He was originally from Markarth, I believe,” she nodded, “Old battleaxe, he was. Used to drill us over and over until we could act without thinking. Anticipate. Pushed us until we thought we were spent and then pushed us a little farther. Made us strong.”

Vilkas nodded approvingly. “He was your combat trainer?” he assumed, guessing that Sonja had learned to fight as part of her education. She was too disciplined to be self-taught and too good to have received casual, sporadic training.

She snorted with laughter, but drew no one’s attention. Faendal had apparently just said something funny, so everyone was chuckling. “He was my Restoration professor,” she replied, amused, and she drank deeply from her cup, chuckling lightly into the bottom of it.

“I—did not expect that,” he admitted, unsure of how to feel about her comparing him to a mage.

“He was a total ass, too,” she continued, “Real Nord traditionalist. Served in the Great War. Expected a lot of us.”

“It makes you better,” Vilkas responded defensively.

“It does,” she agreed, “He and I didn’t always get on, but I wouldn’t have traded that old troll’s tutelage for the world.”

Vilkas actually smirked. “I understand the feeling,” he assured.

She looked at him fully, then. “I told Kodlak I was eager to learn more when I arrived,” she said, “I didn’t speak false then and I haven’t changed my mind since. If—if you are willing to train me, I am willing to learn.”

The Companion nodded, surprised, but pleased. “Tomorrow, then.” She agreed and he let her enjoy the rest of the feast in peace.


Sometime during the late hours of the night, after all of the Companions finally stumbled down the stairs to their beds, Sonja, too awake and restless, decided to slip out into the night. She threw back her covers and grabbed her boots from the end of the bed, flinging a ratty cloak around her shoulders as she stepped out into the hallway as silently as possible. Her bare feet padded over the rug to the door and she stepped lightly over the creaking stairs to the upper level. The warm, hazy sleep induced from too much mead and full bellies prevented most from noticing her departure from Jorrvaskr. Not bad for a heavyfoot, she thought. She imagined Anja might be proud of her success if she was there—and if they were getting along.

In the stillness of the night, she made her way through empty town streets to the gates. A few guards nodded to her, but they had no interest in disturbing her since the story of the Western Watchtower had already spread through their ranks like wildfire. Indeed, as far as the Whiterun city guard—and really, most of the town by then—was concerned, Sonja was unquestionably Dragonborn. “Out for a stroll?” the gateman asked, more conversationally than with interrogational intent.

“Aye,” she answered simply, pointedly failing to elaborate. She hadn’t exactly set out with the intention of leaving the city, but she had wondered there nevertheless, the vague idea of a destination in her head.

The gateman nodded, apparently expecting such an answer, and pounded his fist twice against the wooden gates. The guards on the other side pulled the giant, heavy doors open and Sonja stepped through. “Careful out there, Dragonborn,” he said, “It’s dangerous to go alone.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured and waved him off.

Outside the city walls, a cold wind blew in off the snow-covered mountains and she made her way back toward the watchtower. She could see the ivory bones from the stables. The dragon skeleton stood stark in the moonlight like a ghost. It made her shiver. For a brief moment, she thought better of her unscheduled walk. Perhaps it was better to look at the corpse in the light, after all. But it wouldn’t change anything. Dead was dead and she had a morbid curiosity to see the bones of the creature whose soul she had—devoured? Absorbed? She wasn’t sure, but she wanted privacy. Wanted to be left alone with her own thoughts.

Once she finally reached it, she ran her hands over the bones of its ribcage and recalled how the beast’s hot blood burned her hands. The soft whorls of her fingertips were melted smooth and the pad of her left hand was a little scarred, but otherwise undamaged. Just a vague reminder of the beast whose blood she had split.

“Mirmulnir…” she whispered and she placed her damaged hand on the dragon’s snout. The maw snapped shut and one of its fangs fell to the ground with a dull thud. She knelt to pick up the tooth and ran its razor edge along her thumb, slicing it open. She hissed in surprise and stuck the injured digit in her mouth to stop the minute bleeding. She hadn’t been expecting it to be so sharp and bent to carefully pick it up from the ground where she had dropped it in her surprise.

Turning it against the flat of her palm, she marveled how they managed to kill the dragon in the first place. She looked down the length of its body and at the shattered remnants of its wings. The skeleton only a shadow of its living girth. With thick muscle, tough hide, and hard scales, the dragon had been much larger. No wonder it was a terror of the skies. It was built to fear nothing, to dominate, to rule. That’s what Mirmulnir desired most; she had felt it—could still feel it echo through her, nagging, reminding her that it was there. And she wondered if all the Dragonborn Emperors had felt the same drive for power—if their reigns had less to do with heredity or legitimacy and more to do with the nature of the beast.

She weighed the tooth in her hand thoughtfully and recalled what it felt like to take Mirmulnir into herself. The awakening she had experienced. The fullness. The sheer vastness of it all. There was no mention of that in the book Vilkas had given her; nothing to explain away her fears. There hadn’t even been a single mention of the Greybeards. “Dovahkiin,” she muttered softly and then decided that Prior Emelene Madrine didn’t know the first thing about being Dragonborn.

Notes:

The Book of the Dragonborn is an actual in-game book. It's that big black one you first see in Helgen that is strategically placed to get you to pick it up and read it for foreshadowing purposes. It might be kinda lame to have an entire chapter about one book, but one thing I noticed about the books in Skyrim is that they are usually very subjective to who the author is, when it was written, who was freakin' king at the time, and what the subject matter is. Just like any text, really, but especially ancient ones because stuff like objective scholarship was easily manipulated in favor of a multitude of reasons, but most frequently, "Because the king said so." There's a lot of books contradicting other books, posing conspiracy theories, or heretical biographies of Talos which makes taking them as completely reliable sources a little difficult. This, undoubtedly, is Bethesda's backdoor to avoid solidly committing to lore they may have to retcon later with some difficulty. I don't begrudge them that; it's smart and lends another layer of believability to the game that I, personally, enjoy.

In fact, I exploit this technicality to do a little tweaking of what it is and what it means to be Dragonborn, how they are selected, and how they differ even amongst each other. Fine lines, people. The daedra is in the details. If you'd like to read the full book instead of just the excerpts I selected, please feel free to check it out here.

Chapter 15: A Chance Arrangement

Summary:

Anja meets Brynjolf in the market place to discuss a business opportunity. Follows the quest A Chance Arrangement from the Thieves Guild Questline.

Notes:

Anja PoV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Anja stared at her reflection in the little hand mirror she had stolen off a noble woman in Windhelm. The pretty little golden glass revealed the dark bruise across the left side of her face. She frowned, then winced from the pain of frowning, then whimpered from the pain of wincing. “Wench’s got a good swing,” she mumbled irritably to herself and then lifted her tunic to check the damage to her abdomen where another mark bloomed over her belly. “Ugh, there’s got to be a better way to make a living,” she groaned insincerely before digging into her bag and producing a small, travel alchemy set.

Humming her favorite Breton lament under her breath, she arranged the alchemy instruments on the dresser top. Once that was done, she picked through her waning supply of herbs. She sucked on her lips worriedly. Time to go shopping, she thought, making a mental note to drop in on the local alchemy shop—afterhours. In the meantime, she carefully gathered the remainder of her blue mountain flower and wheat into the small mortar to grind them into a fine powder. Sonja might have been the mage of the Draconis family, but Anja exceeded her skills in potion—mostly poison—making. Sure, her older sister’s brews would get the job done, but Anja’s were works of art in a bottle.

With a little flick of her wrist, she lit the stove mechanism beneath the alembic with the sputtering sparks of a fire spell. Hissing sharply, she withdrew her hand and sucked on the tip of her forefinger. She’d burned herself again. Magic was not her strong suit. Still, she’d learned one or two vaguely useful spells from a childhood friend and Sonja’s training buddy, Cullen, but had varying degrees of success in casting any of them. Case in point, her pitiful attempt at a fire spell. At least it was enough to light her alembic which was all she needed it for. She busied herself brewing the potion, humming again. The sad, lilting tune of the lament at direct odds with her bright mood.

When she was done, she carefully poured a dose of the purified crimson liquid into a small glass she kept for such purposes and promptly medicated herself. The healing potion took immediate effect, the tingle of it dancing along her jaw and over her ribs. The remaining potion she poured into two vials, then cleaned the set and put it away. Once she was dressed, she collected her things, slipping the vials into the empty slots on her belt where she kept an assortment of others she had created to help her with her craft, and left the inn.

Brynjolf’s stall was the one closest to her when she walked out the southern inn doors. “Ah, glad to see you weren’t put off by our little—business meeting—last night, lass,” he said as she approached.

“After such an appealing offer, how could I refuse?” she asked, leaning casually against his stall as if she owned it.

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow in her direction, smirking. He liked her pluck. “Your face has healed well,” he observed, leaning into her space, but not touching her, “Unless Sapphire didn’t hit you as hard as I thought.”

Anja ran her fingers over her chin as if she was touching up some cosmetic cover-up she had applied to hide an invisible blemish. “Your woman throws a good punch, but it will take more than that to keep me out of the game.” She winked.

He smiled at her, but didn’t correct her when she called Sapphire his woman for the second time. “That’s good to hear,” he said instead, “Are you ready to make some coin?”

“You were saying something about an errand last night?”

“I was.”

“What kind?”

“The simple kind. I’m going to cause a distraction and you’re going to steal Madesi’s silver ring from a strongbox under the stand.” His eyes flit in the direction of a stall attended by an Argonian. Anja followed his glance. “Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei’s pocket without him noticing.” He nodded toward the stall across the way where a Dunmer was selling odds and ends and Anja flipped her blonde hair playfully to sneak a peek in Brand-Shei’s direction without being too obvious about it.

“What’s the poor elf done?” she asked, running her fingers through her curls until they laid into a semblance of order.

“There’s someone who wants to see him put out of business permanently,” Brynjolf explained, “That’s all you need to know. You are just an extra set of hands, after all. Now, you tell me when you’re ready and we’ll get started.”

“Best hands you’ve ever seen,” Anja promised, grinning. “I’m ready,” she said before strutting off across the market square for Madesi’s stall.

“Well, aren’t you a gem?” Brynjolf clucked before continuing in a louder voice to draw everyone’s attention away from Anja, “Everyone! Everyone! Gather round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention!”

As he watched Anja intentionally view the armor stand run by Grelka instead of going straight for Madesi’s wares, he was beginning to wonder if maybe he had picked the wrong person for the job. She was smooth alright, stealing coin purses off passersby as they moved in to hear what all the fuss he was making was about. With every successful lift she cast a little glance back in his direction; she was showing off. He liked cocky, provided she could deliver on that confidence. That wasn’t the problem. And she had far better business sense than half the people who called the Cistern home. That had been abundantly clear when she meddled with Sapphire’s con. A simple fix, really. One that he had seen from the beginning but was trying to let Sapphire figure out for herself. That wasn’t an issue either.

No, this brash new thief had the same problem Vex often had: too pretty. It was hard not to notice an attractive face when it walked by you. Sure, it could be useful in pickpocketing and investment schemes. A mark was too wrapped up in looking at your face to notice your hands in his pocket, and people in general tended to trust beauty—or want to buy it. But the job Brynjolf had recruited her for required a certain subtly he wasn’t sure she could pull off in broad daylight. Especially with those brilliant blonde curls of hers. The way they caught the sun no matter where she stood was maddening. Obvious. Glaringly noticeable. That’s why Vex preferred infiltration work: sweeps, shills, heists, and general burglaries. Jobs that required the cover of night to hide all those pretty features.

Well, there’s nothing for it now, he thought, Either she’ll pull it off or she won’t. Either way, he planned to extend an invitation to the budding thief. Even if she wasn’t the right fit for the job at hand, she’d more than proved her worth in all the gold she lifted off unsuspecting citizens. Delvin always had plenty of work for those with a light touch. “Gather round, all!” he continued, making sure everyone was facing him and not Madesi’s stall, “This way everyone, over here!”

The people of the marketplace proved to be far more curious than Anja would have guessed and they quickly converged on Brynjolf’s stall with great interest. As soon as Madesi came out from behind his stall to join the crowd, Anja slipped in behind it, pulling her hood up as she went to cover her shining hair, and dropped to her knees before the guard came around on patrol to see her. From little slits in her bracers, she removed her professional lockpicking set. Delicate, yes, but far more permanent than the fragile iron ones most novice thieves used. They were made of ebony; the handles of the torsion wrench and the tumbler pick were padded with black leather for comfort and larger to allow for easier manipulation and the application of greater force. A gift from Corvus when she used to run with the Guild in the Imperial City before—well, before everything fell apart. It was still possible to break the pick if she was careless—or a fumbling idiot. Anja was neither. She fed the tools into the stall door and turned the pick as quickly as the complexity of the lock allowed. There was a soft click and the lock gave way.

Anja slid the wooden door to the side and started in on the strongbox. Brynjolf’s exclamations about Falmer Blood Elixir punctuated her movements. The strongbox popped open. She sifted through its contents, procured the ring which she slid onto her forefinger for safekeeping, and then emptied the remainder of the loot into her various pockets. Then, relocking everything, she slipped away, unnoticed, and approached Brand-Shei who was standing, arms crossed, listening to Brynjolf’s advertisement. Pulling back her hood again, she palmed the ring and pressed her hand into Brand-Shei’s side with little pressure. “Pardon me,” she said softly and politely, passing a shy smile at the elf.

“Oh no, pardon me,” he replied, shifting sideways to allow her passed, but not before the ring concealed in Anja’s hand made its way into his pocket, “Sera.”

“You’re too kind.” Another shy smile and a forced blush, and then she was passed him, catching Brynjolf’s eye and winking to signal the success of the drop.

“Well, I see my time is up,” Brynjolf declared abruptly, “Come to my stall if you wish to buy.” There were many groans and mutterings about wasted time, but the crowd dispersed without incident. “Looks like I chose the right person for the job,” he said when Anja approached him, doing his best not to sound as impressed as he actually was.

“I told you I had the best hands you’ve ever seen,” she bragged, crossing her arms and leaning against his stall again.

Brynjolf chuckled, but didn’t validate her boasting. He liked to keep the braggarts thirsty for praise. It kept them on point. “The way things have been going on around here,” he continued, “I’m just glad that our plan went off without a hitch.”

Anja looked him over, pensively sucking the tip of her tongue. “Is it true?” she asked at length, curious for the inside explanation, “What I’ve been hearing about your outfit?”

The Master Thief was too good to wince or otherwise show his frustrations in his expression or tone, but Anja caught a little of it. Just a hint in the micro-tightening of his jaw. “My organization’s been having a run of bad luck,” he answered and waved her off, minimalizing the Guild’s troubles, “And I suppose that’s just how it goes, but never mind that. You did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there’s more to come, if you think you can handle it.”

“Oh, I can handle it.”

“Alright then, we’ll put that to the test.” He began to pack away the bottles of fake Falmer Blood Elixir into a large chest under the storefront. When he was done, he slipped out from behind the stall, closing up shop early for the day. He looked at Anja, intending to extend an invitation into the Guild, when he noticed the guards closing in on Brand-Shei’s stall and abruptly turned toward the inn. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

Anja cast a sideways glance at the Dunmer as one of the guards began demanding he turn out his pockets. Usually, she liked to stay and watch a shill job play out. When she first started her career in the shadows, shills were the hardest for her to cope with. Sure, she tended to be a little—flexible—with her morality, but even she had trouble framing the innocent. Until, one night, Corvus had gone out of his way to show her why they were running a shill on a particular mark: an elderly woman with no family—because she had murdered them all. Unable to prove it, someone had paid the Guild to frame her for an unrelated crime and while the Imperial guard was tossing her home in search of some spoiled noble’s jeweled necklace, they uncovered the bones of a string of husbands and her many children in her basement. It was justice, in a twisted way. The only kind Anja ever meddled with since her profession tended to place her on the wrong side of conventional laws. So, every time she completed a shill, she liked to stay and watch the scene unravel. Watch as all their secrets were laid bare. There was always something. Everyone had at least one dirty little secret…

But Brynjolf was waiting at the door. So, she moved away from the market and followed the Master Thief into the Bee & Barb. He took a seat at a table this time and after an unnecessarily long time, Talen-Jei came to take their order. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked, obviously displeased to see Brynjolf and casting pointed glances in Anja’s direction as if trying to warn her off or ascertain whether or not she needed help. She had become a bit of a hero to the Argonian couple after giving Sapphire the whatfor, and they had been aware of the Guild’s late night visit to her room, but had been too afraid to do anything about it with so many of them. Subtly, Anja flashed a brief smile at him to assure him she wasn’t in any trouble, though she doubted the Argonian would be much help if she had been.

“I’ll have one of those special drinks you’re always on about,” Brynjolf replied, noticing the small exchange between Talen-Jei and Anja.

“Which one?”

“What are my options?”

Talen-Jei sighed irritably. “First is the ‘Velvet LeChance’ which is a mixture of blackberry, honey, spiced wine and a touch of nightshade,” he recited, then he got a devilish look in his eye, “Perfectly safe, I assure you.”

Brynjolf smiled good-naturedly. He wasn’t about to give the Argonian the chance to poison him. “What else?”

“Second, we have the ‘White-Gold Tower’ which is heavy cream with a layer of blended mead, lavender, and dragon’s tongue on top,” Talen-Jei continued, obviously a little put out by the missed opportunity to inflict a little pain back at the Guild, “Last, and only for the bravest of souls, we have the ‘Cliff Racer’ which is Firebrand Wine, Cyrodiilic Brandy, Flin and Sujamma.”

“Cliff Racer.”

The Argonian looked to Anja. “A Velvet LeChance for me,” she replied, deciding to go for a more expensive drink than the usual mead or ale since Brynjolf had offered to pay. Talen-Jei nodded and then left to fill their orders.

“Been here less than a day and already you have the trust of some of the locals?” Brynjolf commented as soon as Talen-Jei was out of earshot, “How do you do it?”

Anja shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it trust, exactly,” she objected, “They’re too worked over, and rundown to trust anyone. They like me because I stood up to one of your members and they’d like to see it again. Should I die in the attempt, they’d only mourn the opportunity to repay the Guild for its many kindnesses.”

“Bit of a simple explanation for an Argonian who was prepared to poison me.”

“He’d want to poison you whether I was here or not,” she chuckled, “But people do tend to like me.”

“Sapphire doesn’t like you.”

“Sapphire’s not my problem.”

“She might make herself one if you don’t behave.”

“I never behave.”

“What a handful you must have been to your previous employers.”

Anja raised an eyebrow. “I ran alone.”

“I doubt that,” he scoffed.

“Why?”

“You’re too good to have escaped the notice of any Guild worth its salt.”

Her eyes narrowed and she smirked. “Suppose there’s no use hiding it,” she replied, “Yes, I used to run with a Guild before.”

“Which one?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the Khajiit, or haven’t you heard?”

Brynjolf cocked his head to one side, grinning, and looked her over carefully. Pinning down her origins was difficult. Petite, blonde, blue-eyed, and an alabaster complexion. Her lack of pointed ears dismissed any suspicions that she was Breton and her accent betrayed her as Cyrodiilic—definitely Nibenese—but, aside from her small frame, her features looked very Nordic. Her dark leather armor was worn, but meticulously oiled; light and made for stealth, but not to guard against the cold—so not Bruma—and cut in a style that was vaguely Dunmeri. Cheydinhal, maybe? And her weapons were fine, high-end grade. Ebony to cut down on light reflection. There was nothing worse than a blade of brighter metal catching errant moonlight and giving away an otherwise concealed thief. So, she was smart, experienced—had had enough jobs tossed her way to afford the expensive gear. He’d checked with his man at the gates about her arrival; she’d been seen with the Khajiit caravans which meant she must have given them damn good reason to trust her. Lot of Khajiit in Leyawiin. Argonians too. Lot of sneak types in Bravil.

The diversity in her appearance was bordering on frustrating, but then it struck him suddenly that such variety generally only came from one place: the Imperial City. “No matter,” he sighed, keeping his revelation to himself to spring on her later when she wasn’t expecting it. He’d get more truth out of her that way. “I’ll get it out of you one way or another.”

“I look forward to it.” She made eyes at him, playfully, over the top of her Velvet LeChance as she took a sip.

She was baiting him and oh did she make for a pretty temptation, but he didn’t like mixing business with pleasure—no matter how attractive he found her. “Careful, lass,” he warned, “That will get you in trouble.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“You’ll have plenty of trouble with what I’m about to ask of you next.”

Anja hummed. “Am I in then, boss?” she asked mockingly.

“One more hoop.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve already done your dirty work in the market,” she objected, “Where’s my pay for that, by the way?”

“Ah, yes.” He patted a fat coin purse hanging off his belt. “Right here,” he assured, “But I did promise Sapphire that you would pay for sticking that cute nose of yours where it doesn’t belong.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Anja declared, setting her drink back onto the table a little harder than she had intended.

He grinned. “Tell you what,” he proposed, “You make your way down to our hideout and the gold’s yours.”

Anja eyed him suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just ensuring you’re properly motivated.”

“I don’t think your woman would like it.”

He smirked. “I’ll deal with Sapphire,” he assured.

“Alright. How hard could it be?”

He laughed and produced a golden timepiece from his pocket. “You’d better leave now, lass,” he warned, checking the time, “If you want to get there before I change my mind.”

Anja’s eyes darted to the watch. “How about we make things interesting?” she suggested.

“I thought we already were.”

“I get there in record time and that pretty trinket of yours is mine.”

Brynjolf grazed the bezel of the watch with is thumb fondly. It was a gift from the former Guild Master—or rather, he had stolen it off Gallus before he was even a part of the Guild—and the elf was so impressed that he let Brynjolf keep it and offered him a job. He wasn’t typically the sentimental sort, but there were a few things he held dear. “And if you lose?” he asked.

“I forfeit my payment for this morning’s job.”

“Winner takes all, is that it?”

“Unless you’re afraid?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m not afraid, lass,” he said, “But I’m not usually a gambling man, either.”

“Please say you’ll make an exception for me,” she pouted.

Against his better judgement, “You have one hour.”

“Plenty of time,” she purred and then she downed the last of her drink, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “See you there.” She winked and unfolded her legs from beneath the table with a sort of lanky grace that belied her short stature.

“One last thing before you go, lass,” Brynjolf called before she got too far.

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?” he asked, “So that I know what to write on your tombstone when your cocky ass gets killed in the Ratway?”

She smirked. “Tyv.” And then she was gone. Another alias. Another false name, but she was full of them. And Brynjolf was well aware that she was probably lying to him. That was half the fun.

Notes:

Sorry this took so long to post. I was working on this chapter weeks ago, trying to keep up with the chapter-every-day-or-two promise I had made, but life--or rather death--made that impossible. My family recently suffered a loss and, honestly, I hadn't been feeling up to writing or editing much for the last few weeks. But I'm trying to come back to it now and I'm working on a new chapter to insert in Sonja's story line in memory of the loved one I lost. As a bit of therapy, I suppose. Until then, enjoy some Anja and Brynjolf. And, as always, thank you for reading and commenting. Your feedback puts a smile on my face.

Chapter 16: Taking Care of Business

Summary:

Anja worries she might have gotten herself in a little too deep with her bet with Brynjolf. When she finally arrives at the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf tosses her a job that is as much a test as it is a chance to square things between them. Follows the quest Taking Care of Business from the Thieves Guild Questline.

Notes:

Another Anja chapter.

To view English translations of words and phrases written in Ta'agra (language of the Khajiit), mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Ta'agra translations are taken from The Ta'agra Project.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Maybe I was too cocky…Anja thought as she hurried to squeeze between the bars in the floor and drop down to the level below. And she had started off so well, too. Locating the entrance to the Ratway was simplicity itself. She was sure there had to be multiple hidden entrances leading into the dank underbelly of Riften, but the most obvious and highly used was right where Maul said it would be. She entered with no small amount of confidence that the test—if it could even be called that—was going to be laughably easy. Though, in hindsight, she was well aware of how naïve that assumption had been. Why would a man who never gambled make a bet with a woman he hardly knew? Because he wasn’t betting at all. It was a sure thing.

Voices echoed down the humid tunnels of the Ratway and Anja’s pace slowed. Perhaps they were the test? But it seemed strange to her that a Thieves Guild would initiate members through a physical encounter. A thief’s goal was to avoid confrontation, not seek it out. So, she edged closer to make out their conversation. Perhaps they were just a couple of wayward guards poking around where they didn’t belong. Or new recruits like herself, puzzling over the same test. “I dunno, Drahff,” said the large, lumbering warrior, “They’d skin us alive if they found out we were doing this.” She froze. Nope, not Guild after all.

“Why do you always have to act like such a big baby, Hewnon?” demanded his smaller companion, “I’ve gotten us this far.”

“This far?” came the incredulous response, “We’re livin’ in a sewer. You said we’d have a house as big as the Black-Briar’s by now.”

“You just worry about bashing people’s heads in; I’ll worry about the Guild, okay?”

“Okay, okay.”

“I’m going to check the entrance. Be right back.”

Light! Everywhere she looked there was light. Torches bracketed to the wall and the flicker of what Anja assumed was a sizable campfire in the room where Drahff and Hewnon were scheming. Even illumination from a brazier and more torches glowed upward through the grates in the floor in the alcoves on either side of the hallway where Anja stood, momentarily paralyzed for lack of a better hiding place. But Drahff was coming; she could hear him approaching the mouth of the passageway, his footsteps echoing off the stone. Seeing nowhere else to go, she stepped into the alcove on her right, dropped onto her rump and lowered herself through the widest of the spaces between the bars. It was not as graceful or quiet as she wanted it to be, but it was quick and by the time Drahff rushed to the grate to see what was making all the noise, she’d already stolen into the shadows of the nearest adjoining room.

“Who’s there?” the bandit’s voice called through the bars, but he couldn’t see her, pressed flat against the wall just outside the door.

Soon Hewnon’s voice joined him. “There something wrong?” he asked.

“I thought I heard something.”

“Prolly just a Skeever.”

“It wasn’t a Skeever, you half-wit!” And then their conversation devolved into bickering as they walked back down the hall.

Anja waited, her body tense as she listened, and when their voices grew faint enough, she took a deep breath, let some of the tightness ease from her shoulders, and then looked around. She was in a large room with a vaulting ceiling. Thankfully, the only light came from the torches lining the opposite wall on the upper walkway. A wooden railing lined the stone ledge and a draw bridge, intended to span the gap between the entrance of the adjacent room and the walkway, was drawn up, the short edge of it brushing the archways of the ceiling.

A bit odd for a sewer. Out of place against the stone. It must lead to the Flagon, she realized and then her eyes darted around to see if there wasn’t some other way up to the ledge. There wasn’t, of course. That defeated the whole purpose of having a drawbridge. She frowned and walked around the room, looking for an another way forward that wasn’t bathed in terrifying amounts of light. Another doorway at the base of the ledge, half cast in shadow, half cast in light from the torches above, caught her eye. She edged toward it carefully, her footfalls silent as she slipped into the darkness.

The other end of the passageway was gated, but there was very little light coming through and it looked to be going in more or less the right direction. When she reached the gate and tried the handle, it was locked, but that was hardly a challenge. She dropped to one knee to get a better angle on the lock and produced her picks. As soon as she fed her tools into the keyhole, someone popped out around the other side and jiggled the handle to get her attention, scaring her half to death.

It was Brynjolf. He was grinning at her between the bars and leaning heavily on a rusted iron coal shovel. “It appears I am headed in the right direction,” she observed coolly, hiding her surprise.

The Master Thief nodded, scratching his chin with his free hand. “Aye, lass,” he confirmed, “You’re not the first recruit we sent down here who was lucky enough to stumble upon this little shortcut.”

“Shortcut?” she repeated dubiously, suddenly picking up on his ominous tone. He had promised her a test. Shortcuts were cheating. Apparently even amongst thieves.

If it was possible, Brynjolf’s smile broadened just a touch more. “That’s it lass, now you’re catching on,” he said, catching the glint of understanding in Anja’s eye, before he gleefully jammed the shovel under the gate latch, wedging the blade of it in a crack in the floor. Anja’s jaw tightened and she unconsciously clenched her hands into fists. He produced the coveted golden watch then and checked the time. “Better hurry,” he said mockingly, “Time’s running out. You’ve only got—oh my—forty minutes left to get through the Ratway, now.” He tsked at her playfully. “You’re going to have to do better.”

Anja glared at him, infuriated, but forced a smile anyway. The resulting expression looked a bit menacing. “I like a challenge,” she insisted haughtily before she turned abruptly and glided back down the way she came. Brynjolf watched her melt into the shadows of the next room. He liked a challenge too.


Balls, Anja mentally cursed, wincing as the bear trap snapped closed on a Skeever. The metallic clang coupled by the dying peels of the rat rang loudly through the musty air, waking the room’s only inhabitant. The inebriated Imperial at the other end of the room staggered to his feet from the pile of rags he used as a bed roll and spotted Anja before she could get out of the treacherous glow of the candles swaying in the fixture overhead and disappear into the nearest dark corner. He made a beeline for her, fists raised and eyes a little crossed.

Anja moved to put space between herself and her attacker, but the room was small and there were few options for escape. Running back the way she came would only draw the attention of the others she had successfully and harmlessly bypassed, but charging forward through the rest of the Ratway without taking the time to search for traps would likely get her killed just as quickly. The safest bet was through the drunken pugilist who was now chasing her around the room, taking swings at her as she dodged away from him. Each swing becoming more desperate and frustrated as he failed to make contact with anything but naked air.

But she couldn’t dance around the confrontation forever. The Imperial had to be dealt with. Screwing up her face in determination, she made her move and darted back towards the doorway, kicking one of the open bear traps behind her, right into the path of her pursuer. The rusted jaws slammed shut over the Imperial’s foot and he cried out in agony, all thoughts of chasing Anja pushed temporarily from his mind as the pain in his leg jarred his attention away. He was immobilized for the moment, but Anja couldn’t have him screaming, either. He might draw unwanted attention, so she doubled back, plucking a potion bottle off her belt and wrapping it in the corner of her cloak for lack of a better alternative. She crushed the bottle in her hand, spilling the contents onto the dark material and soaking it into the fibers, then she shook the glass free from her grip.

“Shhhh!” she hushed impatiently, stepping around the panicking Imperial and slipping her arm around his neck from behind. With all her strength, she wrenched him backward, squeezing until he choked for air, and then placed the damp section of her cloak over his nose and mouth. The fumes from the potion smothered him before he had the chance to fight her. The second he went limp, she stepped away from him, guiding the direction of his fall with a sharp tug so he didn’t set off any more bear traps, and he hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, unconscious.

Anja’s head fell back in relief and she wiped her stinging hand against her trousers. She had cut herself on the broken bits of the vial and some of the potion had gotten into her wounds, but aside from being annoyingly painful, it was nothing to worry about. The dose was too small to do little more than make her fingers tingle and go numb for a few moments. Instead, she focused her attention on calming her heartbeat and stilling her breathing so she could listen for nosy, unwelcomed visitors. But for the labored breathing of the unconscious Imperial, it was quiet. No one had heard their struggle. Thank Mara’s bleeding heart! She cleared her throat nervously and tugged on her armor until it was straight, then she made to step over her attacker and paused.

The man had tried to kill her. She had already been unnecessarily merciful in choosing to render him unconscious instead of killing him. It was only right that she left him there to suffer whatever fate awaited him in his current incapacitated and injured state, and yet she felt uncomfortably guilty at the prospect of leaving him so helpless. Hesitating, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to conquer her indecision before finally throwing up her hands. “Shite,” she swore aloud before bending over and prying the jaws of the bear trap loose. This was not good business.

She squinted at the man’s injury and sighed, mentally cursing the tender spots of her heart before producing one of her healing potions. Clenching the vial loosely in her mouth, she patted his pockets down for valuables and found nothing but a few coins. “Eh,” she shrugged and pocketed the sparse gold. He had tried to kill her after all. Then she gripped his shoulders, preparing to roll him onto his side to keep him from choking should he vomit while unconscious, when his gloves caught her eye. They were the only scrap of armor he wore: dark leather and neatly maintained. The only part of his appearance that wasn’t ragged or stank of alcohol and despair. And enchanted too…she observed when she turned his palm up and saw the enchanting runes neatly embossed along the seam by his wrist.

Anja was loathed to admit it, but one of the random benefits of growing up with a mage in the house was the bits and pieces of magical knowledge she picked up. It was impossible not to learn a thing or two when Sonja left her books lying around and pestered everyone who had a spare moment to quiz her before exams. Though she was useless with spells, Anja could at least identify them and gage a mage’s skill from their effectiveness. Rune literacy was a bit loftier, but she had a very basic understanding, even if she had burned a hole through her favorite boots during her first and only attempt to enchant them when she was younger. Sonja hadn’t let her live that one down for months afterward.

At any rate, the enchantment on the gloves in question were designed to add a little extra hurt to the Imperial’s punches. Anja was sincerely happy she had managed to avoid experiencing that magic firsthand. “I’ll take teesh, tank you,” she quipped brightly around the vial still caught between her teeth as her quick fingers quickly relieved him of his gloves and tucked them into the waist of her trousers. Then she removed the potion from her mouth and uncorked it. With careful, calculated movements, she poured no more than a fourth of its contents into the man’s wound and then sprinted to the locked gate. Now she was working against a more immediate clock.

The little dose of potion she provided to undo the damage of the bear trap was just enough to get the job done, but slowly. Even introduced directly into the injury as it was. The unwelcome side effect was what fueled Anja’s sense of urgency. The healing potion would most likely reverse the effects of the paralytic she had used on him earlier and she didn’t want to still be around when he woke up. So she hurriedly picked the lock and stepped through before the Imperial began to twitch awake, darkly chastising herself for healing a man who had attacked her and hoping it wouldn’t come back to bite her later.


Getting through the Ratway proved to be one of the more difficult experiences of Anja’s life. The Guild had turned the damp tunnels into an obstacle course of traps, locked doors of varying difficulty, and the roving and irregular patrols of the Ratway’s more colorful inhabitants. But, Anja managed to disarm or avoid every trap she came across, pick every lock between her and the way forward, and avoid the notice of every muttering crazy that lurked in the dark corners of the tunnels—the pugilist, excepted. She made it to the Ragged Flagon unharmed, but thoroughly irritated with how long it took her to arrive, certain the timeframe she and Brynjolf had agreed to had already elapsed.

The tavern was situated in the back of a large cistern on wooden platforms. Voices were echoing off the stone walls and rippling across the water, but she couldn’t make any of it out. She could spy Brynjolf by the bar, though, speaking with the barkeep. When she drew close enough to overhear their conversation, she couldn’t help but crack smile; the Master Thief was bragging about finding new talent. “We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn, quit kidding yourself,” the large, blonde bouncer said. Anja guessed he was Dirge. He certainly looked like the only one in the tavern imposing enough to be related to Maul.

“It’s time to face the truth, old friend,” the barkeep agreed with a sigh, “You, Vex, Mercer. You’re all part of a dying breed. Things are changing.”

“Dying breed, eh?” Brynjolf said as Anja leaned against the bar and winked at him, “Well, what do you call that, then?”

“A whole new breed,” Anja replied, grinning.

“Well, well…” Brynjolf let out a long, low whistle as Anja dropped into the seat next to him. “Color me impressed, lass. I wasn’t certain I’d ever see you again.”

“Oh, it was easy,” she sniffed playfully, belying the trouble she had run into along the way, and ordered a mead, “Everyone was perfectly cooperative and the crazies you have wondering around down here aren’t particularly observant.”

Brynjolf chuckled. “Reliable and headstrong? You’re turning out to be quite the prize.”

“I do good work,” she said before taking a big swig of her drink.

“Just not quickly.”

She frowned. “What’s the damage?” she asked.

“Quarter hour passed.”

“Fuck,” she cursed.

“Not bad,” he assured her, “Most recruits don’t make it much farther than Drahff and Hewnon.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Friends of yours?”

“Annoyances,” he corrected, “Tried to join a while back and failed. Miserably and repeatedly. Still think they can find a way to weasel into our ranks. It will get them killed one day, but they keep unwanted visitors away.”

Anja hummed her irritation and tapped the bar for the keep’s attention. “He’s buying, by the way,” she said, jabbing her thumb at Brynjolf who raised an eyebrow at her. “Least you can do is buy a girl a drink if you’re going to take her pay,” she insisted, her voice low and warm.

“You gambled and lost, lass,” he reminded her, but he nodded to the barkeep and accepted the tab.

“And you’d just take my coin? Just like that?” she pouted, her eyes rounded and shining up at him, her lips a little puckered, “You don’t feel even a little bad?” She knew it was a long shot, but she had gotten out of many a debt before with only a proper application of coy looks and pouty lips.

Brynjolf laughed somewhat nervously and glanced meaningfully across the bar at his associate who was suppressing a smirk. “Caught myself some trouble with this one, didn’t I Vekel?” he joked and the barkeep shrugged noncommittally. Anja had a way about her that was hard to deny. If he were a weaker man, he would have let the pretty little lass off her debt, just like that—just like the dozens of men and women who fell for that sweet voice and pouty lip before. She was aware of her appeal and how to use it to get what she wanted. That was good. It was useful. But it wouldn’t work on him. “I’d be a poor thief if I regretted every coin I took,” he pointed out, sipping his mead and regarding her thoughtfully, “How about I give you a chance to earn it back?”

Her expression darkened briefly and she half rolled her eyes. “Another hoop to jump through?” she drawled.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had you confused with someone who liked getting paid.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but whether it was in a frown or a smile, it was hard to tell. She merely fixed him in her gaze, now hardened from the cute, pleading, roundness when she tried to charm the gold from his pocket. Such a stark and dangerous difference. From kitten to saber cat in less than a moment. “What did you have in mind?” she asked, her tone businesslike.

Oddly enough, Brynjolf found her new attitude more appealing than the saucy pout. “How about taking care of a few deadbeats for me?”

“Isn’t that what your bouncer is for?”

“Dirge is a creature of the Ratway,” he waved her off, “He doesn’t venture topside unless he has to. No, the people I want you to deal with owe our organization some serious coin and they decided not to pay. I want you to explain to them the error of their ways.”

“Mmm, I can be rather enlightening when I want to be.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Who will I have the pleasure of chatting with today?”

Brynjolf smirked. “Keerava, Bersi Honey-Hand, and Haelga,” he answered, watching Anja’s expression carefully when he listed the Argonian innkeeper. To her credit, she schooled her emotions very well—but not good enough. There was a visible tightening in her jaw. She didn’t like the idea of confronting Keerava after she had endeared herself to the Argonian couple. “Do this right and I can promise you a permanent place in our organization.”

Anja drank deeply, taking the time to consider all the graceful ways to decline Brynjolf’s newest job offer without damaging her chances with the Guild, but there was no good way around it. She was stuck. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, exposing her injured palm. Brynjolf’s eyes darted to observe, but he did not ask what had happened. “How much?” she asked at length.

“Hundred gold a piece.”

She wrestled with a bit of surprise she struggled to keep off her face. A hundred gold per small business owner in a less-than-profitable town? That was a bit steep. She doubted any of them kept more than a few hundred gold in their tills at any given moment. Especially Keerava who only handled small amounts: ten gold for a room, five for food, and the like. “Where can I find them?”

“Bersi Honey-Hand owns the Pawned Prawn General Goods Store next to the meadery, in the shadow of the inn,” Brynjolf supplied, “Haelga is proprietor of the bunkhouse near the gates. And Keerava? Well, you know where to find her.”

Anja’s expression became openly sour, but she nodded, acknowledging the unspoken unpleasantness. “How do you want me to handle it?”

“Honestly, the debt is secondary here,” he admitted, “What’s more important is that you get the message across that we’re not to be ignored. I’ll leave it to you to decide how to accomplish that. A word of warning, though, I don’t want any of them killed. It’s bad for business.”

“Won’t be a problem,” she assured, “Got any leverage I could use to ease my way?”

“I do,” Brynjolf nodded, “But, I think I’ll keep it to myself for now. Let’s see what you can dig up on your own.”

Anja tapped her fingers impatiently against the bar, but then shrugged. “Fine,” she sighed, “I’ll play along.”

“On your way then.”

She hesitated. “I do this and we’re square on the bet?”

“Like it never happened.”

She nodded as if making up her mind, drained the rest of her drink, and then hopped off the stool. “See you tonight,” she said, “And have my gold ready.”

“Dirge, show Tyv the entrance for guests,” Brynjolf called to the bouncer as Anja passed him, “I don’t want her wasting time getting around the Ratway again.”

“Sure thing.” The large Nord nodded to the Master Thief and then grunted to Anja, “Follow me.” Anja cast him a sideways glance, but did as he bid her, and followed him out of the Ragged Flagon.


Protection rackets were easily Anja’s least favorite scam. They made her feel dirty. They were also rare in Cyrodiil. For the most part, the city guard was prolific enough in any of the Imperial cities to keep violent crime and noisy burglaries under control. That’s why the Guild there prided itself on its ability to operate as a rumor, undetected, but it required avoiding certain schemes that were generally too public by nature. The Imperial Thieves Guild was protected by anonymity. This was not the case in Skyrim where the Guild was protected by its notorious reputation. They were the worst kept secret of Riften, as far as Anja could tell. So little public demonstrations like the protection racket she was about to enforce or the investment scheme Sapphire tried to run, and even the storefront hawking fake goods that Brynjolf tended were all necessary for keeping the Thieves Guild fresh in the minds of Skyrim’s citizens and safely out of the reach of the city guards. Not the way Anja preferred to operate, more like a gang than the Guild she was used to, but she couldn’t argue if she wanted in, so she kept her mouth shut.

She started with Bersi Honey-Hand. When she visited the shop, she was greeted by its very welcoming proprietor. “Welcome to the Pawned Prawn!” the balding Nord boomed warmly, “Pickings may be a bit slim today, but if you see anything you like, I’ll make you a good deal.”

Anja smiled and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her golden curls out in that distracting way she did when she was about to start in on a mark. Bersi was not immune, but did not look at her with the same hungry eyes unattached—and some attached—men did. Just curiosity and a hesitant appreciation of an older man for a younger woman. “Got anything in the way of jewelry?” she asked brightly.

“Aye,” Bersi nodded and gestured for her to approach the counter from under which he produced a display case filled with a few necklaces, a couple of rings, and a handful of gems, “Were you looking for something for yourself? Or a friend…?”

Anja smiled lopsided at him. “For myself, of course,” she said gently and then cast her eyes soft against the display case. She liked shiny objects. Like a magpie, pretty things always claimed her attention—like that blasted watch that landed her in this mess in the first place—and the glittering jewels in the case were particularly appealing. Out of habit, she discretely examined the lock to determine how difficult it would be to pick. Shamefully easy. “A girl likes to be spoiled,” she purred.

Bersi flashed a hesitant smile. “You should find a rich man to spoil you,” he joked.

“Or woman,” she added.

The pawnbroker barked out a laugh and nodded. “Certainly treat you kinder,” he agreed, “My wife, Drifa, is the soul of generosity.”

“Mmm, lucky man.”

“I think so.”

Anja smiled at him again and leaned over the counter, propping herself up on her elbows and hovering over the display case. She caught a strand of her curls and wrapped it around her finger, coiling and uncoiling it playfully as her big blue eyes scanned the case. “Mmm, so which of these would you pick out for your lovely wife?” she asked.

Bersi leaned a little closer, flirting along the edges of her space without really entering it; he maintained a polite distance as he pointed to a humble silver pendant with a small, imperfect emerald set into it. Anja looked up through her eyelashes at him, wordlessly chastising him for his lack of bravado. “It matches her eyes,” he explained, defensively.

His response made her smile. “Hmmm, she might be lucky, too,” she hummed and then she looked back at the jewelry. “That one,” she said, pointing to a large golden and sapphire ring, “It matches my eyes.”

“Excellent choice,” he agreed and he unlocked the display case, “If the fit needs work, Balimund can adjust it for you. Best damn blacksmith this side of the mountains.”

Anja tutted at him. “I want to feel the weight of it first,” she objected, “It’s got to have the right feel.”

“Of course.”

She made a big show out of handling the piece, rolling the cool metal between her fingers and sliding it over each knuckle. Bersi was patient, accommodating; he didn’t rush her, but the sharp movement of his eyes betrayed his anxiety. That, coupled with the shabby state of the store, it was obvious that the Pawned Prawn had seen better days. “So, what kind of name is the Pawned Prawn, anyway?” she asked, casually.

Bersi brightened. “Catchy, isn’t it?” he asked, “In my youth, I was a fisherman. Had a beautiful ship named The Brawny Prawn.” His tone was nostalgic and his gaze seemed to stare off into some distant memory. “But the years have a way of creeping up on you.”

“They always do.”

“I ended up selling that ship to open this place,” he continued, nodding, “Seemed only fitting to name it after her.” He sighed. “Well, changed it a bit, I suppose. If I had been smarter, I would have kept my boat.” He looked older then, sadder; his face drawn with regret. “Coming to this city was a big mistake.”

Anja’s brow furrowed slightly. The tug of it bunching above her nose. “Oh, come now. It can’t be all that bad,” she prodded.

Bersi scoffed. “This city is corrupt,” he insisted, “Rotten to the core. No one cares about anything except themselves and how much they can make off the misery of others.”

“Mmm, that’s just business, love,” she hummed, burying her sympathy for the down-on-his-luck shopkeep before it became a problem, “It’s like that everywhere.”

“Not in Dawnstar! Not on The Brawny Prawn!” he objected, but it was sort of half-hearted.

“Sure it was!” Anja replied, chuckling, “You just didn’t see it then.”

His expression seemed to suggest that he agreed with her. “At least I could trust the authorities there,” he sighed, “No help from the guard here. They’re all dirty. Every one of them. The only way to get things done in this city is to keep your head down and pay off the right people.”

Anja smirked and slid the ring onto the forefinger of her right hand. “Like the Thieves Guild?” she asked pointedly.

Bersi scoffed. “They used to be pretty feared around here,” he shrugged, “I mean, you’d whisper the name and it’d send chills down your spine. Now, they’re nothing more than ruffians and thugs trying to pry a few extra coin from honest people. All it would take is a small force of guard to go into the Ratway and flush them out.”

Anja raised an eyebrow in amusement. She didn’t doubt the Guild had seen better days. It was obvious from the general attitude Riften had toward the gang of Thieves, but she knew better than to write off an underworld crime network so easily. They were notoriously difficult to kill. It was such a shame the Guild didn’t have a better relationship with the people of Riften, however. Not that there was ever anything amiable between a thief and his or her mark, but part of what made the Imperial Thieves Guild so hard to locate was the unwillingness of the citizens of the Waterfront to cooperate with the authorities. The Guild in Cyrodiil had an entire population willing to protect it—whereas the Guild in Riften had an entire city ready to turn on it the moment the scent of blood was in the air. That wasn’t good for business and it made the Guild too dependent on its only patroness. “My, how the mighty have fallen,” she sighed and then she fixed her eyes on Bersi with all manner of menace, “I aim to change that.”

A cloud passed over the pawnbroker’s face. “I don’t know what you’re on about and I don’t like it,” he said.

Anja smirked and continued to play with the ring. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” she said.

“Speak plain,” he demanded.

“I have a message from Brynjolf.”

“Oh. You’re one of them,” he said with disgust, “So Brynjolf doesn’t even bother to show up himself anymore, eh?”

“Now, Bersi, come on. We were having such a lovely conversation,” she simpered, “There’s no need to be rude.”

The pawnbroker was not amused. “What’s the message?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

“I think you know.”

“You’re gouging me for what little coin I make and you can’t even protect yourselves?” he scoffed, “Ridiculous.”

Anja glanced pointedly over her shoulder where the limb of her bow jutted out passed her hair. “Do I look like a girl who can’t protect herself?” she asked.

Bersi only hesitated a fraction of a second as his eyes flit between her weapons and the dangerous glint in her eye. “Don’t fool yourself,” he said, crossing his arms, “It’s only a matter of time before you people are run out of Riften.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, darling,” she objected, kindly, “If it’s not us, there will be someone else. There’s always something to take and someone to take it.”

Before Bersi could answer, the door to the shop whipped open and in walked an attractive woman with red-brown hair and green eyes. She was dressed in fine, warm blue clothes and smiled widely when she looked at Bersi. “Hello, my love,” she said brightly and then her eyes flit to Anja, “Ah! A customer! Welcome!” No guile. Just simple warmth.

Anja turned to face the woman and leaned against the counter, still fingering the ring. “A lovely wife you have indeed, Bersi,” she said, nodding to Drifa in greeting.

Drifa almost blushed, embarrassed by the compliment. “I’ve just come from the wharf,” she said to her husband, “Boli’s put in a special order for a few things.”

Bersi’s expression narrowed as he was torn between addressing the growing threat that was Anja and speaking with his wife. “Don’t mind me, dear,” Anja sighed, “I can wait.”

The shopkeep glared at her. He wanted to shout at her to leave, but he was trying to minimalize the seriousness of the situation to his wife. It was impossible to hide the trouble with the Thieves Guild from her or any of the payments he had made in the past, but he had managed to ease her fears that they were in any danger and he didn’t want to work her up unnecessarily. She always worried about him too much. Besides, there was something important he needed to confront her about concerning Boli’s special orders. “I’ll only be a moment,” he grunted, snapping the display case shut and returning it to its proper place beneath the counter, then he gestured for his wife to follow him into the back room.

Anja smirked. “Don’t take too long,” she said, extending her forefinger toward Bersi so he could take the gold and sapphire ring from her, “I’d hate to have to interrupt.”

Bersi snatched the ring from her finger and disappeared into the next room with his wife. “Who’s that?” Anja heard Drifa ask.

“No one,” Bersi answered before snapping the doors shut behind them.

Now alone, Anja strolled to the door of the shop and quietly turned the lock so as to assure no unwanted customers walked in on her and then she meandered behind the counter, plucking a glass beaker from an incomplete alchemy set on display for sale as she went. When she reached the doors, she could hear the muffled sounds of Bersi and his wife’s conversation, but couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about. So she placed the mouth of the beaker against the closed doors and then pressed her ear against the butt of the glass. “That’s the third special order made this month,” Bersi said.

“So?” Drifa protested, “It’s good for business that we have such loyal customers.”

“I’d agree, but something isn’t adding up.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re expensive orders, but we never see a return.”

“Of course we do.”

“The money’s not adding up, Drifa,” Bersi’s said sternly, “I was looking through our books and there’s an entry for ‘spices.’ Says we spent three hundred septims, but I don’t remember ordering any spices. And the money is gone, I checked.”

“Spices?” Drifa repeated, “I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Even through the door, Anja could tell she was lying.

Apparently, Bersi could tell as well. “You sure? It was in your handwriting,” but then he, not wanting to think the worst of his wife, added, “If you can’t keep the books straight then let me do them.”

“Oh, yes…spices,” Drifa said, feigning sudden realization, “That was a special order for someone in Whiterun. Should be along any day now. Don’t let it worry you, my dear.”

But it did worry Bersi. He sighed, sounding defeated. “Alright, my love,” he relented, “Just don’t put any more special orders in without speaking to me first.”

“Of course.” Then they moved back toward the door and Anja soundlessly hopped over the counter before they could notice her eavesdropping.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Drifa said, brightly, “Was there some business you wanted to discuss with my husband?” Anja looked the older woman over thoughtfully, from the twist of her braided hair to the slight tremble of her hands resting on the countertop, and imagined a hundred different reasons the woman could be embezzling money from her husband’s business for. That was a pressure point worth exploiting. All it took was getting the right read from the mark.

“It’s better if you let me handle this, Drifa,” Bersi insisted, trying to excuse his wife from the conversation.

“Now, now, Bersi,” Anja chastised, “This involves her as much as it does you.”

“Leave her out of this,” he declared, “Now you’re going to have to leave. Tell Brynjolf he’ll just have to make due without my coin.”

Drifa looked vexed. “Brynjolf’s demanding more money?” she asked, upset, “I told you we should have paid him on time!”

“I won’t let them use us anymore,” he insisted, “I’m handling this.”

Anja sighed and hopped onto the counter, perching on the edge and leaning her back against the wall while she checked her fingernails for imaginary dirt. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Khajiit,” she said casually as if she were remarking on the state of the weather, “Lovely people. Lots of very colorful rituals and traditions.”

“Get out!” Bersi demanded, befuddled by her sudden change of the subject but wanting to hear none of it.

“Not yet,” Anja waved him off, “I have a point to make.”

“I don’t care!”

“Drifa will.” At that, both husband and wife hesitated. “You know, of all the rituals I’ve witnessed, none is more interesting—or transcendent—than the ceremony that distills Moonsugar into Skooma.”

Drifa visibly trembled. “Oh?”

Anja nodded slowly. “See, to us it’s just a drug. Something to pass the time. To take away the hurt and make the world disappear, but to them,” she sighed wistfully, “It’s a religious experience. Can you imagine?” she leaned forward, stretching out over the counter until she was inches from Drifa’s face, “One little bottle and you could see the faces of the gods.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Bersi objected, but Anja ignored him.

“Naturally, the stuff they brew is much more potent than the swill you get from anywhere else,” she continued, “Skooma’s a passionate thing for the Khajiit, so it’s made with great care. They understand and respect its affects so it’s not something they take lightly or  are even willing share with jetwijijria. Do you know what they call Skooma addicts in Ta’agra?”

“N-no…”

Varkuz,” Anja nearly whispered, her breath warm across Drifa’s lips, “Sugar-Tooth.” And then she kissed her. Drifa squealed in surprise; her eyes rounded as Anja’s tongue delicately parted her lips and darted along the inside of the row of her upper teeth.

Bersi snarled and moved to physically separate Anja from his wife when his hand was suddenly pinned to the countertop with an ebony dagger through his sleeve. He stopped short, surprised, and Anja giggled, parting from Drifa and sliding off the counter, tugging her dagger loose along the way. “Too much Skooma and it turns your mouth and breath sweet,” she said, winking at Drifa and licking her lips, “Have you kissed your wife lately, Bersi?”

The pawnbroker was enraged at the insinuation at first, but then his expression melted into guilt and then one of pain. He had not been dedicating as much time to his wife and marriage as he had been to his store and his campaign to dismantle the Thieves Guild somehow. He didn’t want to believe that his kind and generous Drifa was hiding things from him, but it was hard to think otherwise when he thought of her behavior over the last six months. Secretive. Bumbling. An increase in special orders. More frequent errors in their books. Money missing for product that was never really ordered. It all fit. And, shamefully, he had not kissed his wife lately—at least not the way Anja just had. It had been a long time since he had tasted his wife’s mouth or embraced her heatedly between the sheets of their marriage bed. Little pecks in greeting or before sleep. He hadn’t noticed any added sweetness. Just Drifa’s soft, familiar lips.

Slowly, Bersi turned to look at his wife. Her lovely green eyes were wide with fear. He could tell, just by her expression that she was caught. That what Brynjolf’s little errand girl had said was true. “Don’t listen to her, my love,” Drifa insisted desperately when Bersi caught her eye, “She’s lying. She’s just trying to get our money for Brynjolf, that’s all…”

Anguished, he firmly set his hands on either side of his wife’s shoulders and then bent to kiss her with all the hope and fear of a young man kissing his first love for the first time. “Drifa…”

“Bersi, please don’t,” his wife pleaded, “If you love me, you won’t…”

Anja watched silently as Bersi tentatively pressed his lips to his wife’s and after a brief moment’s hesitation, deepened the kiss. The moment he tasted the sweetness of Drifa’s tongue, his eyes squeezed shut and he grimaced, his fears confirmed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he growled.

“I’m sorry, Bersi,” Drifa whimpered, tears gathering in her eyes, “But you’re always so worried and I…”

Anja cleared her throat loudly and hated herself for it a little bit. “Not that this isn’t touching,” she said, “But there is still the small matter of a little business I’d like to square with you, Honey-Hand.”

“Get out of my shop,” he snapped, tears gathering in his eyes. Couldn’t she see that he was in the midst of a crisis with his wife?

“I will be happy to go once you’ve given me the money you owe Brynjolf,” she replied, firmly, “And then you can continue fixing all the unspoken problems of your marriage in peace.”

“How dare you…?”

“Privacy, Bersi,” Anja continued, “That’s what you need right now. No one need know about Drifa’s little indiscretion. Least of all the guard. Provided you pay for the Guild’s silence in this matter.”

Bersi’s face fell and Drifa began to openly cry. Any foothold they thought they had against the Guild crumbled beneath their feet the moment Anja figured out Drifa’s dark secret. “Get the payment, Drifa,” he said through clenched teeth, releasing his wife so she could run downstairs to their safe.

Anja waited, leaning against the counter while the pawnbroker glared daggers at her. It wasn’t long before Drifa tearfully returned and handed over the weighty coin purse. “It’s all there,” she sniffled as Anja accepted.

“I know,” she assured. They’d come too far to risk stiffing her now.

“I hope Brynjolf chokes on his gold,” Bersi spat.

Anja smirked a little, more wince than smile, and leaned across the counter, plucking the gold and sapphire ring from Bersi’s shirt pocket where he had stashed it in his haste. He didn’t try to stop her, but the tension in his body signaled his supreme desire to. “Pleasure doing business with you, Bersi,” she said, slipping the ring onto her finger as she withdrew, “Drifa, stay sweet.” And then she noiselessly crossed the room to the door, unlocked it, and left without a second look back.


Anja entered the Bee & Barb, her skin still crawling from her confrontation with Haelga at the Bunkhouse. That woman was a piece of work, but none too discrete. Dibellan sacred oils and incense stank the place up and she proudly wore the amulet of her favorite deity around her neck. Her niece, Svana, also obviously loathed her. It didn’t take much to convince her to expose her aunt’s dirty laundry. It cost Anja a little more of her time to go around collecting the Marks of Dibella from Haelga’s late night visitors, but it was well worth it. She had to charm, intimidate, and persuade the gems from their lying, cheating possession, but she was successful in the end, and Haelga was very cooperative when Anja confronted her with the marks, much to the utter glee of Svana. The satisfaction of putting pressure on the bunkhouse mistress went a long way toward washing the awful taste blackmailing Bersi and Drifa had left, but it wasn’t quite enough to make up for what she was about to do next: extort Keerava and Talen-Jei.

She hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the inn before Talen-Jei approached her with a large purse in his hands, fat with coin. “I thought you were better than this,” he said hatefully, shoving the coin into her hands.

“It’s just business,” she said, guilt twisting her gut, “Nothing personal.”

“Get out,” he said, “Nothing personal.”

Anja pursed her lips and nodded, turning back towards the door. “See you next month,” she said, “Have your gold ready, then.” And then she left.


Brynjolf nearly choked on his mead when Anja plopped each payment down onto the bar in front of him before sliding onto the next stool. “I’m really starting to like you, lass,” he chuckled, tossing her the payment from that morning and one of the bags of gold she’d retrieved for good measure. It was more than generous compensation for her services, but Anja was still in bad mood from earlier. It wasn’t as if she was particularly fond of any of the people she dealt with that day, but it left a sour taste in her mouth to go after so many people just trying to make a living. That’s what Anja missed most about the Imperial City. They had rules that kept beggars, the poor, and the small, mom-and-pop stores safe. Bersi would have been off-limits in Cyrodiil.

But, she took her gold and pocketed it with a curt nod. “What now?” she asked, forgoing her usual flippant smile.

“Job’s done and best of all, you did it clean,” he said, smiling, “Well done. And judging from how well you’ve handled those shopkeepers, I’d say you’ve done more than simply prove yourself. We need people like you in our outfit.”

“I’m all yours.”

“Then welcome to the Guild, lass,” he grinned and gestured to the dank tavern, “Larceny’s in your blood, the telltale sign of a practiced thief. I think you’ll do more than just fit-in around here.”

“Please tell me there’s more to this place than just this,” Anja groaned.

Brynjolf chuckled. “Aye. Follow me.” And he slipped off the stool and headed to the backroom. Anja followed him, looking forward to having a place to bed down for the night, a place to sleep, to dream away any lingering guilt, to forget the past and start over.

Notes:

Hoped you enjoyed a little extra Anja. It didn't feel right not to post the chapters one after the other. Chronologically speaking, it was necessary.

I also felt it necessary to make joining the Thieves Guild more difficult. I mean, this is a clandestine group of naves who are slow to trust. Besides, it's so much fun making Anja demonstrate the wide range of her stealthy abilities via all the hoops Brynjolf is gleefully making her jump through. And, in game, when he tells you to meet him at the Flagon like it's going to be some sort of challenge, I am expecting lengthy trials like they had in Oblivion. Ya know, like the kind that when you start it, you glance at the clock to make sure you don't have to be anywhere for the next hour, because that's at least how long it's going to take if you don't have a misstep somewhere along the way and screw everything up, so you reload your last save. So, I made the Ratway a little more of an obstacle course.

Also, I made a few dramatic changes. Drifa's addiction to Skooma, obviously. It is vaguely hinted at in the game through dialogue. The wiki page also cites an errant Skooma bottle hidden under the bed, but I didn't see it there when I checked, so...*shrugs* Anyway, I thought threatening to expose someone for use of an illegal substance was more interesting than punching a Dwemer vase until it broke, so ta-da! And then the bit about Haelga is an actual quest you can do for Svana, and, again, I thought it made for better blackmail material than stealing a statue of Dibella and threatening to destroy it. So, that's why I made those changes. I thought they were more interesting than the options the game gives you, especially when compared to the threat you can level at Keerava concerning her family. It's one thing to break a vase, it's another to threaten someone's family, so I made the severity of the other interactions just as dire as Keerava's.

Also this...

And now we can get back to Sonja...

Chapter 17: Honoring the Dead

Summary:

The Companions honor those they lost at the Western Watchtower which reminds Sonja of those she has lost.

Trigger Warning: Death and grieving.

Notes:

Sorry it's been so long since I last updated! I've been very busy lately. But I'll try to get back to updating. Read and enjoy! :)

Chapter Text

They burned Hroki’s body in the Skyforge early one morning. He was not a well-known man with little family, so no one but the Priest of Arkay, Andurs, and one or two guards who had been present when he was killed at the Western Watchtower joined the Companions to honor their fallen Shield-Brother. It wasn’t the smallest funeral Sonja had ever witnessed. The private ceremony she and Anja held for their mother bordered on a pauper’s state of affairs, but they couldn’t afford greater reverence and all Freydis’ friends and family, admirers and mentors were still back in Skyrim, unaware of her death. The thought that her mother had died almost anonymously turned Sonja’s stomach and she did her best to banish that tragic line of thinking before it blossomed into full blown guilt for something over which she had no control.

The ancient forge was noticeably cooler and not just because Sonja’s dragon blood seemed to give her a higher tolerance to the heat; everyone in attendance at the funeral stood comfortably encased in their armors of varying type. The smoldering coals in the massive hearth glowed softer, with less intensity and did not catch the pyre prematurely. How that was possible, Sonja could not fathom. When she commented on this to Faendal, Athis looked at her sideways. “Eorlund never shares his secrets,” he replied in an undertone, “Though they say the Skyforge knows when the Companions have a warrior to lay to rest upon its fires.” He winked at her then, suggesting he was just telling another story that formed the mythos surrounding the history of the Companions; perhaps one he didn’t really believe himself. But, when Sonja looked up at the cruel curve of the stone hawk’s beak, she wondered if perhaps it was true. The place had felt alive with heat and magic the first time she had visited it and even that morning, the tingle of something rippled through the cool air. She glanced at Faendal to gage his feelings about what Athis had told them, but the Bosmer merely shrugged, just as uncertain as she.

The pine planks were stacked into a short platform onto which Hroki’s mangled body was lain. He wore the armor he had died in, though Tilma had removed it the day before for Eorlund to clean and patch while she performed the cleansing rituals over the young man’s body. Sonja had watched the old woman’s practiced hands wash Hroki’s skin clean of blood, sew closed the wounds where the dragon’s fangs perforated his skin, bathe him in oils and smoke, and tenderly redress him in his polished iron armor, muttering prayers to Arkay and Shor. She wondered how many warriors Tilma had performed such duties for, if it pained her poor old heart to lay another young man to rest or if it was just another one of the many chores she was assigned within the halls of Jorrvaskr.

When Andurs was done giving Hroki his last rights, he stepped aside so the Harbinger could address the Companions all crowded together on the platform of the Skyforge. Even in his advanced age, Kodlak was still an imposing figure. The mass of his body had not shrunken with age and his thick facial hair hid most of the wrinkles of his face. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the white of his hair or the distinguished creases around his eyes, he would have been ageless. Easily the equal to any younger man. He did not look haggard or worn thin from years long past. No, the passage of time had not crashed upon him like endless waves upon a rocky shore, the more powerful water eroding away vital pieces until nothing was left; it had flooded him instead, filled him with a wisdom that would have broken a weaker heart.

“Hroki Fjordmundsen of Falkreath died honorably in the fight against a dragon at the Western Watchtower,” he stated, his voice stern and clear, “He was a good man. Pure of heart. And though he relished the thrill of battle, desired the glory of victory, and sought to honor his Shield-Siblings, he did not come to Jorrvaskr in search of these things.” He paused, his gaze passing over the faces of the Circle first, lingering on Vilkas before moving onto the other Companions. “He came before me with a heart full of fire, of strength—of family. Not one that he had, for he was alone in this word before he came to us, but one that he had yet to make for himself. And his arm proved strong enough to defend that wish. Brief though his time was amongst us, he found what he was looking for in his Shield-Siblings and we honor his passing now as the family he yearned for.” Eorlund stepped forward then, offering the torch to light the pyre to Kodlak. The Harbinger accepted it, but instead of turning to face Hroki’s corpse, he offered the torch to Vilkas instead.

From the way the rest of the Companions exchanged interested glances, Sonja got the feeling that it was traditional for the Harbinger to send all Companions, Circle and Whelp alike, on to the next life. That he was offering that duty to Vilkas instead was unusual, but none of the Circle seemed surprised. Even Vilkas seemed to understand what Kodlak was wordlessly communicating and he accepted the torch humbly. Sonja watched as he approached the Skyforge with appropriate mournful expression. “Hroki Fjordmundsen,” he said, “You were not alone in this world, brother.” And he lit the pyre. “Before the ancient flame…”

“We grieve,” came the reply from all but Sonja who did not know the proper responses.

“At this loss,” Kodlak continued.

“We weep.”

“For the fallen,” Skjor said.

“We shout.”

“And for ourselves,” Farkas stated with finality.

“We take our leave.” And the Companions turned away as one, filing toward the steps, Circle members first, but for Vilkas and Kodlak who remained.

Sonja watched the pair of men as she waited for her Shield-Siblings to move passed her so she could fall in line behind them. The elder was saying something in an undertone to the younger and a heavier cloud settled in over Vilkas’ face. “It is still no excuse,” he said to Kodlak, obviously irritated, and the Harbinger sighed with exasperation.

“Train that temper like you train your blade and you’ll find peace, son,” Kodlak commented sagely before taking his leave.

Sonja immediately halted her progress to the stairs to allow Kodlak to go ahead of her. He cast her a kind, but brief smile as he passed her which she returned with uncertainty. Faendal followed him down, tugging on the end of Sonja’s braid as he did so which caused her to roll her eyes. Sometimes the hunter acted more like a younger sibling than a traveling companion. She made to follow him and leave Vilkas to whatever moody thoughts were swimming through that incredibly broody head of his when she heard him speak softly, as if his words were intended only for Hroki, “Keep your brother and he’ll keep you.”

Her step faltered, realization dawning. Kodlak had placed Vilkas in charge of the Newbloods the night Hroki was killed. ‘Keep an eye on them all. Bring them back safe. Keep your brother and he’ll keep you.’ Sonja glanced back at Vilkas. She didn’t know how she didn’t recognize that expression before; it had nearly suffocated her once when she lost someone she couldn’t save—still did, some nights when she tortured herself with the memory of her younger brother: guilt. She pursed her lips, searching for something to say, from one warrior to another, that would ease the burden, but nothing came to mind. It wouldn’t have helped even if she had thought of anything anyway. It hadn’t made a difference when Thornir was killed; why would it make a difference now? So, she left him to his thoughts instead, and Vilkas counted her footsteps until he was sure she was gone.


“Not hungry?” Faendal asked through a mouthful of venison he quickly washed down with a swig of mead so large, Sonja was surprised it didn’t dribble down his front.

Sonja had been pushing her food around her plate with her silverware since the feast started a half hour before. It was long cold by now. A simple spell would heat it again if she seriously wanted pursue her meal, but she was certain it would cost one Companion or another their appetite if she used magic at the feasting table. Sighing, she dropped the fork onto the plate and pushed it away. “Got a lot on my mind,” she grunted distractedly.

“Aye, I can see that,” the elf observed, pausing to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, “You’ve been quiet since the funeral this morning.” More accurately, she had been quiet since the events of the Western Watchtower, but it seemed easier—and safer—to ask her feelings on a funeral for someone she hardly knew than it was to mention being Dragonborn.

Sonja shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“And I’m High Queen of Skyrim.”

She winced. “That is a mental image I will never be able to unsee.”

“I’d make a lovely queen,” Faendal sniffed as if insulted. A small smile flit across her face at the joke, but she knew he was making an extra effort to make her laugh. The amusement dissolved from her face almost as quickly as it had appeared, tugging the corners of Faendal’s smile downward in the process. “It’s difficult, you know?” he said suddenly, drawing her attention again, for her gaze had shifted into unfocused without her realizing it.

“What?”

“Reading your mind,” he answered, “I thought I’d get better at it, following you, but it doesn’t get easier.”

“Stick around,” she replied, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.” But his comment about reading her mind reminded her of yet another friend she had to leave behind in Cyrodiil. Falare Guérisseur. The best—and possibly scariest—Restorations Master she ever had the pleasure of meeting. Adopted daughter of her favorite professor at the University, Uthgar Frost-Hammer, but her magical abilities had surpassed even him. And she had an infuriating ability to read those around her like open books. Seemingly all-knowing and debilitatingly charming, she used her uncanny ability to sense the pain in others and heal it. Sonja had never known a kinder soul—or a sharper tongue. Falare had been the closest thing she had ever known to an aunt, and she hadn’t even said goodbye before she left to chase down Anja. That was unkind. Guiltily, she hoped Falare would make peace with her and Anja’s disappearances instead of being discontented by them, but she doubted it. The half-Altmer’s heart was too big. I should write to her…she thought, but it was a vague promise to herself that was more likely to go unfulfilled.

Faendal smiled and opened his mouth to give a witty retort, but thought better of it. It would only be wasted on her at the moment, anyway; she wasn’t really listening to him. He considered her a while in the silence that lapsed between them because she was too distracted to maintain the conversation. She looked very different when distracted. At any given moment, she was intimidating, but when she wasn’t on guard, when her mind was elsewhere, she looked different. Softer, but not fragile. Just eased. Even with the gentle scowl that tugged across her brow, she, like a certain surly Companion, had mastered the brood to the point that it had become charming. But, serious thoughts were woven into that persistent furrow and, though Faendal couldn’t read her mind, he could hazard a guess as to what was on it. “Are you thinking of your family?” he asked softly, unable to keep himself from prying.

Her eyes snapped back in his direction and he saw her immediately assemble a wall of protection in her expression, her body language was already shifting toward indifference, and she opened her mouth in preparation of delivering the inevitable negative. But in the very next second, she seemed to think better of it and her whole demeanor deflated a little as if she were giving in. As quickly as it was created, the wall disappeared and she looked startlingly vulnerable. “I think you might be better at reading my mind than you think,” she admitted and then she iced over again, not enough to be unreadable, but restrained.

“High praise from you.”

“Likely the only you’ll get.”

The Bosmer shrugged. “I’m a hunter…”

“It pays to notice things,” she finished, smiling ruefully, “Yes, I remember.”

Faendal scoffed. “I won’t ever live that down, will I?”

“Not anytime soon.”

He sighed, but wasn’t put off by her teasing. Silence lapsed between them again, but it felt more companionable than the stark quiet from before. Still, Faendal decided to push his luck a little further. ‘Provide a truth for a truth,’ his mother always said. Her way of reminding him always to be honest if he wanted honesty from others. “I lost my elder sister a few decades back,” he revealed, “She and I were very close—and her death—was not an easy thing to bear.”

Sonja looked at him, her brow puckered with sympathy. “It never gets easier,” she agreed, “I’m sorry.”

He paused. “I still go out to honor her in the old way every spring,” he added, “I think of her every day, but…”

Sonja cocked her head to one side, thoughtfully. “Somedays, it won’t hurt at all and you’ll be glad for the time you had. And other days—it feels like you just lost them,” she stated, her voice pitched low and away from the rest of the boisterous conversation sailing across the feasting table, her hands twisting knots out of her fingers in her lap. An oddly anxious habit of hers that seemed completely out of place against the hard backdrop of her personality.

Faendal’s heart twisted and he nodded, agreeing with her words. “Her name was Aife and she loved the rain.” And she was beautiful and brave and strong. The keenest hunter and kindest woman he had ever known. A true Bosmer of the wilds who had a way with the creatures of the wood that bordered on the divine. But she was dead now; only his memory of all the lovely pieces of her soul kept her alive. He smiled sourly and sighed, suddenly feeling very depressed.

Sonja nodded, sharing her friend’s feelings. “Today is not a good day.”

“No. It is not.”

Her brow furrowed and she scratched at the grain of the table. “I should go to the Hall of the Dead to see my mother,” she said gently, not meeting his gaze. A statement with a hidden question beneath it. She was asking him if he thought she should go.

“There’s nothing wrong with honoring the dead,” he stated. She gave a little nod as if making up her mind. “I’ll go with you, if you like,” he offered.

“No,” she assured, “I—would like to be alone.”

Faendal understood that. Since her arrival in Whiterun, she had been avoiding going to the most obvious place for information on Anja. Her reasons were her own, of course, but it seemed obvious to him that she simply wasn’t ready for whatever feelings seeing her mother’s urn would unexpectedly dredge up. And in light of recent events—well, if there was ever a time anyone wished they had the counsel of a beloved parent, it was in finding out one was Dragonborn. That was no easy burden. “Of course,” he nodded, “Do as you must.”

She looked at him then and smiled weakly, but friendly and patted his shoulder with a touch of affection that was not wasted on him. “Thanks,” she muttered and then she left the table and headed downstairs to change out of her armor.


The Hall of the Dead was easy enough to find; she’d passed it enough times during her short stay in Whiterun that Faendal had pointed it out repeatedly, but Sonja had avoided going in as much as possible. Even as she descended the steps down into the temple in the cool evening air, she wasn’t entirely certain she was prepared to go inside, but her body moved independent of her indecisive mind and she entered the silent temple. Dozens of candles and a handful of torches bracketed to the walls filled the crypt with light, but the stale air of death and underground still hung heavy in the air.

She moved further in, casting uncertain glances around the empty room. At least, she thought it was empty. At the far end by the Shrine of Arkay, the balding, older man she knew as Andurs from that morning’s funeral for Hroki was kneeling in prayer. Unsure of what to do, but not wanting to disrupt the priest’s evening rituals, she hung back awkwardly and waited. It wasn’t long before the priest concluded his prayers and turned to greet her. “I am Andurs, Priest of Arkay,” he said, not recognizing her from the sea of faces that made up the Companions.

“I know. I was at the service this morning…”

“Ah, a Companion, then?”

“A Whelp.”

Andurs nodded. “I’ve seen more Whelps from Jorrvaskr into the arms of Arkay than I care to think about,” he admitted, “So stay sharp, will you? I’d hate to be standing over your pyre next.”

Sonja smiled hollowly. Obviously, the priest had not yet heard what had happened at the Western Watchtower, or that she had anything to do with it. “Of course.”

“Now, how can I help you this evening?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me?”

“Certainly, I will answer what I can,” Andurs beckoned for her to follow him to a nearby bench and to take a seat beside him.

Sonja settled onto the bench, feeling a bit nervous for the questions she was about to ask. “I was wondering if a young woman had come by here recently with the remains of Freydis Ironheart…?” she began.

“Anja?” the priest interrupted.

“Yes!” she confirmed, “You spoke with her?”

“Spoke with her? I put her up for a couple of nights,” Andurs chuckled, “It was the least I could do after she retrieved my amulet for me. Spitfire that one. Brave girl. Didn’t even flinch when I warned her there would be undead in the crypt.” He smiled. Obviously, in the short time she had spent with the old man, Anja had endeared herself to him. She’d even trusted him enough to give him her real name instead of the alias she had been using all over town.

“Where did she go?”

The old priest leaned forward to peer at Sonja thoughtfully. “You must be her sister,” he observed, “You look a lot like her.”

Sonja nodded and pursed her lips. “Told you about me, did she?”

“Aye.”

She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck to ease some of the tension building there. “It’s not all true,” she said, darkly, “But Anja isn’t without reason to hate me.”

Andurs smiled sadly and Sonja half expected, half hoped he would reassure her that Anja had not spoken ill of her, but he didn’t. “She said she was going to take a carriage out of town, but I’m not sure to where,” Andurs replied apologetically.

Sonja nodded, disappointed. “Could I see her?” she asked, hesitantly, “My mother, I mean? Could I go to her?”

A brief smile of warmth and understanding flashed across the priest’s face. “Of course,” he said and then he stood from the bench and crossed to the door opposite the entrance. He opened the door and stepped through. Sonja followed him into the darkened catacombs, nearly choking on the thick, musty air. “This way,” he said and he gestured down the hall to a small chamber where several urns were placed inside loculi carved into the walls, amidst sporadic candles. Andurs stepped inside and gestured to one of the smaller niches, only large enough to house a single urn.

Three small, white candles lined the base of the vessel. Sonja recognized them as the crisp, slow-burning kind that the chapels stocked. Stolen straight from the Imperial City’s chapel supply, no doubt, but she couldn’t begrudge her sister’s theft. Not this time. Not when it was for something so thoughtful. Secured against the wax of the candle on the left was a steel pendant: the Imperial crest given to legionnaires for identification purposes. It was Thornir’s. Seeing it caused an awful twist in Sonja’s chest, and she briefly shut her eyes and took a deep breath as if she had had the wind knocked from her. A raven feather was tied against the candle on the right. A memento of Anja and her affinity for the shadows. There was nothing tied to the center candle and it remained unlit.

The lack of flame made the white candle seem stark and cold, but it was her candle. Sonja knew Anja had meant it for her. That it was bare and unlit was only a sad indicator of their broken relationship. There was no warmth between them anymore and after Thornir died, after everything that had happened, after all the ways they had changed, they were little better than strangers to each other anymore. Anja hadn’t left Sonja’s candle untouched because she had lacked a personal possession with which to honor their mother; if that had been the case, she could have easily stolen one from Sonja before she had left for Skyrim. No, the candle was left blank because Anja didn’t know her own sister well enough to represent her. That realization hung heavily around Sonja’s neck.

“Here rests Freydis Ironheart,” Andurs said. He lingered by the doorway, watching her approach her mother’s ashes as if closing in on a wounded animal: slow and steady and unsure. He’d seen hundreds of families visit their loved ones in the crypt, witnessed a thousand different ways to grieve, held countless hands, and wiped away endless tears during his time as a Priest of Arkay. It had been hardest when he was a young man, fresh to the profession and unprepared for the weight of grief, but even now that he had aged and learned how to grant peace to both living and the dead, the one thing that never grew easier with time was watching that first terrible shudder of the shoulders. That first trembling sob like the soul trying to shake loose from the bones that caged it, from the sharp mortal pain of grief.

Sonja’s hands shook a little when she reached out to touch her mother’s urn and the smallest, warble of a sob escaped her lips, little louder than a whisper and garbled, thick and wet, from the tears gathering in her eyes. And as her fingers fell over the designs carved into the surface of the urn, she felt something give way. Some secret, tangled ball of pain, begin to unravel. There was much she had not yet forgiven herself for and more still she never would, but for a moment, it didn’t feel as toxic as it did before when laid against the enormity of recent events. “Had you not seen her when she was interred in Cyrodiil?” Andurs asked.

Sonja shook her head and angrily wiped away her tears. She was surprised at her lack of control. It almost disgusted her. Pull yourself together! And she buried her pain down deep where she thought it belonged. Where it could fester again. “I—no,” she coughed, clearing her throat, “It’s just—I should have been the one to bring her here.”

“It’s alright, child. You are here now.”

“Yes,” she said, and she stroked the Nordic swirl near the neck of the urn, “I’m here now.” But she had come close to staying in Cyrodiil. She almost hadn’t followed Anja when she left. Sonja thought her sister would fail without her, thought she’d give up and come back home. She wanted her to. So I wouldn’t be miserable alone, she thought, but she couldn’t speak the words aloud. They were too shameful. Instead, she produced a little dancing flame at the tip of her damaged forefinger and tilted it against the wick of the candle, lighting it. But she left the candle blank, unsure of what pieces of herself made any sense to leave behind now when everything felt so alien.

Andurs watched her, but maintained his silence. Whatever words of comfort he could offer would be wasted on her. Besides, there was nothing to say. Nothing with which to fill the silence. Nothing to make the ache less. Not this one, anyway. He could tell. It was old and worn in. Private. “I’ll give you some time alone,” he said sadly, wishing there was something more that he could do.

Sonja listened to his footsteps echo back through the crypt as he left her there, standing in front of her mother’s ashes. “I’m sorry,” she said when she was certain he was far enough not to overhear her and she traced the carving on the urn again, “For everything. For Corvus. For Thornir. For father—for Anja. I know it was all my fault…” Death had such a way of etching the past into stone, of carving mistakes into the unforgiving annals of a memory that only conjures torturous ghosts and remembers only the worst. She closed her eyes, blinking away the tears, and leaned forward, pressing her lips against the cool stone of urn’s lid. “I’ll do better ma,” she whispered. Too little, too late, she thought, but it was the only thing she could hold onto.

As she turned to leave, the flickering of the candle caught the smooth cream color of folded parchment wedged between her mother’s urn and the wall of the loculi. She had missed it before, but now wondered how it could have escaped her notice in the first place. She ran a finger along the spine of the fold; it teetered beneath the weight of the digit and dislodged, fluttering to the floor. Sonja bent to pick it up. It was a letter, neatly folded and sealed with a smear of crimson wax like a bloody rosebud. The symbol embossed in the wax was a shield marked with the head of a wolf. She brushed the ridges of it with her fingertip and turned it over in her hand, reading the name written on the back in beautiful, looped cursive: Freydis.

She popped the seal clean from the page with a flick of her fingers and unfolded it as quickly as she could without tearing the paper. A silver charm on a chain fell loose from the folds and slid onto her open palm. It was engraved with the same symbol from the wax seal. Sonja’s brow furrowed as she turned the pendent over in her hands, lacing the chain through her fingers, and then she turned her gaze back to the letter. Her gut immediately tightened the moment she read the first word:

Sister,

I know this letter is too little, too late. Decades have passed and the daughter you were heavy with when you first wrote to me has grown into a woman very like yourself. She spits fire and glares daggers just like you. And she reminded me of what a fool I have been.

You said once that the twin of your heart beat in my breast, that I knew you best amongst our sisters. You were right, but it took me much longer to see through my own anger than it should have. You know me best, Freydis. I think you understand. At least, I like to think you do, and now my rage is replaced with mourning.

Always losing you, I cannot undo the years of silence between us and your death prevents me from even trying. All I can do is pray for the glory of your soul in Sovngarde and write the words to you I should have all those years ago.

I understand, Freydis. I always have and I don’t blame you for leaving. I prayed to Mara for the safe delivery of each of your children—and for your marriage to Remus when you finally agreed to marry him. I prayed to Talos and Arkay when Thornir died and lit incense for him at the Hall of the Dead. I even prayed that Shor would take an Imperial to Sovngarde when Remus was killed. I grieved for them and the weight of their loss on your heart.

And your daughters, Ysgramor’s beard, your girls are something else. There’s no doubting you’re their mother. Even the small, sneaky one. Fire in her eyes, too. Especially when she’s mad, and she was none too pleased with me. Either of them. You must have had your hands full raising them. And I’m sorry I refused to be a part of their lives—and yours.

Goodbye, Freydis. Find peace in Sovngarde.

Hera

Sonja almost crumpled the letter in her hands, but somehow managed to remind herself that it was not her place to do so. The letter was not written for her. It was not offered in her memory. It was addressed to her mother and its contents were a matter between sisters. Estranged though they were, it wasn’t right for Sonja to put herself between them—but that line of reasoning did little to cool the anger building in her gut. She squeezed the necklace in her hand so tightly, the chain cut into the flesh of her fingers. How dare she? She marveled at the gall of her estranged aunt. She was silent for decades and now, only upon hearing of Freydis’ death, did she feel guilty enough to answer one of, what Sonja assumed to be, hundreds of unanswered letters. She doesn’t deserve peace of mind after what she failed to do…

“That doesn’t belong to you,” an irritatingly familiar voice said from the doorway behind her.

Sonja’s back stiffened razor straight. “What are you doing here?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Hera scoffed and leaned in the doorway, her sharp blue eyes darting between the back of Sonja’s head and the amulet clutched in her hands. “Not your concern, is it?” she stated.

Sonja pursed her lips and turned to face Hera. “You don’t deserve forgiveness for turning your back on her. On us,” she said, “Not from my mother. And not from me.”

Hera’s expression tightened and she made a sound of disgust, but she straightened and stepped further in the chamber, her eyes glaring into the matching set in Sonja’s face. “I heard what happened at the watchtower,” she said, “They say you’re Dragonborn. Piss for brains the lot of them, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what walking god you think you are, you have no right to pass judgement on me, pet. You have no idea who you’re playing with.”

Possessed with a sense of rage so strong that she wanted to strike her aunt. It was heady, intoxicating, and completely uncharacteristic. With profound effort, she choked it back, reminding herself of where she was. If there was ever going to be a fight with her aunt, it wouldn’t be over her mother’s ashes. But she did draw herself up to her full height and move into her aunt’s space, their noses inches apart. “Neither do you,” she growled, “And whose fault is that?” Then she pushed passed Hera, shoving the letter and pendant into her chest as she did so.

“A lot of blame tossed my way by a woman who doesn’t know where her own sister has run off to,” Hera sniffed as she carefully refolded the letter, “Anja never mentioned you when she came knocking on my door. I wonder why?” Tension crept back into Sonja’s shoulders, but she didn’t turn around to confront her aunt. Instead, she stormed off, back through the catacombs and out of the temple, her fists clenched and her expression writhe with intense, draconic rage.

Chapter 18: Nature of the Beast

Summary:

Sonja struggles with the dragon within her, but Vilkas sets her straight. Then Sonja strikes a mutually beneficial business arrangement with a certain aspiring merchant woman.

Notes:

Long time, no post, my lovelies! Life's been too crazy lately, but I haven't forgotten all you lovely people. I'll try to get back to posting regularly. Until the next chapter, enjoy!

Sonja PoV.

Trigger Warning: Minor threat of death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Ah, son of whore!” Torvar snarled, his voice muffled by the tent of his hands over his bleeding nose. “You hit like a godsdamned giant!”

Sonja stood a few feet away, resting the tip of one of the blunted practice swords against her boot, the other over her shoulder, and staring at Torvar with an expression that was vaguely apologetic, but mostly irritated since his injury drew their spar to an abrupt end. “You should have ducked,” she stated dully.

“Ya think?” the drunk demanded, some of the blood from his nose mixing in the spittle from his mouth.

Sonja shrugged. “I didn’t think you could feel much pain anymore,” she replied sharply, “Haven’t you drunk yourself numb by now?”

“Why you…!” There wasn’t much said after that that made any sense. Torvar was made irrational from the pain and the sting of Sonja’s insult, so he just went on sputtering incoherent nonsense while she watched him, a little more amused than was strictly necessary.

Their ruckus drew Vilkas’ attention from Ria and Njada who were practicing the new forms he had just taught them against each other. More accurately, it was the scent of familiar blood that captured his interest. When he saw Torvar’s broken nose, he sighed irritably and pinched the bridge of his own nose as if to stave off a headache.

That was the third time that week that Sonja had broken something on one of her sparring partners. She had broken Tor’s wrist the first day when she moved to disarm him. Popped Oghrin’s arm from his shoulder several days later and crushed Nila’s ribcage in the days that followed. She wasn’t allowed to train with the other Whelps after that. For their own safety. But full-blown Companions fared little better. Ria had several of her fingers broken and Athis flat out refused to fight with her. Njada had been game to become Sonja’s sparring partner, but Vilkas had the sneaking suspicion that she had only made the offer for the chance to inflict a little pain back on Sonja—which he wasn’t completely against. Still, he decided it was better not to put the Dragonborn in the yard with someone who had a specific agenda to harm her. Not yet, at least. Besides, Torvar had volunteered himself, but only whilst very intoxicated and Vilkas was sure the drunk thought he was being selected for something else entirely.

If she was anyone else, he’d think she had done it intentionally or at least failed to understand the concept of pulling punches in the training yard. But he’d watched her spar. Saw the consternation in her face when she felt bone or joint give way. Complete accidents. He’d seen that look before in the faces of New Wolves. The struggle to balance new physiology. Increased speed, strength, and senses. He didn’t know if it was the same for the Dragonborn, but, judging by the ease with which she was injuring her Shield-Siblings, it certainly seemed to be the case. “Ironheart,” he barked, “Either set Torvar’s face right or call for Danica.”

Sonja glanced back at him; her amusement melted clean from her face and she scoffed, but did as she was told, closing the space between her and Torvar before he could get the chance to duck away. She gripped his nose unnecessarily hard, straightened and healed it seamlessly. Torvar struggled against her hand, but stilled as soon as he felt the healing magic. He still jerked away as soon as her grip slackened and stalked off to the porch to find himself a drink. Sonja watched him go, dropping the practice swords in the dirt and tugging her bracers loose. As much as Vilkas disliked magic, Sonja’s skills were incredibly useful, especially after all the Whelps and Companions she had hurt over the last couple weeks.

He approached her as she tugged her gloves and bracers off. She was wearing practice leathers instead of her good armor. Apparently, it weighed about the same, despite the lack of metal plates. Sparse bits of paneling, gussets, and ties covering all the important, tender areas: chest, shoulders, and joints. But it left her midsection bare to take a bit of punishment if she got sloppy. And sometimes she was. There were a few deep purple bruises blooming over her side and across her lower abdominal—and a particularly embarrassing one in her lower back where Ria had checked her when Sonja had been overzealous in her offense. But Sonja wore the marks with very little indication of pain or even discomfort. No, she showed greater distress from her injured hand which she was trying to roll the stiffness out of when Vilkas finally reached her.

“Stop breaking my Shield-Siblings,” he grunted.

“Stop pairing me with so many delicate warriors,” she replied hotly, “When you offered to train me, I didn’t think you’d just throw a bunch of Whelps at me like I was any other Newblood.”

“When you accepted my offer, I didn’t think you’d question my every decision,” he snapped back.

“Not every decision. Just the bad ones.”

Mara’s ass, not even the goddess of mercy has enough patience to deal with this woman, he thought irritably and his jaw clenched painfully. “I paired you with Tor because, like you, he dual-wields twin swords,” he stated gruffly, “Oghrin is a heavy hitter and Nila is small, but fast and quick with her daggers. If I’m going to train you, I need to see where you are strong and where you are weak. I won’t get that from a single trial. I chose Whelps because you are still just a Whelp to us. You will pay your dues like everyone else.”

Sonja scoffed. “Like Ria and Torvar?” she asked.

“Ria outclassed you,” he reminded her, jamming his thumb into the bruise on her back. Sonja’s mouth thinned and she stepped away from his hand, refusing to show pain, “Because she practices every day. Trains hard. Does what I tell her to and, most importantly, does not think herself above my instruction.”

The Dragonborn’s mouth twitched in irritation and her eyes narrowed. Sonja hadn’t struck him as the type to be arrogant. In fact, she had proven herself very humble when it mattered most. But she was struggling with something lately. He could tell. She was short tempered and generally irritable. Growing increasingly frustrated with something. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone had gone ahead and Changed her like…Like…He dismissed the thought immediately, refusing to allow himself to even think her name. Besides, Sonja wasn’t like her. Not really. Too stubborn and moody and infuriating like…Like me. That was an unwelcome comparison, but it was hard to ignore once made and he grumbled to himself in grudging acknowledgement.

“Fine,” he growled, “You think you’re too good for your brothers and sisters? Then let’s see how you fair against your betters.” Sonja’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Aela!” Vilkas called.

The Huntress was on the other side of the yard, making adjustments to Faendal and Nila’s postures as they stood with bows drawn and aimed at the targets down the way. When she heard her name called, she paused, her head popping up like a deer as she looked to her Shield-Sibling. “Yes?” she called back, her voice stern.

“Will you step into the ring with Sonja?” he asked. Aela wasn’t another one of the Whelps or Companions he could just command to do his bidding. She was a member of the Circle, his Blood-Sister.

Aela raised an eyebrow in interest and then nodded. She told Faendal and Nila to keep practicing and then joined Vilkas and Sonja. “Don’t pull any punches, sister,” Vilkas said as he backed up far enough to allow the women room, “Sonja won’t.”

The Huntress seemed eerily pleased at the prospect which didn’t surprise Vilkas, given his knowledge of Aela’s nightly hunts, but made Sonja incredibly uncomfortable. Hurriedly, Sonja retrieved her shed leathers from the ground and impatiently tightened them as quickly as she could before she flicked her discarded swords with the toe of her boot into her hands. As soon as she was ready, the Huntress launched herself at the Dragonborn without warning.

Sonja had expected Aela to be highly aggressive, but she still wasn’t prepared for the shear ferocity with which she was attacked. Archers and dagger wielders tended to be petite and light of foot. Case in point, Faendal and her sister, Anja. Their compact build leant the required dexterity and quickness necessary for dodging attacks or putting enough space between them and their attacker so they could get as many shots off with a bow as they could in the interim. Simply put, longer limbs were harder to move quickly. Though leaner than the rest of the Circle, Aela was not small. Long arms, long legs. Long reach, long stride. She was quicker than any archer Sonja had ever fought before and stronger too.

“She’s faster than you,” Vilkas said, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the fight, “She will always be faster than you. Stop chasing her. She’ll run circles around you until you’re exhausted. Make her come to you.”

His sideline comments distracted her and the hilt of Aela’s blade connected with Sonja’s mouth, cutting her lip open. She staggered back from the force of the blow and Aela retreated a couple steps to let her regain her footing. Sonja growled and spat blood onto the dirt. Vilkas actually smirked. “Of course, you still have to be ready for her when she does,” he commented dryly and Sonja glared at him, “Try again.”

Sonja spat again and refocused her attention on Aela who immediately attacked her, relieving her of one of her swords and driving her elbow into Sonja’s face, thoroughly breaking her nose. Vision blurring with unshed tears and a new wave of pain, she staggered again, lurching sideways to avoid the body strike she knew Aela was going to deliver in her disorientation. “Aela…” Vilkas said softly, chastising the Huntress.

“You said not to pull punches,” Aela reminded him.

He scoffed, but didn’t respond, addressing Sonja instead, “Come on, Ironheart. Try again.” Gritting her teeth against the pain and popping her nose back into position, but not healing it, Sonja righted herself in time to block one of Aela’s vicious attacks. “Better,” Vilkas acknowledged, “Now parry. Counterstrike.”

Easier said than done. It took a few tries, but Sonja managed to successfully parry some of Aela’s attacks, though counterstrikes were far more difficult. Especially when she was down a weapon. Without a blade or a spell in her left hand, Sonja didn’t know what to do with it. “Make a fist, Ironheart,” Vilkas sighed when he noticed she was awkwardly flexing her free hand, “It’s not useless, even without a weapon.”

Irritating as she found Vilkas at the moment, she still did as he said and the next time Aela attacked, her closed fist came in handy when she finally managed to counter the Huntress and clock her across the jaw. Aela grunted and danced out of reach before Sonja could do more. Vilkas chuckled. “Much better, whelp,” he said approvingly, “Now put her on her ass, Aela.”

A very intimidating, very Wolfish grin spread over Aela’s face and before Sonja could do anything to protect herself, she was on her back, the wind knocked out of her as she stared up at the sky. Vilkas came into view, his smug face smirking down at her. “Stay down there a while,” he grunted, “Gain some perspective.”

Sonja glared and roared skyward as Vilkas walked away from her. She was overcome with a rage burning deep in her belly. She was belligerent. Uncontrollable. It made no sense, but she felt consumed by such palpable anger, it was intoxicating. How dare he? Who is he to slight me? Insult me? Leave me in the dirt? She snarled, scrambling to her feet, and charged Vilkas with only her practice blade clutched tightly in her hand. She wasn’t even aware she was still holding onto it, but her grip was iron on the hilt. “Vilkas!” It was Aela warning her Shield-Brother who was approaching his turned back, but Sonja’s mouth was already twisting to form a Word.

Just as her lips tucked against her teeth in the hiss of the first consonant, Vilkas spun around, his white-blue eyes menacing amidst the smear of black war paint. Fierce. Almost luminescent and he grabbed Sonja by her shoulders, tossing her effortlessly against the back doors to Jorrvaskr and pinning her there. One thick arm crossed her throat, applying enough pressure to keep her from speaking, and the hard muscle of his thigh was wedged so high between her legs she was practically sitting on his knee, her toes grazing the stones beneath her as she struggled to alleviate the pressure against her voice box.

Vilkas growled, his expression warped into a viscous, animalistic snarl as his hard gaze bored into Sonja’s face. He was flirting along the line between Beast and man. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his jaws almost ached with a profound desire to bite into flesh. His patience, his control, was thinning and here was this infuriating Newblood testing his resolve. And she was the fucking Dragonborn, no less! When he looked into her face, he saw the same draconic sneer as the night they killed the dragon—saw the same glimmer of gold in her eyes—and he knew that one of them had to reign in their animal before someone got hurt. “I should throw you out on your ass, Ironheart,” he rumbled into her ear, “I’ve beaten Newbloods senseless for less.”

“Do it,” she choked out, daring him with an arrogant glint in her eye. So utterly fearless it bordered on foolhardy.

“We made a deal,” he reminded her, forcing himself to focus on a whorl in the grain of the wood of the door instead of his anger, “And I intend to keep it.”

“Fuck you.”

She was not making this easier on him.

“Damn, stubborn wench,” he snapped, “You’re more dragon than woman, right now! Is this what you want? To give in to it? To let it swallow you whole?” He was speaking as much to himself as he was to her. Maybe if he treated her like a New Wolf, she’d be easier to handle.

Sonja went lax in his grip then. For a moment, he feared he had pushed too hard and deprived her of oxygen long enough to render her unconscious, but when he leaned back to look at her face, he saw the softness of her features, the look of defeat in her blue eyes—and she looked startlingly close to crying. He eased off of her, setting her back onto the floor. “Thank you,” she said dully and he gawped at her as if she were insane, “I think—I think I might need that from time to time.”

“A beating?”

She looked at him, a little cross-eyed, her face still busted up from her fight with Aela, and nodded. “A reminder.” And then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the door while taking several deep breaths like she had just come up for air out of the depths of an ocean. Vilkas wondered if that’s what it felt like, if she really was drowning in the chaos of it all.


Sonja conjured a hunk of ice in the palm of her hand and promptly held the hard chunk against her broken nose. She still hadn’t healed it, electing for a little self-flagellation instead. As far as she was concerned, she deserved it. Taking a page out of Uthgerd’s book…her transgression had been startlingly similar to the old warrior’s own disgraceful tale. Though she hadn’t actually succeeded in killing Vilkas, it wasn’t for lack of trying. She winced when the ice shifted over her nose and groaned, thoroughly ashamed of herself for that morning’s training fiasco. What on Nirn came over me? she wondered, but it wasn’t really a mystery to her. She could feel the hot breath of the dragon inside her ribcage, the serpentine slither of its scales beneath her skin. It made her shiver.

She’d been feeling the dragon’s wrath since the argument with her aunt, but that wasn’t the source, only the inciting incident, the ignition, and she was still fighting it. Though, she wouldn’t deny that the idea of smacking Hera around gave her a perverse sense of pleasure. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying her nerves, determined not to be undone by the fire in her belly.

Her silent reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door smacking open against her chair. She grunted first in pain and then annoyance as the force of the action, bumped the arm holding the ice, knocking it hard against her face. Opening her eyes, she glared at the offending intruder only to be confronted with the surly, brood of Vilkas. Without so much as an apologetic glance in her direction, he kicked out the chair across the table from her and sat down with two tankards in his hands, sliding one of the drinks her way. She caught it before it fell off the edge into her lap. The metal was warm in her hand and the liquid inside it steamed hot through the cool air. “What’s this?” she asked, “Pity?”

“Tilma insisted on it,” he replied.

“I don’t want it.”

He shrugged, unconcerned and took a sip of his own. “It won’t fix your face or your pride,” he assured her, “But it will make an old woman happy.”

Sonja pursed her lips, hesitating only briefly before taking up the tankard and sipping. Mulled cider. Sweet, spiced, and heady. It stung her nose and she set it back on the table, blinking the fresh wave of tears from her eyes. “So what happens now?” she asked, wondering if perhaps Vilkas had changed his mind about throwing her out of Jorrvaskr. She had almost used her thu’um against him, after all. It could have killed him. Oblivion take her, that had been her intention when she charged his turned back, blinded by draconic pride.

“You train with me now,” he stated, “And only me. First thing in the morning.”

“You’re not afraid I’ll come after you again?”

“I welcome you to try, Dragonborn,” he replied evenly.

She actually appreciated his arrogance in that moment. If there was one thing she needed in the ring, it was a sparring partner who wouldn’t break beneath her newfound strength. “I am—sorry—for trying to—kill you, earlier,” she said, haltingly, hating the fact that there was anything for which to apologize in the first place.

Vilkas was quiet a moment, his eyes dancing over her face as if he was trying to determine whether or not she meant it. Apparently satisfied that she was sincere, he shrugged, indifferent. “I don’t take it personally,” he grunted.

“The Companions weren’t so kind on Uthgerd,” she pointed out, “What makes this any different?”

“You know Uthgerd?”

“I fought with her.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Then drank with her. She’s a good woman.”

Vilkas scoffed. “I don’t pretend to know different,” he replied, “Kodlak thought she was worth the trial and she failed. That is all. If you want to know more, perhaps you should ask the old man about it.”

“I’m asking you.”

He scoffed. “I was out on a job when it happened. I didn’t oversee her trial.”

“Who did?”

“Farkas.”

Sonja considered seeking the larger twin out, wanting to know why she was spared exile when her friend down at the Bannered Mare was not. Perhaps it was a simple matter of end results rather than intention. Uthgerd had succeeded where Sonja had not—not that she lamented her failure to kill Vilkas. If ever there was a time she was relieved to have been beaten silly, it was that morning. “Perhaps I will speak with Kodlak,” she said absently, taking another stinging drink of cider.

Vilkas sighed and set his drink down a little harder than necessary. “The difference between you and Uthgerd is that she was hotheaded and violent, unfocused and dangerous,” he explained.

“And I wasn’t?”

“You’ve got a dragon in your blood, Whelp,” he replied, “She has nothing like your excuse.”

“You seem to know a lot about dragonborns for a man who’s just met the first one in the last couple centuries.”

Vilkas’ expression became unreadable then, almost morose. “I’ve trained warriors long enough to know when I’m wasting my time,” he said, “Dragonborn or no, I wouldn’t have offered to train you if I thought you couldn’t overcome your own daemons.”

It was Sonja’s turn to scoff. “Besides the Dragonblood, who says I have any?”

“Everybody has at least one.”

She smirked and raised her tankard. “I’ll drink to that.”

Amusement tugged on Vilkas’s features as he raised his drink to hers. There was some quality of companionability to the moment. Relaxed, comfortable. Just two warriors having a drink after training. But it didn’t last long. Vilkas’ demeanor hardened again after the toast and he gestured to Sonja’s broken nose. “That better be healed by morning,” he warned, “I will exploit all your weaknesses.”

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a frown and she tossed the bloodied ice brick into the bushes where no one would slip on it. Gingerly, she felt out the shape of her nose, trying to determine if it was positioned correctly. Satisfied that it was as straight as it was going to get, she cast the healing magic, repairing the break, but doing nothing about the bruising around it. She wiggled her nose experimentally before leaning back in her chair with the mulled cider. “Better?” she asked, irritably.

Vilkas’ eyes narrowed and then flit to her injured hand, cradled in her lap. “Almost,” he said. Then, before Sonja could react, he snatched at her across the table, nearly upsetting the cider in her hands as his fingers closed around her scarred wrist. She let out a low grunt of pain and leaned forward to alleviate the discomfort, but her arm wasn’t quite strong enough to break free of the larger Companion’s grip, not in its weakened state. Vilkas was fully aware of this, he could feel the uselessness of the stiffened joint as Sonja tensed beneath his fingers. Abruptly, he twisted her forearm upward, her swollen palm facing back at her, and earned a strangled cry of pain and surprise from her lips.

The motion ached in every joint from wrist to shoulder. With a loud screech of her chair against the stone floor of the back porch, Sonja scooted closer, spilling some of her cider as she slammed the tankard down onto the table. “Let go,” she growled through gritted teeth.

“It makes you weak. It makes you slow,” he growled, “In a real fight, it will get you killed.”

“I managed against a dragon,” she snapped, clenching her jaw and returning his gaze, refusing to look away, beg, or show any further sign of pain.

“Throwing spells, not lifting a sword.”

“It got the job done.”

“See to it.” And he released her. Glaring at him, she protectively hugged her injured hand to her chest. “If you can’t manage it, go to the temple and see Danica. Or down to Arcadia’s.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Vilkas scoffed. “I won’t take it easy on you tomorrow.”

Sonja rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “I don’t want you to.”

He smirked at her answer, the closest to a smile she had ever seen him make. He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly closed it as a strange look of recognition crossed his face. Abruptly, he looked to the left side of Jorrvaskr as if expecting to see someone come around the edge of the building. Sonja thought his behavior strange, but seconds later, a pretty Nord woman came into view. Sonja’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and she was curious how Vilkas seemed to know Jorrvaskr was about to receive a visitor. She might have asked him about it, if his expression hadn’t grown even stormier with the woman’s unexpected arrival.

Sonja wasn’t the only one to notice the unpleasant shift in Vilkas demeanor. The woman saw it, too. She had had a very happy, perhaps even eager, spring to her step when she came around the corner. Her attractive features brightened with a soft, knowing smile. But the second she made eye contact with Vilkas, she seemed to rethink everything. Her pace slowed and became almost reluctant and the smile faded. Eventually, she came to a halt just shy of the porch, suddenly aware of how much her presence was unwelcome. “Hail, Companions,” she said uncertainly, her gaze briefly acknowledging Sonja before returning to Vilkas.

“Good evening, lady,” Sonja replied, kicking back her chair as she stood. It was growing increasingly obvious that whatever the woman was there for, it was none of Sonja’s business and she had no desire to pry.

“What are you doing here, Ysolda?” Vilkas asked, standing also and stalking toward the woman. His tone was not nearly as gruff as Sonja had expected it to be, but his displeasure was still very apparent.

“I—I was just passing by and I thought—I thought I might stop by to see you,” she replied awkwardly, “I was on my way home and I thought—maybe I could make you dinner…”

“I can’t,” he interrupted.

Sonja winced behind Vilkas’ back and expedited her departure. Their conversation was definitely none of her business, but in her haste, she grabbed for her cider with her bad hand. The smooth tankard slipped right through her weak fingers and spilled over the stone floor, the cup, itself, rolling under the far side of the table. “Balls,” she mumbled, casting a sideways glance at Vilkas and Ysolda before stooping to retrieve it. The Companion was obviously irritated with Sonja’s untimely clumsiness, but Ysolda seemed to appreciate a break in the uncomfortable atmosphere.

“Look, I—I just thought we could celebrate tonight,” Ysolda pressed, “I finally reached an agreement with Ri’saad and, if I’m lucky, I can start trading for the caravans in the market soon and start making some real coin…”

“Ysolda, I…” Vilkas began.

“Caravans?” Sonja interrupted, “What caravans?” The mention of caravans and a very Khajiit-sounding name captured Sonja’s interest, and she was no longer able to keep her nose out of Vilkas’ private conversation.

Ysolda blinked, taken aback by Sonja’s sudden demand. Vilkas audibly growled, but Sonja pointedly ignored him. “The—uh—Khajiit trading caravans that camp outside the cities,” she explained hesitantly.

“They’re here now?”

“Yes. They just arrived today.”

“Newblood…” Vilkas warned, unsure of and unconcerned with Sonja’s interest in the caravans, but wanting only for her to leave him and Ysolda in peace.

Sonja fidgeted, ready to bolt down to the city gates, but stopped herself. Obviously, this woman had had many dealings with the Khajiit, had some sort of report with them; if Sonja intruded on the Khajiit camp and started demanding answers about her sister’s whereabouts, she would likely get nothing but determined silence. “A-and this Ri’saad?” she pressed, ignoring Vilkas’ glare, “Is he their leader?”

Ysolda shifted, crossing her arms over her chest in the process. The basket of goods she was carrying falling neatly into the crook of her elbow. “He is,” she replied, her tone considerably sharper than it was when she had been trying to persuade Vilkas to dinner, “Why do you want to know?”

“Could you arrange for me to meet Ri’saad?” she continued, purposefully skirting Ysolda’s question.

Her dodge was not lost on the merchant woman. “Depends,” she insisted, “On why you want to meet him?”

Sonja sighed and glanced at Vilkas who had crossed his arms over his chest and was glowering back at Sonja, trying to intimidate her into abandoning her line of questioning, but she was not the least bit affected by his disposition. Still, she recognized an obstacle when she saw one, and Vilkas’ surly presence was doing her no favors. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said abruptly, “We’ll speak again, Ysolda. Soon.” And then she turned on her heel and disappeared inside Jorrvaskr.

Ysolda’s brows knit together in confusion. “Odd one, isn’t she?” she said.

“You have no idea,” Vilkas replied, equally surprised by Sonja’s abrupt departure, but halfway certain his scowl had very little to do with it.

“So…” Ysolda said, trying to bring the conversation back around to before Sonja’s interruption, “Dinner.”

Vilkas frowned. He had slowly begun to disappear from her life again over the past week, working his way out of her day to day—and night to night. Regardless of what peace her bed granted him, he could no longer stand the thought of using her. He was doing his best not to string her along anymore, not to break her heart, but she was not making it easy on him. “I’m not hungry,” he stated bluntly.

“Dessert then?” she asked suggestively.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The light went out of her eyes then. “But—you didn’t mind before…” she reminded him of their previous relationship. She used to stop by Jorrvaskr frequently with little excuses to see him training in the yard or to spend a few heated moments alone with him in his room. But those days were well and truly over.

“This isn’t like it was before.”

Now twice rejected, Ysolda pursed her lips and looked away. “I see,” she said and she turned to leave, taking a few steps away before stopping. Her hands clenched into fists and she spun around to face him again. “No,” she snapped, her face flush and her eyes stinging with tears, “I don’t see! Why did you come back if you were only going to do this to me again?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Oh, horseshit! You’re no fool, Vilkas! You knew exactly what you were doing when you climbed back into my bed!”

Vilkas actually winced as if struck. “I am a weak man, Ysa,” he said, dropping all pretense, “And you deserve better.”

He could see her tender heart break in the glint of her eyes, but she wiped her face and sniffed. Undoubtedly, there was more she wanted to say to him, but she seemed to weigh the cost of it in her head and decided it was not worth it. With all the fortitude of a Nord woman, she locked her pain away, stood to her full height, and looked him in the eye with her head held high. “I do,” she agreed, her voice wavering slightly, “Mara have mercy on your cold heart, Vilkas. because you have had none for mine.” And then she stormed off, out of sight.


Sonja tried to rub some of the dried blood from her face before Ysolda came around the corner with minimal success. When she had excused herself from their conversation and gone inside Jorrvaskr to give them their privacy, she promptly went through the front doors to wait for the merchant woman to pass by on her way home—alone. Sonja didn’t know the exact nature of Vilkas’ relationship with Ysolda, but it was easy enough to guess, and she knew a break-up when she saw one. Still, she was not entirely prepared for the completely crushed look on the woman’s face when she came around the corner. Oh for the love of Mara’s bleeding heart…she shook her head. “All men are assholes,” she stated when Ysolda was near enough, “But Vilkas takes the sweetroll.”

The distraught woman looked up. She hadn’t noticed Sonja right away and frowned upon seeing her. “It’s you,” she stated irritably.

“I said we’d talk again, soon,” Sonja shrugged, “Though—I admit, my timing could be better.”

“Leave me alone,” Ysolda groaned as she rushed passed her and down the stairs.

Had circumstances been different, if it hadn’t been her sister that Sonja was so worried about, she would have left the poor woman to nurse her broken heart in private. But that wasn’t the case. So Sonja silently hated herself as she followed Ysolda toward the Plains District. “This is important,” she said to the back of the merchant woman’s retreating head, “I’m—I’m trying to find my sister and the Khajiit caravans are my only lead.”

Ysolda stopped at the top of the stairs leading down into the district below. Despite her own pain, she still found it in her heart to feel bad for a sister just trying to find a loved one. She sighed, hanging her head before turning to face Sonja with a fresh expression. “Look, I can’t help you anyway,” she explained, “I have a deal worked out with Ri’saad that I haven’t delivered on yet and I still need a thane to vouch for my petition for my merchant’s license. So, I’m sorry about your sister, but if you want to talk to the Khajiit, you’ll have to approach them on your own.” And she turned to leave.

“Wait!” Sonja pleaded, following her down the stairs, “Wait! I can help you.”

Ysolda groaned. “I’ve been nice, but you need to take a hint,” she snapped, “Leave me alone.”

“I’ll vouch for your petition!”

“Mara grant me patience! I need a thane.

“I am a thane!” Sonja replied, sticking her hand out toward Ysolda in greeting, “Sonja Ironheart, newest Thane of Whiterun.”

Surprise softened Ysolda’s features and she dreamily shook Sonja’s offered hand. “Then you must be…” she whispered in disbelief, “…The Dragonborn…!”

“So they tell me.”

Ysolda looked as though she was about to faint. “Oh, this is perfect!” she breathed, “Hrongar thinks of nothing but the war. Gray-Mane and Battle-Born aren’t interested in my petition and Ironheart—your-your aunt, I suppose—is always unavailable for an audience.” She flicked all of Whiterun’s thanes off her fingers as she went, talking more to herself than to Sonja. “But you—you would be willing to vouch for me?”

Sonja nodded. “Think of it as a business transaction,” she said, “You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I’ll help you start up your little enterprise, if you get me in with the Khajiit leader.”

“You—won’t hurt him, will you?”

“No. I just need to ask him some questions,” Sonja assured, “Anja—my sister—likely made friends with his caravan. I don’t think they’d hurt her. I just want to know how far she traveled with them.”

Ysolda mentally weighed Sonja’s offer in her head and, as far she was concerned, she was getting a far better deal than the Dragonborn was. “To be fair,” she said reluctantly, “You should know the deal I have with Ri’saad is not a simple one.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ysolda sighed and fidgeted with her basket, making up her mind. “Ri’saad’s condition for our trading agreement requires that I bring him a mammoth’s tusk,” she said, “Easier said than done.”

“A mammoth’s tusk,” Sonja repeated, skeptically.

She nodded. “A mammoth’s tusk,” she confirmed.

Sonja shrugged. “What’s a mammoth to a dragon?”

Ysolda chuckled, blunted. “You sound like…” she began, “…a Companion,” she finished, lamely, but Vilkas’ name hung undeclared in the air between them.

Sonja knew it, but tactfully continued speaking as if none the wiser. “So, we have a deal?” she asked.

“I think we do,” she agreed and the pair of them shook on it, “Looking forward to doing business with you, Dragonborn.”


Sonja found it odd being inside Dragonsreach without an invitation. Regardless of her status as thane, or Dragonborn for that matter, she couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that she was trespassing somewhere she did not belong. But Ysolda had assured her it was perfectly acceptable for Sonja to call on the Jarl’s steward to discuss business matters like merchant’s licenses. So, Sonja went to the bathhouse to wash up and changed back into her witchplate armor since it was the nicest thing she owned before climbing the stairs to the jarl’s palace. She also took with her the bag containing the Imperial crests she took from Helgen. Now able to afford hiring a courier, she intended to send the marks on their way to Solitude.

Balgruuf, himself, was not on his throne so, naturally, Irileth was also absent. Avenicci was also conspicuously missing from the great hall. Sonja frowned and approached the nearest guard. “Where’s the steward?” she asked.

“Hold business with the Jarl, my Thane,” she answered.

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “I have business of my own with him, do you know when he will be done?”

“No, my Thane,” she replied with a touch of nervousness, “Would you—would you like me to find out?”

“Yes.”

“Right away, my Thane,” and Sonja watched her hurry up the stairs, unsure if she was excited to be doing an errand for a Thane of Whiterun or eager to get away from the Dragonborn.

Either way, she didn’t get the chance to dwell on it long before a recently familiar woman came down the same set of stairs: Lydia Stormshield, Housecarl. “Greetings, my Thane,” she said, her green-hazel eyes glinting in the light of the fire as she approached.

Sonja pursed her lips and nodded to the housecarl. “I haven’t changed my mind, Stormshield,” she stated sharply, but Lydia didn’t seem surprised.

“And neither have I,” replied the housecarl as she crossed her arms over her chest defiantly.

“Leave it to Balgruuf to assign me the most stubborn housecarl in all of Skyrim.”

Lydia’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “It would be easier if you’d just let me do my duty,” she insisted.

The Dragonborn scowled at her fellow female warrior. It had taken a couple of days after he had named Sonja Thane for Balgruuf to make the arrangements for her housecarl. The other Thanes of Whiterun had provided their own: members of the family or dear friends. People willing and capable of fulfilling the honored roll of bodyguard, but Sonja had no one, so the Jarl took it upon himself to send for one. Lydia Stormshield came from a long line of dutiful and highly skilled housecarls. Though she had been born and spent her childhood years in Whiterun, her education and training had taken her to Windhelm where she had spent the bulk of her life. The joy she felt in returning to her childhood home was dwarfed only by the tremendous pride that overcame her when she learned that she would serve the Dragonborn Thane of Whiterun. So, she was understandably incensed when Sonja had flat out refused the service of a housecarl.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Sonja replied irritably, “You don’t have to wait hand and foot on a stranger you know nothing about.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow. “You look like us, but you know nothing of our ways,” she said, but she hadn’t meant it as an insult; it was more of a blunt observation.

Sonja’s brow twitched a fraction deeper. She hadn’t asked Lydia what being a housecarl meant. It hadn’t occurred to her to do so. Being a servant and bodyguard seemed pretty straight forward, though it made no more sense to Sonja to have the woman along. First Ralof, then Faendal, then Lydia? The number of people who were bizarrely prepared to lay down their lives to protect her made her feel incredibly uncomfortable. At least Ralof and Sonja had had the heat of battle and the bedroll to grant his devotion any degree of sense, and Faendal had his own reasons for tagging along. But who was Lydia to her? What experiences had they shared? What reasons did the intimidating Nord warrior have for wanting to protect Sonja? At least if Ralof had died protecting her, it would have been out of some misguided excuse for love or an attempt to pay a life debt. And Faendal would die in his ongoing quest to prove himself to Camila. But the possibility of Lydia’s death just seemed so senseless to Sonja that she couldn’t accept it. At least the others knew what they were getting themselves into. What chance did this unknown woman have?

“Enlighten me, then,” Sonja invited, hoping to catch some explanation for Lydia’s willingness to serve her.

“I’m your housecarl. Not your maid,” Lydia responded simply, “I am your shield. Not your pisspot. I’ll gladly lay down my life for you, but my honor, my dignity, are my own.”

Sonja looked at her thoughtfully. “You don’t even know me,” she said softly, “How can you be so loyal?”

“I am loyal to the Jarl and he has assigned me to you,” Lydia explained, “It has nothing to do with you. For now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you prove to be worthy of my trust, Ysgramor himself couldn’t tear me from your side, let alone the Jarl. But for now, I am here at his request, not yours.”

“I’ve already released you from your obligation to me.”

“There are only two ways a housecarl can be dismissed: in death and in oath-breaking.”

“Whose? Mine or yours?”

“Either. Both.”

Sonja tilted her head to one side, pensive. “And if you saw me murder someone, steal from an unknowing innocent, or otherwise degrade your Nordic tradition…?” she asked.

“I’d strike you down, myself.”

“Believe it or not, that makes me like you more.”

“That’s a good sign.” Lydia paused, waiting for the Dragonborn to say more. When she didn’t, she took a defiant step forward. “You have my shield,” she said, “Will you take it?”

“I live in Jorrvaskr,” Sonja reminded her, “There’s room in the barracks for you, but I doubt the Companions would take kindly to your presence.”

“I can stay at your family home…”

“Hera and I don’t get on.”

“You must speak with the Harbinger, then.”

You can do it. I didn’t even want you following me around in the first place.”

Lydia smiled sourly. “Fine. I will speak to the Harbinger,” she said, “Does this mean you have accepted my oath?”

Sonja shrugged. “There are worse things than having an extra blade to guard my back.”

“You won’t regret it,” Lydia assured, holding out her hand.

Sonja scoffed and the women shook on it. “But you might.”

“Ah, my lady Dragonborn. It is good to see you again.” Sonja looked over Lydia’s shoulder to the staircase. It was Hrongar with the erstwhile guard en tow.

“Where’s Avenicci?” she asked forgoing pleasantries.

“Busy,” came the simple reply, “He and my brother are discussing matters of the Hold. He cannot be spared, so I have come in his place.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow before nodding to Lydia. “Get your things and wait for me here,” she instructed, “We’ll leave when I’m done with Hrongar.”

“Yes, my Thane.”

“And don’t call me that.”

“As you wish, Dragonborn.”

“Or that.”

“Ironheart?” Lydia asked, uncertainly.

Sonja was tempted to deny her again, but shrugged and nodded. “It’ll do.” The Housecarl nodded and disappeared up the stairs again to fetch her belongings. Sonja returned her attention to Hrongar. “I have some business to attend to,” she explained, “I wish to sponsor Ysolda Snow-Song’s petition for a merchant’s license.”

Hrongar raised an eyebrow. “She finally found someone willing to invest in her little endeavor, did she?” he scoffed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Aye, so you are,” he seemed irritatingly amused by the prospect, but shrugged, “I can take of that for you easily enough, if you wish to wait here.” He paused, eyeing the bag clutched in Sonja’s hand. “Unless there is something else you needed?”

She held up the crests and jiggled them slightly. “I also need to hire a courier,” she replied, “And trouble you for some ink and parchment.”

“Follow me.” He nodded up the stairs and she quietly fell into step behind him as he led her to the wing containing the Jarl, his family, and Avenicci’s private chambers. Sonja wasn’t aware where she was until he motioned for her to step into a room that was very obviously his. She paused, expecting to be led to an office somewhere, but Hrongar pointed to his desk. “Take your time,” he said before disappearing from sight in pursuit of whatever paperwork was necessary for Ysolda’s merchant license.

She made herself comfortable in the high-back chair and fiddled with the quills at the head of the desk before selecting one she liked and sharpening it with the small blade by the inkpot. Then she carefully loaded the nib with ink and began her first of two letters. It wasn’t long before Hrongar returned, but Sonja was already signing the farewell of the second letter by then, having chosen to keep her correspondence brief and to the point.

The Jarl’s brother watched her silently from a polite distance at the door so she wouldn’t think he was attempting to read her letters over her shoulder. Watched as her mouth puckered to blow the ink on the page dry before creasing the parchment into crisp edges. He thought her very attractive when he first laid eyes on her, but it took more than just a pretty face to pique his interest. And though his brother might have had a soft spot for Ironheart women in the past, Hrongar certainly wasn’t about to indulge in the same weakness. Until she turned out to be Dragonborn, that was. Not only did his admiration for her abilities increased, but he began to see the possibilities nestled around her, dormant. Power and influence were in her future, whether or not she was aware of it, or even liked the idea. And anyone caught in her orbit would reap the benefits of her rise as well. He convinced himself it was for the good of Whiterun, and who’s to say it wasn’t so? But he certainly didn’t ignore the boon winning her over would grant to himself. So now, Hrongar was tempted.

When Sonja was finished folding the letters, she sealed one with a bit of red wax heated over the candle and pressed her father’s ring into it, leaving the imprint of the dragon rippling through the soft, crimson smear. Then she placed it inside the second letter and sealed it in the same fashion before neatly writing the letter’s recipient’s name on the back. Hrongar was curious about Sonja’s actions, but wisely remained silent until she stood from his desk and approached him. “Do you have the petition?” she asked, tapping the thick parchment against her fingertips.

Hrongar produced the document in question. Sonja cast a long look over the page, skimming the wording as if any of the language would deter her from signing the bottom. She’d already made a deal with Ysolda, so she returned to Hrongar’s desk and quickly scrawled her name. “Your seal, also,” Hrongar urged.

Sonja complied, watching the wax drip onto the paper. “I had no titles in Cyrodiil,” she said almost to herself, “It’s strange to see my name carry weight.” As far as she could tell, thanes were minor lords in the realms they lived in. Perhaps little better than knights. Nobles, nonetheless.

“It is a heavy burden,” Hrongar agreed, stepping closer to her, skirting along the edges of her space.

The motion was not lost on Sonja, but she did little to respond. Instead, she held the signed document up between them, an undeclared barrier. “I’ll find a way to manage,” she stated.

Smiling, Hrongar took the page, intentionally brushing his fingers against hers. “I do not doubt it.”

She raised an eyebrow and examined his face for a moment, her expression mostly unreadable, but Hrongar had the distinct impression that she was sizing him up for a meal. “I should be going,” she said abruptly, “Lydia’s waiting for me. Where’s the courier?”

“I’ll take care of it for you, my lady,” he assured her.

Sonja made no attempt to conceal the roll of her eyes as she stepped passed him, headed for the door. “Don’t be stupid,” she chastised.

“Wait.” Fearing he was losing the moment, Hrongar grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving the room. He wasn’t rough or possessive with her, but she looked at him as if he had been. Quickly, he released her hand and took a half a step back. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for supper tonight?” he amended, “In private?”

She looked at him with that same critical look as before and then she smiled. “Goodbye, Hrongar,” she purred, “It’s been a pleasure.” And then she left to seek out the courier herself.


As it turned it out, the Companions were more or less pretty clear on the subject of housecarls. They respected the honor, the duty, and the skill the service required and it was not the first time one of their number had become a thane, a jarl, or even a king, thus requiring a housecarl. It was more or less considered a private affair, meaning it was Sonja’s duty to house and feed her own bodyguard, not the Companions. But since she had no home of her own for Lydia to live in or steady income beyond what work the Companions would eventually toss her way, Kodlak acknowledged the unique circumstance. So Lydia was granted permission to stay in the barracks, provided she passed the initiation trial. Undergoing the trial would not make her a Companion, however; since her obligations as housecarl would always precede the duty of a Newblood. “If you want to sleep here, then you have to fight here,” he said, “There is no room in the halls of Jorrvaskr for the weak.”

So Sonja watched Vilkas test Lydia, but her mind was otherwise occupied. She was thinking of Hrongar’s furtive attentions. It wasn’t as if he had been bold. In fact, he had been very reserved. She’d only noticed his interest in the subtle hunger of his gaze, and his attention was not necessarily unwelcome. She was a woman comfortable with herself and her appetites, and, from a purely physical appraisal, Hrongar appeared more than capable of serving her needs well enough: strong, handsome, silent type. Acceptable for a tumble or two in the bedroll and nothing else. But she was no fool. She remembered the Thane’s conversation with the steward that she and Faendal had uncomfortably overheard. Something told her his interest had more to do with the revelation that she was Dragonborn than anything else. She was still wrapping her head around what it meant to have the Dragonblood, let alone what it meant to the people of Skyrim.

Besides, in the gentle swell of the moment when he had asked her to dinner, she felt his invitation pique the interest of the dragon within. Not for companionship or sex; dragons had no use for such things. But to dominate. That’s really why she had refused him. As much for his sake as it was for her own. She didn’t think that Hrongar had what it took to satisfy a dragon—or what that even meant.

A loud, deep battle cry drew Sonja’s attention back to Vilkas and Lydia. The Housecarl was more than holding her own against the Companion, demonstrating just how well her years of training had paid off and deeply impressing Sonja. She was giving Vilkas a run for his money which the Companion seemed to truly appreciate, if his expression was anything to go by. Borderline utter delight. For her part, Sonja always had a soft spot for a woman who could handle a sword. Finally, Vilkas called an end to the trial, laughing, invigorated from the exertion of battle. The smile looked out of place on his face, but attractive. His strong chest heaved as he caught his breath and declared Lydia worthy, and Sonja had a sneaking, salacious thought that she immediately dismissed in the next moment: Now, the Companion might do. He would do nicely.

Notes:

Alright, I'll admit it. This is a bit of a bridge chapter. There are a lot of little introductions to things here. Like Sonja's struggle with the dragon. The deal with Ysolda. What the hell happened with Lydia? The very, very mild sauciness with Hrongar. Things pick up a bit in the next chapter, but I felt like these things were important to write about for a few of reasons:

1) Being Dragonborn shouldn't be easy. Reconciling the mundane with the divine should, in my mind, be a bit of an existential crisis. Plus, the culture shock of what it means to be Dragonborn between the world Sonja grew up in and the world in which she now finds herself. So, yeah. Plus there are some Sonja-Vilkas moments.

2) I needed to introduce these things. Especially Lydia. I mean, I made no mention of her after Balgruuf made Sonja Thane of Whiterun and I did that mostly because there was a lot of crap going on in that particular chapter and I thought it was just best for it to go elsewhere.

And 3) I wanted to bring Vilkas' relationship with Ysolda to a conclusion that leaves her with some dignity. I didn't want him to continue to string her along just because he needed a lay to keep his head right, and I didn't want her to continue letting him do it. In my imagining of Ysolda, she is a tender-hearted woman, hopeful. And that's where her desire to build a relationship with Vilkas despite his apparent disinterest comes from. Not because she's desperate and lonely and Vilkas is just sooooo irresistable. *shrugs* It's just a tiny side story that doesn't have much to do with the larger narrative between Sonja and Vilkas, but I don't like loose ends. Particularly sad ones.

Yep, that's pretty much it. Hope you enjoyed. :)

Chapter 19: Mercy

Summary:

The first of Sonja's training sessions with Vilkas followed by some quality time with Lydia and an impromptu ladies' night out.

Notes:

A Sonja only chapter. For those of you curious about Miss Anja, don't worry, she's coming back real soon.

Trigger Warning: Sexual violence in nightmares.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Mercy,

I call you so because that is what you were to me. A mercy. I thank the gods for sending you to me, for if they hadn’t, I surely would have died a nameless pile of ash. I know you think so little of your role in our escape, but know that I could think of no one better at my side, fighting through the chaos.

I pray this letter has found you safely in Whiterun, that you have not yet moved on. I have finally returned to Windhelm and resumed my duties. Jarl Ulfric, himself, asked me to pass along his thanks to you for helping to retrieve the marks of my fallen brothers and sisters. Because of you, they have found peace, their memories properly honored.

It is good to be amongst warriors again, though my own thirst for battle has waned. I think often of what you said to me over poor Bormir’s body. Some nights, the memory of it keeps me awake and I don’t have the pleasure of your company to soothe me back to sleep. Or exhaust me. I think of you often.

I return to the field soon, so your reply might not reach me until my regiment’s rotation back to Windhelm. But I would like to hear from you. To know that you are safe and well. Or to see you. I know you walk your own path here in Skyrim, but if there is a chance it might cross mine again, I would be grateful. Until then, I dream of you.

Stay Safe,

Ralof

Sonja reread Ralof’s letter for the third time over breakfast. She had risen uncharacteristically early and wondered into the main hall to eat something before Vilkas dragged her out into the training yard. The room had been largely empty with only Tilma silently puttering around, moving meats on and off the flames in preparation of the day’s meals. The courier baring Ralof’s letter for her and an unmarked correspondence for the Dragonborn arrived shortly after. She had opened Ralof’s first and became so engrossed in his words that she had all but forgotten about the second letter.

Ugh, you hopeless romantic…she thought teasingly, reading the saccharine lines about her being a mercy to him. She rolled her eyes, but smiled at the sentiment. There was no denying that she had enjoyed his company both in and out of the bedroll. Ralof was charming in that uniquely Nordic way which was why she had been so eager to get away from him. He was more than just a temptation for her carnal desires; he was an enticement for her heart as well. Even reading his sappy letter made her heart flutter in a dangerously endearing sort of way. Worse yet, she found the possibility of seeing him again an exciting one.

Just as she was allowing herself to indulge in the fantasy of a reunion, the door to the backyard snapped open and Vilkas stepped inside. She hadn’t noticed him stepping out while she was awake, so he must have been out in the yard before dawn. “Whelp!” he growled and she looked at him over the top edge of the letter. “Have you eaten?”

She looked down at her half-eaten breakfast. “More or less.”

“Then get your lazy ass out into the yard.”

Sonja fought the urge to roll her eyes as she stood from the table, draining the last of her tea and stuffing her letters into her coin purse. “As you say, Companion,” she replied sharply and followed him outside.


“I can’t reach this last buckle,” Sonja strained as she struggled against the unforgiving, thick metal plate of the oversized chestplate, “How in Oblivion do you move in this shit?”

Vilkas strode over to the frustrated Newblood and tugged hard on the stubborn strap, nearly causing Sonja to lose her balance. “This set is too big for you,” he explained, “It’s my old trainer armor. If you had some proper steel plate, this would not be so cumbersome.”

“I already have my own armor,” she pointed out.

“If you call that armor,” he scoffed, “It weighs less than my gauntlet.”

“That’s the point.”

He pursed his lips. Armor was armor as far as he was concerned. So long as it kept you from dying, then it was worth its weight, light or heavy. But his strong preference was heavy and when he thought of the beating Sonja would be taking in any fight against a dragon, he tended to lean in the direction of girth. Though he was sure she’d disagree. Besides, he was wary of that glowing, shapeless heap of metal she called armor; he felt like he was going to tear through it during her initiation trial. “You need to learn to control your strength,” he explained, “The extra weight will slow you down. Tire you out. Take the hurt out of your swing.”

“That scared I’ll knock you on your ass?” she teased.

“You haven’t yet, whelp,” he reminded her, “And you never will.”

“Something to look forward to,” she replied sharply, but Vilkas scoffed and did not respond. So, she continued, “What’s first?”

“You have descent skill with a blade, but you lack the endurance to support it,” Vilkas said and he retrieved a steel warhammer from the weapon rack, “Spells don’t weigh anything. You’re too soft. Heavy armor, heavy weapon. Practice the forms over and over again until it feels like you’re moving a dagger through the naked air.”

“As you say, mighty Companion.” Vilkas rebuked her with a sharp smack to the back of the head. “Ow!” she growled, turning to scowl at him, her draconic ego already beginning to bruise.

“And no speaking unless spoken to,” he added. Her eyes narrowed; Sonja exhaled long and low, attempting to release her indignity as she did so. They had only just started; it wouldn’t do for her to lose her temper now and she didn’t want a repeat of the day before. So she went out into the middle of the yard and began the meditative combat poses he had shown her before he insisted on strapping on the extra weight.

Vilkas circled her like a vulture, examining her form with a critical eye. Occasionally, he would correct her with a sharp strike with the flat of his blade. If her arms weren’t high enough, he’d hit her upper arm. If her grip wasn’t right, he’d rap her across her knuckles; it took all of Sonja’s self-control to keep from crying out when he struck her right hand. Vilkas had done it intentionally to see if she had done as he had told her to and consulted Danica or Arcadia. Judging by the flush in her face and her sharpness of breath, he was guessing she had not gone to either healing woman. He shook his head, but refused to discuss it further. He had already warned her, after all and she had failed to head his words. She was going to regret neglecting her injuries; he would be sure of it.

He gave her knuckles another sharp, painful rap before moving on. Her legs weren’t far enough apart, so he abused her inner thighs, just above her knees. At that, Sonja’s patience ran thin and she nearly struck him back with the heavy hammer, but Vilkas caught hold of the weapon and tugged it out of her feathery grip, weakened from the weight of an unfamiliar weapon and Vilkas’ blows to her bad hand. “You’ve been disarmed,” he growled, “Now it’s time to run for your life. To the city gates and back.”

“You’re joking.” She was momentarily jarred from her displeasure, surprised by Vilkas’ order.

“City gates and back,” Vilkas repeated, “Now!” Sonja looked as though she was considering disobeying, but suddenly thought better of it. With a resolute grunt, she disappeared around Jorrvaskr. Vilkas smiled smugly to himself. Dragonborn or not, she was determined for a mage.

As he waited for her to return, other Companions came out into the yard for a bit of training or warm up before heading out on other business. Among them was Lydia, who looked around uncertainly for her Thane. “She’s run down to the gates,” he informed her before nodding to a training dummy, “Why don’t you get a few swings in? I might have a use for you later.”

“For what?”

“The Dragonborn needs a sparring partner that won’t quit on her,” he replied, “She broke the last five.” Lydia’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Vilkas chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll wear her out before she gets to you.” Though Lydia found that hardly comforting, she nodded and began to unhook her steel plate, selecting a practice sword and shield from the wrack.

When Sonja came back, she was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. Still, she took up the warhammer and returned to the center of the yard. “I’m only doing this,” she breathed, “So I can beat you at your own damned game.”

“If it keeps you motivated,” Vilkas said, smirking, and he snapped his sword against the back of her right upper thigh near enough to her rear to cause her to squeal involuntarily. He chuckled at her discomfort. “Speak when spoken to, Whelp,” he reminded her.


“Again!” Vilkas barked at a bleeding, sweating, dirt-covered Dragonborn, “You need to be quicker!”

Sonja growled against the gag in her mouth and strained against the ropes binding her. All part of the footwork exercise. Well, the gag was to keep her from losing her patience and Shouting poor Lydia across the yard. But the bindings holding her elbows against her midsection kept her from properly using her arms to counterattack. The most she could do was dance out of the way of Lydia’s blade and shield. Maybe parry against the flats of her forearms or palms. But nothing more.

It had started out well enough at first. Sonja managed to safely stay out of Lydia’s reach until Vilkas suggested the Housecarl was not trying hard enough to hit her Thane. Then, with a grudging nod of encouragement from Sonja, Lydia suddenly became inescapable. And Sonja found herself on her back in the dirt so many times that she lost count. It was a humbling experience. But she jumped to her feet again, more determined than ever. It didn’t matter how many times she was knocked silly. This was just one more challenge to overcome, one more trial to beat, one more obstacle to surpass.

Suddenly, Lydia’s shield came into view again and it was too late for Sonja to side step it. She was on the ground again, this time sporting a massive gash along her temple. “Good hit,” Vilkas grunted, but Lydia dropped her weapons and rushed to Sonja’s side.

“My Thane!” she sputtered, “Are you alright?” Delicately, she pulled the gag down to Sonja’s chin as if touching her would shatter the Dragonborn.

“Ysgramor’s balls, you should have been a Companion,” she groaned, shifting away from Lydia’s touch and sitting up. Her arms strained against the ropes that bound her, but she managed to touch her hand to her head to inspect the damage. It was not the worse she’d ever suffered, but it certainly was no small injury, either.

“That’s enough for today,” Vilkas declared and he stooped, grabbing the rope around her waist and pulling her upright. It had been a long, hard day and Vilkas had run Sonja through every kind of conditioning he could think of. Sonja was exhausted and sore, and nursing a dark fantasy of making the Companion suffer the same pain every muscle in her body was currently experiencing. “You did well,” he said and Sonja looked at him skeptically as he began to untie her restraints. “Could have done better,” he amended, tugging the rope free, “But you didn’t lose your temper.”

“Didn’t figure you for an optimist,” she replied, rubbing her arms where the ropes had rubbed her raw.

He seemed sort of amused with the idea himself. “Get something to eat and rest up,” he instructed, “Then see Farkas. He has a little job for you to take care of tomorrow afternoon.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow. “Only one day of training and you’re already sending me off on a job?”

“You’re still a Newblood,” he reminded her, “You need to earn your keep.”

“As you say.”

“Besides, if you can’t handle the little errand Farkas has planned, there is no hope for you.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed as she watched the Companion walk away. “What in Oblivion is that supposed to mean?” she wondered aloud.

“Shall I fetch a healer, my Thane?” Lydia asked, catching Sonja’s attention.

“What?” she was momentarily confused, “Oh, no. Don’t worry about it.” She cast a lazy spell at the fresh cut on her head and wiped the excess blood away. “See? Good as new.”

Lydia blinked in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a mage,” she admitted.

Sonja smirked. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she replied, “But something tells me we’re going to have plenty of time together to change that.”

“I am honor-bound to remain at your side,” Lydia agreed.

“Yeah, that,” she sighed and then she headed for Jorrvaskr’s back door, nodding for Lydia to follow her.


“Oh sweet, merciful Mara,” Sonja sighed as she sank further into the steaming water, her eyes closed. Behind the darkness of her lids, she heard Lydia scoff, but then make her own soft sound of pleasure as she entered the bathhouse pool opposite her. Sonja peeped an eye open at her housecarl. “Good to see you’re at least a little worn out too after today,” she observed.

Lydia smirked. “I’ve never met anyone who could take a beating quite like you,” she admitted, “You’re relentless.”

Sonja chuckled. “That’s me,” she agreed, “Fucking force of nature when it comes to getting my ass kicked.”

“Mmm,” Lydia hummed her agreement, “How do you do it?”

“More art than technique at this point,” she shrugged, “Ma always said when you’re good at something, do it well.”

Lydia laughed and then a companionable silence fell between them. They still didn’t know much about each other, but there was something about the nature of combat, whether in the yard or on the field, that tended to melt the barriers between strangers. So, it didn’t surprise Sonja or make her uncomfortable when she heard the water on Lydia’s side of the pool shift with her uncertainty moments before the inevitable question was posed: “Are you really the Dragonborn?”

Sonja didn’t answer right away. Instead, she ducked her head beneath the water and scrubbed away whatever dirt and blood remained on her face. When she broke the surface, she looked at Lydia who was still on the other side, patiently waiting for a response. The perfect picture of balanced hope and skepticism. “Yes,” she said with a surprising amount of sincerity she had not expected herself, “I am.”

The Housecarl’s brow furrowed, but not in disbelief. On the contrary, she seemed intensely curious and trusting, speaking to an honest desire for the truth. “Did you always know?” she asked hesitantly, “Or was it a calling…?”

“I didn’t—feel it until the dragon attack on the Western Watchtower,” she explained, “But when I did—it was like waking from a dream. Something that was always there, but I never noticed it.” She shook her head and pursed her lips, reaching for her soap and wash rag on the ledge of the pool.

“It has changed you.” It was more an observation than it was a question.

“No,” Sonja stated, somewhat despondent as she lathered the bar in her hands, “It’s shown me what I really am.” And that was a far more terrifying prospect than change.


After Sonja and Lydia left the bathhouse, they went to the Bannered Mare to meet with Ysolda and go over their plan for procuring a mammoth’s tusk. Mammoth hunting parties were no joke especially since they traveled in herds and were shepherded by giants. Picking a single one off from the herd was no easy task. “I’ve already spoken with Anoriath and Elrindir,” Ysolda informed the Dragonborn, “They run the Drunken Huntsman and the meat stand in the market? They’re the best hunters in town that aren’t Companions. And Anoriath knows the tundra better than anybody else since he hunts all the meat he sells.”

Sonja nodded, sipping her mead. “I’ve got a friend who’s an excellent hunter,” she added, “I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance to join our party, so that gives us—what? Five?”

Six,” Ysolda corrected somewhat indignantly. The Dragonborn and her Housecarl both eyed the soft, slender merchant woman skeptically. “What? I—I can handle myself!” she insisted haughtily, “This is Skyrim, after all. If I didn’t know which end of a sword to hold onto, I’d be dead on the road somewhere.”

“A sword’s all well and good,” Lydia stated bluntly, “But mammoths are a spear-hunter’s game.”

“Well, I…” Ysolda began.

“And I’d rather you not get yourself killed before you can introduce me to Ri’saad,” Sonja added, “Though I admire your spirit.”

Ysolda sighed, defeated. She wasn’t really one for grand dangerous adventures like mammoth hunting, anyway. She was rather more shrewd than that—and she was overselling her skills with a sword—which was a dagger in reality. Mostly, she only carried a blade while travelling more for show than utility in the hopes that it would make small-time thieves think twice about targeting her; it wouldn’t protect her from serious bandits, regardless of her skill level. Still, it stung a little to be discounted so quickly by the two warriors at the table with her and her sense of honor did demand that she at least try to brave the same danger as those who were joining her little hunting party. She needed to protect her investment somehow, if nothing else. “Fine,” she relented, “But we need a half dozen bodies, at least.”

“More the better in case there’s trouble with a giant,” Lydia added.

Sonja hummed thoughtfully as she cast her eyes over the busy tavern. “Oi, Uthgerd!” she bellowed, drawing the grizzled woman’s attention from halfway across the room.

“What?”

“You any good with a spear?”

Uthgerd nodded. “Better than you, I’d wager.”

“Want to hunt a mammoth?”

“You jest,” she scoffed.

“Not even a little.”

Uthgerd’s surprise was quickly replaced with excitement. “Aye, I’d relish a Great Hunt!” she replied, quickly abandoning her seat to join Sonja’s table and plopping down into the empty chair beside Ysolda.

“That makes six,” Ysolda said, smiling politely if nervously at Uthgerd.

“Who else you got?” Uthgerd demanded, leaning forward enthusiastically.

“Me, Faendal, Lydia, and the Drunken Huntsman brothers,” Sonja ticked off hurriedly.

“Good lot,” Uthgerd approved, “Too bad the Gray-Mane boys ran off to war. They’d jump at the chance to hunt mammoth again. The last anyone in Whiterun took down was—last winter, I think.”

“What about Olfina?” Ysolda suggested, “She’s a fine shield-maiden.”

“Eorlund wouldn’t allow it,” Uthgerd objected, “Not his darling daughter. Especially now the boys are gone. The Battle-Borns?”

Ysolda made a face. “I can’t stand Idolaf,” the merchant woman admitted.

“You don’t have to like him for him to be useful on the hunt,” Sonja pointed out, “But you’re both avoiding the obvious choice.”

Uthgerd frowned and Ysolda looked a touch guilty. “The Companions want nothing to do with me,” the old warrior insisted.

“And I can’t afford their services,” Ysolda added.

Sonja waved them off. “I’m not talking about inviting all of them,” she assured, “Just Aela and Ria. Maybe Tor since he insists on owing me a life debt.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lydia agreed, nodding as she took another swig of her mead.

Sonja shrugged. “Besides, I think the Huntress would feel slighted if her Shield-Sister didn’t at least make the offer,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ll make sure she understands it’s not a job, but an opportunity. She’ll get paid in flesh, bone, and glory for her efforts, but not a single coin. And Ria’s always on about bear hunting, so I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“It was that one’s lover that had me thrown out of Jorrvaskr,” Uthgerd reminded her, “No self-respecting Companion will join a hunt with me.”

“So long as you both keep your spears aimed at the mammoth and not each other, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Sonja insisted, “I’m sure Aela will make an exception—even if she spends the week pretending you don’t exist.”

“On your head be the consequences.”

“There is another option…” Ysolda said slowly, looking at Sonja like a kid who was about to fess up to a broken vase.

Sonja raised an eyebrow, thinking the woman was about to suggest Vilkas in some sort of half-hearted attempt to see her former lover again. “Go on…” she prodded.

“Last winter’s Hunt Master…”

“Who was…?”

“Hera Ironheart.”

The Dragonborn frowned. “Of course it was,” she growled before aggressively pursuing the bottom of her mead. She had already made it abundantly clear to Ysolda that any support she received from her was not guaranteed by the Ironheart family at large. Just Sonja. Still, an offer from the Dragonborn, a Thane of Whiterun, and a Companion of Jorrvaskr was, by no means, worthless; so, despite the lack of security an old clan name assured, Ysolda had been only too happy to continue their partnership. Besides, Sonja had already delivered on the merchant’s license and Ysolda was not one to switch horses midrace. “I want nothing to do with her,” Sonja insisted hotly, “No.”

“You don’t have to like her for her to be useful on the hunt,” Uthgerd pointed out, using Sonja’s own words against her, “Besides, Hera’s the best shield-maiden Whiterun’s ever seen—besides your ma, of course.”

Sonja made a sound of disgust. “Fine,” she relented, “But I make no promises that I won’t turn my spear on the old biddy once the beast is slain.”

Ysolda choked on her mead; Lydia looked disapproving; and Uthgerd was thoroughly amused. “As you say, Dragonborn,” the old warrior said, “But the odds are not in your favor for that fight. I wouldn’t risk my coin on your arse.”

“As well you shouldn’t, wench,” Sonja teased, “It’s my fists I’ll be fighting with.”

“Aye, but it’s your arse you’ll be knocked to when Hera sets you straight.”

Sonja scoffed. “We’ll see about that,” she growled, smiling. It was only a bit of fun between her and Uthgerd, but the jest still bristled her ego a little. Not that she’d admit it. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough with the four women ordering too many drinks than was wise. Ysolda still wanted to hammer out the finder details of transportation and distribution of goods amongst the hunters once the mammoth was felled, but her planning fell on deaf ears as Lydia and Uthgerd attempted to teach Sonja the words to a favorite Nordic drinking song. Eventually, she gave up and joined in the fun, happy to have a distraction from her injured heart.

At the end of the night, the lot of them escorted Ysolda back to her home, a tangled mess of linked arms and slurred speech. “Lemme ge’ da door fer ya, m-m’lady,” Sonja slurred in a comically high-pitched voice as she reached for the latch, but the door wouldn’t come open.

“I-it’s locked-d,” Ysolda giggled, fumbling with her keys until she managed to get it in the lock and turn, falling inside. Lydia snickered, but helped her to her feet, the least drunk of the foursome. Sonja was wracked with a fit of silent laughter, unable to offer assistance of her own and Uthgerd didn’t care enough to trouble herself. “Thank you, ladies!” Ysolda declared once she was righted, “You’ve been very chiv—chiva—chiv-ral-rous? You’ve been too kind.” She gave a comical little bow, almost toppling over again, but Lydia steadied her.

“Get some sleep, little bird,” the Housecarl urged.

The endearment made Ysolda wince and pout. She had earned the name throughout the course of the night from Uthgerd’s insistence that she ate like a bird, drank like a bird, and sang like a bird when she joined in their drinking songs. It had not been intended as a compliment, though the old warrior hadn’t meant it to be insulting, either; she simply was of the opinion that drinking songs should be shouted more than sang. “I’m-m not a-a bird!” she insisted.

“Ge’ s’me sleeeep-then, mighty troll-slayer,” Sonja teased. They all snickered at the idea of Ysolda slaying trolls.

And with a final slurred “Good night!”, the merchant woman finally closed her door and stumbled to her bed for the night.

Getting Uthgerd home proved to be far more challenging. Lydia had half a mind to let the hot-headed warrior stumble home alone like she wanted, but Sonja insisted on make sure she didn’t run into any trouble with the guard along the way. The struggle to get Uthgerd to her home without starting a fight with a passerby, a random guard, a suspicious looking shadow, a milk-drinking tree, an arrogant chicken, a cowardly goat, or a snot-nosed street lamp surpassed even the rough training day Sonja had by leaps and bounds. “Ugh, gods, taking your shield to the face was easier than getting that drunken wench inside,” Sonja moaned against the closed door of Uthgerd’s house; she was now feeling considerably more sober from the effort, even if the edges of her vision were still blurry.

Lydia leaned against the jamb, laughing to herself. “‘I’ll ‘ave all yer arses, ya ‘ear me? You bleedin’, milk-drinkin’, sons o’ whores!’” she said, mimicking Uthgerd’s last, gruff declaration before they pushed her inside.

Sonja chuckled. “She gets very—Breton—when she drinks, yeah?” she observed.

The Housecarl scrunched up her nose. “She does, doesn’t she?” The pair laughed until they heard a very loud thunk on the other side of the door.

Quickly, Sonja whipped the door open to make sure Uthgerd hadn’t tipped headfirst into her fireplace. Thankfully, the warrior was passed out on the floor of the den, snoring loudly and drooling on the floorboards. “She’s fine,” Sonja waved Lydia off and the pair of them made their way toward Jorrvaskr unsteadily.

“So,” Sonja said as they reached the Gildergreen, “Have I earned your trust through way too much mead, yet?”

Lydia smirked. “If anything, I’ve learned not to trust your judgement. You drink too much.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“We both can’t be trusted.”

“Probably for the best,” Sonja scoffed as they neared the bottom of the stairs leading to Jorrvaskr. She paused, momentarily indecisive.

“Something wrong, Ironheart?” Lydia asked when she noticed her Thane linger at the bottom step.

A mischievous grin spread over Sonja’s face as she made up her mind. “No,” she assured, “Go on in. Get some sleep. I’ve—uh—other business to attend to tonight.”

Lydia missed the insinuation. “Then I will go with you,” she insisted, “It’s late and you are in no state to go alone.”

Sonja barked out a laugh. “I think I can manage on my own,” she replied as she took a few uncertain steps away from Jorrvaskr, “But—uh—if I’m not back by morning—you know where to find me…” She winked and did her best to calmly stroll toward Dragonsreach. Lydia hesitated, the Jarl’s palace was safe enough, but the walk there was less so. Silently, she calculated the risk factor involved in allowing her Thane to climb the long stair case inebriated and unattended, and relegated herself to waiting at the top of the stairs to Jorrvaskr until Sonja made it to Dragonsreach. What business the Dragonborn had there at such a late hour, Lydia couldn’t fathom, but she knew when it wasn’t her place to pry. Just as there were some things she preferred to keep separate from her service to Sonja, so too did she acknowledge there were many things Sonja wished to keep to herself.


The touch of his fingertips over her bare skin is almost too much. It sends such a pleasant shiver of desire through her body that her breath hitches and she knows no one will ever make her feel the way he does. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. Their naked bodies clinging to each other in heated darkness are perfect, and it makes her heart ache with the swell of love for the man wrapped in her embrace. “Corvus,” she moans out his name and the sound of it is like a prayer to her ears, saving her soul in a thousand ways she didn’t even know she needed.

“Dibella save me, you’re so beautiful,” he groans, his weight shifting over her as he aims to reach deeper within her core. His handsome face is slack with pleasure, dark brunette hair tousled from her fingers when she gripped the wavy locks in her pleasure, but his warm, loving brown eyes bore into her own shining blue ones. There is such intensity, such love in his gaze that it almost scares her. But then the moment approaches and as she feels herself shatter into a thousand pieces against the wave of their shared ecstasy, so too does she surrender herself to the vulnerability of his offer.

“Yes,” she breathes, breathless against the kisses he lines against her throat, “Yes, damn you! I love you, too.”

And then it all goes wrong. Twists in the malleable slipstream of memory, merging joy with sorrow so when he lifts his head from her breasts and looks at her, it is not with the gentle, unguarded expression of adoration—it is with the jagged edge of rage and hatred. He laughs in her face, her words falling on deaf ears before the flash of his dagger slices across the throat he had only moments before paid worship with his lips.

Sonja sat bolt upright in bed, in the darkness, breathing heavy and covered in a fresh sheen of sweat. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew it had only been a dream, so she sat, rigid and blinking, trying to calm her racing heart and identify familiar objects in the darkened room. Nothing looked particularly familiar. And, with a jolt, she realized there was someone lying in bed next to her. Suddenly, she felt very cold; it was then that she realized she was naked and the blankets that once covered her had been flung to the bottom of the bed.

Her alarm rose in her chest only to dissipate in the next moment as she remembered where she was and with whom. Dragonsreach. With Hrongar. She looked at him sideways to see if her nightmare had disturbed him, but he seemed unperturbed and snoring softly into his pillow. Relieved, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slipped out of bed, feeling the weight of her night of drinking shift the world sideways, nearly upending her back onto the mattress. But she steadied herself and willed her vision to stop moving as she crept around in the darkness, fetching her clothes. If she was lucky, she could sneak out before he even noticed she was gone.

She stubbed her toe.

Not so lucky.

Hrongar snorted awake and sat up, a dagger loosely clutched in his hands as he stared around through one eye, the other apparently too tired to open properly. Sonja froze like a deer, hoping her lack of movement would render her invisible. And it might have, if the rest of the world wasn’t moving so damn much. She shifted to steady herself and Hrongar lowered his weapon, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. “Sonja?” he said thickly, obviously fighting a yawn.

“Yes?” she said almost guiltily.

“What are you doing?”

She sighed and finished jamming her foot into her boot. “What does it look like?” she asked, turning her tunic over in her hands, trying to determine which hole made space for which limb, before jamming her head through, discovering the fit was wrong, and tugging it off to try again.

“Come back to bed,” he insisted, “It’s late. And you’re drunk.”

She actually snorted, amused with his concern. “Not drunk enough to refuse when I wanted a tumble, am I?” she pointed out, succeeding in properly donning her tunic—she hoped.

“Too drunk to go home,” he corrected, “Which is why I offered you my bed for the night.”

Sonja smirked. “Mmm, ever the gentleman,” she quipped, fumbling with the laces of her corset.

There was marked hesitation through the darkness before Hrongar spoke again. “Are you angry with me?” he asked uncertainly.

Her fingers stilled as it occurred to her that the Thane didn’t know her well enough to know when she was joking and it was too dark to see her amusement in her expression—a fact she took advantage of when she openly rolled her eyes at him. “Of course not,” she assured, giving up on her corset and stooping to pick up her cloak. Then she perched on the edge of the bed closest to Hrongar. He moved over to give her room, but not enough to separate their bodies and his hand slid comfortably over her thigh. “You gave me exactly what I was looking for,” she said seductively, “Perhaps we can do it again sometime.” And then she kissed him almost politely on the mouth before popping up from her seat and heading for the door.

Hrongar watched her leave with a bemused expression. He was still unsure if he had done something wrong or if she really was so—relaxed about such things. Not that sex was a complicated matter in Skyrim. More or less, the general attitude was: if you have an itch, then scratch it. But it was the first time he had ever watched a woman sneak out of his room in the middle of the night. And it only made him all the more curious about the Dragonborn.

As Sonja made her way back down to Jorrvaskr—thankfully running into no one of note along the way—her thoughts were not on her nightly escapades with the Thane (which had been adequate but not outstanding). She was thinking of her nightmare, trying to piece it back together in the shock of waking. It had been about Corvus. That much was certain. And the very thought of him made her skin crawl and her heart ache in such a profoundly painful way that, coupled with her lingering inebriation, she almost tipped into the water in her descent of Dragonreach’s stairs. She had been young and stupid when she met him, but she refused to excuse herself from the events that followed their dangerous affair.

With a sound of disgust, she tried to put him from her mind and returned to Jorrvaskr for some much needed sleep before Vilkas put her through Oblivion again the next morning. “Fuck,” she cursed, realizing that she had failed to meet with Farkas that day to pick up the job he had for her. Hopefully, it was a matter simple enough for her to take care of in the morning before training. Vilkas had called it an ‘errand,’ after all. She rubbed her face and stumbled into the mead hall, expecting to find no one and, to her dismay, spotting Vilkas at one of the chairs in the corner, reading a book with a mug of something steaming on the little table in front of him.

He looked up at her sharply when he heard the door, apparently expecting a vagrant or an intruder because the second he realized it was her, his gaze softened—but only slightly. Awkwardly, she nodded to him, unsure of what he was doing up so late or why he was staring at her so accusingly. “Rough night?” he asked, not setting down his book.

“I’ve had worse,” she replied noncommittally as she headed for the stairs to the lower levels.

“It’s closer to day than it is night,” he informed her.

“Sorry, ma,” she replied irritably, “I’ll send word next time I plan on staying out.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “What you do—and who you do it with—are none of my concern,” he stated, “Just be prepared to sweat that mead off tomorrow.” Sonja scoffed and made to zip down the stairs. “Oh, and don’t worry about your housecarl,” he said before she was out of earshot, “She’s made herself comfortable with my brother.”

At that, Sonja popped her head back up and looked in Vilkas’ direction. “Truly?” she asked.

“Last I saw her.”

A daedra-ish grin spread over Sonja’s face then and she disappeared to the lower levels. Sure enough, Lydia was not in her bunk when Sonja returned to the barracks and the Dragonborn couldn’t help but chuckle to herself before stripping down to her smalls and falling into bed, haphazardly covering herself with the blanket. At some point in the moments between sleeping and waking, her hand drifted to her throat, her fingertips grazing the old scar there. But she dreamt no more of Corvus.

Notes:

So, as I was doing the reread and edit for this chapter, I was reminded that I had originally started this chapter with the intention of writing a training montage, filled with Vilkas-Sonja training moments both frustrating and amusing, but then it took an interesting turn. Sometimes things just turn out radically different than you plan. So I went with it and I think it was a good move in the end. I mean...who doesn't like a bunch of drunken warrior women trying to pick fights with lamp posts?

Plus, it gives Ysolda a little girl-time to distract her from the Vilkas relationship fiasco. Uthgerd gets to hang out with other people without having to fight with them first. Sonja and Lydia get to know a little more about each other. There's a little side-nookie for Sonja with Hrongar because, despite how--underwhelming--I find him as a person, he's on my list of doable Skyrim hunks. Also the Lydia-Farkas thing happens because I lurve them together. Ever since by very first playthrough, by dorky headcanon demanded they get together. Idk why. I just think they make a lovely couple. Aaaaand, we get a little deeper peep into Sonja's past with the mysteriously wicked Corvus. *insert evil laugh here*

Hope you all enjoyed reading. :)

Chapter 20: No Rest for the Wicked

Summary:

Sonja gets through training with a hangover. Vilkas opens up a little to Faraks while Sonja and Faendal go off on their first inglorious job for the Companions. Afterward, Sonja finally gets her injured arm looked at, and learns something new about Faendal.

Notes:

To view English translations of words and phrases written in Atmoran (Norwegian) and Nedic (Latin) mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Norwegian and Latin translations brought to you by the best that Google Translate can offer. More information on why I chose those languages to represent Atmoran and Nedic in the end notes.

~Update: Because I have rewritten, edited, and re-edited this work soooooo many damn times, some things get--lost--along the way. One such missing piece was a change I had made to Faendal's character halfway through the last rewrite like a year ago. Nothing major, but I felt the personality I had written for him was a little young, a little naive for the much more mature age he appears to be in-game, so I had made him younger. This really isn't all that important and doesn't affect this chapter now, but I neglected to make the correction in a previous, already posted chapter. It has since been rectified and I will be referring to Faendal's younger physical appearance from now on. Mostly, he's just not white-haired anymore. Just a heads-up for those of you who have read the pre-change Faendal; he didn't start dying his hair or something else equally absurd.

Trigger Warning: Death and grieving.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Good morning!” The sound of his voice grated against Sonja’s mind, resounding with the force of a thousand booming echoes. It was all she could do not to roll to the edge of her bed and heave her guts onto the floor. With great effort, she cracked one weary eye open and glared at the intruder on her peace. It was Faendal.

“What do you want?” she groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes.

The Bosmer chuckled. “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type,” he chastised, “You go get piss-drunk with your new housecarl, but leave me behind?”

“It wasn’t a planned affair, friend.”

“Took you a whole week to warm up to me,” he pointed out playfully, “One night out drinking with her and…”

“To be fair, I made her live in Dragonsreach for a good long while before I finally said she could tag along,” she replied dully, “Which means you’re still my favorite.”

“I’m touched.”

“In the head, maybe.”

Faendal laughed. “You should be kinder to the elf who came to rouse your drunken carcass before Vilkas comes down here to wake you himself.”

Sonja rolled over and groaned into her pillow. “Mead is nothing but daedra piss disguised as honey,” she opined before sitting up and throwing off her blanket, awarding Faendal an eyeful of her in her smalls. Not that it was the first time. Hard to avoid when out on the road together—and there was that one time she stripped down and tried to crawl inside a campfire—but the Bosmer still politely averted his eyes as he stood up to give her privacy.

“Oh, and Farkas was looking for you, too,” he informed her as he walked away.

“Right, he’s got a job for me,” she reminded herself aloud.

“Oh? Mind if I tag along?” he asked from the door.

Sonja shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“See you after training, then.”

She made a vague gesture of goodbye to the back of Faendal’s head before sluggishly picking through her clothes, which were stuffed haphazardly into the trunk at the foot of her bed, to find her training leathers. A distinct air of reluctance colored her movements as she sloppily piled her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head and donned her armor. Her body was sick from alcohol and sore from her exertions the day before. And there was no promise of her day getting any better.


“Skeevers,” Sonja repeated, scowling up at Farkas, the larger twin filling up the doorway with his massive frame.

“That’s the job,” he nodded, smiling.

He was far more friendly than his brother which made laying any frustration or irritability against him virtually impossible. Something that Sonja found maddening, in itself. Especially when she was trying to express displeasure for the job he had just assigned her.

“In the dungeons,” she continued.

“Yep.”

“Where skeevers should be…”

Farkas shrugged. “The Jarl disagrees.”

Sonja pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. Her ego was prickling against the perceived indignity of the task laid before her, but she was aware of how ridiculous that was. “As you say, Companion,” she replied stiffly, “I’ll take care of it.” She turned to leave.

“Have fun!” Farkas smirked.

Sonja pursed her lips. “So much.” And she rushed upstairs to choke down some dry bread and water before she faced Vilkas in the training yard.


Lydia was at the feasting table, nibbling on a sparse breakfast when Sonja surfaced to scavenge for some food of her own. She nodded to the Dragonborn in subdued greeting, not quite meeting her eyes. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of her actions the night before. In fact, she had rather enjoyed herself. She just wasn’t prepared to explain herself to her Thane. It had been an embarrassingly long while since she had taken a man to bed. To be fair, she had been too busy with her studies and training to make room for social matters. So, when she had gone downstairs to the living quarters to sleep off the mead and ran into Farkas on his own way to bed, she had made a pass at him.

“Hail, Companion,” she had greeted.

And he returned her salutation with a nod of his head and a grunt of, “Housecarl.”

“It’s late.”

“It is.”

“Surely even a warrior as strong as you needs his rest?” Subtle, uncertain, and more compliment than innuendo. More in fun than out of a serious desire to bed the man.

Farkas raised an eyebrow. He was a simple man, not stupid, and had been far more receptive to her compliment than she had anticipated. “You see something you like, Housecarl?” he asked, smirking and crossing his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to bulge in the process.

Lydia wasn’t really the type to blush, but she felt her face grow hot. In that moment, it had occurred to her to bow out gracefully and go to bed alone. She had only just earned the privilege of sleeping in Jorrvaskr, after all, and she didn’t know how her Thane would take to her sleeping with one of her Shield-Brothers. But then again, it wasn’t any of Sonja’s business who Lydia chose to go to bed with—and, yes, the mead had gone a long way toward relaxing her reservations. “Won’t lie, I do,” she admitted, mimicking his posture with the added benefit of drawing greater attention to her cleavage, “And you? You see something you like, Companion?”

He grinned then, dropping his arms to his side, his eyes raking over her body and lingering on her chest as he approached her. “Won’t lie, I do,” he replied, his voice low and husky, “Very much.”

She felt the familiar twist of need deep in her core, but she didn’t move as Farkas closed the gap between them. He leaned into her space, propping himself against the wall behind her with one massive arm, the other gently playing across her arm from shoulder to elbow. She allowed the contact, but refused to acknowledge it as she continued to look him in the eye, his bright white-blue gaze in stark contrast with the dark smear of his war paint. “Are you going to do something about it?” she asked, an unmistakable challenge in her tone.

A soft growl of anticipation escaped Farkas’ mouth as he leaned in even closer. “Do you want me to do something about it?” he asked, his tone eager, but also sincere. He wanted to know what she wanted. He could have easily trapped her there with his sheer size, but he didn’t. Despite the forwardness of their exchange, he was still giving her an out, still leaving the door open for her to walk away. And that consideration made up her mind for her.

Very much.” And his mouth was on hers, kissing her senseless before he took her hand and led her down the empty hall to his personal quarters. He had pushed her against his door as soon as they neared the room, kissing her hard and feeling her up through her rough tunic before they managed to get inside, kicking the door closed behind them as Vilkas exited his room across the hall, a book in hand and a faint smile across his face.

Lydia was abruptly jerked from the memory of her tryst the night before when Sonja spoke. “So, I guess I wasn’t the only one who got lucky last night,” she said as she sipped a mug of hot tea and picked at a slice of bread.

“What?” Lydia glanced around, making sure none of the other Companions had overheard her Thane. Either they had not or did not care, because no one appeared to take note of them.

“You’re grinning like an idiot,” Sonja informed her, amused.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business, my Thane.”

Sonja snorted aloud, drawing some attention their way. “Got a problem?” she asked Athis severely when the elf looked at her. He frowned and looked away, irritated. “It isn’t any of my business,” she amended, addressing Lydia again, “Just making conversation.”

Lydia hesitated. “You’re not…displeased?” she asked, uncertainly.

The Dragonborn smiled. “My pleasure has nothing to do with it,” she replied, chuckling, “Go to bed with who you like. Dibella knows I do.”

The Housecarl smiled faintly. She appreciated Sonja’s relaxed attitude. Other housecarls were not so lucky in their assignments. There were plenty of haughty nobles in Skyrim who viewed their honored bodyguards as little more than servants whose lives they could dictate as they pleased. Sonja obviously had no interest in meddling in Lydia’s personal affairs. “Thank you, Ironheart,” she said softly.

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “For what?” she asked.

“For understanding.”

A strange expression passed over the Dragonborn’s face just then as if she seemed to realize the nature of Lydia’s position, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come and Sonja was waving her off. “Nothing to thank me for,” she insisted and then she tipped her lukewarm tea to her housecarl before draining it in one go. “Got a lot to do today,” she sighed, “Got to get after it.” And then she arranged her expression into one of determination before heading out the door to the training yard.


She stank of mead and an unknown male. And the scent of her drove him crazy. The Wolf didn’t like the smell of other men invading his territory. Not that the Dragonborn was his, in any way, but she had brought it into his home where the intrusive odor invaded the familiar scents of his den, of his pack. It lingered in the air of the training yard with the booze in her sweat and agitated his bestial urge to dominate. To mark the contested object in question as his own. It made training her very trying.

Despite his high-strung attitude, Sonja was showing some improvement. She’s only had a day’s worth of training with him under her belt, but she was already beginning to sense what it was he wanted, what he expected, and paid better attention to the minute details of her grip and footwork. Her form still wasn’t perfect, but he’d have been surprised if it had become so overnight. To reward her for her efforts, he didn’t correct her with the flat of his blade nearly as often; merely pointing instead. The gesture was not lost on Sonja and she was both pleased with herself and relieved that she was spared a little pain. He did make her run until she puked behind Heimskr’s house, though.

When she came back around Jorrvaskr and into the training yard, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Vilkas smirked. “Feeling better, whelp?” he asked.

She made a face and held her forefinger and thumb a half an inch apart. “Little bit,” she grunted.

“Get back to it, then,” he ordered and watched as Sonja threw herself back on the ground and pursued the next set of pushups with a vengeance.

Overall, it was a good training session. Sonja had performed reasonably well, especially with the added strain of her hangover. Vilkas was pleased, so he was kinder to her. And Sonja hadn’t lost her temper with the work or with him.

To conclude their morning, Vilkas had Sonja cool down with an easy hand-to-hand spar with Lydia. He watched as Thane and Housecarl circled one another. Sonja was much more confident for that little exercise than any other she had performed that day, and Vilkas quickly saw why. The Dragonborn was a good little boxer. The first time he had met her, he had guessed as much with all the little brawler scars that covered her face, but it was something else to see it. She was quick, agile, and creative with her attacks. Strong defense. Good footwork. It looked as if she had received better training without a weapon than she had received with one. It struck him as strange, and he wondered why she couldn’t take that same knowledge and technique, and apply it to other combat training.

As he was mulling this over, something unexpected happened. Sonja had been gleefully beating on Lydia, for a change, and had grown a touch too cocky—not strange in and of itself, but the housecarl managed to get swing in when Sonja least expected it, clocking her across the jaw and delivering a hard body shot to the gut. Again, not a bizarre occurrence; Lydia was a very competent fighter, herself, but when Sonja recovered, her expression was dark and dangerous, and her eyes gleamed gold.

Lydia hesitated, her guard dropping a fraction of an inch in her surprise and confusion, and she glanced in Vilkas’ direction for guidance. The Companion barely had time to respond before Sonja launched herself at her housecarl, but he managed to get between the two, throwing Lydia in one direction and shoving Sonja in the opposite. Sonja slid backwards, caught her footing, and tried to go after her housecarl again. Vilkas stopped her. “Your fight is with me now, Newblood,” he informed her.

Sonja grinned menacingly. “Even better,” she growled and launched herself at Vilkas.

The larger Companion could have easily ended the fight the way he had the first time Sonja lost control, but he didn’t because it would do nothing to teach her to rein in her own beast. So, he fought with her which was a little like chasing a rabbit all over the training yard since he didn’t shut her down right away. Dodge. Weave. Duck. But she was becoming increasingly frustrated with her inability to break through Vilkas’ defenses. In a frenzied attempt to hurt him, she lunged at him, grappling with her larger opponent until they were a heaping pile of bodies wrestling in the dirt.

Vilkas pinned her to the ground with his weight, straddling her waist and holding down her wrists. “That’s it,” he growled, “You feel it, don’t you?”

“Get off me,” she snarled as she squirmed beneath him, enraged, but unable to find a foothold against him.

“The Dragon,” he continued as if she had not spoken, “The Beast.”

“You know nothing!” He sat too low on her hips for her to swing her legs around and she couldn’t generate enough force from the bottom to push him off.

“I know this fight is not between you and I,” he snapped back, “It’s between you and your animal.” He leaned in. “There’s only room enough for one master and you’re afraid it won’t be you.”

“Shut up!” she demanded, but his words rang true. The Dragon was vast and greedy. It was never satisfied with so little space. It wanted to fill her up until she burst. Wanted to rule her, control her. It had spent so long slumbering beneath her skin only to wake in a body that was not built to dominate the masses. She had no wings or scales or claws. She was soft flesh and brittle bone filled only with determination and a very mortal heart. She felt weak against it. Overwhelmed by its power. It was so easy to give in, to let it claw its way through her.

“So fight it, whelp,” he urged, seeing he was getting through to her in the fearful round of her eyes, “You killed a dragon once before. Tame this one now.” She wanted him to stop talking. She didn’t want to hear him anymore, but she was trapped beneath him. The only thing she could think to do was Shout him off her body. Vilkas could practically see the idea form in her mind, saw the murderous glint in her eyes and her jaw tighten. “Don’t do it, Ironheart,” he warned, about to release one of her hands in favor of her throat, “Don’t let it win.”

Then something changed. In a moment of blinding clarity, the disparate parts of her soul aligned. The Dragon’s wrath was tempered by mortality, by finality. Limits. And all that it entailed. The urgency and beauty of the things that existed within the bounds of birth and death. Connection, friendship, love. Passion. Fragility. There was real power in that moment. Strength like she had never known before, and not just physical prowess but the intangible sense of agency, the knowledge that she could change everything. It was then, covered in sweat and caked in the dirt of Jorrvaskr’s training yard, pinned, helpless, beneath the weight of a larger opponent, that Sonja began to grasp what it meant to be Dragonborn.

Without warning, she wrenched her left arm free and struck Vilkas’ elbow, loosening his grip on her other hand. He leaned forward from the loss of stability and she anchored herself against his chest, sliding down between his legs until she had enough leverage to push upward and forcefully roll on top of him. A few more well placed strikes kept him from pinning her down in the process until she was properly seated on his chest, one knee digging into his bicep and her other foot securing his wrist to the ground. Her left hand clamped down over his throat; not enough to choke, but enough to assert control while her right made a fist, waiting for a reason to strike him. “I always win,” she said triumphantly.

Despite the injury being bested by a Newblood dealt to his ego, Vilkas was impressed and pleased. He actually grinned up at her and barked out a laugh. “Good on you, whelp,” he grunted against her grip on his throat, “Now the real work starts tomorrow.” And he graciously tapped against her thigh, silently declaring her the victor. Sonja smiled and hopped off him, offering her hand in good sport. Vilkas accepted and she pulled him upright. “Don’t let it go to your head, though,” he warned.

She raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “As you say, Companion,” she replied.

“Now, you have a job to do, yes?”

Sonja made a face. “Aye.”

“I suggest you get to it, then.” He glanced at her hand. “And tend to that,” he ordered and Sonja inspected her right hand.

It was bruised all to Oblivion from that day’s sparring. She frowned. It hadn’t bothered her too much in the heat of combat. Adrenaline and bloodlust had gone a long way toward dampening the pain, but she could feel the soreness setting in. “As soon as I’m done at Dragonsreach,” she promised.

“Good.” And he stalked off to Jorrvaskr, leaving Sonja to put away whatever equipment remained strewn about the yard from practice that day.

It wasn’t much. Just a couple swords, and the rope and gag from the footwork exercise. As Sonja returned the blades to the wrack, she glanced in Lydia’s direction. The housecarl still stood mute at the edge of the step, staring at the empty training yard as if still trying to make sense of what she had seen. “You alright?” Sonja asked, tapping against Lydia’s elbow.

The unannounced contact caused the housecarl to jump and take a step back. Quickly, she schooled her expression to one of neutrality, but not before Sonja saw the utter look of terror that was there first. “Fine, my Thane,” Lydia nodded, “You—you fought well against the Companion.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. She knew what had disturbed her housecarl. It was the first time Lydia had seen her lose control and the resulting rage had been directed at her. Undoubtedly, the honored bodyguard was wondering what would have happened had Vilkas not been there to intervene. If they had been out in the wilds on some job or errand or hunt, would Sonja have killed her? Shouted her to death or tore her apart with her bare hands? It was one thing to swear to lay down your life for another, it was something else entirely for that person to be the one to take it from you. “I’m sorry,” she said, quietly, “I wasn’t—I wasn’t myself when I…” she trailed off, shaking her head and sighing. “Look, you know what you’re in for now,” she stated bluntly, “This is the way of things. I can’t promise I won’t lose it again, but I give you my word that I’m trying. If that’s not enough…”

“It’s enough,” Lydia interrupted.

“Good,” Sonja nodded. “Because, I’ll go punch an old lady or kick a child or something if it’ll free you from your oath,” she jokingly offered.

Lydia smiled nervously. “That will not be necessary.” Sonja nodded again, rubbing the back of her neck, unsure of what to say. Instead of continuing the conversation, she went inside to change into her armor and find Faendal. But she couldn’t shake the image of Lydia’s frightened face from her mind. It was a heavy reminder that a great burden had been placed upon her shoulders. That for every person who gawped at her in round-eyed reverence and astonishment, there was another trembling at the very thought of her. That power was a sword that cut both ways, and change for the better for one person was always worse for someone else. That fear and death and destruction were no less a part of being Dragonborn than the clarity and strength she had felt moments before. From the point of view of a Divine, a dragon might be a thing of beauty, grace, and strength, but from the ground, it was a fire-breathing monster.


Sonja stooped to pick up the dead skeever by the tail and toss it over the city wall outside the door to Dragonsreach’s dungeons. “Do you think Tiber Septim ever had to do such humiliating work?” she asked as Faendal joined her with a couple more skeever corpses.

“I’m not really an expert,” he replied, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the rodents, “But I doubt anyone would tell stories about it, if he did.”

“Good point.” They had made very short work of the skeevers in the dungeons even with Sonja’s injured hand and Lydia’s absence. Sonja had asked her to stay behind since it was a Companion contract and there were some things she felt she should do without her housecarl. Though, it served the double purpose of giving Lydia some time alone to consider what serving as Sonja’s housecarl meant and would entail.

When they were finished, they made their way back around to the front of the palace to inform the Captain of the Guard that the job was done, but instead of Commander Caius, it was Hrongar waiting on the walkway, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. Sonja didn’t bother to hide her displeasure when she saw him and made an audible grunt of irritation. “Something wrong?” Faendal asked. She nodded ahead of them. “Oh.” He didn’t yet know that Sonja had slept with the thane the night before, but he wasn’t overly impressed with Hrongar in general. For her part, Sonja didn’t regret sleeping with Hrongar; she was a grown woman, responsible for her actions, who had consented to sleeping with a grown man and it had been pleasurable. There was nothing to regret. She just didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about their relationship; that it was a relationship at all, for starters.

“Hail, Companions,” he said once Sonja and Faendal were near enough.

“Thane,” Sonja greeted formally, nodding to him.

“Caius had other matters to attend to,” he said by way of explaining his presence in the Captain of the Guard’s absence.

“Job’s done,” Sonja replied, uninterested in Hrongar’s excuses.

“And done well,” Faendal added.

“I expected no less from the Companions.”

“Then we return to Jorrvaskr,” Sonja replied shortly, nodding.

“There is one other order of business, before you go, Dragonborn,” he said before Sonja had the chance to escape down the stairs.

Grudgingly, she turned to face him again. “Yes?”

His hands swung forward from behind his back to reveal he had been holding onto something: her mother’s Skyforge dagger. “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out to her.

Sonja pursed her lips and delicately plucked it out of his grasp. “Thank you,” she replied politely. She hadn’t yet noticed its absence, but she hadn’t had the opportunity to miss it yet, either. She didn’t equip it for training and had been a in a hurry to get the job done that she thought she had merely forgotten it in her haste.

“Don’t mention it,” Hrongar replied, then he stepped closer and added in an undertone, “I look forward to giving you another opportunity to leave it my room again.” He was quiet enough that the nearby guards had not heard him, but Faendal had. It was a good thing he was turned away from them, waiting at the top of the stairs, pretending not to listen to their conversation—because his eyes had all but fallen out of his skull when he heard Hrongar’s words.

“Let’s go, Faendal,” Sonja said, pointedly refusing to respond to Hrongar, “We’re done here.” And the pair of them hurriedly glided down the steps to the Wind District.

As soon as they reached the bottom, Sonja risked a sideways glance at her Bosmer friend. “Well?” she demanded, “I know you heard that.”

Faendal put up his hands. “Not my business,” he promised her, fighting the growing smile on his face. Sonja made a sound of disgust and headed for the Temple of Kyne with Faendal close behind, chuckling at her expense.

They slipped into the temple quietly so as not to disturb anyone at prayer, but it wasn’t reverent silence that greeted their ears as they stepped inside. It was the sharp cries of the ailing, agonizing sick and injured. Sonja’s pace slowed to a stop, her attention drawn to the platforms near the center of the room where those in need were laid out to receive treatment from the priestess or her acolyte. The sight of them writhing on the stone, covered with a thin blanket beneath the thick sun beams pouring in through the high cast windows tugged unexpectedly at Sonja’s heart.

The temple, itself, was a beautiful structure with a high ceiling and lilting, carved archways painted gold and blue. Colors of the sun and sky, of Kyne’s domain. Tangled in the rafters hung lush vines of emerald moss, nourished by the sun. And in the planters lining the walls grew thick clusters of sweet smelling lavender. Both ingredients were used in various potions designed to aid the sick or injured in their recoveries, and considered sacred to the Goddess of the Sky. In the center of the floor was a tile mosaic of blues and golds in every shade depicting a large, white bird, its wings spread wide against the yellow and azure halo of the sky. Framing the mosaic were four shallow pools of water carved into the floor and fed in from the streams that naturally flowed throughout Whiterun. The pleasant, gentle babble of the water over the sky-blue tiles beneath it lapped against the edges of the mosaic, mingling in the air with the wailing of the needy.

Healing magicks were alive in the temple, in the wood of the rafters, in the sunlight pouring through the windows, in the water at its heart. But, suddenly, Sonja felt very silly coming for aid when there were others who appeared to need it more than she did. She was about to leave to pester Arcadia instead of disturbing Danica when the priestess looked up from the wounded soldier she was attending to and spotted her. Kindly, she placed her hand on the man’s head and muttered for him to rest. His breathing eased at her touch and he appeared to drift off to sleep. Then the priestess approached Sonja and Faendal, her smile tight, but welcoming. “Greetings, Companions,” she said, “What brings you to the temple this day?”

Sonja and Faendal covered their hearts with their right hands and bowed their heads in humble greeting. “I have come to consult with you,” Sonja explained and she looked over the priestess’ shoulder at the slumbering soldier and then glanced sideways at the expecting mother perched on a bench in the corner. Leaning against the brightly painted panels of the wall was a young boy who looked very ill. Propped in another corner was an elderly woman who appeared to be suffering the late stages of brain rot as she mumbled to herself, drooling and tracing patterns against the armrest of her bench. “But it seems there are others who need your healing hands more than I,” she stated, returning her attention to the priestess, “I will not take up any more of your time.”

Danica waved her off. “All are welcome in the Temple of Kyne,” she insisted, “If you have need of healing, it is my sacred duty to aid you.” She glanced back at the soldier behind her. “Besides, I have done all I can for some of them. The rest is in their hands and the grace of Kyne.”

Sonja glanced at Faendal who nodded to her encouragingly and she removed the gauntlet from her injured hand. The priestess took Sonja’s burned forearm in her hands carefully and examined it closely. “I know a little of the healing arts,” Sonja informed her, “But I am unable to do any more. It seems to be resistant to my spells and healing potions.”

“It is healed well enough,” Danica said softly, her brow furrowing, “At least, the burn has scarred. The condition of the muscle and skin cannot be restored any further.” Gently, she moved Sonja’s hand backward to check the range of motion and noted the sharp hiss of pain that issued from the Dragonborn. When her examinations were done, she allowed Sonja to retract her arm from her grasp. “The poor movement and pain can be managed and hopefully improved with a daily spell to reduce scarring,” she said thoughtfully, “At least—I think so. I’ve never seen anything like it before. How were you burned?”

Sonja hesitated. “I was at Helgen when it was attacked,” she explained reluctantly, “The dragon’s breath melted my skin.”

Danica’s eyes went wide with surprise. “And you survived?” she asked in disbelief.

“Lucky, I guess.”

“The Divines surely smiled on you that day,” the priestess agreed, but she grew pensive again. “I treated some of the soldiers who were injured at the Western Watchtower,” she said, “But none of them had received burns quite like this…”

“You look troubled,” Faendal observed.

Danica sighed apologetically. “I’ve seen many burns throughout my time as a temple priestess,” she said, “All manner and degree of burn. Especially recently. But this is—different—like a marking. Magical scarring so thick, it’s restricting your hand and wrist.”

Sonja looked down at her withered hand and flexed her fingers. The pain was sharp and the digits shook from the exertion. She frowned, her brow furrowing deeply as she remembered that day on the block. The force of the dragon’s roar as she stared up at it, helpless and mortal. Suddenly, there was no doubt in her mind that it had been there looking for her—that Danica had spoken true and her injury, her mark, had only been the harbinger of a much larger destiny. Dovahkiin. She shivered.

“Whatever happened,” Danica continued when neither Sonja nor Faendal spoke, “It goes far deeper than just your skin.”

“How long will she have to treat it in order to regain strength in that hand again?” Faendal asked, sensing Sonja’s mind was elsewhere.

“I can’t say,” Danica admitted, “I’ve never treated anything like this before. But it must be daily to combat the thickening flesh or her hand will just be one thick callous.”

Sonja’s gaze darted around the room again. “You have too much to do without me coming in every day, wasting your time,” she stated.

“It’s not a waste of time,” Danica objected, “Not if you want to keep the use of your hand.”

Sonja shook her head. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she assured, “But if you taught the spell to me, I could treat myself. Besides, as a Companion—I doubt I’ll always be in town to come to temple.”

“I see your point,” the priestess conceded, “I would be glad to teach you, if you have the skill?”

The Dragonborn smiled humorlessly. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Danica nodded and beckoned for Sonja to follow her to the bookshelves behind the wooden screens that separated the main chamber of the temple from the small living quarters of the priests. The priestess ran her fingers over the spines of the volumes on the shelves until she found the one she was looking for. She removed it and handed it to Sonja. “Please return it when you are done,” she said. Sonja took the tome and began to lightly skim through the first few pages. “Now, give me your hand again and I will begin the first session.” Reluctantly, Sonja closed the book and held out her hand; she had the sinking feeling that it was going to hurt like Oblivion. She was not wrong.


Vilkas washed himself in the basin in his room. It was cold and inadequate, but he’d go to the bathhouse later, perhaps late at night or early in the morning when no one else would be there to bother him and he could enjoy the hot water in peace. Away from prying eyes, and yes, greatly reducing the chance that he’d run into Ysolda in the market or even in the bathhouse, itself. He’d already hurt her enough, some distance between them was best.

He sighed and removed his tunic, rolling his sore shoulder once he was free of it. His fingers grazed the web of scars on his skin and he winced, the sharp tingle of pain radiating down to his fingertips. It had been years—almost a lifetime, it seemed—since he’d received the injury that brutally scarred most of the left side of his torso, but it still caused him nearly constant pain. The Wolf had made it easier for him to live with it. Regardless of whatever taint that animal left upon his soul, it had made his body stronger. His tolerance for pain was greatly increased when he took the Blood, but he still had need to medicate himself with Arcadia’s potions. To take the edge off. It didn’t help in sparring matches like the one he’d just had with the Dragonborn, however. He’d need another dose to ease that ache.

He wasn’t vain enough to be embarrassed of the hideous scar that snaked over his shoulder and pectoral; he just didn’t like the stares it drew in the bathhouse or in the training yard. People always wanted to know the story, but it was no thrilling tale of honor and glory. He was lucky to have survived the attack let alone walk away with a scar and some discomfort. Some nights, he could still feel the electricity dancing over his skin. On the rare occasion that he managed sleep deep enough to dream, he dreamt of that day. No, he would never tell that story. It was between him and Farkas.

Experimentally, he flexed his arm and watched the smooth motion of his muscle ripple beneath his scarred skin. More painful than usual, but not the worst he’d ever felt. And he trudged across the room to his dresser where the daily draughts were neatly lined up. He selected one, popped the cork with his teeth, and then downed the contents of the small vial in one gulp. When he was done, he stood there, half dressed, eyes closed, and his head leaned back, waiting for the medicine to take effect. When it did, he exhaled long and low, unaware he had been holding his breath.

Outside his door, he heard someone approaching. The heavy gait announced it was his brother, but the larger twin knocked on the door anyway. “Enter,” Vilkas commanded as he busied himself with looking for a clean shirt.

Farkas opened the door and leaned against the jamb. “Just spoke with Lydia,” he said.

Vilkas glanced at his brother. “You didn't talk with her before you took her to bed?” he quipped.

Farkas was amused the ribbing, but didn't have anything to answer it with. “She seemed troubled.”

“That’s because Ironheart nearly took her head off during training today,” Vilkas explained sighing.

“Hotheaded, that one?”

“No. Just a pup looking for something to sink her teeth into.”

“Was that something you?” Farkas asked, nodding to the empty vial on Vilkas’ dresser.

“Not today.”

Farkas cocked his head to one side, curiously. “You like her?”

Vilkas made a face. “What?” It wasn't as if he didn't find Sonja attractive, but it was a little hard to indulge carnal fantasies when his head was full of so many other dangerous things.

“Lydia said you spoke to her when you were fighting,” Farkas clarified, “You didn't just put her on her ass and have done with it.”

“She reminds me of us when we first took the Beast.” He paused. “Of me.” And if he could help her control her Dragon, then maybe there was hope for him, too.

Farkas nodded, seeming to understand. “And if the Blood still calls to you when she’s moved on?” he asked, “What will you do when she’s gone to High Hrothgar?”

Vilkas’ frowned. “Let me worry about that,” he said, finally finding a tunic stuffed down in the back of one of his drawers, “You go comfort your woman. Tell her Ironheart didn't mean anything by it.”

The larger twin smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I like her.”

“You like them all,” he reminded his brother, chuckling. Vilkas never hurt for feminine company. Generally speaking, his good looks and charming brood paved the way into any bed he wanted—and there was something just a little bit dangerous about his disposition that tended to make a woman curious. Though Farkas shared his brother’s face, he had a different way with the ladies. Open and friendly where Vilkas was aloof and dour. There was no thrill of danger with him; passed his rough exterior, he was too gentle. But the price of his tender heart was an unguarded enthusiasm for each lucky lady with whom he spent the night. Farkas, of course, didn't see it as a down side. He liked women and they liked him, and when it was time to say goodbye, he was a little reluctant, but no one got hurt. Vilkas worried for him regardless; feared that he was too generous with his affections; that there would be one woman who would leave and take his brother’s heart with her.

Farkas shrugged, scratching the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t hurt you any to be a little kinder to your company,” he pointed out, “I saw Ysolda in the market today. Wouldn't even look me in the eye.”

Vilkas pursed his lips. “It was for her own good,” he insisted, “She’ll see that someday if she doesn’t already.”

“A warm bed never hurt anybody.”

“Unless you’re sleeping next to a Wolf,” Vilkas pointed out, shaking his head, “No. I will speak no more of this.”

“As you say,” Farkas relented, “But Ysa kept your head straight when you needed it and now she’s gone.”

“Like I said, brother: let me worry about that.”

Til min bror, jeg er trofast,” Farkas replied, pleased with himself for remembering the proverb the way Vilkas had taught it to him.

The smaller twin made a face. “Your pronunciation is terrible,” he chastised.

But his criticism did not unseat the smug smile from Farkas’ face. He had worked for days trying to memorize it and say the words at least recognizably correct. “It’s Atmoran, brother. Not many alive left to care about it.”

Vilkas scoffed. Farkas’ simple logic never ceased to amaze him. What he would give to see the world so plainly. “True enough,” he allowed, “But Kodlak might say otherwise.”

“I didn't practice it for him.”

That was with practice?!?”

Farkas barked out a laugh and waved off his brother, retreating down the hall to leave Vilkas in peace and perhaps seek out Lydia as he had suggested. Vilkas listened to him walk away, counting his footsteps out of habit. A practice that had begun in childhood not long after they had arrived in Jorrvaskr. Vilkas always counted his brother’s steps, that way he always knew how far he’d have to run when he needed him.


“Are you alright?” Faendal asked as they left the temple, “That didn’t look like it felt good.”

“It didn’t,” Sonja grunted.

“I didn’t think healing spells were supposed to hurt.”

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue indecisively, trying to decide how much of her magical knowledge she should demonstrate or if Faendal would even care. “Most healing spells are painless or even pleasurable,” she acknowledged, “But this—this was different.”

“Obviously.”

“There are a lot of other spells healers use that don’t give immediate relief,” she explained, “Like rebreaking bones.”

“Why on Nirn would you want to rebreak a bone?” Faendal asked, horrified.

“A broken leg not set straight becomes a crippled leg,” Sonja pointed out, “Sometimes things need to be undone before they can be put back together again.”

“That sounds fucking awful.” The Bosmer looked a little green.

Sonja nodded. “It is,” she agreed, “I learned the basics of the spell back in Cyrodiil, but I’ve never had to use it on anyone. Don’t know if I could even properly use it, honestly. It’s not as if we had a lot of volunteers lining up to have their bones broken. I’ve seen it performed on someone before, though.”

“Mara have mercy,” the elf shook his head, “Who?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Sonja finally answered. “On my younger brother,” she said softly, “When he was just a boy.”

“What happened?” he asked, unsure if Sonja would be willing to discuss her brother any further. He had noticed it was a sore spot for her.

A vague smile tugged at Sonja mouth. “We were climbing trees in the Arboretum. He was trying to climb as high as I could,” she paused, remembering the bright expression on her brother’s face as he grabbed at branches always just out of the reach of his small hands. “And he fell. Lost his footing as he reached for a higher branch. Fell like a damn rock straight out of the tree.”

Faendal actually smiled. “I’ve fallen out of my fair share of trees,” he said fondly.

“Well, Thornir fell straight out of love with trees after that,” she chuckled, “Refused to climb another from then on.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Broke his leg,” she confirmed, “And some half-wit first-year mage saw it happen. He was only trying to help, but he didn’t know what in Oblivion he was doing and didn’t set Thornir’s leg straight before he healed it. Caused him more harm than good in the end.”

Faendal winced. “Yeah, I think that might cure even a Bosmer of a love affair with trees.”

Sonja grunted her agreement. “Luckily, ma had friends at the Universtiy and Thornir got some proper healing attention for his leg. Took a couple of days, but he was back on his feet, running through the Waterfront, playing with the other kids in no time,” she smiled, but it was sad and distant. As his older sister, she had felt responsible for his injury, convinced there had to have been something she could have done to protect him. Now an adult, Sonja knew she wasn’t to blame for the accident—but the feeling lingered. Her guilt was no longer bent over the broken leg he suffered when he was seven years old. No, she held herself accountable for something far more serious and unforgivable: his death a decade later.

“You never speak of him,” Faendal ventured cautiously.

“He’s dead,” Sonja cleared her throat, “Died nine winters ago.”

Faendal’s brow knit with concern. “How did he die? If you don’t mind my asking…”

“I do mind,” she replied bluntly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” he amended.

“Trying to protect our father,” she blurted out unexpectedly, but she was unable to say anything further. It had taken a great deal of effort for her to say those first five words let alone all the painful ones it would require for her to tell the whole sad story. So, she sniffed unconcernedly as if she had just made some unimportant observation about the weather, and her eyes dropped to her sore hand. She flexed her damaged digits and waited for Faendal to respond.

He touched her elbow lightly, prodding her to look up at him. When she did, she saw the most heartbreaking expression of sympathy on his face. “Aife died protecting me,” he revealed. ‘I know how you feel,’ hung undeclared in the air between them.

That had not been the answer she had expected from him. Though what, exactly, she had been expecting was unclear. A strange strangled cry that was half gasp, half forced cough escaped her lips and she looked away abruptly, suddenly extremely fascinated with the sad state of the Gildergreen. “Mors rapit bonum, et relinquit malignans,” she muttered sadly.

Faendal looked at her, confused. “What?”

“Old Imperial proverb,” she clarified, “Death snatches away the good and leaves the wicked.”

“And are we wicked?” he asked, pensively considering the question himself.

Sonja thought of the beast roiling inside her. Of the blind rage that consumed her earlier that very day. How it had disturbed Lydia. How it felt to take Mirmulnir’s soul into her own. The heavy existential fugue that now draped itself over her life, despite the shining moment of clarity she had grasped that afternoon. “You tell me,” she replied and then she walked passed the Gildergreen, headed for Arcadia’s.

Notes:

Okay, so, first things first, I always thought of the Restoration school of magic as kind of anti-climactic. From a game standpoint, I understand the lack of detail. Too many specific spells makes the gaming experience tedious and no one wants to play something they consider tedious. But, for the purposes of my fanfiction, I thought, why the hell not? There are so many different kinds of medical issues a person can have, so many different types of trauma that I thought it would give more weight to a school that a Master of Restorations professor at the College felt she had to defend as a legitimate field of magic. I feel it kind of elevates healers to trained medical professionals. Not just any mage can cure you of your ills. Sure, minor things, toss Healing at it and done. But serious ailments or grievous injuries require the talent, skill, and knowledge of a real healer like a priest who considers it her/his sacred duty to mend broken bodies, or poor under appreciated, if extremely annoying, Colette Marence at the College of Winterhold.

Caution: Long-winded, overly detailed thoughts on linguistics passed this point. Alright, I love languages. Both real and constructed. They're fun. And though I find it incredibly convenient that everyone you meet anywhere in Tamriel speaks English or Basic or Common or whatever, I find it highly unlikely they no longer speak the language of their homeland. Each country or province, each culture has its own language, but because they all belonged to the Empire--until recently--they all speak the common language in order to communicate with one another and, most importantly, with the Empire's capitol. Makes sense, right?

So, in my imagining of Skyrim, I think they speak mostly the common language or maybe a hybrid of it and Ancient Nordic/Atmoran. The Wiki sort of indicates that there was plenty of movement and cultural exchange between the Cyrodiilic and Nordic regions via the ancient Nedic peoples who populated the entire area, and that's why I think they'd share a common thread linguistically. That and it was Tiber Septim who built the late Septim Empire in the first place; so, despite recent chilly relations between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, I think the two areas have a lot of history, culture, and language binding them together whether they like it or not. My point is, that learning to speak Atmoran in Skyrim is a little like learning Latin: only the scholarly bother with it. Most of the population doesn't speak it; they may recognize a word or two from it because it's similar to one or two of the words they do speak. Vilkas has learned it from Kodlak who took education very seriously because he believes a warrior's mind must be as sharp as his sword, if not sharper, but it was never something that the Harbinger forced young VIlkas to learn nor was it something Farkas had ever cared for one way or the other. Not really his thing. Also, it's a little ambiguous if Atmoran would differ from Dovahzul since dragons ruled in ancient times. I decided they should be different and simply used Norwegian from frickin' Google Translate for the few scraps of Atmoran throughout the story. I know Google Translate sucks, but I do make the effort to get the best translation out of the damn thing by adjusting syntax, grammar, and subtext in the English input to be as accurate as possible. If any of you lovely readers happen to speak Norwegian and happen to disagree with any of my translations, please feel free to comment a correction and I'd be happy to make a change.

Now, for the little bit Sonja said. It is actually Latin. This one had far less thought go into it. Literally, it was, "Huh, Legion be dressing Roman. Le's do Latin." Yup, and learning Latin or Nedic in Cyrodiil is about the same as learning Atmoran in Skyrim. Again, I do not speak nor read Latin. The brief phrase in this chapter was composed from a fun combination of Google Translate, a Latin dictionary, and a very, very brief rundown of verb conjugations from my fiance who took like two years of Latin in high school...So, yeah, you have a better grasp of Latin than I do? Please leave your translation in a comment.

That was a very long-winded explanation for a few bits of text, but I just wanted to share my deranged thought processes with any of you who cared to read it. As always, I hoped you enjoyed reading the chapter, if not my crazy end notes. :)

Chapter 21: If Not I, Then Who?

Summary:

A small glimpse into a softer side of Vilkas before he and Sonja set off to complete some mundane chores for Jorrvaskr. Sonja and Faendal make plans for another adventure after Sonja receives a mysterious letter. Preparations for the impending mammoth hunt lead Sonja to ask Vilkas for a little specialized training. Meanwhile, Ysolda tries to do something nice for Sonja, but ends up making everything much, much worse. Afterwards, Sonja has a little talk with Kodlak about things she may not want to hear, but needs to.

Notes:

Sonja and Vilkas alternating POV; Anja chapter soon to come.

To view English translations of words and phrases written in Dovahzul and Atmoran (Norwegian), mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Dovahzul translations are taken from Thuum.org. Norwegian translations brought to you by the best Google Translate can do.

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of injury and gore, violence against a family member, threat of death, thoughts of suicide.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Vilkas woke early, as usual. His eyes felt heavy and tired, but there was no use in trying to get back to a restless, dreamless sleep, so he rolled out of bed, splashed water on his face, and dressed for the day. The Wolf was uncharacteristically quiet and he wondered if perhaps it was growing weary now that he had left it to starve for so long; it had been a long time since he last Hunted. Whatever the reason, its presence gnawing on the back of his mind was not missed. Walking through the slumbering halls of Jorrvaskr, he ran through a mental checklist of all the things he was going to run the Newbloods through. He was expecting more than just Sonja for that day since the others had completed their own jobs and were eagerly awaiting new ones.

In the mead hall, only the crackling of the fire and Tilma’s warm, motherly smile greeted him. She was sitting at the far corner, picking at a small breakfast of buttered bread and runny eggs. Assembled before the seat beside her was a much hardier setting comprised of a large flaky venison pie. His favorite—which was very suspicious. He narrowed his eyes playfully at Jorrvaskr’s matron. “Are you bribing me, old woman?” he demanded tenderly.

Tilma gave such a convincing performance of shock and indignance, Vilkas almost bought it, but guilty amusement lurked in the corners of her mouth and at the crinkle of her eyes. “Do I need an excuse to dote on you?” she asked severely, “Practically raised you and this is how you treat me? With suspicion and accusations?”

Vilkas cracked a wide, warm smile. The first in weeks. “If you call chasing us all over Jorrvaskr ‘raising us’…” he trailed off pointedly as he took his seat beside her.

He received a sound smack to the back of the head for his teasing. “If I didn’t chase you, then who would have?” she reminded him sharply, but she wasn’t angry. Vilkas put his hands up in mock surrender, but she waved him off as if he was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. With the warm touch of a mother, she inched the pie a little closer to him as if he hadn’t seen it steaming in front of him. “Eat up,” she said in that particular tone he had learned long ago to abide.

Happily, he ate, fully aware that there was likely a price attached to the decadence he was consuming, but finding it incredibly difficult to care as he licked the thick gravy from his fingertips. Tilma openly watched him with unabashed amusement as she sipped her tea. She was genuinely pleased to see him enjoy her cooking, regardless of whether or not she intended to use the meal as payment for services yet to be rendered.

When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair, swirling the last few sips of the wine-water in his cup and letting the heavy meal sink low into his belly. “What is it this time?” he asked, “Farkas already hauled your choice cuts up from the butcher for you yesterday. I brought the grain from the mill the day before.”

Tilma smiled sweetly at him. “Fetch me the Throat of the World?”

“Might take some time.”

She chuckled. “I just need more wood for the fire, dearie,” she assured, but Vilkas was not convinced.

He narrowed his eyes at her again, the corner of his mouth curling. “A pie just for firewood?” he said incredulously, “I don’t buy it.”

“And a new haul from Carlotta,” she added, “And potions from Arcadia.”

He scoffed. “I’m to do your shopping now?”

“I can’t lift the boxes.”

“As you say, ma,” he readily agreed without further argument. Her words saddened him more than he let on. A stark reminder that she was getting older. That the woman who had chased him and his brother around Jorrvaskr, fed them, clothed them, bandaged their wounds when they fell, dried their tears when they were sad, laughed with them when they were joyous, and sang them to sleep at night would one day pass into the next life. That Jorrvaskr would no longer have a matron. It made his heart ache in an old, familiar way, as it did in the early months of his new life with the Companions when he was only a scared scrap of a lad who missed his mother. It tied a knot in this throat that he swallowed hard against as he leaned over and brushed a rare kiss against her forehead. Like she used to do to him when he was a child. “All you have to do is ask,” he added, “You don’t have to bribe me every time.”

Tilma touched his face lovingly. “I like spoiling you,” she confessed, “Now scoot!” Vilkas chuckled and allowed himself to be shooed away by the old woman. “Axe is in the back!” she called after him.

“I know, I know,” he assured, waving her off as he stepped out the backdoor.

He liked Whiterun in the early mornings when everything was still and quiet. Not even the flutter of a breeze blowing through the air. It was peaceful and he liked the silence. It felt as ice applied to an aching head: a sliver of relief against the constant growl of his inner beast. Often he spent such mornings running through his own exercises without the distraction of Newbloods to train or jobs to assign. Sometimes he tended to his armor or read in the flicking light of a candle. Alone. Always blessedly alone. But not that morning.

There was someone else already out on the porch, seated at one of the tables with her legs stretched into the opposite seat. Sonja was wrapped snuggly in a thick, black cloak to guard against the chill Vilkas hardly felt; her hair loose and hanging soft over her shoulders. Those brilliant gleaming eyes of hers slowly passing over the words of the book she had propped open against her left forearm. Her injured hand, now bandaged in white linen and encased in a long, fingerless glove that ran from palm to elbow, rested lightly against her temple. Floating inches above her head and illuminating the page, a disembodied orb of soft, white light pulsed gently as if breathing.

Vilkas was momentarily taken aback by the sight of her. Not only had he not been expecting anyone to be up so early, she looked so different in the morning light. More at ease, but perhaps that was simply because no one was trying to attack or otherwise claim her attention. Perhaps he had caught her in a rare moment of unguarded solitude and the woman who sat before him was what Sonja Ironheart looked like when she was alone. But the moment didn’t last long.

He hadn’t been quiet when he stepped through Jorrvaskr’s backdoors; he had had no reason to be. She heard him, but did not immediately tear her gaze away to look at him. Upon the conclusion of the sentence she was reading, she looked sideways at the door to see who was intruding upon her peace. Seeing that it was him, her right hand reached for the orb of light slowly, her fingers wrapping around it one after the other until she snuffed out the glow in the palm of her hand. A curtesy, he realized. Since she knew he did not approve of magic. “You’re up early,” he observed aloud as he mentally kicked himself. What he had wanted to say was, ‘Don’t let me disturb you.’ If he liked his mornings to himself, then she was allowed the same.

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Something troubling you?”

A long pause. “No.”

He didn’t have to know her well to know when she was lying, but that was her prerogative. If she didn’t want to share, she didn’t have to. Least of all with him. “What are you reading?” he asked, changing the subject as he approached her table.

She flipped the tome closed over her fingers to show him the cover: the distinctive golden binding embossed with the figure of a bird with its wings spread wide. A Restorations spellbook, if he was not mistaken. He’d seen plenty of them in the Temple. The title was a little hard to make out in the dim light, but it appeared to be, ‘On Scars and Other Unhealed Injuries.’ It made him think of his own sore shoulder. “It’s for my hand,” she explained, “Danica leant it to me.”

“It is good you saw to it,” he nodded.

“Didn’t have much of a choice after yesterday,” she replied, “Could hardly close my fist.”

“Most Nords around here are always wary of magic, even in the hands of a priest,” he observed, “For a mage, you were oddly reluctant to get proper healing.”

She shrugged again. “More to do with pride than anything else,” she admitted ruefully and flexed the injured hand, “I received enough Restorations training to be able to handle my own injuries, great and small, but this—this was different.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. A naturally comfortable position for him. “How so?” he asked dubiously.

“Long story,” she said as she sat up, dropping her feet from the chair across from her and kicking it out with the toe of her boot. She nodded to the newly emptied seat, offering it to him. An invitation. “Better sit down if you want to hear it.”

If it had been any other morning, he might have joined her. “Tilma needs firewood,” he objected, “Another time, maybe.”

“Need some help?”

She was different that morning. All those sharp edges not yet settled in. Less draconic. Maybe the control she gained during training the day before was longer lasting than he realized. “Alright, Newblood,” he relented, “Grab an axe.”

She nodded, cracking her borrowed book open one more time to memorize the page number before closing it. Before she took one of the two axes propped against the side of the mead hall, she set the book down on the nearest side table inside Jorrvaskr. Then the pair of them headed for the Plains District. “So, how were you burned?” he asked, trying to pick up the conversation where they had left it.

“At Helgen,” she replied, “The dragon’s breath.”

He looked at her sideways. The only time he had seen her fight a dragon, her magic had saved her from such injury. How, then, she was burned at Helgen and unable to heal it afterwards was odd. “A Nord always appreciates a good story,” he said simply.

“I don’t know if there’s anything good about it,” she admitted, “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“There are many rumors surrounding Helgen.”

She smiled sourly. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Both Legionnaire and Stormcloak alike claim Jarl Ulfric called a dragon down from the sky to free him.”

“Angry that someone else is taking the credit for your deed?” he asked, dryly. A joke. Since she was the Dragonborn, it was a striking coincidence that she had been present the day Ulfric almost faced the block. The look on Sonja’s face, however, suggested that she had not interpreted his words to be amusing. On the contrary, she looked momentarily flustered.

She glanced sideways at him, uncomfortably readjusting the axe slung over her shoulder. As soon as she as realized he was kidding with her, she scoffed and shook her head as if she had not been briefly disturbed by his words in the least. “That dragon was there for nothing but itself,” she replied, “I was lucky to get out alive.”

“Yes, you must have been very close to it if your magic could not protect you,” he said as they reached Belethor’s.

Sonja nodded and leaned her axe against the side of the general goods store so her hands were free to unclasp her cloak. “I was,” she confirmed, tossing her shed garment over the branch of a nearby tree, “It broke through the wall of the tower I was taking cover in. No time to get a ward up. Everyone in front of it was either crushed by the collapsed wall or incinerated by its breath. Two more steps and it would have been me, as well.” She raised her burned arm. “It gave me this instead.” Pursing her lips, she wiggled her fingers to demonstrate the range of motion. “It still burns, sometimes,” she confessed softly, her brow furrowing, “At night. I can feel it in my dreams.” Vilkas was surprised by her sudden candor and, judging by her expression, so was she because she immediately cleared her throat and hardened her features, busying her fingers with plaiting her loose hair. “It was different, the dragon at Helgen,” she continued, “I knew right off that the Western Watchtower couldn’t have been attacked by the same beast.”

Vilkas nodded. “I heard what you and Faendal told Irileth that night,” he said, “The housecarl shouldn’t have discounted your instincts. They proved true.”

“You have disturbingly good hearing,” she replied, her tone odd, caught somewhere between irritation and curious observation, “But, we were lucky that it was not the same dragon. With a roar, it turned the sky dark with storm clouds and rained fire upon us. Unlike anything I had ever seen before. Magical or otherwise.” She struggled to tie off her braid at the end with her stiff fingers, but managed it with the help of her teeth.

Sonja did not seem the type to exaggerate or Vilkas wouldn’t have believed her and there was such stark honesty in her voice and expression, it sent chills down his spine to think of it. What she described was nightmarish. The stuff of legends and end-times. But then again, so was the Dragonborn and she happened to be standing beside him, prepared to help with the mundane early morning chores Tilma had assigned him. Which was stranger? The reappearance of the dragons? Or the woman with the blood and soul of a dragon chopping wood for the cooking fire of Jorrvaskr?

He watched as she selected a log from the pile stacked neatly against the side of the building and set it upright at the center of one of the nearby stumps, lining it up just right. She hefted the axe onto her shoulder, set her feet, and fluidly swung the axe down, letting the weight of the blade do most of the work. It required very little effort on her part now that she was—altered—by the dragon within her. She was wearing that torn ratty tunic she seemed so fond of, exposing the scars and bruises of her torso to the cool morning air. The sunlight glinted over the silvered skin of the largest, most disturbing of her marks as it snaked over her spine and around her body.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen it. Her training leathers had revealed much her first day in the yard and, predictably, every Newblood and Companion wanted to know the story that came along with it. She had refused their questions flat out and after having broken a couple of bones of her Shield-Siblings during sparring, the matter was dropped entirely. Regardless of her silence, every scar on her body silently declared that there had always been someone or something in her life trying to kill her, and nothing had succeeded yet. Luck, skill, Divine intervention? Whatever it was that had kept her alive, could it hold out now against a dragon? One that could rain fire from the sky and erase entire towns from the map?

“It’s still out there,” he stated as if realizing for the first time that whatever luck kept them from facing the monster from Helgen, also ensured that it was still free to continue indulging its own dark nature.

“Aye,” she nodded, pausing in her work.

“You will have to kill it,” another blunted statement.

Her expression darkened, her mouth thinning to a straight line. “If I do not, then who will?” she said more to herself than Vilkas, as if it had just occurred to her also.

“Hail, Companions!”

Sonja started at the greeting and glanced over her shoulder to see who had called out to them. It was Severio Pelagia coming down the rise from his house, no doubt headed for his farm outside the city gates. The Imperial waved a cheery good morning to them which Vilkas returned with a nod and a grunt of, “Pelagia.”

When the farmer continued on his way to the gates, Vilkas returned his attention to Sonja who was selecting another log. “Better get at it or we’ll be here all day chopping wood for that fire,” she said dismissively.

“Aye,” he agreed, allowing the seriousness of their conversation to ebb away, “We better.” He took a log from the pile to the other stump and side by side, they chopped wood for Jorrvaskr in contemplative silence, the rhythmic fall of their axes punctuating the morning air with purposeful percussion until others began to rise and greet the day.


“You’re up early,” Faendal observed as he plopped down in the seat beside Sonja at the feasting table.

She smirked, glancing at him sideways. “Popular opinion,” she stated.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she grunted, sopping up the last of her breakfast with a bit of bread and stuffing into her mouth. She had risen in a good mood that morning and helping Vilkas complete a few simple chores for Tilma had given her a sense of normalcy she sorely needed—even if their conversation had gotten a bit heavy while they were chopping wood.

“Newbloods,” Farkas barked as he approached Sonja and Faendal.

The two of them looked up from their meal in time to catch the purses of gold tossed their way. Well, Sonja did, anyway. Faendal’s landed right in his lukewarm bowl of porridge, splattering it across the front of his armor. “Ysgramor’s hairy ass,” the Bosmer cursed, plucking the coin purse out of his bowl and shaking it off.

“For the job at Dragonsreach,” the large Companion explained.

Sonja tipped her cup in Farkas’ direction. “Thanks.”

Farkas shrugged. “You do good work, you get paid,” he stated simply and then walked off to hand out other payments.

She hefted the weight in her hands. Bit weighty for a few skeevers, she thought, but she wasn’t about to complain. Instead, she tugged the strings of her own purse off her belt to replenish its contents before storing the rest in her chest in the living quarters, but she paused at the sound of crinkled paper. She had forgotten about Ralof’s letter after everything that had happened the day before. Swiftly, she pulled the pouch open and removed the folded, slightly crumpled pieces of paper jammed inside. The second letter she had not even bothered to open fell out onto the table, two words scrawled across the back in sharp handwriting: Dragonborn, Whiterun.

Ralof’s letter momentarily forgotten, she turned the paper over in her hands and popped the unremarkable seal. Her eyes poured over the jagged characters on the page. Though the letter was written in common, the penmanship reminded her a little of the markings she had seen in Bleak Falls Barrow. Sharp, pointed like it was written with a claw.

Dovahkiin,  

You caused a bit of a stir in Whiterun when you demonstrated the power of your Thu’um. Not everyone is anxious for the return of the Dragonborn.

I, for one, desire to see you grow and develop your talents. Skyrim needs a true hero these days.

You should turn your attention to Shalidor’s Maze. I understand it holds a mysterious source of power that can only be unlocked by the Dovahkiin.

Sincerely,

Aan Fahdon

Upon finishing the letter, she crumpled it in her hands, her brow furrowed as she considered the implications of its contents. Whatever sense of normalcy that morning’s chores had provided her was completely eclipsed. “You alright?” Faendal asked, noticing her distress.

She looked at him, her concern obvious and handed him the letter. “What am I to make of this?” she asked.

The Bosmer accepted the missive and quickly read it over. His head cocked to one side. “And you don’t know this—Aan Fahdon?” he asked, scrunching his nose up at the unfamiliar syllables, “Divines, what kind of name is that?”

Sonja shook her head. It sounded familiar and, for whatever reason, she had a vague warm feeling associated with it, but she was certain that she had never met such a person in her life. “No. I received it yesterday morning with Ralof’s letter,” she explained, “Didn’t look at it ‘til just now. Could it be from Windhelm?”

Faendal shrugged. “Depends. What kind of courier delivered the message? Some are sent directly. Others have a route…”

It hadn’t occurred to Sonja to take note of what the messenger looked like; it wasn’t as if she had been anticipating receiving such puzzling correspondence. Her eyes narrowed as she struggled to recall anything useful. “He wore no colors,” she said after a long pause, “No crest…”

“Then he was probably a civilian courier,” Faendal sighed, “He has a route. Probably wouldn’t even remember who gave him the letter in the first place after making so many stops through the holds.”

“Whoever sent it…” she trailed off, “Called me Dovahkiin…”

“Does that mean something to you...?” It sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place its meaning or where he had heard it before.

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a frown. “When the Greybeards called for me, they called for the Dovahkiin,” she informed him, “It means Dragonborn, I think, in—in whatever language was written on that wall in Bleak Falls.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” At the back of her mind and in the pit of her stomach, in the way that she just knew how to Shout.

“You think this person knows something? About you? About the dragons?”

“Has to. Why send the letter otherwise?”

“Alright,” Faendal relented, “So what do you want to do about it?”

Her options were limited. It wasn’t as if there had been a return address written on the back and without the courier to question, they had no solid lead to follow the letter back to its source. Whoever had sent it didn’t want to be found. The only thing she could do was look to the message, itself. “Go to Shalidor’s Maze,” she replied, “See what’s there.”

Faendal raised his eyebrows and let out a long low sigh. “Could be a trap,” he pointed out, “And even if it isn’t, those ruins are not safe. Whispers of spirits and draugr. It’s far enough into the mountains to run into other, more dangerous game than you do on the tundra. Bears. Snow sabers. Frost trolls.”

Sonja gave him a look that very clearly stated she did not care. “We’ve fought draugr before; we can do it again. And you can’t tell me the hunter in you isn’t eager for bigger game than the rabbits you’ve been snaring lately.” She paused. “As for the ambush—what reason would they have to ambush me?” she asked, “I’m the Dragonborn. Isn’t that—sacred, or something, to Nords?”

“Yeah, but…” the Bosmer looked uncomfortable as he chose his next words carefully, “The Greybeards have called and you have yet to go to High Hrothgar to confirm that you are Dragonborn. The people of Skyrim can be slow to trust.”

“If they weren’t there to see it for themselves, then it’s only a rumor,” Sonja stated, following his train of thought.

“Precisely, and…” he leaned in, lowering his voice, “Nords do not like their traditions made a mockery by an outsider. It’s good your mother was the Killing Frost and that you look far more Nordic than you do Imperial, but—the tales always told of a warrior, a man rising as the next Dragonborn…”

“And I am neither.” She frowned. The letter, itself, had even indicated that there were some who were not ‘anxious for the return of the Dragonborn.’ But how far would someone go to prove she wasn’t Akatosh’s Chosen? “Fuck,” she growled, “I didn’t even want this godsdamned power in the first place!” Faendal looked momentarily startled by her outburst and she realized she must have been silent much longer than she thought. “Alright, if whoever sent this note is stupid enough to ambush me, Dovahkiin or not, I’ll make them regret it,” she insisted, “But if there really is something in Shalidor’s Maze that I can use, that might shed some light on what’s happened to me, then—I have to go.”

Faendal nodded, folding up the note. “Alright,” he agreed, “When do we leave?”

Sonja hesitated. Admittedly, when she first thought of going through with visiting the maze, she had expected Faendal to go with her, but upon reconsideration, she found herself reluctant to risk her friend’s life. “You don’t have to come,” she said, the slightest hint of pleading in her tone.

“I thought we got passed this already.”

“It might be dangerous.”

“It’s always dangerous.”

“Like you said: it could be a trap.”

“All the more reason you need me there watching your back.”

Sonja smirked. “Alright, but don’t get killed.”

“Dead guide is a poor guide, remember?”

“Mmm, just stay clear of any traps this time, alright?”

“Can do,” Faendal assured and he leaned back in his chair, “So, when do we leave?”

“Soon—after the mammoth hunt.”

The Bosmer raised an eyebrow. “Mammoth hunt?” he repeated, “What mammoth hunt?”

Sonja’s eyes rounded in surprise and guilt as she realized that she had never actually invited Faendal to join the hunting party. Between training and half the crazy thoughts constantly floating through her mind, she had simply forgotten. “Forgive me. I forgot to ask you, but…” and she rushed through a hurried description of the events leading up to her agreeing to hunt down a mammoth for Ysolda.

“Two things,” he said holding up two fingers to reiterate his point after she had finished speaking, “One: you have no problem volunteering me for a mammoth hunt, but tagging along on a dangerous journey is somehow cause for greater concern? I think the threat of being crushed to death is a little more immediate in the former than the latter.”

“I thought you’d like a good hunt, Huntsman. Was I wrong?”

“Absolutely not. I’m ready to head out this moment to start tracking the beasts’ habits,” he replied gleefully, “I just want you to remember this the next time you try to excuse me from another dangerous adventure.”

Sonja rolled her eyes. “Fine. And second?”

“There has to be a better way of getting information from the Khajiit than hunting down a godsdamned mammoth.”

“I could approach the caravan leader on my own,” Sonja allowed, “But—I don’t exactly have the same way with people that Anja does…”

“Shocking.”

“…And I am not as well acquainted with their ways, either. Having Ysolda make the introduction is a great advantage for me. If I only have one shot at speaking with them, I don’t want to ruin it by accidentally insulting them in the process.”

“Fair enough,” he relented, “Just seems a little—complicated.”

“Didn’t say it wouldn’t be.”

“And if it doesn’t pan out? What then?”

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue, pensively. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” she said, “Right now, this comes first.”

It occurred to the Bosmer to remind Sonja that Skyrim was a dangerous place. That there was a very real chance her sister might already be dead, killed in one of any number of horrible and terrifying ways of which the unforgiving territory and it inhabitants were capable. But he didn’t, because even the Dragonborn needed something to hold on to. “As you say,” he conceded, “But there is one other thing that’s just occurred to me.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Have you ever been Hunt Master before?”

“Well, no, but there will be others with us. One of them could…”

“You’re Ysolda’s partner in this and the Dragonborn,” he pointed out, “There can be no other Hunt Master. No one will challenge you for the position.”

Sonja took a deep breath. “Fine. How hard it is to lead a hunt?” she asked, realizing there was no point in arguing with Faendal about it.

“In Cyrodiil? I wouldn’t know. In Skyrim, it’s an honored tradition. There are a few ceremonial duties that you are required to perform.”

“What must I do?” she grunted reluctantly.

The mer grinned at her. “I’m so glad you asked,” he said and he launched into a very enthusiastic and animated explanation of her duties.


“You want to practice spear throwing today,” Vilkas stated incredulously, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared down at Sonja and Faendal.

“Aye,” Sonja replied, unconcerned by his tone.

“Dragons fly out of range of spears.”

“I’m not planning to take a dragon down with it. A hunt approaches and I…”

“What hunt?”

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a frown. “Ysolda has hired me to lead a hunt for a mammoth,” she replied honestly, forgoing putting the matter delicately for the Companion’s sake.

Instead of getting angry with her for buddying up to his former lover as she had expected him to, he just looked confused. “Why does Ysa want a mammoth?” he asked.

“A business arrangement between me and her,” Sonja replied, “I help her and she helps me.”

Vilkas looked as if he wasn’t satisfied with her answer. He opened his mouth to question her further, but thought better of it. Instead he nodded as if making up his mind. “A Great Hunt is no easy undertaking,” he said, “Your prey is massive, powerful, and intelligent.”

“Not unlike a dragon,” Faendal offered, making an attempt at helping to persuade Vilkas.

The Companion glanced at him and nodded curtly. “A mammoth cannot fly or breath fire, but it will not lie down and die in the dirt, either,” he continued, “It will be a worthy fight.”

Sonja hesitated. The line the Companions drew was a thin one and often hard to see. Even she found it difficult to balance the obedience Vilkas expected in the training yard with the liberties of her free time. It was due, in part, to the Companion’s domineering attitude; it tended to foster a need to ask for permission—even in Sonja. But, mostly, it the small nagging voice at the back of her head that made the differentiation difficult. Wheedling at her, it constantly accused her of wasting her time if she wasn’t working to become faster and stronger in order to survive Skyrim both to find her sister and face whatever pitfalls were sure to come her way as Dragonborn. “I am free to lead the hunt…?”

“Did you think I would deny you?”

“I was prepared to fight with you over it, yes.”

“I am your trainer, not your master. Your Shield-Sibling, not your nursemaid,” he stated gruffly, “Your time is your own and none of my concern.” He scratched his chin. “And the hunt will be a good opportunity to sharpen your skills. If you have room enough in your hunting party, you should ask your Shield-Siblings to join you.”

“I will bear that in mind.”

“Good.” He gave her a look that wordlessly informed her that he did not require an invitation. He knew his presence was not welcome. “The art of spear throwing is not my specialty,” he continued, “You need Aela’s guidance in this.” He paused. “Begin your footwork exercise while I speak with her.”

“As you say, Companion.” Sonja watched him head inside Jorrvaskr and then exchanged glances with Faendal.

“Went better than expected.” The Bosmer shrugged.

“I suspect I’ll pay for it in training,” she predicted, darkly as she went to the rack where a rope was looped over the hilt of one of the practice swords. Grabbing it, she turned back to the training yard just as Lydia stepped out onto the porch.

“My Thane,” the housecarl greeted.

Sonja tipped the rope to Lydia in salutation. “You’re just in time,” she said, cautiously, unsure if her bodyguard was still troubled by their previous training session.

Lydia’s eyes darted to the rope in her hands and she nodded. “As you wish,” she agreed and then she helped to secure Sonja’s arms to her side. Her movements showed no indication of fear or discomfort as she made the firm knots against Sonja’s skin, but the Dragonborn wasn’t completely convinced her housecarl had gotten over her last outburst. When she was bound, the the pair of them walked out into the yard.

Sonja readied herself for Lydia’s attacks, but stopped short. “Oh, the gag,” she said, realizing what was missing, “It’s on the table.”

The housecarl glanced over her shoulder at the dirty bit of cloth they had been using to gag Sonja. A cloud passed over her face as she appeared to be making up her mind about something. Then she looked back at the Dragonborn, jaw set and gaze determined. “You don’t need it,” she said, “I know you will not hurt me.”

A small, appreciative smile plucked at Sonja’s mouth. “What made you change your mind?” she asked.

“It is my duty to serve you,” Lydia explained, “To have your best interests always in mind—whether it is defending you with my last breath or beating the living Oblivion out of you. And right now, what’s best for you—for both of us—is for me to trust you.”

Sonja pursed her lips. “I will be worthy of your trust,” she promised sincerely.

Lydia scoffed. “You better be,” she warned, “Because if you go mad again and try to murder me, I damn well will not make it easy on you.”

The Dragonborn smirked. “Good to know,” she said and then Lydia launched herself at her thane.


“Throw with your whole body,” Aela instructed, “Your arm alone does not have the strength to pierce a mammoth’s hide.” She circled around her students with a sharp hawkish gaze as they chucked blunted spears at straw targets with varying degrees of success and skill.

For some, it was easy. Faendal moved better with a spear in his hand than a sword. Lydia didn’t match his grace, but her throws and thrusts were accurate and powerful. “Is there a blade you’re not good with?” Sonja asked under her breath as she watched the housecarl’s spear impale the target near dead-center.

“Daggers,” she replied, “Can’t do a thing with them. Too light. Too small.”

Sonja hummed her disbelief. “And Faendal’s the High Queen of Skyrim.”

“Like I said before: I’d make a lovely queen,” the Bosmer stated with mock defensiveness.

“Shut your mouths and concentrate, whelps,” Vilkas snapped, effectively dissolving the friendly banter between the three of them. They fell silent, exchanging pointed glances between them before focusing on the targets in front of them.

Vilkas watched his Shield-Siblings under Aela’s instruction. It occurred to him that his own skills needed to be honed, that he should join in his Blood-Sister’s lesson. But before he could even select a practice spear from the rack, however, he caught a familiar scent that drove the thought from his mind entirely: Ysolda. He turned in time to see her hurrying around the side of Jorrvaskr, her gentle eyes scanning the Companions in the yard as she searched for someone in particular. He didn’t stop to think who she might be looking for. Before that day, he knew of no other reason for her presence in or around his home, so he assumed she was there for him and swiftly strode across the yard to intercept her. “You should not be here, Ysa,” he growled in an undertone so they wouldn’t be overheard.

“I just…” she began, vaguely pointing toward the group of training Companions, but Vilkas did not notice.

“It is over between us,” he continued, hating himself for his words as he gently, but firmly grabbed her arm. But if being cruel to her now is the only way to spare her heartache later…“You need to let it lie.”

Glaring up into Vilkas’ face, her eyes blurring with unshed, angry tears, Ysolda wrenched her arm free of his grip. “I’m not here for you,” she snapped and then she pushed passed him. He watched her make a beeline for Sonja and frowned, feeling very foolish for thinking she was too lovesick to be there for anyone else but him—and embarrassed for how much it wounded his ego. Of course the pretty merchant woman was there to speak with the Dragonborn, undoubtedly about their new business arrangement. An agreement that had provoked his anger at first when Sonja and informed him of it; he didn’t like the Newblooded Dragonborn poking around in his private affairs. But Ysolda wasn’t his affair anymore. Her business was her own and if Sonja was capable of doing something, rendering some service, running some errand, or striking some bargain that would bring the budding merchant closer to her dream—to the promise she had made her deceased parents—he wasn’t so selfish as to stand in the way of it. No matter how much it frustrated him to have her so near to him and still so far out of reach.

When Ysolda caught Sonja’s attention, she started speaking in an animated rush the Dragonborn obviously did not understand. “Little bird!” Sonja exclaimed, glancing over Ysolda’s shoulder at a very grumpy looking Vilkas, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry! I know I shouldn’t have, butyouweren’thappyaboutaskingher so Ithoughtitwouldbebetterif I did…”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “Slow down,” she commanded gently, “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“She’s upset. Really, really upset,” Ysolda continued, “Said if you didn’t have the guts to face her yourself, she’d come to you…”

“What are you talking about?” Sonja demanded, “Who’s upset?”

 Before Ysolda could make herself understood, the reason for her unexpected, unannounced visit arrived. “If this is all the Companions have to offer these days, perhaps it is time for an old warrior to return to Jorrvaskr,” Hera declared loudly, drawing everyone’s attention, “To show you what a real Companion looks like.” Moments later, she was joined by her own housecarl, a burly, dark haired Nord called Rengeir if Vilkas remembered correctly.

None of the Circle had even heard her coming or scented her on the wind, but that was not surprising. An old Wolf like Hera knew a few more tricks than most of the Circle did, with the exception of Kodlak and Skjor, of course. “Hail, shield-maiden,” he greeted. Affording her the respect of a former Circle member, he covered his heart and bowed his head to her. “The Companions are always glad to welcome back one of their own,” he continued, “What brings you to Jorrvaskr this day?”

Hera raised a silvered eyebrow in his direction. “Not always glad to welcome former members, are we?” she said pointedly, but her words only found meaning in the hearts and minds of Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela who knew the faces of more than a dozen dangerous and disgraced former Companions—some more recent than others. The resulting sharp inhalations and dark glares announced that her message had been clearly received, but reminding junior members of the ghosts that silently haunted Jorrvaskr was not why she had come that day. Instead, her brilliant blue eyes leveled at Sonja. “I have come to speak with my kin,” she continued, “A matter of bad blood has come between us and she seeks my help before resolving it.”

The look of utter fury on Sonja’s face prompted Vilkas to place himself squarely between aunt and niece. “Name your kin,” he stated.

Behind him, he heard Sonja scoff. Faendal attempted to shush her, but was unsuccessful. “Don’t play stupid,” she growled, “You know she speaks of me.”

It was Lydia who answered. “Thane Hera is calling for a prøve against you,” she explained, “A trial in the Old Way. By declaring your disagreement publicly, she is offering it to Jorrvaskr for judgement.”

“WHAT?!?”

“And Vilkas is volunteering to be your skala,” Ysolda added meekly, “He is the scale and will weigh the consequences of your argument.”

“Your arbiter,” Faendal clarified, “It’s his duty to make sure you don’t kill each other.”

“Then I need no skala,” Sonja sneered, glaring murderous daggers at her aunt.

It was Hera’s turn to scoff. “Idiot whelpling doesn’t even know our ways!” she accused, “I can hardly call her kin any more than I can call her a true Nord! Milk-drinking Imperial wench!”

Sonja took several menacing steps toward Hera, stopping just short of passing Vilkas. “Nord, Imperial. Whatever blood flows through my veins it is that of a Dragon!” she declared, her fist clamping down on the spear shaft so tightly her knuckles went white, “If it’s a fight you want, skeever shit-sucking snow-back, I’ll gladly give it to you!”

Demonstrating the infamous Ironheart temper, Hera nearly started her own prøve prematurely, but Vilkas’ persistent presence between the two warriors stopped the fight from progressing any further than a few very heated glares. “I said: ‘Name your kin,’ Hera,” Vilkas insisted, one hand extended far enough to discourage Sonja from getting any closer.

“Sonja Draconis.” Hera intentionally used Sonja’s Imperial surname to demonstrate her unwillingness to share even a name with her, and spit it out as if she had tasted something foul.

“Full name, titles too,” Vilkas insisted.

Hera’s gaze shifted off Sonja and narrowed at the Companion who stood unmoved by her anger. There was some silent dispute she was trying to win in the stubbornness of her gaze, but Vilkas would have none of it. “Dragonborn Thane of Whiterun Sonja Ironheart Draconis, daughter of my sister Freydis Ironheart, the Killing Frost of Jorrvaskr, and Captain Remus Draconis of the Imperial City,” she replied reluctantly, the string of titles tumbling from her mouth in direct defiance of her earlier insistence that Sonja was merely a half-bred bastard daughter of Skyrim, lowly and weak.

“And you, Dragonborn,” he said, turning his head slightly to address Sonja without taking his eyes off Hera, “Do you acknowledge the blood ties that bind you to Hera, Fire-Spear of the North, Shield-Maiden of the Circle of Jorrvaskr and Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, sister of your mother, Freydis Ironheart, the Killing Frost of Jorrvaskr, and daughter to Owain Ironheart, Companion of Jorrvaskr, and Maev Frost-Shield of Morthal?”

Despite the long-winded introduction, Sonja was eager to answer. “Aye.”

To Hera, he said, “You wish to call a prøve this day?”

“Aye. I do.”

“What grievance do you lay against the Dragonborn?”

“She seeks to deny me the right to honor my sister’s death while also seeking my help in the Great Hunt to come,” Hera stated, “As last winter’s Hunt Master, she seeks to take the mantle and spear from me without honor to our traditions or respect to me as an elder of our bloodline.”

Vilkas frowned. Hera’s complaint was not a strong one, at least not by modern standards. But the prøvewas an old tradition. Ancient tribes would have found her accusations appalling and worthy of serious consideration. And though he was tempted to dismiss the whole thing as little more than a familial squabble, he couldn’t guarantee he wasn’t doing so because he was biased one way or the other. This fight was between his Shield-Siblings. One of whom was a Blood-Sister. No, he had to do his best by both of them. “What answer do you have to these accusations, Dragonborn?”

“My answer is my own,” she spat, “She knows what grievances I have to lay against her. She knows what wrongs she has done me and my mother!”

Not a typical response, but Sonja was well within her right to answer as she pleased. “And you have tried to resolve this between yourselves, by your own means, meeting only failure?”

A unanimous, “Aye,” answered his question.

“What manner of prøve do you seek then, Thane Hera Fire-Spear?”

Prøving av kamp,” she replied readily, “Trial by combat.”

That was precisely what Vilkas feared her answer would be. There were two ways Hera could pursue justice for the perceived wrongs laid against her: trial by combat and trial by peace. The fire in her eyes and the weapons on her back and hip made her intentions clear enough when she first called for a prøve, but there had been a small, vain hope at the back of his mind that wanted to believe an old warrior of the Circle would not be so foolish to go as far as Hera had gone already. “Is this acceptable to you, Dragonborn?” he asked, “It is within your right to object and call for prøving av fred, instead.”

“Trial by peace,” Lydia translated, “Debate or prowess of the mind.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow and all but snarled at her aunt. “We are beyond words. Her terms are acceptable.”

Vilkas nodded curtly. “Weapon of choice?”

Spyd,” Hera sneered.

Before Vilkas could waste the breath required to ask Sonja if she agreed upon the chosen weapon, or even before Lydia could offer a translation for the word Hera had used, the impatient Dragonborn was already spitting out her answer, “I accept.”

A prolonged silence filled the training yard before Vilkas continued. “Trial by spear,” he grunted, “Magic and Shouting are forbidden. First to yield forfeits their claim. Battle binds only the Dragonborn and Thane Hera Fire-Spear. Honorable housecarls cannot defend or avenge their thanes. This is the way of things.”

Sonja’s jaw tightened in silent reprimand for her premature agreement to terms she had not fully comprehended. She wasn’t terrible with a spear, but she had very little experience and far less natural talent with it than any other weapon. There hadn’t been much in Cyrodiil that had ever required the use of a spear. But she was not about to back down now. The urge to wipe the smug look off Hera’s face was simply too great. So, she waited as Vilkas cleared the yard of her Shield-Siblings to make room for their contest.

Silently, she examined Hera from head to toe, taking in the minute details of her armor and where she might find weak spots, of her weapons and what might be the best way to disarm her, of her hands on her weapon and how they might slip. And as she stared at her aunt, Hera stared right back, only it was far easier for the old warrior to pick out all the flaws and weaknesses in Sonja’s meager training leathers and imperfect grip. Suddenly, Sonja felt very exposed, more aware than ever just how vulnerable she was compared to the fully armed and armored former Companion standing across from her. But she wasn’t the only one to notice.

“You have challenged the Dragonborn to honorable combat, Thane Hera Fire-Spear,” Vilkas stated once he had finished shooing their Shield-Siblings to the edges of the yard, “As skala, I declare it must be on even footing. Shed your armor and take up a practice spear and shield. Meet as equals and the trial can begin.”

Hera glanced sideways at him before she began to quickly undo the buckles and ties of her armor, handing it off to Rengeir the moment she was free of it until she was stripped down to basic garments. At Vilkas’ order, she was provided a set of training leathers, a practice spear, and a shield. The moment she was ready, she faced Sonja again, looking considerably smaller than she did beneath the weight and girth of her armor, but fierceness had not faded from her eyes.

Faendal fetched Sonja a shield while Lydia tried to give her a few last-minute pointers before the trial began. “Single combat is different than hunting mammoths,” she warned, “Don’t ever throw your weapon. You’ll only be disarming yourself for her. Stay behind your shield as much as possible and be mindful of your footwork and hers. If she’s going on the offensive, you’ll see it there first.”

“Anything else?” Sonja asked, half listening.

“It’s a spear, not a sword,” Lydia said and though her comment earned her a roll of the eyes from Sonja, she continued, “You can’t slash through the air with it. You’ll waste energy and open yourself up for attack. Thrust. Keep your balance and ground your back foot to put more force behind your weapon.”

“And your reach is longer,” Faendal added, “You like up close and personal skirmishes, but the spear is not made for such combat. That’s both a disadvantage and a boon for you. Make it work in your favor.” Sonja nodded absently, so focused on staring at Hera, that she hardly heard when Vilkas called for their contest to begin.

All the beatings in all the world could not prepare Sonja for her fight with Hera. The old warrior was thirty years her senior and still moved as if she was hardly a day older than Sonja herself. Strong, swift, smooth movement. As simple and effortless as breathing. The years she worked the memory of combat forms and defense stratagems into the very fiber of her muscle did all the work for her. Sonja felt as if she were fighting with smoke that constantly swirled around her, never where she expected it to be, always slipping through her grasp, and reacting to every movement almost before she could make it. The seamless transition from action to reaction, from offense to defense, from parry to counter. Like waves battering a coast. The ebb and flow of it left her bruised and bloodied, eroded flesh, soft and vulnerable and breathless.

The strength of her Dragon was not helping, either. Unbridled, guided only by anger and her dislike for her aunt, it was directionless and more of an obstacle than help. It made her overconfident where she should be cautious, arrogantly indifferent where she should be calculatingly aggressive, and blind with hubris where she should be observant. It was almost too easy for Hera to exploit her foolish, draconic conceit and use it against her. Sonja was fighting practically half-blind, her pride eclipsing so much of her quick mind and training. Disoriented amidst the roar of cheers from her divided Shield-Siblings; some of whom cheered for a local legend of Jorrvaskr’s halls and others who chanted the name of the recently awakened Dragonborn.

Half dazed, she raised her shield arm to block the next attack only to realize it was not there. When had she lost her shield? How had it happened? Did she drop it in her stupor? Or had Hera relieved her of it? Desperately, she tried to use her spear shaft to take the brunt of the blow and had succeeded in deflecting the attack at the expense of breaking the weapon in half. Splintered wood flew in all directions and before Sonja could react to the shock of the shattered spear, Hera’s shield sailed in from her peripheral, knocking her to the ground.

“You are better than this,” a voice growled somewhere from beyond the vision of her rapidly swelling eye.

“As skala, you are to remain impartial,” Hera accused, retreating several steps back from Sonja to better address Vilkas.

“We both know this isn’t a fair fight,” he hissed back low enough so only Hera could hear, but Sonja had caught his words and glanced angrily in his direction. Obviously, he did not think she was strong enough to win and, regardless of how beaten down she was at that moment, she was determined to prove him wrong. But his next words confused her perception of him. “Get up,” he urged, “She is no dragon. Just an old wolf flashing her teeth. All bark and no bite. Make the fight yours. Take it from her.”

“It’s been a long time since we sparred, Vilkas Jorrvassen,” Hera scoffed, “But I remember kicking the Oblivion out of you more than once in the yard. When I’ve finished with this whelp, I’d be glad to refresh your memory, Master Trainer. I taught you everything you know. Don’t forget it.”

“That was a long time ago,” Vilkas replied coolly, but he did not doubt any fight he had with Hera would not be an easy one. If there was anyone who could test the limits of his abilities, it was she. Hera laughed in response.

Sonja’s grip on the broken bits of shaft tightened and she hauled herself to her feet, vaguely aware of how terrible she must look, bruised and bleeding. Hera looked her over, faint amusement tugging at her expression. “Do you yield?” she asked, tapping the edge of her spear against her boot.

“Never.” And she felt it all slide into place again. The mortal and the Dragon needed each other. Without one to strengthen the other and the latter to control the former, it was all just chaos. Useless and unfocused, garnering only destruction and pain. But together, she was something else entirely. The gleam of it flashed in her gaze, causing Hera to hesitate.

Recalling Lydia and Faendal’s advice, Sonja launched herself at her aunt. Dodging thrusts here and there, deflecting the spear tip away with the shorter bits of wood in her hands, she made Hera’s long reaching weapon her downfall and closed the gap between them. Not completely unprepared for such a situation, Hera dealt a few very strong shield bashes for her efforts, but it did not stop Sonja from pulling the spear clean from her grip, sending it sailing through the air to land harmlessly on the other side of the yard. Still, years of training did not render the older Companion incapable of compensating for the loss of her weapon and she used both fist and shield to push Sonja back on the defensive. What she had not been prepared for was her niece’s renewed and inhuman strength.

As a Wolf, Hera knew what power was. Her physiology granted her advantages no other mortal could possibly achieve. Speed, strength, agility, sensory acuity. And though she had hated what the Wolf had made of her, of what it had reduced her to, she could not deny that it had saved her life more than once, that it had become as much a part of her as being a Nord or a woman. She had learned long ago how to tame her Beast; how best to make it work for her; how to get the most out of the gifts and curse she had been given. But Sonja was no mere mortal. No peer to the Unblooded whelps. There was something inside her greater than the Wolf. She was not weak or fragile, so when the Dragonborn launched herself at Hera once more and viciously relieved the older woman of her shield, breaking her arm in the process, the resounding snap of that broken bone echoed through every last one of Hera’s heightened senses.

She cried out in pain and sluggishly moved to put distance between her and Sonja, but was abruptly stopped and thrown to the ground by the Dragonborn’s iron grip. She coughed in the dirt and moved to scamper away, trying to use her broken arm to assist her despite the pain, and felt Sonja’s broken spear shaft strike her repeatedly. Across the face. Against her ribs. On her back and stomach. Until she had no choice to but to use her broken arm to protect her head. But then the assault stopped abruptly and Sonja allowed Hera to pull herself to sit upright, cradling her injured limb. “Good on you, Dragonborn,” she sneered, blood sputtering from her mouth, “You have the chance to avenge the wrong I paid your mother, my sister.” She watched as Sonja paced back and forth, considering what her aunt had just said. “Will you take it?” she asked, “Will you take up the fight I never allowed Freydis?”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. Though her understanding of Nordic tradition was limited, she was reasonably certain that the prøve was not a contest to the death. Vilkas had very specifically stated that it was the first to yield that forfeited their claim. Not first blood. Not to the death. But something about the way defeat hung about Hera’s shoulders declared the underlying meaning of her words. The elder warrior laughed darkly, wiping blood from her mouth and looking up at Sonja expectantly, her hard gaze very clearly stating her intention not to yield, regardless of how much more pain was to be inflicted. That familiar semi-suicidal glint of determination woven from years of unspoken loss and a thousand silent unspeakable acts of self-preservation. Selflessness born of self-loathing.

Suddenly, Sonja did not see the cold, arrogant, heartless woman she had imagined her aunt to be. Suddenly, she was staring her own dark future in the face. It wasn’t for Hera whom she harbored so much resentment. No, her ire was directed at herself. For every transgression for which she felt she had yet to pay. Anja. Remus. Thornir. Corvus. Each sin had a name and a victim shackled to the painful, bloody memory of it. And a scar etched into her skin. That’s why meeting Hera had hurt so damn much. Sometimes, it was hard to look in the mirror when you knew how ugly your reflection would be. Who was she to judge her aunt for turning her back on her mother when she had been guilty of far worse?

“You will not yield,” Sonja stated.

“Never.”

The Dragonborn nodded and let the broken shaft pieces fall from her hands and clatter in the dirt. “Then I will,” she replied, rubbing her sore jaw and taking a step backward.

“WHAT?!?” Hera demanded.

Sonja looked to Vilkas who watched her with an unreadable expression. “I yield,” she said, “Pass judgement as you will.”

Vilkas nodded slightly and looked to Hera. “The prøve has concluded. The Dragonborn has forfeited her claim,” he said slowly, giving Sonja plenty of opportunity to interrupt, not that it would make a difference. She had already spoken her piece. “What resolution do you seek for your grievance, Thane Hera Fire-Spear?”

Hera glared up from the ground. “Nothing,” she said, “I want nothing from her.”

Disquiet descended over the training yard as the onlookers struggled with the outcome. There were no victors. Though the prøve technically ruled in Hera’s favor, her defeat was painfully obvious. And the Dragonborn had yielded. Spoke the words aloud and dropped her weapons in such a forceful manner it felt like anything but forfeit. In the stillness, all looked to Vilkas to see what his final judgement would be. But before the Companion could speak, another voice weighed in on the argument. “Then go home, Hera,” Kodlak said suddenly, claiming everyone’s attention. No one had noticed when he had stepped out onto the porch to watch the fight between Hera and Sonja or for how long he had been standing there. “Lick your wounds and think on the events that led you here. Tomorrow, give the spear and mantle to Sonja, and then go your separate ways. Or don’t. I think all the bad blood between you has been spilt upon the ground by now. Does the skala agree?”

Vilkas nodded. “I do.”

“Then it is so.”

Hera had stiffened when she heard Kodlak’s voice and the tension did not dissolve from her shoulders as she stiffly pulled herself upright. Rengeir helped her. “Aye, Harbinger,” she said, “As you say.” And then she nodded to Vilkas before leaving.

“This prøve is concluded,” Vilkas announced. Awkward grumbling started up as the Companions returned to their training, unsettled, and Lydia, Faendal, and Ysolda quickly converged on Sonja.

“I am so sorry!” Ysolda said breathlessly, her brow a tangled knot of sincerity, “I thought it would be better if I spoke to her for you since you said you didn’t want…”

“I know, I know,” Sonja waved her off and set to healing her injuries from the fight, “It’s not your fault.” She sighed, her emotions feeling raw. “It’s mine. I should have spoken to her myself, sooner.”

“So she could strike you on the threshold of your family home?” Faendal asked, “It’s better for you this way.” Sonja tried to glare at him pointedly through her swollen eye, but failed and that communicated her intention far better than success would have. “Point taken.”

“At least it’s over now,” Ysolda offered, hopefully, “Hera won’t defy the ruling of her own prøve.”

Sonja shrugged. “We shall see.”

“Dragonborn,” Kodlak called from the porch, “I would have a word with you.”

Feeling slightly like a child about to get into trouble for starting a fight she shouldn’t have, Sonja nodded and followed the Harbinger inside, leaving her friends behind in the training yard to yammer amongst themselves in her absence. Kodlak strode purposefully toward the stairs to the living quarters without a word, save a few he had for Tilma in friendly and surprisingly gentle greeting. Then his white hair disappeared beneath the plane of the floor with Sonja close behind.

Once they had made it to his chambers at the end of the hall, Kodlak took his favorite seat at the table in the corner. The very same place Sonja had seen him when they first met. Politely, he gestured to the chair opposite him and after a brief moment’s hesitation, Sonja accepted, allowing her sore body to sink gingerly down. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his white-blue eyes kindly searching her face for something unknown. A few uncomfortable seconds passed and Sonja opened her mouth to ask what he wanted from her when the door opened and Tilma entered, carrying a bottle of mead, two mugs, and a plate of bread, cheese, and shavings of meat. Kodlak thanked her with an affectionate squeeze of her hand and when she was gone, he poured the mead first for Sonja and then for himself.

“Like most of those who call these halls home, I came to call the Companions family after losing my own,” he said as he slid the filled mug across the table to Sonja, “I traveled the length and breadth of this land, learning all I could of the sword and the axe.” He smiled faintly and looked to Sonja to gauge her interest, finding her confused, but attentive. “I was just a boy,” he continued, “But I had the fire of a man in my heart.” He chuckled. “Eventually, my body caught up to my spirit.”

Sonja had a difficult time imagining Kodlak differently from the man that sat across the table from her. He seemed immutable. Unchangeable. Timeless even. The thought of a younger, overeager whelpling bearing the same name was completely ludicrous. “My predecessor, Askar, found me in Hammerfell,” he stated, the former Harbinger’s name rolling off his tongue with the slightest hint of regret, “I was serving as bodyguard for some weak-necked lord out there. He brought me back here—and I realized that I was actually coming home.”

He saw the softened round in her eye at his words, the delicate knot of confusion begin to give way to something more solid like regret as she recollected her own private ghosts from her past. “I’m sorry for what happened in the yard,” she said suddenly, “That was between Hera and I…”

Kodlak waved her off. “We used to have a prøve every week in my day,” he informed her, “Twice before Sundas.”

Her mouth briefly tweaked in amusement at the idea, but it quickly died away. “Then why tell me this?” she ventured, “If I’m not in trouble for the trial…?”

The Harbinger took a deep swig of his mead before he answered. “Because I work to bring honor to this family and the family that I lost,” he said, “For my mother, my father, and my grandfather. For all my Shield-Siblings. And one needn’t look hard to see half the battle you fight every day is against yourself for the family you lost.”

Sonja’s gaze dropped to her mug. “That is my business,” she said softly.

“And it always will be,” Kodlak assured, “I will never ask more of your story than you’re willing to tell. But understand the reason you are here. Accept the path that led you to our door. Family and honor. That’s what it means to be one of us, girl.”

She looked up from her mead again, her eyes narrowing. “You think I should forgive her,” she stated.

“If not you, then who?” he asked, “Your mother is dead, child. Shor preserve her. She cannot grant Hera the peace for which she yearns.” Sonja looked away again, unable to meet his gaze. “The decision is yours, but ask yourself what Freydis would have done and whether or not you have the strength to follow in her footsteps.”

“What does it matter to you?” she asked, her voice wavering between genuinely touched and indignant, “If I resent her for the rest of my life?”

“I knew Freydis since she was a girl, chasing after Hera, wishing only to be a Companion like their father,” he said, “And when she joined my family—our—family, I loved her as a daughter—Hera as a sister. The Freydis of my time would not desire so much hate left in the wake of her passing. Especially from her daughter for her favorite sister.”

Sonja nodded curtly and drained her mead in three large gulps. “I’m not my mother,” she said sharply, rising from her seat and taking several steps toward the door to leave.

“No, you are not,” Kodlak agreed, sighing and leaning back in his chair, “But if you did not have it in you to forgive, then why spare her? Why yield?”

She halted at the door, her fingers resting on the latch. “For my own sake,” she admitted, “Not hers.”

“Is not that forgiveness?” he asked heavily.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, her fingers scratching against the door thoughtfully before she finally stepped through, ending her conversation with Kodlak. The Harbinger watched her as she walked along the hallway, lingering at the end as if trying to decide whether or not to return to the training yard or go to the barracks to take advantage of the silence. After a brief mental deliberation, she disappeared inside the empty room and he heard the faint groan of wood and leather straps as her weight sunk down onto her bed. So much like Vilkas, he thought fondly, So much heart. And then he sat back to enjoy his lunch, hoping his words had taken root somewhere in that stubborn mind of hers. That perhaps two of his Shield-Siblings might find the peace they didn’t even know they needed.

Notes:

One of my lengthier chapters, I considered splitting it into two, but just ran with it as is. I hoped you enjoyed it.

There's not a whole lot I wanted to comment on for this chapter I don't think...it's mostly some traces of character development and plot movement. We get a little tenderness from Vilkas because--well, I'm not sure if I do a great job of this, but it's really important to me that these characters (all of them, but mainly Sonja and Vilkas) can stand on their own as individuals before I put them together. I don't want you, the reader, to never know Sonja or VIlkas as they were before they had each other. I guess what I'm trying to say is I don't want to dive into a relationship and then unpack the character because then it feels like everything they are is a result of the romantic attachment and not a preexisting facet of their being beforehand...if that's any clearer. So, Vilkas is not sweet as a direct result of Sonja; it was always there--in the right moments.

And as for the Sonja/Vilkas pairing, I'm sure you noticed I am taking this match up at a painstakingly slow pace. Why? Because I'm a monster. Well, that and I thought about the way people fall in love in real life. The way I fell in love with my fiance. What that felt like, what it looked like, how it developed. And, even though they are fictional characters, I want them to have a happily ever after that feels attainable, that feels real, that mimics life. So, it is a slow burn. I shamelessly take my time with them and I hope you enjoy the results, but this is by no means instant gratification. Sorry.

The biggest thing going on in this chapter is the giant step the Sonja/Hera relationship takes. I've written and rewritten that section so many times and I'm still not convinced I have it quite right, but I think it's damn close and there's more yet to come for them. More therapy. More family drama. More, more, more!

Chapter 22: A Caper

Summary:

Anja gets into trouble in Windhelm...Begins with the Thieves Guild quest The Numbers Job from Delvin Mallory, and then takes a left turn into 'Well, it can't get much worse then this, right? Right...?'

Notes:

An Anja chapter! Her name changes between her alias and her given name based on the main point of view of the section. So sometimes she's Anja and sometimes she's Tyv.

Also included in this chapter is the traditional Irish Gaelic song Siúil a Rún as sung by the group Celtic Woman on their album of the same name (Celtic Woman). They is pretty ladies with pretty voices and I love them. To hear Siúil a Rún as they sing it, please click here. The fiddle lady is my favorite. ^_^

To view English translations of the Irish Gaelic verses of Siúil a Rún, mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Trigger Warning: Threat or implication of sexual assault.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún

Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom.’

 

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún

Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán.”

Tyv’s voice was so sweet, Rune wanted to forget the job and listen with the rest of the mesmerized tavern, but he hadn’t asked her along to Windhelm just to listen to her sing. And her favors were too expensive to waste. He liked working with her. She was unusual. Played by a different set of rules than the rest of the Guild. At first, he thought it would only get her into trouble. Mercer had a certain way of doing things; Brynjolf, Delvin, and Vex all had their ways: every thief for the Guild; every man for himself. In that order. Maximize profits by minimalizing shares. So, members didn’t often volunteer help without requiring a hefty slice of the action of themselves. Except Tyv. She preferred to be paid in favors, in intel, in juicy gossip—in lady’s first choice of lucrative jobs. Opportunities to make more coin than taking half another thief’s payment.

And that’s what Rune had promised her. First pick of Delvin’s new assignments when they made it back to Riften in exchange for her lovely singing voice and demure smiles. All she had to do was distract the paranoid owner of the tavern, Ambarys, long enough for Rune to do a bit of rewriting in the ledger upstairs. As luck would have it, he happened to know the Dunmer was a fan of the arts and had heard Tyv lead enough drinking songs in the Bee & Barb to know she was precisely what he needed. And she didn’t disappoint. It wasn’t long before she had Ambarys eating out of her hand, lured out from behind the counter to listen to her songs. A feat in and of itself since the Dunmer didn’t take to anyone who wasn’t a Dark Elf.

I wish I was on yonder hill

‘Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill

‘Til every tear would turn a mill.’

 

I’ll sell my rod, I’ll sell my reel

I’ll sell my only spinning wheel

To buy my love a sword of steel.”

While she was charming the room with a Breton song, Rune easily slipped upstairs, creeping passed the sleeping Dunmer on the third floor and locating the ledger. Simple work, really. The only thing that had made it difficult was Ambarys’ paranoia which was now being seduced into submission by the sweet sounds of a siren. When he was finished, he made his way back down to the tavern as Tyv neared the end of her song.

I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red

And ‘round the world I’ll beg my bread

Until my parents shall wish me dead.”

But poor, silly Rune was too busy listening to the lyrics that he miscounted his steps between the stairs and the doorway, and stepped directly on the particularly squeaky floorboard he had been trying to avoid. Ambarys’ head tilted slightly to catch the sound, but, as he turned to see who was hiding in the shadows, Tyv slipped off the table she had been perched on and approached him, reclaiming his attention. Her bright blue eyes bored into his ruby ones, the golden curl of her hair bouncing against her shoulder as she seated herself on his lap and snaked her arms around his shoulders. She looked at him through her lashes and concluded the song as if she were singing him a lullaby.

Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún

Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin

Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom.”

Ambarys was so entranced, he forgot all about the noise from Rune’s misstep. When she was finished, she smiled sweetly at him and asked in perfect Dunmeris, “Shall I sing another, sera?”

The elf swallowed hard as his patrons catcalled, but Tyv ignored them, her gaze unwavering from his as he stammered to give her an answer, “Do you know Azura’s Lament?” he asked, also in Dunmeris, finding it refreshing that an outsider had made the effort to learn his native language.

“A sad, pretty tune,” she bluffed, nodding, “I know it well.” She smiled sweetly. “And if I sing it for you, what will you give me in return?”

“Anything you want,” was the almost endearingly shaky answer, drawing more laughter from the onlookers.

Tyv laughed, deep and throaty, and put on a big show of making up her mind to give Rune the time he needed to escape. “Such a generous soul,” she simpered. There were grumblings of good-natured disagreement from the customers and Tyv rearranged her skirts while twirling the mer’s hair around her finger, delaying singing the song as long as possible because she didn’t rightly remember all the words. As soon as she caught sight of Rune leaving the tavern from the corner of her eye, she grinned mischievously, planted a wet and noisy kiss on Ambarys’ cheek, and then hopped off his lap. “Time’s up, sera,” she lamented, speaking common but affecting a thick Dunmeri accent and winking at him. She was out the door before he could offer argument for her to stay.

Outside, Tyv found Rune leaning against a frosted wall at the corner. She hiked the hem of her dress out of the slurry of mud and snow in the road and trudged over to him gracelessly. “Novice mistake, Rune. I’m disappointed,” she chastised, “I should charge you double for saving your hide.”

Rune chuckled. “Hardly difficult for you,” he insisted, “Had the whole damn lot of them wrapped around your finger.”

“Beside the point, darling.”

He shrugged. “I have nothing you want.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The handsome Imperial crossed his arms over his chest, his green eyes twinkling. “I thought you were all business and no pleasure,” he replied, smiling seductively.

“You heard right,” she said pointedly, “I’m talking about information.”

Rune’s brow furrowed. “Oh? I don’t have many sources of my own,” he admitted, “If there’s something special you’re hunting for, Delvin’s your best bet.”

Tyv waved him off. “The only thing I’m looking for is a bit of dirt and you’ll do nicely.”

“What did you want to know?”

“About Brynjolf.” It had been a couple of weeks since she had joined the Thieves Guild and everything was going along well enough, but Tyv wasn’t satisfied. The good thing about the Guild was they assigned jobs based on merit. The more talented you were, the more lucrative the work; didn’t matter if you joined up a year ago, ten, or five minutes ago. No, the only disadvantage to being the new recruit was not yet knowing what made the veterans tick. Tyv usually had a good read on the people around her, but Mercer, Brynjolf, Delvin, and Vex were proper professionals. There wasn’t much she could get from them they weren’t already willing to disclose. And Brynjolf in particular seemed keen to keep her at arm’s length.

“Looking for a bit of pleasure after all, then?” Rune teased.

Tyv rolled her eyes. “Hardly,” she replied, “Just looking for an in. Delvin and Vex keep us all busy, but Bryn handles the truly delicious jobs—the decadent work—assignments you can really sink your teeth into…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘dangerous’,” Rune supplied as he tried to convey a disapproving expression, but his features betrayed him. He didn’t outright disapprove of her desire for upward mobility. He was troubled by it.

“I’m nothing if not gluttonous.”

“That work’s for Guild Masters only,” he reminded her, “Doesn’t matter if you find your way into Bryn’s good graces. Mercer has a short list and you’re not on it.”

Tyv smirked. “Let me worry about that, love,” she insisted.

Rune frowned, but nodded. “What did you want to know?”

“Everything you do.”

The thief looked less than enthusiastic, but before he could think of where to start, shouting issued down the street that caused both Rune and Tyv to pale. “Stop thief!” bellowed a guard.

There was an awkward moment between them where they looked at each other in confusion, unsure of which thief the shout was addressing, if either of them. One look down the walkway at the guard who had called out confirmed the accusation had been directed at them. Though which one still remained unclear. Tyv’s eyes widened slightly and she looked down her body with a hopeless expression. She wasn’t dressed for a run through the frozen streets of Windhelm. Her part in Rune’s little scheme required more of a delicate touch than Guild armor and ebony weapons made possible so she had left her gear securely stored in an abandoned Guild safehouse at the far end of the Gray Quarter. Luckily for her, but unluckily for Rune, the guards only had eyes for him. “Shitshitshitshitshit,” Rune cursed as he turned on his heel and bolted up the walkway. He knew it was a mistake to take a job in Windhelm so soon after his narrow escape a few weeks before. The guard was still on the lookout for him. Tyv watched him go and tried to come up with a reasonable distraction that might give him time to get out of the city, but nothing immediately came to mind.

Several guards ran passed in pursuit and she jogged after them, desperately looking around for a stall to knock over or a fight to start. But the chase didn’t last long. They caught up to him just outside the inn in front of the city gates. “Damnit,” she swore under her breath as she watched Rune struggle with the guards. He gave up the fight when one of them punched him in the gut. The Imperial doubled over, grunting in pain.

“You’re coming with us, scum,” the offending guard growled as he half-dragged Rune toward the Palace of Kings.

“WAIT!!!” Tyv nearly shouted, taking several steps forward.

Her outburst drew the guards’ progress to a halt, but they all turned suspicious eyes on her. “Is there a problem?” the nearest guard asked.

Tyv’s mind went blank frighteningly. Rune looked at her, his expression torn between hopeful and urging her to save herself. There was nothing she could do for him at the moment and she wasn’t sure there was much she could do for him later. Well, there is one thing I could do…Quickly, her expression rearranged itself into one of utter horror as she pressed her palm against her chest in counterfeit shock. “He stole my coin purse!” she said breathlessly, patting herself down as if searching for her coin—while carefully avoiding causing her own purse to jingle against her hip. The hope completely died out of Rune’s face as he thought the worst of her and he glared with complete betrayal seething in his eyes.

The guards didn’t look entirely convinced, but they patted Rune down anyway, finding his coin purse, and, after a moment of silent deliberation, tossed it to Tyv. She caught it. A lot lighter than she had been anticipating, but that wasn’t important; she just wanted it out of the reach of the jailer. Valuables had a habit of going missing during lock up. Especially off thieves. Then she watched them drag poor Rune away. As soon as they were out of sight, she hurried back to the safehouse to change.


Anja had no intention of letting Rune rot in the Windhelm dungeons. Though Brynjolf had made it abundantly clear that the Guild was in no way responsible for getting her cute little ass out of trouble should she find herself in a similar position, it just wasn’t her way to leave a fellow thief behind and that wasn’t likely to change any time soon. Regardless of who her employer was. The Guild back in Cyrodiil didn’t operate that way, either. We were a family, but that was about the only good thing the former Guild Master had done before toppling the Guild headfirst into politics, ruination, and blood. She growled to herself and rubbed her face. The very thought of it, of him, put her in a foul mood and she had other things to worry about.

It took her a couple of hours to find the loose stone in the wall and pry it free. In the hollowed-out cavity behind it lay a single rolled up parchment. Oh good, she thought as she removed the piece of paper, Delvin wasn’t pulling my leg. There really was a map that marked the hidden thief caches and passageways all over the city. Sort of. It was a bare-bones drawing of the city of Windhelm. Old, a little outdated, smudged, and dotted with Shadowmarks.

Scanning the crude document, Anja quickly located her position on the map and searched for an entrance into the sewers beneath the streets. Windhelm’s very own Ratway. More or less. The tunnels were smaller and far less hospitable, used only to drain snowmelt and waste into the sea. Most of the grates throughout the city were sealed shut except for a maintenance shaft near the city gates that was under constant watch. There was another, far more private and accessible entrance, however. One that the Thieves Guild, itself, had installed back in its glory days when it could afford the work required to carve escape routes beneath ancient cities. And one end of it was hidden in the Temple of Talos.

Smirking, Anja rolled the map back up and returned it to its hiding place for the next thief who might have need of it. Then she gathered up her weapons, quickly securing them tight against her body so they didn’t slip and make unwanted noise. After sorting through a few potions she had made the night before and tucking the most necessary into the pockets on her belt, she left the two room hole in the ground that served as the Guild’s safehouse, climbing the ladder to street level as quickly as she was able.


Rune hadn’t expected Tyv to do anything to save him from the guards. That would have been stupid and possibly suicidal. It was every thief for himself. That was the way it was, the way it always had been. But he had expected her not to make matters worse for him. Accusing him of stealing from her just to get her hands on his coin purse was a new kind of greedy he had never seen before and it pissed him off to no end. Grounds to get kicked out of the Guild if ever there were any and he would take extreme pleasure detailing her transgression to Brynjolf when he got out. It was almost poetic since she had been trying to pump him for information on the roguish Nord only hours before.

Until then, he’d mope. He was lucky enough to sneak a lockpick passed the guards when they relieved him of all his gear, but his luck ran dry after that. The broken remnants of the pick sat discarded in a corner of the cell where he had tossed them after his failure to force the lock. Out of options, he had no choice but to make himself comfortable on the dirty bedroll in the corner of the cell and serve his time—which would have been shorter had Tyv not added pickpocketing to the list of charges already lodged against him. He glowered at the ceiling, seething.

After a while, the guard on duty came around to do a cell check before dousing the nearby torches for the night. Then he returned to his post near the door where he read a copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid, Vol. 2 by the light of the remaining torch and hummed an off-key version of The Age of Oppression. Rune’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he traced patterns against the expressionless ceiling, contemplating sleep more out of boredom and a desire to block out the guard’s awful humming than real exhaustion. He rolled over and stared blankly through the bars and that’s when he saw something unexpected.

It was dim, so it was hard to tell, but it looked like fingers were poking through the sewer grate in the floor at the base of the wall opposite the guard post. He blinked and then glared through the darkness. A moment later, a pair of hands popped the small, circular metal cap out of the floor with the faintest metallic whisper, not loud enough for the guard to hear over his own incessant humming. Carefully, the grate was set aside and then the narrow and flexible body of a woman clad in dark leathers came into view as she soundlessly hoisted herself out of the sewer. She looked around a moment, spotted him as he watched her, and then held a finger to her lips. Rune’s eyes widened in disbelief. It was Tyv. She came for him.

Nearly leaping to his feet, he rushed to the bars of his cell eagerly, mentally taking back every hateful thought he had had about her when she thought she had screwed him over and abandoned him, but she only made the gesture more vehemently. He stilled and watched as she moved the grate back into place over their escape route. Confused, he tilted his head and pointed to the sewer. She ignored him and stooped to pick up an errant stone that must have been knocked loose from the wall some unknown time before. Weighing it in her hand, she seemed to be making up her mind about something before chucking it has hard as she could through the bars of the door next to the reading guard. The rock skittered loudly, bouncing off the slope of the hallway and causing the guard to jump. He stopped humming, set aside his book, and got up to investigate.

Rune wanted to shout at her for being so stupid, but before he could even silently convey his dismay, she was noiselessly sprinting across the room toward the door, downing the contents of a vial as she went. A second later, she was completely invisible and slipping through the door the guard had left open behind him when he went into the hallway to see what had made the noise. Rune blinked again, dumbfounded. She was either running another job while she was in the palace or she was going after his gear. He wasn’t sure which was a worse idea. The chest containing his things was tucked in a corner of the barracks, and when he had been marched through there earlier, there was far too much light to make a clean lift. She was going to get herself caught and then they’d both be forced to wait out their sentences—if she was lucky. They might just kill her for trespassing on the Palace of Kings.

Anxiously, he counted the seconds she was gone and strained his ears to catch even the slightest hint of a struggle elsewhere in the castle. But it was silent. Eerily silent. After the on-duty guard finished taking his sweet time thoroughly investigating the rock Tyv had thrown, he came back into the dungeon, confused, but unable to find anything suspicious, chalking the misplaced stone up to the constant state of disrepair the palace existed in. He returned to his seat, closing the door behind him. Rune’s heart sunk when he heard the groan of the hinges as the bars slammed into place. Even if Tyv was successful in getting his gear, she’d have to get back through the gate and he doubted the guard would fall for the same rock twice. Just as he was mulling that unfortunate reality over, she suddenly materialized just outside his cell, her arms laden with his things.

He inhaled sharply, almost forgetting himself he was so glad to see her. Silently, she set his things on the ground and produced her own lockpicks to set to work on his cell door. Before she could even touch the lock, however, a commotion broke out in the barracks. Both thieves froze and Rune could just make out the fear in Tyv’s eyes. Had she left some mark of her presence behind when she retrieved his things? Quickly, she stowed away her lockpicks and scooped up Rune’s gear from the floor. Rushing to the corner of the room, she hid his things behind a couple bales of hay stacked in the corner and then downed a second invisibility potion just in time to narrowly avoid being spotted by the handful of soldiers that entered the dungeon with a new prisoner.

“What’s this?” the on-duty guard asked, eyeing the beaten man barely standing upright between the three Stormcloaks.

“Imperial scout,” answered the tallest of the soldiers and he tossed their prisoner forward onto the ground, “The Jarl and his housecarl are coming to question him. Chain him up until they arrive.”

The guard hesitated. “The Jarl is coming personally?” he asked in disbelief.

“Do as you’re told,” snapped the second soldier, a woman with a thick Nordic accent.

Irritated, but wanting no trouble, the guard quickly complied and, with the help of the third soldier, dragged the injured scout to the center of the room where a few metal loops were bolted into the floor. He fetched some chains and soon had the Imperial scout securely restrained. “Keep an eye on him,” the tall soldier warned and then he nodded to his comrades, “We have to return to patrol.” And then they left. The guard returned to duty a little more alert than he had been previously. He did another room check and Rune pretended to be asleep. When he returned to his seat by the door, all his attention was focused on the soldier chained in the center of the room.

A few painful heartbeats later, Tyv reappeared at Rune’s cell again and started in on the lock. It didn’t take long before he was a free man and was gleefully slipping out into the darkness to join her. She jerked her head toward the sewer entrance she had used earlier and the pair of them crept toward it, careful to avoid the lone guard’s detection. Once they reached the manhole, Rune helped her to silently remove the grate and realized some of the bars were movable and had been shifted to form a very welcome Shadowmark: escape route.

The way out now open before them, Tyv motioned for him to go first. Impressively, she helped to lower him down, proving herself far stronger than he would have guessed or she even looked. He landed in the bottom of the sewer with a little splash, the sound of which was thankfully swallowed by the echo of the tunnel. Looking up, he saw Tyv disappear briefly as she fetched his gear and then she was back, dropping the overstuffed bag down the shaft to him. He caught it and set it on a nearby platform where Tyv had left most of her weapons since they were too bulky to allow her to fit through the narrow manhole without making too much noise.

Returning his attention upward, he expected to see her climbing down next, but he didn’t. Instead, he saw the soft orange glow of a torch as someone drew nearer. He held his breath, but the on-duty guard appeared at the edge of the sewer entrance with a torch in his hand, peering down in disbelief. Before he could call for reinforcements, however, Tyv attacked him from behind, choking him with one arm while covering his mouth and nose with the other hand. After a few moments of struggle, the guard passed out and the torch dropped down the manhole from his limp grip, extinguishing in the two or three inches of ice water at the bottom of the tunnel.

Tyv tossed him sideways, haphazard, away from the sewer. “Hurry up,” Rune hissed, deciding that it was relatively safe to vocalize now that the immediate threat was unconscious, but Tyv didn’t scurry down the shaft as he had expected. Instead, he heard the rattle of chains and his face went white. “Nonononononononononono!” he muttered, pulling himself halfway up the manhole to stop her from doing something stupid. But it was too late.


Anja wasn’t sure exactly what it was about the injured Imperial scout that reminded her of Thornir. They didn’t share any particular resemblance. They weren’t even the same age—well, they might have been if Thornir had survived—but the scout was a full-grown man and Anja’s twin had been scarcely out of boyhood when he died. Seventeen. Thinking of him brought an unpleasant mixture of feelings to the surface that Anja didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with, so she buried it all back down where it belonged—with the exception of one persistent urge to save the poor soldier from imminent torture and imprisonment, or possible execution.

It was beyond bad business. Rescue mission in and of themselves weren’t profitable practices. Dangerous, difficult, and far too much opportunity for things to go sideways. Hence why the Guild in Skyrim didn’t condone them. The general rule was that, at the end of the day, all a thief had was her own skill. So they provided things like escape routes to tempt that desperate focus, that eleventh hour luck, to produce results. Earn your freedom, as it were. It was bad enough that she had decided to stick to the rule of her old Guild and gone after Rune—something she was firmly not regretting—but to make a move on the soldier? She was just asking for trouble at that point.

So of course, trouble answered.

The guard by the door picked up on her movements when she drew closer to the soldier. He hadn’t outright saw her, but his eyes had detected movement in the shadows. With the new, high-priority prisoner housed in his dungeon, he wasn’t about to dismiss it as a trick of the light. He had to be sure. So he took the torch off the wall above his head and went to investigate.

Anja barely had time to hide behind the hay bales before the treacherous glow of the fire exposed her. It wasn’t the best hiding place; if the guard gave a more thorough search, he’d easily find her. But it didn’t matter. She just needed to stay out of sight long enough to get the drop on him. There was no other option. He had made himself an obstacle between her and her freedom. So she waited, listening to his footsteps and watching the shadows change on the wall as the torch drew closer to the sewer grate.

Letting him discover the Guild’s escape route wasn’t ideal. Half its usefulness came from the general ignorance of its existence, but she hadn’t had the chance to put the grate back in place and she was all out of invisibility potions. It was a game of cat and mouse now, and cowering behind the hay bales in the corner of a dungeon didn’t make her feel particularly in control. But she waited and prepared one of her potions for use, dumping its contents directly onto her glove; as soon as the guard made it to the manhole, she made her move. Slipping out soundlessly from behind the bales, she sneaked up behind him, snaked one arm around his throat, and pressed the other hand flush against his mouth and nose, suffocating him with the fumes soaked into her glove. She hadn’t had a rag and had left her cloak down in the sewer with her weapons because she didn’t like loose clothing when on a job. Too many things to catch it on—or be caught by it. Her leather glove soaked enough of the potion up to do the job, only now she had to be careful not to accidentally inhale the fumes herself until she was free to clean it later.

The guard rendered unconscious, she tipped him sideways away from the manhole and returned her attention to the soldier behind her who was now struggling to hold himself upright and staring directly at her—or as near to it as he could in the darkened prison. He didn’t see her right away, but as he squinted into the darkness, he could just make out the faint outline of her body in the shadows. The tension in his posture did not dissipate; he didn’t know who or what she was, if she was friend or foe or hallucination. Anja reached inside her hood and adjusted the golden cuff on her right ear. A gift from a Khajiit, Dro’kodesh, she used to run with back in the Imperial City. Best damn friend and thief she had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Taught her everything she knew. He was the father she wished she’d had in Remus: patient, kind, and proud of her. The jewelry was a gift to mark the day she had learned all he had to teach her. “You are skilled like Khajiit Shadow Prowler now,” he had said, “But for one thing…” The ear cuff granted Night-Eye.

Rubbing the little sapphire embedded in the precious metal allowed her to control when she wanted to use it. Abruptly, the enchantment took effect and her eyes caught every last stray beam of light from the hallway, bringing the features of the dungeon into focus, chased in white-blue luminescence. Once her vision adjusted, she focused on the injured soldier who was peering wildly through the gloom. His breathing was ragged and labored and he clutched at his ribs when he inhaled too sharply. She wondered in what kind of condition he was; if escape was possible for him. In the brief moment he had been visible in the light when the soldiers first brought him into the dungeon, he had not looked well. Bloodied, broken, half-conscious.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly, loud enough for him to hear her, but soft enough to avoid drawing attention from the barracks upstairs.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed and then she silently approached.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying to pin down where he had heard the voice come from. “Answer me!”

When she was close enough to touch him, the tips of her gloved fingers brushed against his forearm, startling him. He jumped, his head jerking up and his arms pulling against his body to withdraw from the unexpected contact. The chains groaned in response and Anja gripped his wrists tightly to keep him pulling further away. “I’m going to get you out of here, but I can’t do that if you don’t play nice, love,” she soothed, “We’ve got company coming any minute now and I’d like to be gone before they arrive, wouldn’t you?”

The soldier eased a little bit. “Aye,” he agreed.

“Good. Now hold still,” she ordered and then set to work on the locks securing him to the floor.

“M-my name is Hadvar,” he said after a long pause during which he listened to the soft clink of her lockpick.

“Call me Tyv.”

Hadvar made a face. “That sounds familiar,” he breathed and he tried to work out why, “Who sent you?”

“I sent me,” she answered.

“Robbing Ulfric blind, were you?”

Anja rolled her eyes. Damn Nord pride. “So much disapproval from someone who needs rescuing,” she pointed out, tugging the last lock loose.

“To each his own,” Hadvar replied by way of apology as he rubbed his sore wrists. He tried to stand the instant he was free, but wavered dangerously. Anja was under his arm in a heartbeat, steadying him. “Steady on,” she warned, “You’re in no fit state.”

“Company’s coming, remember?”

“Then we better drink all the good stuff before they get here. Open up.”

He hesitated, but, deciding it would make absolutely no sense to poison him after going through the trouble of setting him free, he complied and Anja dumped the contents of a healing potion into his mouth. Recognizing the sweet flavor and thick consistency, Hadvar swallowed hard and took several deep breaths now that his ribs were newly healed. “Thank you,” he breathed.

Before Anja could respond, Rune’s head popped out of the manhole. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Who’s that?” Hadvar demanded, his body prepared to bolt. Though where he would go was a mystery.

Anja made a noise of disgust. “My associate,” she muttered and then led him toward the sewer grate, “Now be quiet, the both of you.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Rune insisted.

“Too late. It’s already happening.” But no sooner did the words pass her lips did she hear commotion in the barracks again. “Shite, the Jarl is coming!” She half dragged Hadvar to the manhole and shoved him down on top of Rune.

“Wait!” Hadvar objected, “I was carrying a message! We have to get it back!”

“There’s no time!” Anja hissed trying to push him down the shaft.

“It’s a matter of life and death!” Hadvar insisted, “Please!”

“GO!” she snarled and Hadvar finally relented, but by the time there was enough room for her to get down the manhole after them, it was too late.

“Why are the torches out?” demanded a harsh voice, “Where is the guard?”

“I don’t know, captain…” And there was scrambling to produce fresh torches with which to light the dungeon.

Verging on panic, Anja grabbed the grate and slid it into place. “Follow the marks!” she hissed and then quickly straightened the movable bars, locking the grate back into place, “I’ll catch up to you!” The faint sound of splashing footsteps told her they were heeding her words.

“What’s that?” the captain called through the bars into the dungeon, “Who’s there?”

Mentally groaning to herself, Anja selected another potion from her belt. As soon as the gate was unlocked and the men stepped into the dungeon with new torches, she charged them and smashed the vial onto the stone floor. Plumes of choking gas curled upward, stinging the eyes and noses of the guards. They sputtered, one of them even dropping his torch as she sprinted through them. The captain was the only one who noticed her running passed and he tried to grab for her, but she was too quick. Coughing, he stumbled into the hallway after her, trying to clear his lungs as he went.

The barracks were half empty from a changing of the guard. Luckily. She managed to debilitate those that remained with her last smoke bomb. From there it was a straight shot into the main hall. Not the most ideal of places to be when attempting to escape. Too big. Too open. Too full of guards. But the narrow passageway gave her little choice. She ran full speed at the door leading to main hall, putting all her weight behind it as she barreled through, just in case there was someone on the other side. At least she’d have a chance to stun them. And it was a good thing she did.

The door flew open, striking an older man wearing Stormcloak armor in the face, breaking his nose. He had been reaching for the handle at the time so a couple of his fingers were also fractured in the process. He stumbled back, his hands reaching upward, and Anja thought he would be too incapacitated by his nose to worry about her. But she was wrong. He wasn’t reaching for his face. He was reaching for his battleaxe.

Anja was no longer operating on coherent thought, just a jumble of instincts strung together to form vague commands for her body to follow. She punched his already broken nose before he could draw his weapon, blurring his vision and distracting him long enough for her to knee him in the groin. The poor man doubled over and she ran just as the guards at the door gave chase. She didn’t get halfway across the main hall before another man appeared; he was dressed in fine, noble clothing and furs and carried himself with the bearing of a king. Undoubtedly, he was Jarl Ulfric. And the second he saw her, he drew his weapon. “Bar the doors!” he commanded the pursuing guards, calling them off Anja and back to their posts. He was going to take care of the sneak-thief himself.

The only thing Anja could think to do was move north. Earlier, when she was making her way through the sewer to the dungeon, she had seen a northern outlet to the sea, overlooking the bay behind the Palace of Kings. She could use it to regain access to the sewer and regroup with Rune and Hadvar. Hopefully. With a bit of luck. So, she sprinted toward the northeast corner of the main hall, with Ulfric hot on her heels, and barreled through the door there, praying to Nocturnal that it was not a broom closet.

Blessedly, it was not.

It opened into another hallway, far more open with vaulting ceilings unlike the guards’ barracks. There were fewer sentinels on patrol in this section of the palace which was both advantageous and disconcerting. On the one hand, it was easier for Anja to get around them, partly because Ulfric kept ordering them to block the way behind them to cut off her exit should she try to double back. But it also signaled to Anja that the Jarl knew of no viable escape ahead of them, no doors or windows leading to freedom. He was cornering her. If she couldn’t make it to the outlet, he was likely going to catch her.

A string of creative profanity zipped through her head as she pushed through the last door and found herself in a large, open solarium. If she could have spared the time to be surprised, she would have blinked owlishly at the massive empty space. All the planters arranged through the room were full of hard, frozen earth, but nothing grew in them except a few heartier specimens that tended to be difficult to kill in general. Creep cluster, some graying moss, and tufts of mountain flowers. Light from the brilliant auroras in the night sky danced through the massive glass windows, casting a dreamlike quality over everything. The room opened onto a large, wide balcony that overlooked the northern bay. The sewer had to be somewhere below it. She ran through the narrow walkways between them, but it appeared her luck had finally run out.

Ulfric gained on her and managed to grab the back of her belt, yanking her backwards. “Got you, little fox,” he growled, wrapping his arms tightly around her to restrain her flailing limbs as she tried to fight him. “I was going to kill you for breaking into my home,” he continued, “First, I want to know why you came. Who sent you?”

“Let go of me,” she snapped, aiming for an accent that was somewhere in the region of Breton, but she wasn’t quite on point, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.”

“Was it Tullius?” he demanded, ignoring her attempt to barter even a little freedom, “Has he finally lost all honor and sent an assassin?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“No? Elenwen then?” he growled, “She likes to play games.” Abruptly, he spun her around to face him, ripped back her hood, and pulled down the scarf covering the lower half of her face. His brow furrowed as his dark green eyes poured over her features. “You’re just a child,” he muttered and his grip softened. Not enough for her to get away, but enough to ease the harshness.

Anja had never felt so exposed in her entire life. Without something to obstruct her face, she felt practically naked. “Let go,” she insisted half-heartedly, fully expecting him to ignore her.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice firm, but less demanding than before.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you,” she offered again.

For a moment, Ulfric looked like he was considering it, but then the sound of reinforcements echoed down the hall, claiming both his and Anja’s attention. He saw fear blossom in her eyes and she tried to squirm away from him again. He didn’t let her go. Instead, he rearranged his grip, grabbing her by the elbow and dragging her back toward the door. She fought him every step of the way, pulling, clawing, trying to kick at him, but his clothing was too thick and he was rather spry for an older man. Through the open doorway, she saw the man she had assaulted in the main hall leading a small group of guards toward them. He looked thoroughly murderous, his nose still broken and walking a little funny from the discomfort lingering in his groin. “I’ll take her from here, my Jarl,” he said when he reached them.

Ulfric looked sideways at Anja, thoughtfully. “In due time, old friend,” he said, “But I need a moment alone with the girl, first.” Anja did not like the sound of that.

“But, Ulfric…”

“Wait here, Galmar,” Ulfric insisted, “We won’t be long.” And he closed the door on his housecarl, sliding the lock into place.

Anja trembled, afraid that her beauty had done her a tremendous disservice and piqued the interest of a man who was not accustomed to taking ‘no’ for an answer. Panicking again, her mind ran through a few different ways of disabling a man with his pants down, but before she could move to enact any of them, Ulfric released her. She paused out of surprise and looked up into his face. He wasn’t going to hurt her. At least, not yet and possibly not in the way she feared. “Did Madanach send you?” he asked softly, “You don’t look Forsworn to me.”

Given a second chance to regain control over the situation, Anja assumed her usual cocky grin and the maddening swagger in her hips. If she could keep the Jarl talking long enough to get to the balcony, then there was a chance she could still escape. Maybe. “So many enemies, my Jarl,” she replied, glancing nervously at the door and taking a few steps away from it, “They say that’s the mark of a good king—or a bad one.”

Ulfric matched her movements, never allowing her more than an arm’s reach of distance between them. “And how many enemies does the King in Rags have?” he asked, pointedly.

“At least one.”

The Jarl smirked and took her slow and steady retreat as an effort to put space between herself and his men on the other side. “Don’t have to worry about them,” he said, “Even if I hadn’t locked the door, they won’t come unless called. It’s just you and I.”

“An interrogation then?”

“A conversation.”

Anja scoffed. “Careful, my Jarl. You’ll give a girl the wrong idea.”

Ulfric actually chuckled. “You have nothing to fear of that, either,” he assured, “I just want to know who sent you.”

“And then what?” she asked, slipping out onto the balcony, “How do I know you won’t tip me into the bay when I’ve told you everything?”

He took a few more steps closer, moving into her space. “Then don’t get so close to the edge,” he warned.

Anja trembled. Oh, the Jarl was good, that was for sure. He knew how to maintain control over a conversation—interrogation, whatever. He was trying to unnerve her and knew precisely how. That was her fault; she had made her discomfort known to him when she should have kept calm and aloof. Now he had leverage. She stepped back until the back of her thighs bumped against the cold, stone railing of the balcony, never taking her eyes off Ulfric. “Maybe we can make a deal?” she offered, “One that doesn’t end with me drowning or spending the rest of my days in your dungeon?”

“A steep price for something I am beginning to doubt you possess,” he replied, “I would require a show of good faith.”

“Name it.”

“Give me yours.”

“Tyv.” She could have kicked herself. Of all her aliases, she had to give him the one she was currently using, the one she had already established in Riften. Damn her nervousness.

Ulfric quirked an eyebrow, amused. “‘Thief’ in Atmoran,” he said, “Is that your real name?”

Anja swallowed hard. “The only one my mother gave me, darling,” she answered which was partly true. Freydis had used it as an endearment when she was a little girl. Though her mother would turn in her grave if she had one, to find out Anja took the nickname as one of her many aliases.

The Jarl seemed to find her answer intriguing and his sharp eyes narrowed at her slightly as he approached her. “No one sent you, did they?” he asked.

Fearing she was about to run out of time very quickly, Anja smiled seductively and tried to cling to her rouse. “What? Why would you say that?”

“The King in Rags did not send you; you lack the markings of the Forsworn, and if Madanach was going to have me killed, he’d want me to know he was responsible,” he explained, “And the Thalmor bitch likes to toy with me, but she wouldn’t send someone like you…” Here he paused long enough to cross his arms over his chest and look menacing. “A girl, afraid,” he said, “You’re not heartless enough to be useful to her. Besides, what Thalmor agent would degrade herself by taking a name from ancient Nordic tradition?” He shook his head. “Your mother was a Nord, wasn’t she? Your face is familiar to me. What is your clan name?”

Damnit, ma…It was hard staying anonymous when one bore a striking resemblance to one’s semi-famous mother, but giving Ulfric her real name was far worse than giving her favorite alias. “What about Tullius?” she prodded, trying to change the subject as she glanced nervously over her shoulder, attempting to line herself up with her memory of the northern outlet.

Ulfric smiled humorlessly. “Tullius lacks imagination,” he sniffed, “Too much the soldier to send someone so young and untried in to do a professional’s work.”

“Who says I’m here to kill you?” she asked, “It’s in the name, isn’t it? I’m a thief, not a killer.” And that’s when she noticed it: the cylinder on Ulfric’s belt emblazoned with the seal of the Empire. Hadvar’s message.

The Jarl noticed her eye movement. “Just a thief for hire, working for the Empire?” he sighed, disappointed, “So it is for Tullius that you work.”

Anja shrugged. “Are there not others who would want to know the contents of that message?” she asked.

Ulfric frowned. “Do you even know what you were sent to steal?”

“It doesn’t matter, love,”

“No? I thought you said you weren’t a killer.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me…”

“It could contain troop movements, camp locations, orders to withdraw—or attack,” he responded, “My men’s lives hang in the balance and you don’t care what it is you’ve been sent to fetch.”

Hadvar said it was a matter of life and death…“Have you read it?” she asked softly.

“I have.”

“Which makes me…”

“Irrelevant.”

“Come now, my Jarl,” she said meekly, “We were having such a lovely conversation. There’s no need to be rude.”

“You have very little to bargain with as it is and my patience is thinning.”

By her calculation, she had absolutely nothing to bargain with, unless the Jarl was, in fact, willing to accept carnal tender. Anja swallowed hard and backed off the railing, taking a hesitant step toward him. Teasing was easy when she was in control of where it would lead, but she wasn’t in control this time. At least not entirely. Speaking with Ulfric was a little like fencing and Anja didn’t feel like she had the upper hand. Hand…that gave her an idea and put the twinkle of confidence back in her eye. “Haven’t you heard that good things come to those who wait?” she simpered.

Ulfric’s eyes narrowed at her, but he appeared unmoved. “You have nothing I want,” he said firmly.

She looked up at him through her lashes. “Are you sure about that, my Jarl?” she asked, sweetly. Regardless of whether or not he was willing to take the bait, she just needed him to let her get close enough to become dangerous. “It seems such a waste to lock away something as pretty as me, doesn’t it?”

Ulfric’s body stiffened, not with arousal, but suspicion. She had been careful to keep as much space between them as possible during their conversation and he had used her discomfort to his advantage, but now she was advancing on him. Was it out of desperation? Or was she playing at something else? Regardless, he was not tempted by her offer—though he was frustratingly curious…“You made your choice.”

She pouted and reached for his face slowly, giving him ample time to examine and reject her movements. When he did not, she drew a little closer, her hand cupping his face, the other pressed against his abdomen where she could quickly grab at the message on his belt if she needed to. Her mouth poised centimeters from his. “And you? What choice will you make now?” she asked, her breath warming his lips.

She felt his hands anchor against her hips and her blue eyes looked up to meet his green ones, but he started to push her away. “You’ll rot in my dungeon, thief,” he declared.

Anja made a sound of disgust. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she growled and before Ulfric could push her more than a couple inches away, one hand darted for the message on his belt. He moved to stop her, but the hand that cupped his face moved to cover his mouth and nose. The fumes she had soaked into it earlier flooded Ulfric’s senses and he staggered sideways. The glove had had some time to air out while she had been running through the palace, but it was still a strong enough dose to disorient him.

Ulfric fell to one knee, his world spinning out beneath him. He didn’t realize he was on the floor until Anja was rolling him over onto his back and peering into his face, smiling. “You’re going to have one Oblivion of a headache later,” she informed him as she plucked the message off his belt and stuffed it into hers, “But I didn’t want to leave without telling you what you wanted to know.” Cheekily, she flung one leg over his waist, straddling him. Vaguely, he tried to grab at her, but she swatted him away and leaned forward, peering into his eyes. “No one sent me,” she said, “I wasn’t here for you or your message or the scout. I’m just a thief looking for something shiny.” She tilted her head slightly. “So, take a nice long look at his face, Ulfric,” she continued, “Because it’s the last you’re going to see it.” And then she planted a long, teasing kiss on his lips before hopping off him. The last Ulfric saw of her before he lost consciousness, she was jumping off the balcony.


Rune didn’t expect to see Tyv ever again, so he was completely dumbfounded when she appeared out of the shadows near the entrance to the Temple of Talos. “I thought you dead!” he exclaimed.

Tyv smirked and pressed a finger to her lips. “We’re not out of danger yet. Keep your voice down,” she reminded him and then she looked to Hadvar. “Had to take this off Ulfric, himself,” she said, handing him the canister containing the message, “Hope it’s worth it.”

Hadvar looked at her in disbelief. “How did you manage that?”

“I’m good at what I do,” she replied simply, trying to act like running mad through the Palace of Kings was not the single most terrifying thing she ever had to do.

“And no one’s following you?” Rune asked incredulously.

She shrugged. “Not at the moment,” she said, “Ulfric was in no condition to follow me once I was through with him.”

“You killed him?” Hadvar asked, his voice unabashedly hopeful.

Tyv raised an eyebrow. “I’m a thief, not an assassin. I saved your ass and got your message back for you,” she replied irritably, “Be happy with that.”

“Of course, thank you,” Hadvar amended, realizing he had yet to thank her for breaking him out of the dungeon, “It’s just—Ulfric’s death would have ended the war.”

“And so would your superior’s, but I won’t be the one to make that decision,” she pointed out, and then she jerked her head for them to follow her up the shaft above their heads. It opened into a small, dark room. Only Tyv, with the use of her ear cuff, moved through the dim with confidence, handing each of the men robes to wear over their armor. They weren’t perfect disguises, but in the dark, they were enough to obscure the bulkier armor beneath. Once they were dressed, Tyv pressed on a wooden panel and slid it back into the wall to reveal the back side of a wardrobe. She cracked the small doors open and peered through. Apparently satisfied there was no one there, she carefully opened the wardrobe the rest of the way and stepped out into the Temple of Talos. She gestured for them to follow her and once all three of them were out in the open, she secured both sides of the wardrobe and made for the door.

The priests were nowhere to be found, but it was late and they were likely already in bed. In the dim light of the candles illuminating the temple, Hadvar could just make out that his newfound allies were dressed as priests and he was wearing some shabby, gray robe. Once they reached the door, Tyv gestured for them to wait while she peeked outside. Quickly, she ducked her head back inside and pressed herself flat against the door. “Streets are crawling with guards,” she whispered, “Stay at my back. Stay down and stay quiet. Don’t fall behind. I’m going to move fast.” Rune and Hadvar both nodded. Tyv took a deep breath and looked outside again. The instant she saw their opportunity, she was out the door with Rune and Hadvar close behind.

Hadvar wasn’t exactly sure how they made it to the safehouse or even where it was located. Tyv had taken every shortcut, roundabout way, and back alley to get them to safety without the guard noticing; he’d completely lost track of where he was. All he knew was that he was relatively safe when Rune pressed on the marking on the wall and the stone moved over wide enough for them to enter. Down another manhole and into the two room safehouse Tyv and Rune had been using before a bizarre chain of events led them to the dungeons of Windhelm.

Once safe inside, Tyv tugged the robe from her body and tossed it into a corner of the room. “Oh,” she sighed, “Here’s your coin back.” She plucked the purse off the nearby counter and tossed it to Rune. “Just didn’t want the guard to get a hold of it.”

Rune stared at her, completely flabbergasted. “You’ve got to be the best damn thief I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he admitted, “And the stupidest.”

Tyv shrugged. “Little bit of both, I think.”

“You’re thieves,” Hadvar said, stating the obvious for clarity’s sake, “With the Guild in Riften?”

Tyv smirked. “If you believe the rumors,” she joked, “Worst kept secret in Riften.”

“And you were in the dungeon to rescue him,” Hadvar continued, pointing at Rune who nodded in confirmation, “So why save me?”

“Yeah, Tyv?” Rune prodded, “Why?”

She looked momentarily uncomfortable, but then shrugged it off with a careless smile and bat of her eyelashes. “Lady’s prerogative,” she answered which caused Rune roll his eyes. He knew he wasn’t going to get a better answer from her.

Hadvar was less content to let it lie. “You risked your and your friend’s lives,” he pressed, “There must be a good reason.”

“Don’t worry about it, sugar,” she replied sharply, but playfully, “Besides, I haven’t gotten you out of the city, yet.”

The soldier nodded, giving up the matter for the moment. “What’s our next move?” he asked.

“For now? Sleep,” Tyv answered, “There’s nothing more we can do tonight, but not get caught. I’ll shake something loose tomorrow. See where that takes us.” It wasn’t the answer Hadvar had been hoping for, but he understood playing it by ear. Rescuing him had never been a part of Tyv’s plan. She’d risked a lot to save him; the least he owed her was a little bit of patience.

Notes:

SMOKE BOMB! Hehe, I always have way too much fun writing Anja. I wanted her to have an adventure as crazy as any Sonja would have, but thiefy stuff is just not as action packed as fighting a dragon, so I had to complicate things. I mean, a major point of the Thieves Guild questline is their relationship with Nocturnal and her influence on their luck. A lot of what happens in this chapter has to do with the fickle nature of luck and how it plays out for better of worse, regardless of how good you are at what you do. And Anja is very good at what she does.

Also, I wanted to contrast Anja's "awakening" that she experienced when Sonja slayed the dragon at the Western Watchtower. Because she's not Dragonborn, she doesn't go through the same struggles as her sister. Unfairly, she only reaps the benefits (increased strength, speed, and agility) without the cost of balancing a draconic soul. However, she doesn't get as big of a boost to her abilities as Sonja does as demonstrated by the fact that she isn't accidentally breaking people like Sonja was in the training yard. Things do get--weird--for her later though.

And lastly, as you may have noticed, I changed the architecture and geography of the entire Windhelm area because I like things to be bigger and more complicated in my fanfic than they were in the game. Call it decadence. If I can gild it in gold for you, I will. I wanted Windhelm to feel as grand as everyone makes it out to be. Especially the Palace of Kings. Plus, I had to come up with something creative since there is no existing escape route from the Windhelm dungeons...also Ulfric. *le sigh* I just love him. I seriously considered writing a fanfic just about him. I give him his own story arch in this one instead. ;)

As always, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter and Happy Thanksgiving!

Chapter 23: Legacies

Summary:

Sonja considers Kodlak's advice and finally decides to do something about it. Meanwhile, Vilkas learns something troubling about his Harbinger.

Notes:

Sonja and Vilkas alternating PoV.

Also, the song that appears at the end of this chapter is the traditional Irish Gaelic lullaby Suantraí as sung by the group Celtic Woman on their album Celtic Woman: Lullaby, minus a few unnecessary lines. To hear Suantraí as they sing it, please click here.

To view English translations of the Irish Gaelic verses of Suantraí, please mouse over the phrase and the translation will appear in a little window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Trigger Warning: Depictions of terminal illness, death, and grieving, some sexism.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja’s eyes poured over the pages of the spelltome Danica had given her, but her expression was vacant. She merely stared at the words, but did not comprehend their meaning. Her mind was elsewhere, lingering somewhere in the murk of her mixed feelings toward Kodlak’s advice that she forgive Hera. She was a woman of action. Even while studying magic, she had always preferred practice to study; remaining idle when there was something to be done made her fingers itch. It was time to put everything between her and Hera in the past.

Giving up on reading, she snapped the book shut in her hands and tossed it onto the table with a sound of disgust, startling her companions seated around her. They were at one of the tables on the back porch, enjoying the evening air after the feast. The draw of Lydia’s whetstone across her blade stilled as she looked up to see what was frustrating her thane. Faendal merely raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Trouble?” he asked. He sat across from her, his legs propped up across the table and his journal cracked open against his knee. The look on his face was one of complete and intense focus: brow knit, eyes narrowed, and tongue caught between his teeth as he made short, calculated strokes with his quill on the page.

“You’re always writing in that book of yours,” Sonja commented dryly, “Writing the next Lusty Argonian Maid?”

Faendal laughed as if she had said something much funnier than she realized. “Oh, if you only knew,” he sighed and then he looked over the top of his journal at her, studying her face intently. “Glare at me, would you?” he requested, “I want to get the eyes right.”

Involuntarily, her face twitched to form the desired expression before she even processed what he had asked of her. “Are you drawing me?” she asked, trying to relax her face and rob Faendal of his model.

The Bosmer scoffed at her attempt to make things difficult for him. “Don’t do that,” he advised, “I don’t recognize you without a frown on your face.”

Sonja rolled her eyes, but then obliged, her eyes narrowing at the Bosmer. “I’ll burn your little diary if there’s anything unsavory in there about me,” she warned.

“Not the best motivation to share my work with you,” he observed, but he wasn’t the least bit worried; Sonja grunted her agreement, but didn’t pursue the conversation further. She didn’t care one way or the other if Faendal was amusing himself with little doodles of her, naughty or otherwise—mostly because it was more likely that the elf was drawing nudes of Camilla than of her. That thought, alone, was almost enough to shake her out of her anxious mood with laughter. “Septim for your thoughts?” Faendal asked abruptly and Sonja realized she must have drifted into contemplative silence.

“Hera.”

Faendal nodded and set his quill beside the inkpot by his knee. “You won the prøve,” he pointed out, “What else is there to say to her?”

“Provoking her any further will only make things worse,” Lydia agreed, “The Harbinger advised you go your separate ways.”

“Or not,” Sonja added, but she nodded, “I know.”

“You’re going to speak with her anyway,” Faendal stated.

“I’m going to speak with her anyway,” she confirmed.

“Lead the way,” both her friends said in unison as they set aside their respective tasks.

Sonja shook her head, but smiled slightly, in spite of herself. “I don’t need either of you following me around, let alone both,” she insisted, but their irritated glares wordlessly communicated that going to the home of the aunt she had defeated and humiliated publicly only hours before, alone, was firmly not an option. “Fine. Lydia, come with me.” Faendal feigned insult. “She has an oath that binds her to me. It’s easier to get rid of you.”

“As you say,” he waved her off, “You know where to find me.” The Dragonborn nodded and grunted, throwing herself from her seat and stalking off into the night with Lydia on her heels.


After a moment of hesitation, Vilkas knocked on the door of Kodlak’s quarters and waited for an invitation to enter. When it did not come, he thought that perhaps he was mistaken in thinking the Harbinger was inside and turned to leave when he heard muffled movements. Staggered. Disoriented. Unsteady. If he didn’t know better, he’d think a thief had braved the depths of Jorrvaskr, but even if there was such a fool alive in all of Tamriel, he wouldn’t be living for much longer. Kodlak was aged, not crippled. The Harbinger was still in good fighting condition, still strong and quick; he would have easily dispatched an intruder. But Vilkas hadn’t scented an unknown presence.

Now concerned, Vilkas opened the door without permission and barged into Kodlak’s quarters prepared for a fist fight since he was not wearing his armor or carrying his weapon. But there was no one in the first room. He closed and locked the door behind him, just in case there was an intruder; it might slow them down. Then he stalked to the door to the Harbinger’s bedroom and whipped it open to find a truly heartrending sight.

Kodlak was on the other side of the bed, fallen to one knee, clutching at his head in great pain, and using the footboard for support. Behind him, the carpet was bunched up to one side, revealing a trapdoor to a hidden room below. Vilkas had never been down there, but he knew what the room must be: the archives. Centuries of passed Harbinger wisdom contained in diaries, journals, and documents all stored safely beneath the current Harbinger’s chambers. It was how Kodlak was conducting his research into the Blood. He must have just come up from there when whatever kind of attack was plaguing him now had seized him.

It had been a long time since Vilkas last felt panic. He’d been a boy, he was sure of it, probably after committing some pint-sized sin like breaking one of Tilma’s vases or knocking over a rack of weapons in the training yard. But the fear that seized him when he saw his Harbinger on the floor was unlike any other he’d ever felt. It was the urgent and demanding race of adrenaline through an adult mind that was already thinking of a dozen different explanations for what happened and options to move forward. Without hesitation, he closed the distance between him and Kodlak in two bounding steps. “Harbinger,” he said, his voice strained with worry, “Can you stand?”

Kodlak made a little, semi-irritated grunt of pain and made an attempt to stand, only to waver dangerously. Vilkas threw Kodlak’s arm over his shoulder to steady him. The Harbinger fought him a little, but not enough to deter Vilkas as he heaved Kodlak upright and steered him to lay across his bed. “To a chair, boy,” the Harbinger growled, “I’m not dying.”

Vilkas wanted to argue, but if Kodlak didn’t want to lay down, he was sure to make the process difficult. Grudgingly, the younger Companion relented and shifted their course to the nearest chair by a small table in the corner of the bedroom. Once seated, Kodlak leaned back heavily against the backrest and tilted his head back until it rested against the stone behind him. His tight expression loosened and he breathed easier, no longer in pain. “What happened?” Vilkas asked, kneeling beside the chair, “Should I fetch Danica?”

Kodlak smiled humorlessly. “She will only confirm what I already know,” he replied dryly, “I am sick and it is killing me.”

Vilkas’ brow furrowed. “You can’t be sick,” he insisted, “The Blood protects us from disease!”

Most diseases,” Kodlak corrected and then he sat up to look Vilkas in his worried gaze, “But even a beast grows old and his body breaks down. And I haven’t been feeding mine.”

“I don’t understand,” Vilkas said, confused, “Are you losing the strength of the Wolf? How long have you been sick? How have we not smelled it on you?”

“So many questions,” he said tiredly, but there was fondness too and he placed a heavy hand on Vilkas’ shoulder, “But the simple answer is: I don’t know, son. Not yet. I search for the answer in the archives and in the words of my predecessors. Perhaps they can shed some light on my—situation.”

Vilkas was not satisfied and his expression clearly showed it. “Then I will help you,” he stated, firmly, “You will not have to search alone.”

Kodlak considered denying the younger Companion on the grounds that it was his burden to bear alone—his body that was failing, his soul that needed cleansing. But it wasn’t. Not anymore. When he had informed the Circle of his findings and Vilkas and Farkas agreed to give up the Transformations with him, it had become a burden for them all. And if he wanted to wipe the stain of the Blood clean from Jorrvaskr for future generations of Companions to come, then he could not afford to walk alone, not with his health failing steadily and threatening that goal. “Alright, lad,” he relented, “But fetch Tilma first before we begin. She brews a draught that eases the ache in my head.”

“As you say, Harbinger,” Vilkas agreed, relieved Kodlak agreed to let him help. He rose from the floor and turned to leave and find Tilma, but lingered by the door. “You should still see Danica,” he said, turning to look at the Harbinger again, “She can do more for you than merely confirming you are ill.”

“I do not want the others to know,” Kodlak stated firmly, “We live in a Wolves’ den, son. The scent of blood will drive them wild.”

“You mean Skjor and Aela,” Vilkas guessed, “They would not dare.”

“My age and my health are grounds enough for Skjor to lay challenge to my leadership,” Kodlak replied, “He is my Second and it is his duty to guide the Companions should I fall in battle or grow too feeble to lead any further. If he thinks it in Jorrvaskr’s best interests, he will declare a prøve and in my weakened state, I could not tell you how I would fair against the strength of his well-fed Wolf.”

Vilkas pursed his lips. As much as the very idea of it made him sick, he would not fault Skjor for taking action against Kodlak should it ever come to it. Any good Second would do the same. "If you are too sick, perhaps it is best that Skjor take over..." he began carefully, not wanting to insult Kodlak.

The Harbinger chuckled wryly. "And let the beast out of its cage?" he asked, "Now is not the time for Skjor to lead. Not yet. He's too clouded by the Blood."

Vilkas couldn't disagree. “If I could bring you aide without the others knowing, would you accept it?” he asked softly.

Kodlak smiled, exhausted, and nodded. “Aye, lad, if you can find some way to smuggle the priestess into Jorrvaskr without anyone catching scent of her, I would gladly accept her help.” Vilkas nodded and finally left the room to seek out Tilma. He didn’t think he could successfully sneak in Danica without alerting the others, but he didn’t need to. He had someone else in mind.


Picking out the Ironheart family home was not a difficult task. Their seal was carved into the front door like all the other old families of Whiterun, but the old home was a little larger than the others and surrounded by a thick and fruitful garden of varying alchemical ingredients. Little lanterns lined the walkways through the garden and around the house, casting a warm glow over the plants and the face of the dwelling. In the twining light of evening, Sonja strode up to the heavy oak door without hesitation and pounded on the wood with her fist. “Are you sure about this?” Lydia asked when there was no answer after a few long moments.

“It must be done,” Sonja insisted, knocking again, but then she glanced sideways at her housecarl, “There are things I need to know. Things I need to ask her. And then we can put all this behind us and never speak again if we don’t want to.”

Lydia nodded. “I follow your lead, Ironheart,” she said in support. And then the door opened.

But it was neither Hera nor her housecarl who had answered the door. Much to Sonja’s surprise, it was Hulda and the innkeep looked thoroughly flustered. Her hair was a little mussed and her apron was covered in blood. What was more, she looked none too pleased to see Sonja standing on the stoop. “How dare you show your face here after what you’ve done!” she demanded hotly.

Sonja blinked slowly. “After what I’ve done?” she repeated, “I’ve come to see Hera…”

“To humiliate her further?” Hulda demanded, “I think not! Off with you!”

“Damnit woman, I told you not to fret!” Hera’s voice called beyond the door, irritably. Seconds later, she was visible in the doorway and trying to shoo Hulda away.

“You’re supposed to be resting!” Hulda insisted, putting her hands on her hips defiantly, “Where’s Rengier?”

“I sent him to fetch more potions like you wanted,” Hera reminded her dubiously, “Now let me handle this.”

Hulda’s eyes narrowed and it was clear that she was considering refusing to cooperate before she gave a curt nod and gave the door up to Hera. The older Companion sighed, half relief, half fondness, before turning her attention to Sonja and Lydia. “What do you want?” she asked, gruffly.

Sonja looked her over, briefly. Hera had not seen a healer since their fight earlier. She was still bruised, bloodied, and broken. Hulda must have been attending to her injuries before Sonja and Lydia arrived since some of the deeper cuts had been neatly stitched shut and bandaged and her broken arm had been splinted. Sonja had long since healed her own injuries and wondered if perhaps it was a matter of pride or fear of magic that prevented Hera from seeking proper healing attention. Her appraisal complete, she raised a bottle of whiskey she had purchased from Belethor’s before coming over. “I came to talk,” she said, “And drink if you have a mind to.”

Hera pursed her lips and reached for the bottle, examining its label with narrowed eyes. “At least you brought the good stuff,” she stated curtly and then she jerked her head over her shoulder, “Come in.”

Stepping passed Hera, Sonja entered her mother’s family home for the first time. It was built in the traditional Nord fashion: large, spacious and yet, somehow still cluttered with furniture, books, and the odds and ends of everyday life—mostly weapons and clothes. Hera was a bit of a slob, it seemed. But the house was warm and welcoming. Lived-in. Familial. It was a surreal experience to stand in the den of the house where her mother was born and grew up. Freydis once ran through those halls, barefoot, as a child. She laughed and cried and fought with her siblings in those rooms. Became a woman. Became a warrior. For a brief moment, Sonja was overwhelmed by the golden glow of the firelight on the hearth and the ghosts it concealed. She didn’t immediately respond to Hera until she had said her name for the third time. “Sonja?” Her voice was steel: cold and hard and sharp. But not unfriendly. It was just her way.

“Kodlak thinks I should forgive you,” she blurted out, shaking the dregs of her mother’s life from her mind and turning to face her aunt.

Hera raised an eyebrow and handed the bottle of liquor to Hulda to pour for them all. “And what do you think?” she asked.

Sonja shrugged. “That there are more important things to waste my time on than harboring a grudge against my kin,” she replied, “It’s exhausting hating you.”

“So you agree with the old man?”

“Aye, but convincing my heart to do the same is another matter.”

Hera scoffed and grabbed a leather pouch off a nearby table before she seated herself beside the fire in one of two large, highbacked, and fur-covered chairs. “I understand the struggle well,” she said, nodding to the matching seat across from her, offering it to Sonja, “Every letter from Freydis started it anew.”

Sonja stiffly walked across the room and seated herself across from Hera. Lydia followed her, standing tall and strong beside her chair, in full housecarl mode. “I don’t want anything from you,” she said, sternly.

“Nor I from you.”

“But some answers,” she added.

Hera looked slightly pained by the prospect, but nodded. “A price I am willing to pay,” she confirmed.

“Ma’s letters probably told you everything, but if there was anything else you wanted to know…” Sonja swallowed hard, “I will answer you.”

The older woman studied her niece’s face intently. She was right, of course, Freydis’ letters had been very detailed, but it was one thing to read about the events of her sister’s life; it was something else entirely to have been there to live it with her. And that was something Hera could not ask of Sonja, to detail the minutia of Freydis’ life in Cyrodiil. She had no right to it. Every letter that went unanswered was another opportunity forfeited. She did not deserve it. “Thank you,” she said softly, “I will keep that in mind.”

“And I don’t think we owe each other anything, but honesty,” Sonja continued.

“Seems fair enough to me.” Hera sighed, opening the leather pouch on her lap with one hand and removing her pipe from inside. Hulda returned with a tray full of drinks; she set the ones for Hera and Sonja on the small tables beside their chairs and offered one to Lydia who politely declined. Taking one for herself, the innkeep set the tray aside and scooted a chair from the dining table to sit beside Hera who was attempting to load the bowl of her ivory pipe with tobacco with one hand and making a poor go of it. Without waiting for the Companion to ask for help, Hulda set her drink aside and reached across her lover’s lap, plucking the pipe and tobacco from her grasp and packing it for her. Hera thought to stop her, but thought better of it. The way she had been going at it, half the tobacco would have been wasted on the floor before she properly loaded the damn thing. “So where do we begin then?” she asked as Hulda handed her pipe back to her.

Sonja licked her lips pensively. “Who was my mother here in Skyrim?” she asked, “She never spoke of her life before meeting my father.”

Hera frowned, her pipe stuck between her teeth as she lit it with a small fire spell dancing off the tip of her finger. “Such a wide question,” she said, “Where do I begin?” She took a long drag off her pipe. “Owain wanted a son to spread the influence of our family across Skyrim. Had his sights set on a jarlship, I think. Always said the Ironhearts were destined for greatness. But what he got, instead, was five daughters and one stillborn boy,” she said, exhaling and watching the smoke drift into the rafters, “Blamed ma for that, he did. Accused her of brewing potions to turn his sons to daughters in the womb.” She scoffed. “I think part of him actually believed it.”

“Foolish old man,” Hulda breathed with disdain.

“Was Owain—was he cruel?” Sonja asked hesitantly.

“In his own way, he could be. Just like anybody else. But he never laid a hand against his wife or children,” she answered, “He just didn’t know how to raise girls and he’d come from a family that didn’t think much of women. We couldn’t carry his name on through marriage, so the line of Ironhearts would end with us. He hated that. Thought he’d been cheated out of his destiny.” Hera struggled to make the switch, but managed to hold her pipe between the fingers of her broken arm long enough to take a sip of her whiskey. “He thought to marry us off well when we were old enough,” she continued, “Said it was the only thing left to do with a bunch of girls. I think he took his first mistress not long after the youngest, Rota, was born. Still determined to get a son.”

“Foolish old man, indeed,” Sonja echoed Hulda’s sentiment.

“Aye, but when you’re a child, ma and da are never wrong.”

“But you and my mother are feared and respected warriors.”

Hera chuckled. “Because when you’re a young lass, ma and da are never right,” she replied, “Freydis and I were always in a dozen kinds of trouble together. We were the eldest and had to try our hands at everything first. She was a lot like you in some ways. Stubborn and strong. But she burned hot like that sister of yours. Such a temper. And she didn’t like anyone putting limits on her future, least of all our father.”

“So you joined the Companions?”

“Eventually,” Hera nodded, “We didn’t know how to fight because da refused to teach us. Didn’t want us scarring up our pretty faces and ruining our marriage prospects, I suppose. But Olfrid Battle-Born was sweet on your mother. This was before his parents arranged his marriage to Bergritte. One kiss from Freydis was enough to convince him that he should train us both and once we were good enough, we went to Jorrvaskr. Kodlak was not yet Harbinger then, but he was a member of the Circle and tested us both at Askar’s bidding. We were eighteen and seventeen then, I think. You should have seen Freydis fight to join—it was like she was fighting for her very life. And maybe we were. Da retired from the Companions the next day, refusing to call his daughters Shield-Sisters.”

Hera looked pained by this and took a long drag of her pipe again. “He threw us out of the house after that and forbade our younger sisters to ever speak with us again.” She paused, tapping her pipe against her teeth. “That was what hurt Freydis the most. Not that our father had tossed us out, but that he’d divided us all. Ingrid and Rota were too young and too timid to refuse him. Brynhilde was the only one who gave argument. Ysmir’s beard, she was only thirteen then. Spitfire that one—but ma begged her to be silent, lest she lose another daughter. We lived in Jorrvaskr for years after that.”

Sonja sat quietly for a moment, watching Hera’s expression as the older woman was momentarily lost in a wave of memory. It made a lot more sense why Hera had been so unforgiving when Freydis left for Cyrodiil. The two sisters had only each other for a long time after their father cast them from the house; Hera must have felt abandoned. “Ma never told us about any of this,” she said, drawing Hera’s attention, “She never mentioned her parents or her sisters and Kodlak didn’t tell me Owain had left so disgracefully.”

Hera shrugged. “Why would Freydis want to share her pain with her children?” she asked, “It doesn’t surprise me she said nothing of us. And as far as the Companions are concerned, Owain did not leave in disgrace. He simply retired after many long years of honorable service to Jorrvaskr. He was not a member of the Circle, so his leaving upset no balance. And Kodlak would never speak ill of the dead or bring up the sordid business of others; it’s not his place. He has more love and respect for Freydis—and for me—to do such a thing.”

“I’m almost sorry to make you bring it all up again,” Sonja said and she was surprised at how much she meant it.

The older warrior waved her off. “It was a long time ago,” she insisted, “I’ve made my peace with da since or he wouldn’t have left me this house when he died, now would he?” She smiled sourly. “But to answer your question about Freydis before Cyrodiil—she was the Killing Frost. We lived and breathed the fight. Took job after job. Killed anything Askar pointed us at. Your mother earned her name fighting a half dozen cave bears west of Winterhold. She was half dead when I found her, freezing to death and covered in their blood.” Hera actually laughed out loud. “I’ll never forget what she said to me when I dug her frozen ass out of the snow. ‘Get me a stiff drink, wench, there’s no time for fires to thaw these bones. I think I saw another cave back there.’”

Sonja chuckled. “That was ma, alright,” she confirmed, “Some things never change.”

Hera shook her head. “No, Freydis was like the mountains,” she agreed, “Nothing but an act of nature or the hands of Divines themselves could ever change her.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “Was she—happy in Cyrodiil?” she asked, “In her letters, she always said she was, and make no mistake, she loved the lot of you dearly, but…”

“I think she missed the fight,” Sonja answered, “Missed you. You wouldn’t ever know it just looking at her, always so full of purpose and fight, but at night, when she told us stories of the Frozen North where she was born—I could hear it in her voice.”

“She used to sing songs of winter by the fire since we were little girls,” Hera said, “I never understood why she ran to a place without snow.”

“We lived in Bruma for a little while when I was very young, during the Great War,” Sonja said, “But when the war ended and ma was expecting the twins, da wanted to return to the Imperial City and help rebuild. Ma said she missed the cold.”

Hera nodded, looking a little sad, and cleared her throat. “There are some things I have for you,” she said, “Her inheritance from our father when he died. He was much changed in his final days and wanted to make amends with those of his children that he still could.”

It occurred to Sonja then that Hera had not even written to her mother to tell her when their parents had died, or that they had left anything to her. It almost sparked her anger anew just thinking of it. “Couldn’t bother to send word of Owain’s changed heart, either?” she asked sharply.

The old warrior frowned and sucked air sharply through her teeth. “What do you want from me, girl?” she snapped, “I cannot undo the past. I robbed Freydis of a great many things by not answering when she called. I was stubborn and a fool, but it does not fill my silence with the words she deserved.”

“Why didn’t you answer her? Really?”

There were a hundred excuses Hera could offer up to answer Sonja’s question and she’d given a few already, but it wasn’t the truth, wasn’t the heart and soul of her pain. No, the reality of it was far more complex than she could rightly give voice to and involved so many pieces of other stories and secrets that were not hers to tell. She doubted she would ever be able to make Sonja understand, even if she could tell her everything, simply because Sonja had not lived through it herself to fully comprehend the depth of it all. But, perhaps it was worth it to try. “I joined the Circle when I was twenty-nine,” she explained carefully, “A year before your mother went off to join the Great War. I’m sure they’ve told you that the Companions are above the politics of nations, that they do not take sides. A whole band of skilled warriors unwilling to fight wars. It didn’t sit right with Freydis. She was always looking for the good fight. An honorable fight and if it couldn’t be had against the Thalmor, then there was no such thing to be had.”

“You resented her for joining the Legion?”

“No,” Hera shook her head, “I resented her for staying. Every Shield-Sibling that died in her absence was just another she could have helped me save. For leaving me behind…”…to mourn the death of my lover alone…to struggle with the Wolf without her…

“Hera…” Hulda warned softly, afraid her lover was about to fly off the handle.

“For leaving our sisters behind!” Hera continued, ignoring Hulda’s stern, pleading looks, “She wasn’t here when Rota discovered da’s mistress and their son. She wasn’t here when Brynhilde died on a job for the Companions. She wasn’t here when Ingrid went missing or when Rota married a jarl. For every birth of her children I missed, she missed of our baby sister’s. I had to take care of our ailing parents, alone, and burn them on the pyre with only Rota at my side.”

“You could have told her!” Sonja spat, “She would have come had she knew!”

“Do you know your mother so well that you can be so certain?” Hera asked, “If she wanted to come back, she would have. If she wanted to know about our sisters or our parents, she would have asked after them. But she didn’t. Freydis always did exactly as she pleased. Those letters were not for me; they were to ease her own guilt over abandoning us. And for what? To live her life as some Imperial’s wife, work at a forge, and raise three babes? She was the Killing Frost of Jorrvaskr! As fierce and unrelenting as the icy winds of Skyrim itself and she melted away in the hot grip of some man, some soldier she had the misfortune of sharing a tent with! She deserved more and she let it slip away!”

“This was a mistake,” Sonja snarled, standing from her seat and heading for the door, her whole body shaking with rage over Hera’s words.

“It’s the truth and it’s ugly, but you said I owed you honesty,” Hera called after her, “You want to know your mother? She was wild and stupid and mad, but she was the best damn woman I have ever known and she as good as cut out my heart when she left me to rot without her. And you, Sonja Ironheart, are easily the best and worst mistake she has ever made. Like it or not, we are all each other has left of her. Walk out that door if you must, but it will no sooner put me behind you than winning the prøve did.”

Sonja hesitated by the door, her fingers poised on the latch. “I don’t forgive you,” she said at length, turning to face Hera again.

“I don’t expect you to.”

“But it’s exhausting hating you.”

Hera sighed. “There is nothing I can tell you that will make this simple,” she said, “My fault? Freydis’ fault? Does it even matter anymore? She is dead and I am still here answering to her daughter who I should have held in my arms at her birth. Assign blame as you wish, I cannot stop you, but it cannot change the things we did—or didn’t do.”

“It’s heavy, this life of hers,” Sonja said, recalling the words she had once spoken to Faendal. She had felt like she would be crushed beneath it then, and now was no different. If what Hera had said was true—and she had no reason to suspect she was lying—then she could take comfort knowing that the greatest difference between herself and her mother was that, despite all the heartache and pain piled between Anja and herself, Sonja went after her sister. So maybe Kodlak had misspoken when he asked if she was strong enough to walk in her mother’s footsteps. The more important question was: Was she strong enough to walk where Freydis could not?

Abruptly, Sonja walked back to the fire and looked down at Hera. “There is nothing I can say to you that hasn’t already crossed your mind,” she said, “And I didn’t come here to throw more insults or scream at you for turning your back on us. I came here because I wanted to know my mother, wanted to understand what drove her to leave Skyrim—why she never told us about her family here. And now I know. So speak no more of her and the hole she left behind. She is no longer here. I am. And, as a friend of mine once put it, I do not run from my problems; I chase after them. Whatever broken pieces ma left behind, I will mend. I don’t have to like you to share blood with you or honor our family name. I will accept what being an Ironheart in Skyrim means whether your like it or not.” Here she paused long enough to hold out her hand for Hera to shake. “I call you kin; do you accept me?”

Hera looked up at the younger woman and smirked, a twinkle of mirth in her eye. What Sonja offered was obligation, not warmth or love or forgiveness. She was agreeing to do right by the Ironheart name, regardless of how she personally felt toward Hera and, frankly, it was far more than the older warrior had expected. “Aye, Dragonborn,” she agreed, shaking Sonja’s hand, “How could I refuse?”

“Good,” Sonja nodded, “Now let me tend to your injuries. You look ridiculous. Like an old dog feeling sorry for itself.”

Hera raised an eyebrow. “I’ve lived through worse.”

“I don’t care.” Grudgingly and at Hulda’s urging, Hera relented and allowed Sonja to cast her magic. In moments, Hera’s injuries were mended seamlessly. The broken arm smarted a bit, though, since Sonja had to remove the splint and adjust the setting before healing it. She was not gentle. “Still pretty pissed off at you,” she reminded Hera when she let out a low growl in complaint.

Rengeir returned just as Sonja finished healing Hera and set the healing potions he had been sent for on the desk now that they were no longer needed. “Fetch Freydis’ trunk from upstairs,” Hera ordered him, “Sonja will be taking it with her.”

“Yes, my thane,” he grunted and then he disappeared upstairs.

Hera turned her attention back to Sonja. “As kin, you are always welcome in this house,” she said, “There is plenty of room for you and your housecarl should you tire of Jorrvaskr’s barracks.”

“Better not to spend more time with you than I have to, Hera,” Sonja replied dryly, “And I happen to like the barracks.”

“As you say,” Hera agreed, “But I had to offer.”

“I understand.” Moments later, Rengeir returned, struggling with the weight of the heavy trunk until Lydia went to help him with it. When they managed the last of the stairs and set the trunk at Sonja’s feet, she looked down at it curiously. The heavy lid had the Ironheart crest carved into it and polished until it was almost shining. “What did Owain leave her?” she asked, looking to Hera, delaying the moment she had to open the chest and accept its contents a little longer.

Hera drained the last of her whiskey and puffed on her pipe. “See for yourself,” she said, gesturing to Hulda for a refill. With a deep breath, Sonja knelt before the trunk and pushed the lid back on its creaking hinges, peering inside.


Sonja walked back to Jorrvaskr numbly, sharing the weight of the trunk with Lydia. There was far more inside it than she had been ready for. A healthy sum of gold, she had been prepared for. A bit of jewelry. A sword. Some family heirloom. Sure. But not an entire house. According to Owain’s will, he wanted nothing more than for the return of his honored daughter, Freydis, and he wanted to leave her a living should she come back to Skyrim. So, he’d purchased a vacant home in the Plains District: Breezehome.

Humble, but separate from the Ironheart house so she would be free to live her life and grow her family as she saw fit. In addition to this extravagant bequeathment, he had also left her a small fortune to start her new life. There was also the deed to a parcel of land outside the city walls beside the Pelagia farm that had been left to all his living daughters and their heirs. Hera and Rota had already built a small farmhouse on it long ago and hired someone to tend the land. The successful little farm turned out enough profit for a comfortable living for a small family.

Amongst the stack of documents listing Sonja’s new holdings, were the traditional bits of jewelry and heirlooms she had been expecting. Most of it had been things Freydis had left behind: some clothes, a matching sword to the moonstone Skyforge dagger Sonja already had in her possession, and a few books on history and combat tactics. There were a few odds and ends from her grandmother, Maev as well. The apparent alchemist in the family, Maev had left behind things mostly to do with alchemy that Sonja had already resigned herself to give to Anja when she found her. But it had all been a bit much and Sonja was happy to leave when the time came.

Lydia said nothing as they walked back to Jorrvaskr, painfully aware there was nothing she could say, but Sonja was glad for the silence. When they reached the mead hall, they walked around to the back to see if Faendal was still there. He was not, but Sonja insisted they set the trunk down on the porch anyway. “You should get some sleep,” she said to Lydia, “It’s late. I think I’ll stay up a while longer yet.”

Lydia looked to the chest and then back to her thane. “Are you certain?” she asked.

Sonja nodded. “Positive.”

The housecarl was reluctant, but eventually relented, respecting Sonja’s desire to be alone for a while and went into Jorrvaskr to sleep. Sonja dragged a chair over to the trunk and plopped down in it, propping her legs over the lid and staring into the night sky, pensively. When it grew colder, she popped the chest open and found one of her mother’s old coats. She swaddled herself in it, pulling up the fur hood to protect herself from the chill, but still did not go inside. Everything felt like it still belonged to Freydis. Even Jorrvaskr. And she needed some time to dissolve the memory of her, to exercise the ghost of her presence from the same halls she now walked and slept in, the same yard she trained and bled in. The simple truth was Sonja was not used to following anyone’s path but her own and knowing how closely she toed the line her mother walked before her made her feel uneasy.

Absently, she began to hum to herself and it took her a few moments before she realized what song it was she was singing. A lullaby that Freydis used to sing to her children. Sonja’s favorite. Suantraí. A pretty little Breton song Freydis had learned from a friend during the Great War. She hadn’t the voice her mother had, or Anja for that matter, but she could carry a tune well enough and the lower timbre of her voice was warmer than the lilting beauty of her sister’s.

Seothó seothú ló

Seothó seothú ló

Seothú ló

Seothú ló…”

Instantly, wave upon wave of memories from her childhood washed over her as she remembered all the little moments Freydis was much softer than anyone but her children had ever known her to be. Every hug, every kiss, every gentle motherly caress. Every lullaby.

Mo ghaol, mo ghrá ‘gus m’eandúil thú

Mo stoirín úr is m’fhéirín thú

Mo mhacán álainn scéimheach thú

Chan fiú mé féin bheith ‘d dháil…”

She wondered how much more she didn’t know about her mother and what dark surprises that ignorance might spring on her in the future. But even for all the inconvenience and trepidation not knowing had already caused her, Sonja didn’t resent Freydis for her silence and mystery, or even the long shadow she cast across Skyrim. The woman who had raised her loved her and her siblings unconditionally. Sonja had had a happy and healthy childhood, and Freydis had raised her well, regardless of all the secrets she had kept from her children.

And in the end, it wasn’t any of Sonja’s business, anyway. Freydis wasn’t just her infallible mother, she was a woman, too. Mortal and frail and capable of grievous mistakes. Capable of breaking the hearts of her loved ones. The woman Sonja knew didn’t have to be incompatible with the one Hera loved. Only Sonja’s childlike refusal to acknowledge her mother’s mortality, her flaws, tied the knot of pain in her gut when she heard Hera say those unflattering things about her. And who could blame her? Does not every child think the world of their parents at some point? Freydis was deeper and more complex than Sonja would ever know and there was nothing wrong with that.

Seothó seothú ló

Seothó seothú ló

Seothú ló

Seothú ló.”

Sonja concluded the lullaby, took a deep breath, and let her mother go with both hands.

Notes:

A lot less playful than the chapter that preceded it, but important to Sonja's development. I wanted to bring the Hera issue to a firmer resolution and allow Sonja to step out of the shadow of her mother. Also, I love wise old Kodlak and he's a big part of who Vilkas is, so it was important to bring a little of their relationship out.

Oh, and if you haven't noticed already, I've tweaked the architecture of Jorrvaskr. The living quarters are larger than they are in the game. It just made sense to me to make it bigger since the place used to house a lot more Companions in the past than it currently does. So there are more rooms, though not all of them are taken at the moment. And Kodlak has a super secret hidey room where all the journals of Harbingers' past are kept because I always wondered where the hell Terrfyg's journal was kept until Kodlak pulled it off the shelf and started nosing through it.

And as for Sonja inheriting Breezehome as opposed to purchasing it, I decided that was the only way it was going to happen because Sonja's just not the type to buy a home for herself. At least for now. She's too rootless at the moment. Jorrvaskr is the closest thing she has to home right now, but the house become relevant later, so, boom, grumpy asshole grampa left it to her.

As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and thank you for reading.

Chapter 24: A Fox Hunt

Summary:

Anja plans to get Hadvar, Rune, and herself out of Windhelm when everything goes to Oblivion. Of course.

Notes:

Alright, I have a massive Anja chapter for you today. I did try to trim it down because it's dense, but I ended up not taking out much, so--eh, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it.

Also, I got my Jel translations from multiple sources because, unlike Ta'agra, there wasn't just one site with a super convenient translator for English to Argonian. My sources include: The Imperial Library, The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages, and a Tamrielic Languages Tumblr that contained translations from many other sources. Feel free to check any and all of those out for your own fanfiction needs.

As always, I get my Dovahzul translations from Thuum.org.

And finally, I know that I already credited this song once before in the previous chapter, but it bears reiteration: the song that appears at the beginning of this chapter is the traditional Irish Gaelic lullaby Suantraí as sung by the group Celtic Woman on their album Celtic Woman: Lullaby, minus a few unnecessary lines. To hear Suantraí as they sing it, please click here.

~Update: I've changed the way you view translations. Instead of clicking on it and it dragging you down the bottom of the page for you to hunt the appropriate corresponding English translation and then click on the number next to it to go back, now all you have to do is scroll over the phrase and the translation will appear in a little window. I hope that makes things easier, especially in chapters like this one that are heavy with translations and lengthy. I don't know why I never thought of that before, but I will be doing it this way from now on and will update already posted chapters accordingly.

Trigger Warning: Death and grieving, threat of death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Despite her own advice that Hadvar and Rune rest, Anja could find no sleep for herself that night. She was too nervous. Too convinced that the city guards were going to break into the safehouse at any moment and kill them all. Too afraid she had done a very stupid thing in pissing off a jarl. She sighed and rubbed her face before pouring herself another drink from the bottle of liquor she had found stashed in one of the cabinets. The men were asleep in the next room while she was busy enjoying her misery in private by candlelight. She suspected it would be dawn soon.

Breathing deeply, she lulled her head backwards, her eyes closed. When she was a child and afraid of simpler, sillier things, her mother used to take her in her lap, run her fingers through her hair, and sing to her. Different songs, every time. But she had a favorite. It was Thornir’s favorite, too. Softly, she hummed it to herself, but then the gentle, wordless notes evolved into the lyrics that hours before and not half a country away, her older sister had sung into the stillness of the night:

Seothó seothú ló

Seothó seothú ló

Seothú ló

Seothú ló…”

Frustratingly, it did not have the same effect that it did when her mother sang it, but it was comforting, in its own way, and reminded her of summer nights when Freydis let her children chase torchbugs in the Arboritum.

Mo ghaol, mo ghrá ‘gus m’eandúil thú

Mo stoirín úr is m’fhéirín thú

Mo mhacán álainn scéimheach thú

Chan fiú mé féin bheith ‘d dháil…”

She heard the floorboards creek in the next room and her eyes snapped open to see Hadvar filling up the doorway, staring at her. She sat up, clearing her throat, and turned in her chair far enough to face him, resting her chin on the backrest as she looked up at him through her lashes. “Did I disturb you?” she asked.

“No—I just…” he shifted awkwardly, “You have a lovely voice.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he continued, “Please, finish the song.”

Anja looked at him, her expression unreadable as she considered his request. She liked singing for an audience, but there were some songs that were more private than others. “Not much left to it, actually,” she answered at length, “Just a lullaby.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

She chewed on the tip of her tongue indecisively for a moment before making up her mind. It was just the nonsense bit of the verse, anyway. Moistening her lips, she obliged Hadvar’s request.

Seothó seothú ló

Seothó seothú ló

Seothú ló

Seothú ló.”

While she sang, the soldier came around to the other side of the table and sat across from her, listening to the pleasant timbre of her voice. When she concluded the song, she raised her cup to him. “Cheers,” she said and drank down the contents in one gulp.

“That was beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

You’re beautiful.”

She snorted. “You always come on this strong?”

He smiled; he had only meant it as a compliment and harbored no designs on his pretty rescuer that she did not invite, herself. “Just stating the obvious, Tyv,” he assured, “Nothing to worry about from me.” She hummed her disbelief and poured another drink. “They say it’s not good to drink alone,” he added, watching her.

Anja tweaked her eyebrows in amusement. “Then grab a cup and pour yourself an early breakfast, friend,” she invited, “I’m not stopping you.”

He went to the cabinet for another mug and rejoined her at the table, pouring himself a drink and refreshing hers. They spent a couple of moments in contemplative silence, Anja’s mind returning to her many anxieties and Hadvar to the importance of his mission. “Thank you for rescuing me,” he said suddenly, startling Anja from her thoughts.

“You thanked me once already,” she waved him off, “That’s enough.”

“I should have thanked you sooner,” he insisted, “I did not mean to appear ungrateful. You gave me back my life.”

She looked at him sideways, studying his face. He was handsome, she supposed, in a harmless sort of way. Good, strong features and kind eyes. He just seemed so out of place as a Legionnaire. “What happened to you?” she asked, “How did Ulfric’s men get a hold of you?”

Hadvar’s brow furrowed and he looked a little guilty. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” he admitted.

She considered his response. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she offered, “You want to know why I risked my neck for you? I’ll tell you. Honest.”

His expression softened as he looked her over. “You start first,” he insisted, playfully, “I have state secrets to protect.”

Anja snorted, but nodded. “Fine,” she relented, “I’m trusting you’re a man of your word.” Mostly because he had a face that could hide little. If ever there was someone she could read with her eyes closed, it was the soldier sitting across the table from her. Then she grew pensive and reluctant for a moment. “Because I have a soft spot for Legionnaires,” she said at length.

The words she spoke aloud weren’t very informative, but her pained expression and the waver in her voice spoke volumes. “You lost someone,” he said softly and she nodded, “Who?”

“My brother,” she answered. She felt a little odd being so honest with a complete stranger, but that was half the appeal. Knowing she was likely never going to see him again after they parted ways made it easier to say things she hadn’t spoken of in years.

“What was his name?”

She hesitated and cast a glance back into the other room where Rune was still sleeping soundly. “Thornir. My twin. He was the better half of the two of us.” She smiled sourly. “You’d have liked him,” she joked, “He was a good soldier. Honest, brave, dedicated. Everything I’m not.”

“I like you plenty as you are,” Hadvar assured, but he smiled sadly. “Sounds like he was a good man.”

“He died a boy. Not yet twenty.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that,” he said lamely, unsure of what else he could offer.

She waved him off. “It was a long time ago,” she insisted, but thinking of him always dug up fresh pain anew.

Hadvar touched her hand comfortingly. Such a simple gesture of support freely given from a man who was raised not to fear the goodness in himself or others. If there was comfort he could give, then he should give it. If there was encouragement he could offer, he should offer it. He had been taught to be generous with himself and to accept generosity in return. “If he died serving the Legion—why do you not support our cause?” he asked carefully, trying to find how deep the wound went, but his words were clumsy and he knew before she even responded that he had misspoken.

“Because choosing a side was precisely what got him killed,” she replied, pursing her lips.

“Your choice or his?”

“Both.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“But you did. And now your choice has hurt us both.”

He watched her as she fought the tears beginning to well in her eyes and scooted his chair closer to hers, taking both her hands in his tentatively, waiting for her to withdraw from his touch in a fury. But she didn’t seem angry or cocky or mischievous. She just seemed sad. “What do you need?” he asked, thinking maybe she’d like another drink, want to be left alone, or held until the morning; those were things he could do for the woman who had saved his life.

But she looked at him, blue eyes shining with tears in the candlelight. “Make the pain go away,” she said, thickly, the tone in her voice revealing a hurt so deep and poignant it stood in stark contrast with the confident swagger he had observed in her earlier. She was at once shockingly vulnerable and bold in her request that Hadvar felt powerless before her.

“I can do that,” he whispered as he leaned in to kiss her. She accepted his advance and kissed him back with an urgency that reassured him he had clearly understood what she was asking of him. Then he picked her up from her chair, her legs wrapping around him as she continued to hungrily kiss at his mouth as if she was gasping for oxygen—as if she was drowning beneath the weight of her grief—and took her to the bed in the corner of the room. There he kissed her tears away one by one until her heartbreaking sobs were replaced with little gasps of pleasure.


“I was at Helgen when it was attacked,” Hadvar said as he tenderly stroked Anja’s side from hip to shoulder, “One of the few, lucky bastards to get out of there alive.” He was holding up his end of the deal they had struck and telling her how he had wound up in Ulfric’s dungeon.

Anja was lazy with contentment and feeling much better than she had before Hadvar had taken her to bed. Sometimes it helped just to feel another person. To remind herself that she wasn’t alone. Perhaps not the healthiest of ways to deal with grief, but Anja had a habit of being all business and no pleasure. Focusing so hard on surviving that she forgot to live. Sometimes it was necessary to throw caution to the wind and take a page out of Sonja’s book: not everything had to have a commitment attached to it. Besides, Hadvar seemed no worse for wear. In fact, he’d probably be ready for another go if she asked it of him, but only if she asked and that’s what she like about him. He didn’t make her feel guilty for using his body for a bit of comfort.

And she liked the way his voice rumbled in his chest when he spoke to her, his tone pitched low so they didn’t wake Rune with their conversation—if he was still asleep after their tumble in the sheets. Anja had done her best to stay quiet while Hadvar made it a personal mission to make her shriek with pleasure. A happy medium had been the result. Lazily, she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him. “What?” she asked, realizing she had not actually been listening to him.

Hadvar wasn’t mad. In fact, he found it kind of funny and preferred the distracted smile on her face to the tears from earlier. “I said I was at Helgen when it was attacked,” he repeated, “I was lucky to get out alive.”

Anja’s eyebrows shot up. She’d heard about the mess at Helgen. Rumors anyway. Everyone had. Dragons and hellfire and brimstone. The only thing she knew for certain was that not many had made it out. “Lucky, indeed,” she agreed and then she chuckled, “So, are the rumors true? Did a dragon rain fire from the sky?”

“Yes.” She had been joking, but the hard expression on Hadvar’s face suggested he was not.

She blinked several times in surprise and examined his face for the slightest hint of jest only to find unwavering honesty. “You’re not kidding,” she stated.

“No.”

“Mara’s bleeding heart, how can that be so?”

Hadvar shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “I thought maybe it was Ulfric who called for the dragon to free him before execution. He used to be a Greybeard, after all, but then a couple weeks later, something incredible happened.”

Anja was captivated now. “What?”

“The Greybeards called for the Dragonborn.”

Her brow knit and she stared at him, confused. “Called for the Dragonborn?” she repeated.

“You must have heard it! Their Voices shook all of Skyrim!”

Distractedly, she gave a vague nod of her head. She did remember that night. The echo of their call had knocked her clean out of her bed and she had been having the strangest dream. Of Thornir and Sonja and fire and drums. It was the same night Brynjolf and the others had broken into her room at the Bee & Barb and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Dovahkiin,” she said softly.

Hadvar nodded. “That’s what they said,” he confirmed, “It’s what they call the Dragonborn, or so I’m told.”

“Dragonborn? Like the old Emperors?” she asked uncertainly. Hadvar nodded again and launched into an animated explanation of the Dragonborn according to Nordic mythology. As he understood it, anyway. How it was different from the Cyrodiilic emperors who had grown soft in the shadow of their mighty name: Septim. It was kind of adorable. “Well, who was it?” she asked, “Who did the Greybeards call for?”

“That’s what I was sent to find out,” he admitted, “My family’s from Riverwood so it was easy for me to poke around Whiterun.”

“Did you see him?” she asked intrigued, “The Dragonborn?”

Hadvar shook his head. “Her,” he corrected, “And no, she stays at Jorrvaskr to train. I am not allowed inside the city because Jarl Balgruuf has declared Whiterun neutral in the Civil War.” He paused. “The message you stole back from Ulfric for me is from an Imperial sympathizer inside the city. I think it contains information on the Dragonborn.”

Think?” she repeated, “You didn’t check?”

“It’s sealed. For General Tullius’ eyes only.”

Anja found his dedication endearing, but had their positions been switched, she’d have read the document in a heartbeat without guilt or regret. In fact, she had half a mind to sneak it back off Hadvar when he wasn’t looking and have a peak at it. Something about the whole situation was nagging at her. Then another, more urgent thought occurred to her. “Ulfric read it,” she informed him.

“What?”

“When I was talking to him on the balcony…”

“You were talking with him?”

“Trying to distract him long enough to poison him,” she corrected, “He said he’d already read it.”

Hadvar’s face paled. “Then I must get out of the city today,” he insisted, trying to sit up, “If Ulfric already knows something about the Dragonborn that Tullius does not—it could be very bad.”

“Calm down,” she soothed, pulling him back down onto the bed, “It’s still early morning. I’ll leave in a little bit, but you have to stay here.”

“You can’t go alone!” he objected.

“Both your and Rune’s faces are too familiar,” she pointed out, “They’d arrest and haul you off before you made it passed the inn.”

“What about you? Did no one see your face?”

She hesitated. “Ulfric was the only one to see me up close,” she admitted, “His housecarl got a look at me too and three of his guards, but the light was poor.”

“It’s not safe for you either.”

“I doubt the Jarl and his housecarl will be in the market on the lookout for me,” she replied, amused, “In fact, I’d wager Ulfric is still in recovery right now.”

“For what? You never said what you did to him, exactly.”

“Bruised ego and a daedra of a headache.” Hadvar rolled his eyes and tried to get up again, but Anja persuaded him to lay back down with the promise of another heated tumble in the sheets. For pleasure, this time. Not comfort. Volume control be damned.


Rune glared at Tyv once he was certain the coast was clear. The racket she was making with that soldier! It wouldn’t surprise him if the city guard had heard them. But who she took too bed was her business, so long as it didn’t get them all killed in the process. He couldn’t help a bit of ribbing, however, when he saw her humming brightly to herself as she attempted to make an exceedingly hard chunk of bread palatable. “Thought you were all business and no pleasure,” he said pointedly as he leaned against the counter.

She shrugged, unabashed by Rune’s open harassment. “This may come as a shock to you, but I have been known to lie from time to time,” she sniffed, “Just something to keep in mind. We are thieves after all.”

The Imperial thief scoffed. “I don’t know if you’re better at attracting trouble or getting out of it, but you have your work cut out for you today,” he said, “How we going to get out of town?”

Tyv sucked her tongue through her teeth thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she admitted, “I have a few ideas. It all depends on how recognizable my face is and what I can turn up on the docks.”

Rune’s brow furrowed. “What can I do to help?” he asked.

Surreptitiously, she glanced over her shoulder in Hadvar’s direction where he sat at the table picking at his own unsatisfying breakfast of molded cheese and hard bread. “Keep an eye on him,” she muttered, “He’s the sort to play hero and if I take too long, I suspect he’ll have a mind to follow me.”

“And whose fault is that?” Rune pointed out.

Tyv smirked. “What can I say? I’m good at a great many things.”

“Well, what do you want me to do when he wants to go chasing after that cute arse of yours?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. Hit him over the head, tie him up, knock him out. Whatever you have to, short of killing him,” she whispered, “His lovely mug hits the streets and we’re all dead.”

“Understood,” Rune assured, but he was not looking forward to it if it came to it. Hadvar was quite a bit larger than he was and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be successful in restraining him.

“Right,” she said brightly and then turned to Hadvar, “Off with your armor, love! We need all the coin we can get and that Imperial red, although striking on you, is as good as wearing a sign around your neck that says, ‘‘Ey Stormcloaks! Fuck you!’ No matter we get you passed the guards, everyone else will see it and know what you are.”

Hadvar looked at her as if she’d just brutally stomped his puppy to death. “But—my superiors will be upset I lost my uniform…” he began.

“At least you’ll be alive long enough for them to be upset with you,” Tyv insisted, “Now strip.”

Reluctantly, he relented and slowly handed off the pieces of his armor to Tyv who stuffed them in a bag. Rune fetched him something reasonably warm to wear from the wardrobe of spare outfits in the next room. “Bit moth bitten, but it’ll do,” he said, handing the garb to Hadvar who grunted in thanks. Then he turned to Tyv. “You sure about this?” he asked as she carefully arranged her clothing over the daggers she had concealed beneath her skirts. Beyond that, she was unarmed, but she dressed warmly to cover the bulk of her basic leathers beneath.

She smiled reassuringly at Rune as she slung the bag over her shoulder and pulled the fur-lined hood up over her blonde curls. “Of course,” she winked, “What could go wrong?”


She hadn’t taken two steps out the door before something went wrong. The entrance to the safehouse was tucked in the courtyard across from the home of a Guild associate. The wooden gates kept entry and exit relatively safe from prying eyes—of course, the unintended side effect was that it was also a prime place to hide from the wind. Unimportant, in and of itself—unless you happened to be an orphan looking for a safe place to sleep for the night.

The young girl scampered back from the wall she had been huddled against for shelter as soon as she felt it move, fear clearly etched across her face. Anja froze as soon as she laid eyes on the girl and for a horrifyingly indecisive moment, they simply stared at one another. But the shock of seeing a stranger walk out of a wall quickly wore off and Anja could just feel the beginnings of a scream form in her young, terrified throat.

Swiftly, Anja shirked her pack and lunged at the child, wrapping her up in her arms and covering her mouth before she could scream. She pulled the girl back against the wall, away from the gate, and hit the marking to close the entrance with her shoulder. The poor, frightened child fought her, clawing at her hands and kicking, flailing. Anja leaned down as close as she was able to the girl’s ear without making her face accessible to her nails. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she soothed, “But I need you to calm down, alright?”

The child was obviously not convinced and continued to kick and stomp and scratch. “Oh, for the love of Mara, girl be still!” Still no luck, then Anja noticed the girl’s little basket. It had been kicked to the corner in their struggle and broken, its contents spilled onto the snow. Flowers of every color, soaked through from the slush on the ground, ruined, and a little coin purse that couldn’t contain more than a few septims at a time. “Listen, if you behave, I’ll buy all your pretty flowers twice over, alright?” she hissed, “A new basket too. Maybe a sweetroll from the inn if you’re very good.”

The promise of food instantly stilled the girl’s movements. “I’m going to let go now,” Anja said slowly, “I’ll keep my word if you keep yours, alright?”

Carefully, she eased her grip on the child and the girl shot from her grasp as quick as lightning, hurrying to put space between them, but she didn’t leave the courtyard and she didn’t call for help. “You mean what you said about the sweetroll?” the girl asked, worrying her little frozen fingers in front of her, clearly worried that Anja’s promise was too good to be true.

“I’ll buy you a whole damn meal if you want, girl,” Anja assured, “Sweetroll’s just dessert.”

The girl looked her over dubiously, still afraid, but far too tempted by the offer of food to do anything stupid. Anja’s heart broke for the little orphan. By the look of her, the child hadn’t eaten in some time. She was thin and pale and dirty. Her little cheeks sunken; her dark hair matted and dull; her crimson dress torn and inadequate protection from the cold; some of her exposed skin on her boney ankles and quivering fingers looked a bit frostbitten, but her eyes were still bright and sharp and critical. She had that lean, hungry look Anja knew too well in the faces of the orphans she used to run with on the Waterfront when she was a child herself. But at least they had the general protection of the Guild protecting them. This girl had nothing but her own young mind and animal instinct to keep her out of harm’s way, and Divines help her, she couldn’t be more than ten or eleven years old.

“What’s your name?” Anja asked and the girl’s eyes shot up suspiciously.

“I don’t have a name,” she lied.

“No?” Anja smirked, “Smart girl. Names only make it easier for others to track you down when you don’t want them to.” She kneeled to the girl’s eye level. “Don’t tell me your name; it’s better that way. I’ll call you—Kit, instead.” One of her favorite aliases on loan. “You like that?” The girl considered it a moment and then gave one curt nod. “Good.” She held out her hand for the girl to shake, but the newly christened Kit jumped at the sudden movement. “You can call me Tyv.”

Kit eyed Anja’s hand suspiciously before risking a handshake. “Are you in trouble?” she asked.

Anja chuckled. “Clever girl, indeed,” she sighed, “Yes. A little bit. You going to turn me in?”

“There a reward?”

She had not been expecting that response. “Probably,” she answered truthfully, “I haven’t checked.” Kit grew silent again, considering her options. “Alright, so here’s the thing, little Kit. You can turn me into the guards if you like and they may give you the reward, but they might not—you are just a kid after all. And you can take that gold and try to hang onto it as long as you can before some thug takes it from you or some merchant swindles it out of your pocket. Again, darling, because you’re a child.” Kit looked crestfallen, the reality of Anja’s words sinking heavily onto her young heart. “Or—you could do a little business with me that will put a little coin in your pocket and food in your belly. You might even learn a few things along the way.”

“How do I know you won’t cheat me, too?” Kit asked, still not completely sold on Anja’s proposal. A giant bag of gold still sounded better.

“Because I don’t have a choice if I want your help, now do I?” Anja pointed out, “I’ll throw in some new clothes too if you agree in the next five…four…three…two…o…”

“I’ll do it!” Kit exclaimed, a little breathless.

“Good,” Anja reclaimed her bag from the snow and shouldered it, “Now, what I need you to do is…”

“Pay me for the flowers first.”

Anja blinked. This kid was harder to negotiate with than Belethor when she tried to get him to drop the price on a copy of Guide to Markarth down a couple coins. “Fine. How much?” she asked.

“Fifty.”

“You’re having me on.”

“You said, ‘twice over.’”

“Noctural’s tits, what did I get myself into?” She reached for her coin purse and counted out the proper amount, dropping each septim into Kit’s hands a piece at a time so she could confirm the amount. The expense of the girl was coming out of her own pocket, but she was reasonably sure she could get the three of them out of town on Rune’s money and whatever she fetched for Hadvar’s things—maybe. Once Kit had gleefully wrapped her prize in a corner of her dress that she tore off and tied shut, Anja continued. “Go out into the street and see if the guard is passing,” she instructed, “If it’s clear, knock on the gate and we’ll head to Sadri’s first, got it?”

“Got it,” Kit nodded and then disappeared onto the street. A few moments later, she knocked on the gate and Anja took a chance on the girl’s reliability and left the safety of the courtyard.


Turned out, Kit had a knack for Anja’s kind of work which didn’t surprise her. Children often proved more useful than some adults. They were small, easily overlooked, and largely ignored by most of the populace. With no real comprehension of the consequences of failure, they turned everything into a game. No fear, no nerves, no screw ups. And Kit had particularly light fingers.

Her first grab was out of Sadri’s after Anja had paid for all new clothes for Kit—since children’s clothing proved to alarmingly cheap—and a couple other odd and ends. Somewhere between when she had been trying on a little fur-lined hat and fastening her new woolen cloak, she had snatched an Amulet of Dibella off the counter. It wasn’t until they were back out on the street and halfway to the nearest Thieves’ cache where Anja hoped to find a few resources that Kit made her new partner aware of her prize.

There were about a hundred reasons why a child stealing an Amulet of Dibella was just plain wrong, but Anja was too impressed to care. Besides, Kit hadn’t even realized what she’d taken, only that it was shiny. For the time being, Anja let her hold onto it until she had a use for the trinket’s Divine powers of persuasion. At the Thieves’ cache, they were lucky and found a little pouch of gems and a couple of potions at the bottom of one of the barrels near the exit to the docks.

Their next stop was the docks themselves, but Kit was considerably less enthusiastic about going anywhere near Argonians. “They’re scary,” she whispered as they walked down the stairs, the cold saltwater air stinging their faces, “They look like they’ll eat me.”

“Nonsense,” Anja scoffed, “You’re too skinny.”

“Then they’ll eat you.”

Anja stopped short. “Did you just call me fat?” she asked, disbelieving. Kit’s response was to shrug. “Ysgramor’s balls, you’re a mouthy little one, aren’t you?” But that was possibly Anja’s favorite thing about the girl.

When they made it down to the docks, Anja hung back, by the edge of the stairs and watched the workers move about, trying to pick which one would be the most amenable to a bribe. All of them were Argonian. The Nords on the docks either owned and sailed the ships or employed the Argonians. Anja frowned. Her Ta’agra was much better than her Jel. She’d known quite a few of the honorable Saxhleel throughout her life, but found learning their language to be quite the challenge. The words, themselves, weren’t any harder to memorize than Ta’agra or Dunmeris; it was their meanings that eluded her. Flexible and shifting like smoke, Jel required a shift in the speaker’s very perception of reality to make any sense. It relied heavily on context provided not only by the situation, but visual and gestural cues—mostly grunts, hisses, and clicks that Anja’s soft throat simply didn’t have the ability to make and facial expressions she could neither mimic nor interpret. But she spoke a bastardization of it that might be enough to flatter the overworked and underappreciated Argonians.

Here goes nothing…She approached the nearest Argonian as he unloaded the last crate from the boat at the end of the dock. He paused to take a break before continuing his work. “Hist bless you, Saxhleel,” Anja said, spreading her hand wide, palm up, and lifting it a few inches in a gesture of offering, “I wish to speak with your Pakseech.”

The Argonian looked up in surprise—or, at least, she thought he did. The physiology of Argonian faces sometimes made it difficult to read some of their facial expressions, but he seemed jarred to hear some of his native tongue, even if it was from the mouth of a Soft-Skin. But he was cautious. “Shatter-Shield doesn’t come to the docks until midday,” he said, “You might find him in the market, spending the coin he should be paying us.”

“I’m not looking for your employer,” Anja asserted, “I want to speak to the Pakseech of the Assemblage.”

He looked at her thoughtfully—maybe. “You’ll only find lukiul here, Nordling,” he grunted disdainfully, “We are long separated from the sweetness of the Hist.” He paused. “I am Scouts-Many-Marshes,” he answered at length, making the same gesture of greeting Anja had earlier, “If it’s a Pakseech you want, I’m the best you’ll get.”

“I am Tyv,” Anja replied, relieved the Argonian was willing to speak with her, “But you can call me Nhakik.”

Scouts-Many-Marshes smiled, but it looked more like a grimace to Anja. “Finding a naktis in this frozen land is unexpected,” he said.

“I’m not from around here, as you might have guessed.”

“What do you need from me, Wanderer?”

“Shatter-Shield might monopolize all shipping out of Windhelm now that Ulfric’s on the outs with the Empire,” she said, “But you and yours are the real power on these docks. Nothing gets in or out that doesn’t pass through your hands first.”

“You have a wide view of things. What do you want from me?”

“Two things.”

“Name them.”

“I need passage to Solitude. Cheap, fast, and no questions asked. And for you to leave one of those little boats over there unattended this afternoon.”

Scouts hissed with laughter. “Xhuth, Land-Strider, is that all?” he scoffed, “Are you sure you don’t want us to pluck out the sahtee from the night sky while we’re at it? Or lay the xal-Hist at your feet?”

“Come, I thought we were naktis!”

“A friend wouldn’t ask this of me,” Scouts objected, “I can’t give you a boat. Shatter-Shield will make boots of my hide and a belt of my guts if we lose a ship.”

Anja sighed. “Not a ship,” she corrected, “Just that little dingy over there at the end. And you’ll get it back. We won’t be going far. Just across the bay.”

He looked over her shoulder at Kit who did her best not to make eye contact. “I know a smuggler when I see one,” he said, “What are you moving?”

“A friend wouldn’t ask this of me,” she replied softly, but then smiled, “No questions asked, remember? It’s better you don’t know.”

Scouts scratched his scales roughly with a clawed hand. “Gort is the man to speak to if you want to get to Solitude straight from here,” he said, “Small vessel so customs doesn’t hassle him too much. It’s not like he can sneak an entire Imperial battalion onboard.”

“What can he sneak?”

“Usually? Small things. Gems, gold, enchanted gear. Items that can be liquidated quickly. Small item transport.”

“And people?”

“He’s been known to ferry a few here and there,” Scouts confirmed, “But he won’t take kindly to harboring fugitives.”

Anja smirked. “Not a fugitive, just an—escort,” she assured, “He makes sure the goods get into the right hands.”

“If you say so.”

“And the other matter?”

Scouts hesitated. “I can leave a raft at the end of the pier for you, but that’s it and it will cost you.”

“How much?”

“Make me an offer.”

“I’m running a little light on coin at the moment, naktis,” she confessed, fishing out three gems from the pouch she pulled out of the Thieves cache, “Will this do?” Three shining flawless amethysts sparkled in her hand.

Wenjin,” Scouts muttered, dazzled by Anja’s tempting offer, “Generous for a raft. I accept, naktis.”

“Good.” Carefully, she dumped the gems into his scaly hand and then pressed her hand against his shoulder. “If all goes well, may I call on you again, Scouts-Many-Marshes?” she asked, “I could use a contact on the docks.”

Scouts returned the gesture. “You are far more generous than Shatter-Shield,” he said, “I wouldn’t be opposed to doing business with you in the future. If all goes well.”

She smirked. “Hist guide you, naktis,” she said, “Until we meet again.”

“May the earth beneath your feet always be soft, Nhakik,” he answered and then he nodded to a lone Nord sitting at the end of the nearest pier, “That’s Gort.”

Anja nodded her thanks and then made her way to Gort. Before reaching him, she elbowed Kit softly. “Let me have that necklace you found,” she whispered.

“Why?” Kit demanded.

Anja rolled her eyes. “I’ll give it back,” she promised, “I just need to borrow it awhile.” Kit frowned, grumbling, but then grudgingly handed the stolen Amulet of Dibella over. Anja quickly put it on and then sauntered over to Gort.


Hadvar was getting restless. Tyv had been gone a long time and he was beginning to worry that she had been caught. For all he knew, she was already dead, run through by some swine Stormcloak. Or rotting in the dungeons, awaiting interrogation from Ulfric. She didn’t know anything, but that wouldn’t save her from torture until she could produce the scout she had freed or the message she had stolen or both. And though his concern was primarily for her wellbeing, he couldn’t help but worry for himself and the success of his mission should she give him up. His thoughts chased around his head in circles as the minutes ticked by. He just couldn’t take it anymore.

Abruptly, he stood up and stalked over to the ladder, prepared to go out into the cold stone city and look for her himself when Rune cut him off. “Where you think you’re going?” he asked brightly, nonthreatening, but there was a hard glint in his eye. He wasn’t about to let Hadvar leave.

“She’s been gone too long,” he said, “Aren’t you worried?”

Rune shrugged. “Tyv can take care of herself.”

“She could be dead.”

“You will be dead the second you step out onto the street.”

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“Look, I get it. You like her. She saved your skin and you want to return the favor, but you’re no use to her dead or locked up in the dungeons again,” he pointed out, “I don’t think she’s in any trouble, but if she is, the best thing we can do for her is to stay here until nightfall and then have a poke around, agreed?”

Hadvar’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like Rune nearly as much as Tyv. Where he made exception for her thieving, he extended no such curtesy to her partner. If it had been left up to him, Hadvar would still be rotting in Ulfric’s dungeon. But the man had a point. “Fine,” he agreed and went to the table to sit down, “But I’m leaving to look for her as soon as it’s nightfall if she’s not back. With or without you.”

“No need to be dramatic, friend,” Rune quipped, following him.

“I’m not your friend.”

Before Rune could answer, they heard the stone wall sliding above their heads. Abruptly ending the conversation, they drew their weapons, Hadvar using a spare they had dug out of the bottom of an old trunk in the other room. Hoping it was Tyv, but preparing for the city guard, they took position near the ladder and waited to see who would come down.

It was Tyv—and someone else.

“Are those swords in your hands or are you just happy to see me?” she asked, flicking off the flat of Hadvar’s sword playfully before turning around to help her little friend down the rest of the way.

“A child?!?” Rune nearly shouted, “You brought a child down here? Are you mad?!?”

“Keep your voice down, sugar. We don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

But Rune was incensed. “First the soldier and now the girl! How are we supposed to get out of the city between your appetite for large Nords and your bleeding heart for orphaned children?” he demanded, “I’m through risking my neck for the strays you bring home.”

“If it wasn’t for my ‘bleeding heart,’ you’d still be stuck down in those dungeons!” she snapped.

“What’s the girl doin’ here?” he asked again.

“Long story.”

“She nearly stepped on me,” the orphan answered.

“Thanks, Kit.” The girl shrugged and Tyv rolled her eyes. “That’s the short and long of it,” she allowed, “Turns out our doorstep is a favorite haunt of little Kit, here. She saw me leave and I couldn’t have her running off to the guard, now could I? So we worked out a mutually beneficial business arrangement that kept me out of the dungeons and her belly full.” As if on cue, Kit produced a sweetroll from beneath her cloak and gleefully bit into it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Hadvar said slowly, a little unwilling to believe Tyv had actually enlisted the help of a child in her schemes to get them out of Windhelm.

“Even the soldier doesn’t like it!” Rune insisted.

Tyv waved them both off. “I didn’t ask her to do anything dangerous,” she assured, “Just look around a few corners for me and keep watch.” She shrugged. “A lot lighter on her feet than you are, Rune.”

“That’s because she’s seven!” Rune declared, frustrated.

“Thirteen,” Kit corrected through a mouthful of pastry, but then Tyv looked at her skeptically. “Eleven,” she amended, “…ten.”

“Point is, she already knew how to get in here because she saw me leave,” Tyv continued, “Besides, what’s the harm in letting her use it when no one’s here? It’s colder than Ysmir’s balls out there; she doesn’t need to be sleeping in the snow.”

“And what happens when she gets caught using the entrance?” Rune pointed out, “You’ll expose us! Expose Niranye!”

“Please,” Tyv scoffed, “Kit’s more invisible than a beggar.”

“Be that as it may,” Hadvar interrupted, “She’s innocent. You shouldn’t have dragged her into this. What happens to her if everything goes wrong?”

“I don’t intend on putting her in harm’s way,” Tyv replied hotly, “I’m not stupid. No one will know she peeped around corners and knocked on walls for me.”

Kit tugged on Tyv’s cloak. “Can I have my necklace back now?” she asked.

“Dibella’s sweet ass, kid, you’re not doing yourself any favors,” she growled before removing the Amulent of Dibella and handing it back to Kit. Rune and Hadvar looked at Tyv like she was mad. “What? I didn’t tell her to steal it! She’s got a knack for—No. Ya know what? I’m done explaining myself to you two. This is how it is. What’s done is done and I’m not going to stand here and let you two chastise me like I’m some silly little girl who doesn’t know her arse from a hole in the ground.”

“Hey!”

“I wasn’t talking about you, Kit,” Tyv assured, irritated, and then she turned her attention back to the two men standing before her, “This isn’t my first job out, boys. Deal with it.” And she flung the pack from her shoulder at Hadvar.

Rune pursed his lips. “I still don’t like it,” he grumbled.

“You don’t have to and I don’t care.”

“I still think it’s too dangerous,” Hadvar added.

“You’re cute, love. Don’t ruin it now.”

Both Rune and Hadvar sighed in united defeat. “So, what happens next?” Rune asked.

Satisfied she wasn’t going to catch anymore heat for bringing Kit into the safehouse with her, Tyv smirked and nodded to the bag she had tossed to Hadvar. “Get dressed,” she said, “We leave soon.”

Hadvar blinked. “Just like that?” he asked.

“More or less.”

Rune groaned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” she assured, “I’ve got everything under control.”


Anja donned the rest of her armor and strapped on her weapons while Hadvar dressed in the next room. After she and Kit had finished on the docks earlier that day they made their way to the market to sell off Hadvar’s gear at the blacksmith’s for the coin to buy a new set of plain, unimpressionable leather armor and a few rations. Then Anja paid a visit to The White Phial alchemical shop. She was running low on a few key ingredients she needed to make another round of crucial potions. So, while Anja charmed the young Quintus into fetching ingredient after ingredient of harmless and useless reagents from his shelves, she was snatching the far more valuable and necessary components off the counter and handing them off to Kit who quickly stuffed them beneath the flowers of her newly purchased flower basket. Then they returned to the safehouse without having purchased a single item from poor Quintus.

Once dressed, Anja set about mixing the stolen ingredients while Kit watched. “What are you doing?” the girl asked.

“We need to get past the customs officer at the docks,” Anja explained as she poured equal parts of Void and Fire Salts onto little, soft leather rounds she had cut from a large piece she purchased while at the blacksmith’s, “But he won’t just leave his post without reason, now will he?” Kit shook her head, her eyes rounded to saucers as Anja pinched sulfur onto each concoction next. “Hadvar’s the big target,” Anja continued, “The easiest to recognize and the most important.” She glanced sideways at the bag he had claimed as his own to carry a few bits of food, a bottle of mead, a steel dagger, and the ever-important message. “And he’s carrying that Imperial seal with him.” She made a sound of irritation before cutting little lengths of wicks she bought while at Sadri’s and stringing each little bomb. “So, we have to do something to give him and Rune time to get to the boats.” With a bit of stretched and softened rawhide, she tied each pouch closed, careful to keep a bit of wick sticking out the top.

“What about us?” Kit asked, “How do we get out?”

Anja glanced sideways at Kit. “Well, you are going to stay here where it’s safe,” she said, “And I will slip through the dock gate when the guard’s distracted to join Rune on the dinghy.”

“Take me with you.”

Anja’s heart nearly stopped as she set the last bomb down on the counter. “This ain’t no life for a child, Kit,” she sighed, “Trust me. I know.”

“My name’s Sofie,” she blurted out, “And I want to go with you!”

Anja kneeled to her level and looked the girl in the eye. “I can’t take you with me. You could get hurt—or worse,” she insisted, “But I’ll be back around sometime when it’s safe and I’ll look after you when I’m in town, but—there’s no place for a kid where I’m from. I’m sorry, but I can’t take you with me.”

Sofie’s face scrunched up in dismay as she tried not to cry in front of Anja. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me,” she sniffed, “You just don’t want me. That’s it. Too mouthy.”

“Look at me,” Anja commanded, but Sofie avoided her gaze, so she grabbed her boney little chin and forced the girl to meet her gaze. “Your smart mouth is my favorite thing about you,” she confessed, “Don’t you ever let anyone take that spark from you, you hear?” Sofie nodded dolefully. “I’m leaving you behind because I like you. I’m just trying to keep you safe, yeah? I’ll be back around soon.”

“No you won’t. They know your face. That’s why you needed me to watch out for you.”

Anja nodded. “That’s true,” she acknowledged, “But I’ll be wearing a different face next time. They won’t know it’s me, but you will.”

“How?”

“Umm…” she hummed, and glanced around for Rune who was mucking about in the next room, looking for something in the wardrobe while Hadvar finished dressing. Satisfied that she wouldn’t be overheard, she returned her attention to Sofie. “Because I’ll meet you here and call you Kit and…” She removed her glove and bracer from her right hand and arm, revealing a small Imperial dragon tattoo beneath her wrist bone. “See this? I’ve had it since I was, oh, probably a little older than you are—fourteen. Me and my twin brother got matching marks. My ma was furious when she saw them. Fit to be tied!” Sofie smiled a little at the thought. “But it was special to us.” Anja took a deep breath, her voice wavering as she remembered her brother. “So, next time I see you, I’ll show you my mark. Like this…” She held up her arm, fist closed in front of her chest. “Now you do the same.” Sofie mimicked the gesture and Anja pressed her tattoo against the little girl’s skin, their forearms forming an X between them. “And I’ll say, ‘Told ya I’d be back, little Kit. Anja always keeps her promises.’”

The gesture was not lost on the little girl. She looked ready to cry as she flung her arms around Anja’s neck. “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered in her ear, “I promise.”

“It’ll be our secret,” Anja muttered back, feeling exceedingly attached to an orphan she had met just that morning.

“Not that this isn’t touching—whatever it is that’s going on here—but we should get moving,” Rune interrupted, clearing his throat loudly, “So what’s the plan?”

Rolling her eyes, Anja broke away from Sofie and stood up, but she came away with the stolen Amulet of Dibella heavy on her chest. She hadn’t even felt the little girl fasten it behind her neck. “Just in case,” Sofie muttered when Anja looked to her inquisitively, “I want it back. You’ll bring it back, right?”

“Cross my heart.”

“The plan?” Rune reiterated.

So impatient, darling,” Anja sighed, putting her bracer and glove back on, “It really doesn’t suit you.”

“Just anxious to get out of here.”

“Right,” Anja nodded and gestured to Hadvar to join them as he entered from the other room, “You, Hadvar, and Kit are going wait in the courtyard while I go around the city stirring up enough chaos to get the entire city guard—including the customs officer on the docks—recalled to the city proper.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Hadvar objected, “We can take one guard. You don’t have to risk your neck for no reason.”

“The boatman taking you clear to Solitude won’t take you if he knows you’re a fugitive and his vessel is too small to smuggle you on,” Anja explained, “His is the only ship allowed through the embargo on Imperial territories because he poses virtually no threat. Too small to harbor anything really dangerous a customs officer can’t easily spot. If you kill the guard on the dock, you’re going nowhere. So we need to draw him away.”

“There isn’t a better way?” Rune asked, “There’s no need to get the entire city guard involved if all we have to do is draw off one officer.”

Anja nodded. “Sure,” she acknowledged, “Ideas?”

“Well, I’m assuming you made those things for a reason,” Rune pointed out, gesturing to the bombs on the counter behind her.

“I did, indeed,” Anja confirmed, “And where do you propose we set one off to distract the guard while simultaneously allowing enough time for Hadvar’s boat to disembark and for us to get across the bay on our—frankly, pretty shitty—raft?”

Rune hesitated. He could tell he was being set up for something. “By the gate into the city,” he said, but as soon as the words passed his mouth, he winced.

“But that will draw the rest of the guard to us instead of away…” Hadvar concluded in defeat, finally catching onto Anja’s train of thought.

“And Hadvar takes the sweetroll,” Anja declared, “Doing that might buy you enough time to set off down the bay to safety, but it completely screws Rune and me. They’ll see us running up the rise to the road and then we’ll spend the rest of the day and night trying to outrun a bunch of Stormcloaks—if we’re lucky. They might just shoot us.”

The Imperial thief pursed his lips. “We’ll do it your way, then.”

So gracious,” she teased, rolling her eyes, “I grabbed another invisibility potion off the alchemist today. I’ll make it last, don’t worry. Wait for the second blast to go off and then let Kit guide you down to the docks. She’ll check to see that the officer’s left his post and then get to your boats.” Then she turned to Sofie. “And then you get back here before anyone sees you with them, yeah?” Sofie nodded reluctantly and Anja returned her attention to the men. “Hadvar, you’re meeting a man named Gort. Be friendly with him, but say nothing about yourself, made up or otherwise. He likes to talk. Tell him your name is—Lars or Jon or something. There’s like a hundred of them living all over Skyrim, he won’t think twice about it.”

Hadvar nodded, frowning. “As you say.”

“Push him to set off immediately,” Anja continued, “He’s used to smuggling small goods, so he’ll likely think you’re just nervous about the trip. I may have led him to believe you are my enforcer, of sorts. An escort for some merchandise I’m trying to move. So act the part. Understood?”

“Understood,” Hadvar confirmed with a little more formality in his tone than he had intended to use, but the authority with which Anja was speaking triggered a little of his soldier’s discipline.

“And Rune,” she continued, turning to her partner, “There is a tiny, crappy little raft waiting for us at the end of the pier. You can’t possibly miss it. Wait for me. You’ll hear nine blasts and then a long pause before the tenth blast, got it?”

“Nine then ten,” Rune summarized.

“After the tenth blast, give me two minutes,” she said slowly, “If I’m not on the dock by then, leave without me.”

The room went silent. “What?” Rune asked, blinking, “No.”

“I’m not going through all this for nothing, Rune,” she insisted, “If you get caught and locked up again, I’ll strangle you myself. If I’m not on the dock by then, leave without me. I have another way out of the city. Understood?”

“This is ridiculous,” Hadvar objected.

“Look at me, both of you,” Anja snapped and both men glared at her irritably. “I’ve got too many tricks up my sleeve to get caught,” she bluffed, “I’ll be fine.” They almost looked like they believed her, but neither of them was in much of a position to argue with her. If she said she had another way out of the city, then she did. Though it was likely more dangerous than the way she was sending them, which only made it that much more necessary that she go it alone with no one to get in her way. “I’ll meet you at Kynesgrove if we get separated, alright Rune?” she concluded and he grunted an affirmative. “Good,” she clapped her hands together and looked between the soldier and the thief, “Any questions?”

“Who’s Sonja Ironheart?”

All the air was pushed clear of Anja’s lungs and Hadvar paled. It had been Sofie who posed the question and instantly both adults knew where she must have gotten that painfully familiar name. Anja spun around to see Sofie clutching the unfurled parchment of the Imperial message in her small hands, her eyes cast upon the single name written neatly across the missive’s center. Hadvar moved to snatch it from her, but Anja proved much quicker and the soldier found himself upended on the floor before he even knew what had happened. “Let me see that,” Anja demanded and Sofie gave the document over without argument.

“That’s for Tullius’ eyes only!” Hadvar declared in vain as he scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. Anja was staring at the parchment in muted horror and disbelief.

“She came after me,” she breathed as her mind began to race through all the possible explanations of how her older sister wound up in Skyrim and had been mistaken for the Dragonborn.

Hadvar’s brow furrowed. “Do you know her?” he asked, taking in Anja’s dismayed expression.

She looked up, speechless for once. Nothing quirky, dismissive, or elusive sprung to mind. She just stood there, staring at him with her mouth parted in stunned silence. “Your information’s wrong,” she blurted out before she could stop herself, “She can’t be the Dragonborn.”

“Do you know her?" Hadvar asked again, his tone more demanding than before.

“Your information’s wrong!” Anja insisted again, her voice rising with her temper.

“She was at Helgen, too, when it was attacked,” Hadvar informed her and Anja felt the bottom of her stomach drop out as she remembered her dream of Sonja standing in a burning world, shouting into the sky in vain.

“No. You’re wrong!”

“She was there!” Hadvar insisted, “The dragon stopped her execution, not Ulfric’s! Ysmir’s beard, how did we not see it?”

“YOU WERE GOING TO EXECUTE HER?” Still not completely grasping Anja’s relationship to Sonja, Hadvar rushed to backtrack and explain what had happened, but he didn’t get the chance. Anja leapt at him, knocking him clean off his feet, and upsetting the table in the process. Rune danced out of the way, prepared to help his partner against the soldier in any way he could, but she obviously had the matter well in hand and Hadvar wasn’t fighting her. “TELL ME EVERYTHING!” she demanded, pinning his much larger mass beneath her small frame. It wasn’t terribly effective, but Hadvar refused to lay a hand against her.

“We had Ulfric in custody and were transporting him to Cyrodiil for trial and execution,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm, still unsure of whether or not to be angry with her for her unprovoked attack or sympathetic to her intense desire to know more about Sonja, “We ran into a horse thief on the pass and in the chaos, one of our men mistook her for a Stormcloak trying to free Ulfric and knocked her head open.”

“WHAT?!?”

“I tended to her injuries,” he assured, “But it spooked the Thalmor and they demanded Ulfric be brought back to Helgen to face execution there. So we went back. We were lining the prisoners up when we realized we didn’t have a name for her. We didn’t know who she was.”

“But you line her up for the block anyway?” Anja snarled, trying to reign in her rage long enough for Hadvar to tell his story.

“We didn’t want to!” he snapped back, “She is the daughter of the Killing Frost! I wanted no part in her death! It was those damn Thalmor! They didn’t give Tullius a choice and he knew her! Knew her father! Said he was a good man. He would have let her go if those damn elves weren’t there to force his hand! All she wanted was to find…” he paused, realization finally dawning, and he looked at Anja’s features with new eyes, “…Find her sister.”

“Shut up!” she hissed as if it could undo the words he had already spoken.

You’re her sister,” he said and Anja practically melted off him, scooting backwards into the toppled table, “I can see it in your eyes.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit nothing.”

“Your sister is the Dragonborn,” Hadvar concluded in wonderment, sitting up from the floor.

“I don’t have a sister!” she spat, desperately.

He was stunned and couldn’t believe his luck to be saved by the Dragonborn’s very own flesh and blood—to have taken her to bed—Talos preserve him, she could have Dragonblood of her own if the line of Septim kings was anything to go by. “Come with me,” he urged, “To Solitude. You can help us to convince her to join…”

“Join what? The Legion?” she snapped, “I already lost one sibling to the Empire, I will not lose another.” She covered her face then and shook her head. Oh, how Sonja infuriated her! Couldn’t the bitch have just stayed home where she belonged and left Anja to start over anew in Skyrim? It wasn’t fair! Everything Anja had in this life, Sonja had to have it too. Had to make it her own. Had to excel and shine and leave Anja in the shadow of ineptitude. The lesser of the Draconis sisters. Oblivion take them both! After everything they went through when Thornir died, Sonja had to have known that Anja wasn’t just obliging their mother’s final wishes when she left Cyrodiil; she was trying to outrun the hurt, too. “She can’t be Dragonborn.”

“How do you know?” Hadvar pressed.

“Because I was there for every colossally stupid thing she’s ever done and I am telling you, she can’t be Dragonborn!”

“Tyv…” Hadvar said softly, placing a gentle hand on her knee.

“Don’t touch me!” she snarled and pulled away from him as if she had been struck, “If you owe me anything for saving you from those dungeons, it is this: you will not speak of me to Tullius.”

“But…”

That is the price I ask,” she insisted, “Once that boat leaves port, you will forget that you ever laid eyes on me. Tyv dies today, do you hear me?”

Hadvar’s brow furrowed. “What are you running from?” he asked gently.

“The dead run from nothing,” she replied, “They just fade from the memory of the living.”

The soldier frowned, but nodded. “If this is what you require, then it will be so,” he agreed, “On my honor, Tyv, I will not breathe a word of you to General Tullius.”

“And tell your general that if he ever had any love for our father, he won’t trouble Sonja,” she continued, “She is not to be trifled with.” Hadvar opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off, “TELL HIM!”

“I will tell him, but I cannot make him listen and I must deliver the message…”

Anja nodded in acknowledgement, feeling the fragile walls of her world begin to crack and destabilize, the freedom of anonymity begin to dissolve. Sonja was ruining her life again with only the mere mention of her name. Lips pursed and expression hard, Anja peeled herself off the floor and looked to Rune. “You didn’t hear any of this,” she said sharply, her words laced with a hearty dose of menace.

“Hear what?” he asked, affecting innocence, “As far as I’m concerned, we didn’t even meddle with the soldier in the dungeons. None of this ever happened.”

Anja was sure she’d have to pay for that surprising display of generosity later, but it was good enough for the time being. She looked away, her eyes landing on Sofie who had retreated to a corner and started crying when the fight broke out between Anja and Hadvar. With a pang of guilt, she gestured for the girl to come to her. “I’m sorry,” Sofie sniffed as she approached Anja, “You said you didn’t like the seal and when I picked it up, it was already open…”

Sighing with a profound sense of defeat, Anja hushed her and let her wipe her tears on her armor. “You did nothing wrong, Kit,” she assured, “Don’t worry about it.” The girl wasn’t so sure, but she nodded and sniffed away the last of her tears. Looking Sofie over one last time to confirm she had stopped crying, Anja patted her shoulders with an air of finality. “It’s time to go,” she said, “We haven’t a moment to lose.”


Ulfric sat on his throne in the Palace of Kings with one hand shielding his eyes from every possible light source. His head throbbed like Oblivion and he felt poorly, but his ego demanded he appear as unaffected as possible. It was bad enough that a little sneak-thief lass had gotten the better of him; it was worse that he was still feeling the effects of her witchery thudding away at the inside of his skull. So, he wasn’t entirely prepared when the doors of the main hall were flung open, the afternoon glare of the sun against the snow outside blinding him like a dagger to the face, and in ran one of his guards. “My Jarl! My Jarl!” he shouted as he ran toward the throne.

“Yes, lad, we heard you the first time,” Galmar grunted.

“She’s back! She’s back!”

Ulfric winced against the echo of the excitable soldier’s words as it ricocheted through his brain, but he vaguely processed his subordinate’s words. “Who’s back?” he demanded, dully, “The girl from the dungeons? The thief?”

“Yes, my Jarl! And she’s asking for you!”

Suddenly, it didn’t matter how much his head hurt; he sprung from his seat and all but sprinted toward the door, Galmar on his heels. “Take me to her!” he instructed.

“Why would she come back?” Galmar wondered aloud, “It could be a trap.”

“In broad daylight? In the middle of my city?”

“There is no other reason for her to return.”

“To get a better look of my dungeons,” Ulfric commented dryly, “Let’s be sure she stays there this time.”

The shorter guard struggled to keep ahead of Ulfric’s long stride and opened the door ahead of him. “She’s in the courtyard, my Jarl.”

Without hesitation, Ulfric stepped out into the dazzling sunlight and instantly began fighting the urge to vomit from all the pain it caused his head. But he managed and moved further out into the yard, Galmar at his side. And standing, brazen, in the center of the courtyard, was the woman known only to him as Tyv. Her face was completely uncovered, her hood drawn back and her golden hair loose about her shoulders. Clad all in dark leathers and armed to the teeth with fine ebony weapons that made Ulfric wonder if she wasn’t so innocent of murder as she had claimed to be the night before. Odder still, she was juggling something. Three little leather balls of some sort. Children’s toys perhaps? When she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision, she grinned. “Oh, there you are, my Jarl,” she said brightly, “How are you feeling?”

Ulfric pursed his lips. “Your poison had little effect on me, witch,” he lied.

“It had enough to enable my escape,” she pointed out, “Besides, I wasn’t referring to that. I was asking about the kiss. More bewitching than the poison?”

Her taunt sent a wave of disquiet through the guards assembled around her. Suddenly they were unsure if she was an enemy or if their Jarl was having an extremely bizarre lover’s quarrel. “What do you want, woman?” Ulfric demanded, ignoring her mention of the kiss he, himself, struggled to recall in the fugue of the poison she had used on him, “You called me out here for a reason.”

“And you came like such a good little Jarl, too,” she cooed and Ulfric growled in disgusted insult, but she continued speaking before he could utter a reply, “I think we got off on the wrong foot last night, so I thought maybe we could try again. What do you think? Would I make a good court jester? Every king needs one.” She tossed the balls higher.

“Guards, arrest her!” Ulfric commanded, forgoing the lure of speaking to her, now convinced she was only wasting his time.

“Ah, ah, ah!” she chastised, stepping out of the reach of the nearest guard who made a grab for her without ceasing to juggle, “I have a message to deliver that you’ll definitely want to hear!”

“I can listen well enough with you behind bars!”

“Your dungeons failed you last night, darling, are you sure you want to risk it again?”

If there was one thing his conversation with her in the solarium had taught him, it was that she was exceedingly manipulative and devious. It was better not to give her anything she wanted. Her plan—as far as he could tell—was to be listened to, so he should do his best to deny her that. But she had freed his Imperial prisoner and stolen the message containing a single name. One he recognized from Helgen: Sonja Ironheart. But he failed to understand her importance to the Imperials. Tullius had known her father, but he had not lingered to ensure her safety when the dragon attacked. Ulfric had seen to that, himself, to pay a debt. Was the general searching for her now? Out of guilt? Had he heard she survived Helgen? Ulfric had intended to interrogate the scout carrying the message, but Tyv had freed him before that could happen. Perhaps hearing her out now while she was boldly juggling in his courtyard was the only chance he’d get to glean Ironheart’s importance to the Empire.

He waved off his guards. “Give me the message,” he growled reluctantly.

Tyv smirked. “Wise choice,” she said and then she lit each ball on fire as it passed through her right hand with a sputtering fire spell that flicked off her fingertip. No one had been prepared for the sudden hostile spell and Galmar involuntarily reached for his weapon in response until he saw how pitiful and harmless the spell really was. Only strong enough to light the balls on fire. Ulfric watched her toss the now flaming orbs into the air and wondered if she was showing off for the pure whimsy of it all, or if the display was somehow a part of her message. “The name you think you read on that piece of paper,” she said, “You know which I’m talking about. You’d do better to forget you ever saw it.”

Ulfric’s eyes narrowed. “And why’s that, girl?” he asked, “What makes her so special to merit so much trickery from someone who claimed not to have a stake in this war? Perhaps I should haul her into my dungeons and ask her for myself.”

Tyv scoffed and caught the balls, splaying her fingers wide to hold them all, still burning. “What makes her so special?” she repeated, “She’s the only reason I have to give up stealing and take up another, bloodier profession.”

The Jarl straightened at her thinly veiled threat, crossed his arms over his chest, and scoffed. Galmar drew his weapon. “Is that supposed to scare me?” he asked, “Empty threats from a little fox? Tullius will have to do better.”

“I don’t need you to be scared. I just need you to be asleep. You won’t even hear me coming,” she replied menacingly, “Stay away from her.”

“I’ve had enough of you,” he spat, “I take no prisoners today. Guards!”

“Catch me if you can,” Tyv declared and chucked one of the flaming balls into the ground as hard as she could. It instantly exploded in a bright flash and a loud boom, leaving a thick smoke to fill the air around her, but she wasn’t there anymore.

Blinking through the smog, Ulfric was just able to catch a glimpse of her yellow hair as she disappeared into the residential district. “Follow her!” he bellowed, pointing, and his guards rushed to obey. “You there!” he shouted, calling other guards to him as he moved toward the inn, “Cut off her escape here,” he pointed to the stairs leading to the graveyard, “And there!” The pathway to the market square. Then he whirled around and addressed the guards on the gate, “Do not let her through! Keep an eye on the sewer entrance. Do not let her enter the sewer!” Floating over the walls of his city, he heard more explosions and saw more plumes of smoke as Tyv moved through the walkways, apparently unstoppable. “Galmar! Get me more men! We need to flush out a fox!”

“Yes, Ulfric.” The housecarl took the warhorn from his belt, tilted his head back, and sounded the call through Windhelm.


Anja had not been intending to engage Ulfric Stormcloak, initially. That had never been a part of the plan, but her head was so full of Sonja and the Empire mistaking her for the Dragonborn that it suddenly occurred to her that Ulfric had seen the message, too. And what would a man who held the Dragonborn Talos in such high regard that he was willing to start a war over the outlaw of his worship want most? The Dragonborn of the current age. And as far as he knew, that was Sonja Ironheart.

It was a swell of uncharacteristic protectiveness that prompted her to abruptly change plans when she reached the Palace of Kings. Initially, she had intended only to involve the guards at the doors, but instead called for Ulfric to have a little chat before she disappeared. Despite all the ugliness that sat between her and Sonja, the bitch was still her sister and she didn’t want any real harm to befall her whether it be death, imprisonment, or one man’s lust for power. She hadn’t necessarily expected her threats to intimidate a warrior as seasoned as Ulfric Stormcloak, but she had apparently struck a chord since she was sure she had earned the personal ire of a Jarl.

And still, her plan was going off without a hitch.

Mostly.

Ulfric’s involvement gave the guard more focus than she had been anticipating, so she had to be a little more strategic where she dropped her short fuse flash-bangs and when to drink the invisibility potion. As the flashes of light and loud booms made the guards look one way, she downed the contents of the vial and disappeared around the bend into the busy market square where a large number of Windhelm’s citizens were trapped between the ominous sounds of Anja’s grenades and the guards barring the exit by the main gates.

Just to make things really chaotic, she tossed one of her neat little packets in the middle of the crowded square and watched as they scurried every which way, terrified out of their wits and cutting off the guards that had been pursuing her. To get around the men barring her escape, she threw one down the walkway back toward the graveyard and rolled another through their legs, behind them. When they went off, the guards were momentarily flustered, unsure of which direction to go, which resulted in half of them going one way and half the other before Ulfric yelled at them to hold their position. But it provided the small window she needed to slip by them and the Jarl without anyone noticing.

She jogged north, still concealed by the invisibility potion and tossed her last grenade into the brazier just beyond the entrance to the courtyard of the Palace of Kings. The race was on, now. She had very little time to get to Rune before he left without her as instructed. Realizing she had somehow slipped passed them, the men were called off their positions to search the courtyard. Ulfric, thinking the goal of her little escapade had been to distract them so she could get back into the Palace of Kings, ordered several of his men, including his housecarl to search the castle. While they were all busy on that goose chase, Anja took the straight shot down to the dock gates where the lone guard who had served as customs officer was now standing guard. But, in the commotion, he was concerned that he should be joining his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms in their hunt for whoever was running amuck through the city. After a brief internal struggle, he abandoned his post and ran straight past Anja to see if he was needed elsewhere.

Thanking her lucky stars, Anja slipped through the unattended gate just as her potion wore off and sprinted down the steps for the dock which was conspicuously empty of its Argonian workers. The first thing she did was check to see if Gort and Hadvar had already set off and they had, but the soldier was still staring back at the dock, hoping to catch sight of Anja to ensure that she was safe. When he saw her, his clenched fist covered his heart and he bowed his head to her in silent farewell and thanks. Anja’s responded by blowing him a kiss before charging down the remainder of the stairs to join Rune. Her partner was still trying to act casual at the end of the pier, but his expression was a little tight and his foot bounced nervously. As soon as he made eye contact with her, his face flooded with relief and he jerked his head toward the raft, signaling for her to hurry.

When she reached him, he hopped onto the raft which was little more than a few hunks of wood strategically bound together and sealed to keep water from overtaking the small vessel. She grabbed the rope securing it to the pier, hopped on, and pushed off with her boot. Rune had the only paddle and as he started to row them the short distance to the other side of the bay, Anja heard something that made her guts seize up in fear. “TYV!” it was Sofie, calling her from the dock, “TYV! PLEASE! TAKE ME WITH YOU!”

Anja spun around, nearly upsetting the raft and tossing both her and Rune into the freezing water. She was about to shout back, to yell at the girl to go back where it was safe, something, anythng, when someone came around the corner and grabbed Sofie by the arm. None other than Ulfric, himself. “FUCK!” Anja swore mightily, again nearly overturning the raft. She leapt back onto the dock, pushing Rune farther away from her in the process.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“GO!” she snapped. Rune hesitated and looked between Anja and Ulfric for several seconds before growling in disgust and continuing his progress toward the shore. Then Anja turned to face Ulfric. She was expecting an entire detachment of soldiers to join him in the next moment, but it appeared the Jarl was alone. Without even his housecarl. “Let the kid go,” she said, “Let’s you and I discuss things like civilized people.”

Realizing that the girl in his hands was an unexpected bargaining chip, Ulfric smirked. “Who is Sonja Ironheart to you?” he demanded, “Tell me and I’ll release the girl.”

“Another interrogation?” She edged away from the end of the pier and reached for her ebony mace. A unique weapon she had talked her mother into crafting especially for her. Done in the elven style so she could use the hooked edges to catch ledges of rooftops or steep rock faces to climb out of harm’s way. “Aren’t you tired of talking?”

“For now, you’re more use to me alive than dead,” Ulfric replied, but his eyes flit to the weapon in her hand, “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“You wouldn’t hurt a child, now would you?” she asked, edging closer, “Not very honorable, that.”

“No. But I could make her comfortable in my dungeon,” he bluffed, “An improvement on her situation, I think. At least she’ll be warm and well-fed for a change.” He had no intention of doing even that. It was likely the child was innocent in all of this, manipulated by a masterful thief. At most, he’d simply send the girl to Honorhall where she could be properly looked after.

So, it’s come to this, then…Anja thought darkly. She was to choose between protecting her sister and thereby protecting her own identity or freeing poor, frightened Sofie who was trembling in the Jarl’s grasp. “She’s like nightshade, my Jarl,” she said, raising her gaze from the girl’s terrified face to meet Ulfric’s emerald eyes as she returned the mace to her hip, “Pretty and sweet, but dangerous when mishandled.”

“A lot like you, then.”

“More than you know.”

Ulfric’s brow furrowed. “Do you mean to harm her yourself?” he inquired, “Speak plain.”

“I never speak plain, love. It’s part of my charm.” And then she abruptly snatched the bow from her back, knocked an arrow, and aimed it at the Jarl. “Close your eyes, Kit,” she barked before releasing.

Ulfric’s eyes went wide and he took a deep breath, preparing to Shout at Anja, but her arrow was quicker and pierced his shoulder. He staggered backward and fell to one knee, the thu’um lost from his lips and his grip lax on Sofie. Now freed, the girl sprinted toward Anja who met her halfway and scooped her into her arms then turned on her heels and ran back down the pier, downing the contents of one of the potions she had found in the Thieves’ cache earlier that day.

Infuriated, Ulfric ignored the pain in his shoulder and staggered down the stone steps after Anja and Sofie. He took a deep breath and let a thu’um rip from his throat. “Fus!” he Shouted. Enough to send Anja off her feet, but not harm the girl—only it didn’t. Anja hardly noticed it, as if Ulfric’s Shout had been little more than a passing breeze, and then leapt off the edge of the pier, landing with a shallow splash on the water’s surface. He watched her sprint to the other side and hike up the rise with Sofie still in her arms, her small, emaciated body so light.

His thu’um had drawn the attention of the guards inside the city, however. It wasn’t long before he was joined by Galmar and half the guard. “Ulfric!” Galmar called, running up to him, “You’re injured!” He turned to the nearest soldier. “FETCH A HEALER!”

“I’m fine, old friend,” he waved him off, gritted his teeth, and then pulled the arrow from his shoulder with a low grunt of pain.

“Did you get her?” Galmar asked, casting his gaze onto the water, searching for a body.

“No, she got away.”

“But—I heard you Shout…”

Ulfric glanced over his shoulder at the guards who stood nearby, listening. “Return to your posts,” he ordered, “We have no time to waste chasing a ghost. We have a war to fight.” Obediently, the soldiers did as they were told, but Ulfric lingered on the pier with Galmar. “My thu’um had no effect on her,” he informed his housecarl once he was certain his men were out of earshot.

“How is that possible?” Galmar asked, deeply concerned. He’d seen the power of his Jarl’s Voice firsthand. Ulfric used it to retake Markarth, used it to slay Torryg. How could one, little sneak-thief offer more resistance than an army of Foresworn or a High King?

“It’s not,” Ulfric replied, but his expression was pensive, “Unless…”

“What?”

He glanced sideways at Galmar as they made their way down the pier to the dock. “One must either have years of training like the Greybeards to withstand the power of the Voice with so little effort, or…” he took a deep breath, “Possess the Dovahsos—the Dragonblood.”

Galmar’s mouth hung open. “She can’t be the Dragonborn!”

Ulfric paused at the base of the stairs and glanced back over his shoulder to the bank where he had last seen her. “No,” he agreed, “I don’t think she is—but I think I know who might be.” The Voice he had heard the night the Greybeards called for the Dragonborn was definitely feminine and though the talented rogue was capable and had bested him on more than one occasion, he didn’t feel the power in her voice when she spoke. She was small and weak and mortal and burned too hot for her own good. The only time he’d ever heard an edge in her tone was when she referred to Sonja. The hard grind of an old axe that long needed burying, but it was telling. Only family could get under one's skin quite like that and Sonja had come to Skyrim looking for a sister.

He had no proof, of course; it was just a feeling. But if it was true, then it explained the thief’s sudden murderous threats. She’d read the missive and seen her sister’s name. And the shared blood that ran through their veins protected them both from the lower powers of the Voice. It all pointed to Sonja Ironheart as the Dragonborn of this age. Undoubtedly, that’s why Tullius wanted her now; Rikke must have convinced him of her importance. Damn that woman. She was twice the Nord as some of his generals; she should be on his side—by his side with Galmar as it was in earlier years—not wasted on the Legion. “Send word to our contacts in Whiterun,” Ulfric ordered as they climbed the stairs to the gates, “I want the name of the Dragonborn immediately.”

“I thought we were going to wait until she was named Ysmir by the Greybeards,” Galmar pointed out.

“We are,” Ulfric assured, “But I don’t want Tullius trying to steal her out from under us in the meantime.”

“As you say, my Jarl,” Galmar agreed as they stepped through the gates into the city, “Do you want me to continue to search for Tyv in the meantime?”

Ulfric shook his head. “No. Call off your men,” he said, “We don’t want to anger the Dragonborn by imprisoning her kin.”

“I’ll send word immediately.” And they made their way back to the Palace of Kings.


Before Galmar was able to call off the men pursuing Anja, they chased her and Sofie far up the mountains and lost her somewhere on the ridge above Kynesgrove. Poor Sofie was exhausted and frail, already weak from the life she lived as an orphan on the streets and run ragged by the pursuing guards when Anja could no longer carry her. They stopped to hide and catch their breath behind a large formation of rocks and it wasn’t long before they heard the stomping boots of the guards begin to fade away.

Sighing with relief, Anja pressed her back against the boulder and slid down to the earth to rest a moment, kicking her legs out in front of her and closing her eyes. Sofie did the same and leaned her little head against her shoulder. They listened to the howl of the wind through the trees, straining their ears for any sounds that might signal the guards’ return. Overhead, frosted clouds gathered gently and a lacey snowfall issued from their bellies. Anja’s nose twitched as the cold flakes made contact with her skin and she opened her eyes. “Great,” she breathed and held up her hand to catch the snow, “That’s all we need.” Beside her, Sofie shivered.

With a determined grunt, Anja removed her cloak and wrapped the child in it. “I know it’s cold, but we have to stay here for a bit,” she explained, “Make sure we lost the guard.”

Sofie sniffed and nodded, huddling deeper into the offered garment. “You shot the jarl,” she said as if the gravity of Anja’s actions were just occurring to her.

“Didn’t kill him,” Anja assured, “He’ll be fine.”

“You shot the jarl—for me.”

Anja glanced sideways at the girl. “Guess that means I’m stuck with you, doesn’t it?” Sofie nodded, smiling. Anja sighed. “Well, it won’t be easy, but—I’ll find a way to make it work,” she agreed and then she pulled her hood over Sofie’s face. “Now be quiet, you’re letting all the hot air out and you’ll freeze to death.”

“I’m ten, not stupid.”

“So mouthy,” Anja chastised, shaking her head, but then they fell silent again.


The sun was getting a little lower and the snow was beginning to stick. Sofie had fallen asleep, wrapped snugly in Anja’s cloak. Anja, herself, crept out from their hiding place to scan the trees for any lingering patrols. Satisfied that it was safe enough to go down the mountain to the inn, she turned to wake Sofie, but stopped short. She heard whispering.

Her eyes narrowing, she glared through the trees surrounding them and up the mountain ridge, fining no one and nothing. Not a beast or bird or a harmlessly lost hunter. Carefully, she eased forward, crouching and looking around. As she moved, the whispering grew louder, but not more distinct, like it was muffled somehow. It wasn’t until she was a few yards from a large, wide earthen mound that she realized where the voice was coming from. Slowly, her eyes dropped to the ground and a shiver ran through her. It was a burial mound of some sort, but it was unmarked and far too large for just one person. Hesitantly, she straightened a little and edged closer to it until the toe of her boot almost touched the first stone. She listened. “Alduin lost vokrii! Wahl dovah, thur! Meyz dovah aan jun do joore ahrk zu’u fent aam hi! Sahloknir fen aam Alduin!

She didn’t understand a single word of it, but it made her feel sick and terrified. “Anja?” She jumped. It was Sofie, awakened from her nap.

“We should not be here,” Anja breathed and then the ground lurched. She gasped in horror and ran back to Sofie, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her down the mountain after her.

The mound sat inert after that, but the voice continued whispering. “Alduin! Alduin! Alduin!

Notes:

FLASH-BANG! So, yeah. Obviously, I'm having way too much fun taking every sneak-thief cliche I can think of and jamming it into Anja's character. Classic thief. Talented bard. Secret agent. Ocean's Eleven-esque shenanigans. Oliver freaking Twist. Yep. It happened. But, regardless of whether or not she is all of these things, I always wanted to expand on the utility and skill of a rogue in Skyrim in general. Probably because I also played Dragon Age: Inquisition and rogues in that game are super cool, just nimble as hell with all kinds of neat toys--and in Skyrim, you hide in a corner and hope no one sees you. It's just sorta--eh. And in a world that has alchemy, that has Dwemer technology, and magic, I think the rogue can be more resourceful than that. So, yeah, Anja has smoke bombs and flash-bangs and the know-how to make them. Other neat gizmos will come along eventually as it becomes necessary, but, this is her kit for right now.

Speaking of Kit...It's a baby fox! Get it? Just kidding, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I decided to drag Sofie into things mostly on accident. Where I had put the entrance to the safehouse was right were little Sofe sleeps at night (which is super sad). I couldn't resist the temptation of her finding out about the entrance somehow and it becoming a thing. Plus, it opened up the whole Oliver Twist angle. That notwithstanding, I think her relationship with Anja is cute because she can be a little mouthy sometimes so Anja gets a taste of her own medicine. Plus, there are some deep-seeded issues Anja has with her sister that have rendered her a little immature in some ways and taking care of Sofie helps her to grow a little bit, herself.

As for Anja finding out about Sonja--I actually have moved that revelation like three times? I was very indecisive about when she should find out and finally opted for it to happen sooner rather than later because it adds a dimension of difficulty for Sonja in her attempt to find her sister if Anja is actively trying to avoid her.

Ooo, and I couldn't have Anja in that part of the country and not have her swing my the dragon burial mound because it is the first mound you go to as the Dragonborn. It's just a nice connection, I guess. To see how often Sonja and Anja keep missing each other throughout their travels of Skyrim.

As always, thank you for reading and I hoped you enjoyed this extra long chapter!

Chapter 25: Adversary

Summary:

Sonja and Vilkas have a little fireside chat. Then Vilkas goes to bother an old lover.

Notes:

So...I know I'm a monster for being so silent for so long. I swear I did not forget you or this work and I felt extremely awful for the...what like 2 years?!?...that I neglected this story. Sonja angrily haunted my dreams EVERY NIGHT, reminding me to get my ass in gear. Sorry, folks, but life sort of just exploded for me. So much to do, so little time and all that. I will do my best to start posting regularly again as I have a startling amount of time on my hands once more.

Also, this is primarily a Vilkas POV chapter with a little bit of Sonja tacked onto the end.

Minor update news: For anyone who cares, I moved the Disclaimer chapter to the end because I really hate how it throws off my chapter count. All the chapters should line up with their actual number now.

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of injury and gore, violence against a family member, threat of death, thoughts of suicide.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Will you take it? Will you take up the fight I never allowed Freydis?” she all but spat upon the ground at her niece’s feet. There was desperation lurking in that declaration. A pain old and deep begging to be cut loose as if bleeding it out could ease the ache. Maybe if she made the beating a penance it would be enough to make up for her sins. Maybe. He had known the old warrior the entirety of his life and still he had never seen her look so small as she did then, kneeling in the mud, bleeding and broken.

And the Dragonborn stood over her, master of her Dragon—for the moment, at least—bruised, but still standing and completely unaware of the odds she had overcome in defeating her aunt who had a different Beast running through her own veins. Victorious, she looked every inch a warrior worthy of Jorrvaskr and he briefly regretted ever speaking a word against her entry into his beloved home and famed mead hall. “You will not yield,” she observed, expression hard and resolute. Indomitable.

“Never.” Pride. False strength. He knew her too well to believe she was so foolhardy. She wanted the loss more than the victory: a chance to suffer for her mistakes. He could smell the desperation on her, nearly taste it in the air. To him, she was practically on the verge of begging for punishment and he didn’t know what to make of his old trainer because of it. Tormented by so many old ghosts, was this the future that lie ahead for him? For any of them? All of them? Hungry for pain? For the fight that would settle every debt, quench every dark thirst, ease every old ache?

And maybe Sonja knew it, too, sensed it in the twisted expression on Hera’s face that the seasoned shield-maiden would rather let her break every bone in her body than surrender, because she was dropping her weapons in the next moment, her expression unchanged. Brow still twisted, mouth still firm, thin, and frowning, and those eyes—glinting dangerous like the sharpened edge of a blade. “Then I will.”

Three little words and the crowd came to a confused standstill, punctuated by the horrified exclamation of an exasperated Hera, “WHAT?!?” She’d taken away the old warrior’s absolution, denied her the bloody peace she was looking for on the other end of Sonja’s fists, and he didn’t know whether it was cruelty, kindness, or pure fucking poetry that the Dragonborn won by forfeiting the contest.

“I yield,” she said, turning to him, head held high and jaw set, “Pass judgement as you will.” Staring at her, at her broken foe on the ground before her, he’d never felt more unqualified for such a task in his life.

Vilkas brooded at the breakfast table, alone, tapping the blade of his thumb against the edge of his plate, while Tilma puttered about the hall, preparing for the rest of Jorrvaskr to rouse from the belly of the mead hall. It was early morning yet and he’d already completed the handful of chores his matron had asked of him, so he was left to stew in his thoughts undisturbed for the most part, replaying the final moments of the prøve in his head. It wasn’t until he heard the creak of the door leading to the barracks and the thud of footsteps up the stairs that he realized he was really waiting for someone. That unexpected tug of anticipation sharpened his focus until the crown of her black hair became visible above the floor and he knew that he had been waiting for her to rise. Of course he was. He had a favor to ask of her, after all.

Sonja was already dressed for training, leathers loosely laced for comfort and hair bound in a tight braid, but she was cold and wore a familiar fur-lined coat he had seen warm Hera’s back for years. When her blue eyes caught sight of him, she nodded a silent greeting and moved to take her usual seat at the opposite end of the feasting table from him. Without thinking, he kicked out the chair to his right with his heel. It skittered backward, loudly, and she looked at him, eyebrow quirked. He didn’t say anything, merely nodded to the empty seat beside him. Her eyes darted between him and the chair he’d offered several times before she made up her mind.

Gracelessly, she plopped next to him, leaning over the table for a clay pitcher to fill her mug. He watched her pour her morning nip and sip it slow, occupied with her own thoughts. “You spoke with Hera last night,” he said and her eyes zipped to him again.

“Aye…” she said, gaze narrowing, the unasked question of how he knew hanging between them.

He gestured to her coat as he leaned back against the high back of the chair. “It was Hera’s.”

Sonja rubbed the arm fondly. “It was Freydis’,” she corrected, “And now it’s mine.”

“It suits you.”

Her expression softened slightly, surprised by the compliment. “Thanks,” she grunted and sipped the mead in her tankard again.

“You didn’t come back with a freshly broken face, so I’m assuming it went well,” he pressed, eyes flitting over her face for new scars and finding none. Though she could have healed them before anyone ever saw them, he supposed.

She nodded and set her drink down as Tilma appeared with a steaming bowl of tea and a fresh plate of breakfast: soft boiled eggs, warm bread, slices of pork belly, and a sweetroll they had been ‘fresh out of’ when Vilkas had inquired earlier. “Here you go, dearie,” Tilma crooned, winking at Vilkas’ feigned dismay over the sweetroll, before returning to her work.

Sonja thanked her by way of grunting between bites as she cracked into the eggs and sopped up their golden yolks with bread. “Hera and I—smoothed things over,” she answered with her mouth full, “You won’t have to act as skala again anytime soon.”

He nodded approvingly, relieved. “Good. She is a better ally than an enemy.”

“Sounds like,” she agreed, cocking an eyebrow at him again, “Especially since she taught my trainer everything he knows.”

Vilkas scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “She was Training Master before I,” he explained, “She taught everyone everything they know.”

“Still hits like a godsdamned giant,” she assured him, “I think I had an easier time slaying that dragon at the watchtower than I did having a go at her in the yard.”

The Companion smirked. “I don’t doubt it,” he agreed and then he pursed his lips with indecision as he mentally debated his next words. “It was a good thing you did for her,” he said with a surprising amount of hesitation in his tone, “Hera would have let you beat her to dust before she ever thought of yielding.”

Sonja cut a sideways glance at him, not unfriendly, but vaguely suspicious. “I thought you would have wanted for a good fight like the others,” she said, “I think Torvar had gold against Hera.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his usual brood beginning to pluck at his brow again, but it had not yet set in for the day. “That was not a good fight,” he stated simply, “That was Hera’s pride getting the better of her.”

Sonja openly chuckled. “I thought the skala was to remain neutral?” she pointed out, wiping her breakfast from her face long enough to wash it down with more mead.

“I am your skala no longer.”

“Then what are you to me?”

He hesitated, mouth parted and breath held, as he considered his response. Her question caught him off guard and, if her own expression was anything to go by, she had surprised herself a little in the asking. He was sure that she hadn’t meant anything by it; that it had been nothing more than a throwaway turn of phrase tossed thoughtlessly against his own answer to her question; that she hadn’t really intended to solicit any level of deep thought from him—but he still found himself considering what his role really was in the journey of Sonja Ironheart, Dragonborn. If his involvement in her training would amount to anything more than a glancing footnote in the song of her destiny.

“I am your adversary,” he said after a long pause, to which Sonja quirked an eyebrow at him in interest, “You sharpen your skills against mine until you find an enemy truly worth having.”

To his surprise, she smiled widely, genuinely. She liked his answer. “I could have done better with another drinking buddy,” she replied with the lilt of a tease in her tone, “I’ve had enough enemies.”

He cocked his head at her, silently asking the question before it sprung to his lips. “That why you left Cyrodiil?”

She shrugged, gaze sliding away from him to regard her breakfast again as she began to push it around her plate. “No,” she said, “Not exactly.”

“In trouble with the law?” he asked darkly, prepared to launch into a speech on the integrity of the Companions upon the moment of her unlikely affirmative.

Her mouth twitched, amused by his tone—or perhaps amused by the thoughts brought to the forefront of her mind by his question. “Just for attempting to cross the border in the first place,” she answered, “Not really one for getting mixed up in trouble like that—at least—not intentionally—or recently.”

He studied her for a heartbeat longer than he should have, trying to imagine how Sonja might have found herself on the wrong side of the law in the past. “One too many tavern brawls,” he decided, remembering that she had mentioned an acquaintance with Uthgerd. That and all her little fighter’s marks across her body and face.

She chuckled again and rubbed her jaw like she was remembering a particularly solid punch against it. “Still gets me in trouble, that,” she conceded. Not just tavern brawls, then…before he could pursue that train of thought farther, she gave him an odd sort of furtive look and licked her lips like she was searching for her next words. His attention shifted away from thoughts of her probably unimportant past to what might have written such an odd expression of apprehension across her brow, but before she had the chance to utter a single sound, a swift, sharp knock on the door dragged his attention away from her to watch Tilma hobble to the meadhall entrance.

Out on the stoop in the pink dawnlight was a short, bronzed Bosmer, his tawny hair tied back out of his face and the streaks of bright red warpaint brazen across his brow and cheekbones. He was dressed in his warmest leathers with his pack on his back, his bow unslung and the arrows of his full quiver gently knocking against each other. He smelled like open tundra air, campfire smoke, and—animal flesh, blood, carnage. Anoriath. Obviously fresh from the hunt and ready for the next but Vilkas had no idea what he was doing at Jorrvaskr. The local butcher couldn’t afford the services of the Companions even on his best day at the market. “Bit early for a job, dearie,” Tilma pointed out, “Most of Jorrvaskr still sleeps. Come back in an hour or two…”

“Oh—a-actually, I’m here for D-dragonborn Thane Ironheart?” he stammered as if it had not occurred to him that calling at such an early hour was rude.

Sonja straightened in her chair, eyes narrowing to look passed Tilma at the visitor who knew her name, but of whom she seemed ignorant. “Who calls for her?” she asked loudly, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall.

Anoriath’s sharp gaze darted beyond Tilma to find the source of the voice speaking to him and he seemed to grow even more anxious which amused Vilkas somewhat. He didn’t know the Bosmer well, but he always thought the mer carried himself with the cool grace of a hunter. “I am Anoriath, my thane,” he answered, awkwardly bowing his head so quickly it looked more like a nervous nod.

Sonja pursed her lips in displeasure. “Ysolda sent you,” she stated, nodding to Tilma to allow him entrance and gesturing for the hunter to come closer.

Looking somewhat giddy, Anoriath practically bounced into the mead hall and stopped just before the great fire. Tilma visibly rolled her eyes and closed the door before hobbling off to continue preparation for the morning meal. “She has asked me to be your Pathfinder,” he confirmed, “I’ve only just returned from the tundra where I’ve been scouting for the last few days for the Great Hunt.”

Of course, Vilkas hadn’t had the opportunity to quiz Sonja further about Ysolda’s need for a mammoth’s tusk or exactly how she had solicited Sonja’s help to orchestrate a fully realized Great Hunt for a mere tusk she might have traded for in other markets, but he was now dead-set on finding out. “Well, speak,” he prompted gruffly, “Your Hunt Master would hear what you’ve found.”

Sonja cast him a sideways glance for speaking for her, but she nodded in agreement before returning her attention to her rapidly cooling breakfast. “Right, well…” Anoriath’s eyes bounced between Sonja and Vilkas, now aware that he had a proper audience awaiting his word. “Most mammoths in Skyrim are herded by giants,” he explained, trying to be mindful of Sonja’s outlander disposition, “Which makes hunting them…”

“A glorious challenge,” Vilkas supplied.

“Stupid?” Tilma offered.

“Suicidal?” Sonja added.

Difficult,” Anoriath finished, “Hunt Masters have had to use all manner of cunning to take such large game down in the past.”

“How did Hera manage it?” Sonja asked, curiously.

“Hera had many plans in place to separate a weaker male from the camp at Bleakwind Basin,” Anoriath explained, “But…”

“A blizzard blew in the night before and an older female got lost in the snowblind,” Vilkas interrupted, “Hera led the hunters to corral her into the murk of the Breathing Basin where the animal got stuck in the thick mud.”

“She got lucky,” Sonja concluded.

“That’s half of hunting,” Anoriath said reasonably, “I might track an animal for miles, but I’ll shoot the first one that crosses my path and head home instead of following the other halfway across Skyrim.”

“Fair enough,” Sonja allowed, “But how have other Hunt Masters faired without the help of dodgy weather?”

The Bosmer hesitated. “Good and bad,” he said at length, “Even for those successful enough to cut a beast off from its herd…”

“Giants seek retribution for the loss of their livestock,” Vilkas stated simply, getting straight to the point.

Anoriath nodded. “They’ve attacked camps in the night,” he informed her, “Sometimes the farms around Whiterun are targeted if the giant finds some sign of its fallen animal.”

Sonja raised an eyebrow in surprise. “So why would anyone hunt the beasts if it’ll only piss off their masters?” she asked.

“Ancient Nords needed the kill to survive,” Vilkas replied dryly, “Same as any. Now?”

“Tradition.”

The answer from both men and Tilma made Sonja blink with irritation. “Of course. How silly of me to ask.”

Anoriath smirked. “The last Great Hunt before Hera’s was—at least a decade ago,” he said, “Though a traditional lot, Nords still don’t like giants attacking their farms.”

“But we still revel in a good battle,” Vilkas assured, “Your party will not lack for eager hunters. Giants or no.”

“It is better to hunt the free-wandering herds, though,” Anoriath interjected.

“If you can find them,” Vilkas added, “They’re few and far between. The beasts do far better under the care of giants than they do on their own.”

“Aye, they are hard to track,” Anoriath agreed smugly which caused both Companions to look at him expectantly.

“You found one, didn’t you?” Sonja demanded.

The Bosmer grinned. “They’re farther off than would be easy for a large party to reach,” he replied, “No roads close enough for easy transport, but…”

“No angry giants,” Sonja concluded. Anoriath nodded. “Worth a look,” she agreed, “You lead; I’ll follow.”

The hunter’s face brightened. “I-I’ll meet you at the gate, then?” he stammered, “Set out as soon as you’re ready?”

Sonja’s eyes flit briefly to Vilkas as if seeking permission before she gave Anoriath a curt nod. “I’ll be along shortly,” she grunted and dismissed the hunter with a careless gesture. The Bosmer hurried from the hall and as the door swung closed behind him, Sonja moved to rise from her seat.

Vilkas reached out and grazed her elbow, drawing her attention to him and paused. “The tundra is a dangerous place,” he warned, “Anoriath might act a fool in your presence in the safety of the meadhall, but out there—his word is law.”

Sonja hesitated, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully for a moment. “Want to come along?” she asked.

Vilkas blinked. He had not been fishing for an invitation, nor had he really wanted one, but there it was, tumbled from her lips like an accident. He hadn’t intended to join the Hunt out of respect for Ysolda and a sincere desire to give her the much-needed space required for her injured heart to heal, but what was the harm in accompanying the Hunt Master as she prepared for the coming expedition? Surely, his former lover wouldn’t be so foolish as to attempt to accompany Sonja out onto the tundra. Ysolda could be stubborn and shrewd, but her body was soft and pliant. Not a warrior’s body. Not meant for battle. To be honest, that was part of what made her attractive to him. All his rough edges soothed against the smooth slopes of her curves. A reminder that not all of life was a struggle. There could be simple, quiet moments of peace—moments without pain.

He blinked again, dismissing that train of thought before it had the chance to blossom into regret, and nodded a sharp confirmation to Sonja’s offer. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to take a job. For safety’s sake, he had denied his Beast the pleasure of anything that might excite his bloodlust—for all the good it was doing him. He was as irritable and snappish as ever. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would do him good while he devoted his focus to the scouting party—and he’d have the time he needed to gauge her willingness to comply with the favor he had yet to ask of her. “Need a real warrior to watch your back, do you?”

Sonja smirked sourly. “Know any?”

The larger Companion scoffed. “At least one.”

“Invite her along as well, then,” she replied sharply, “The tundra is no place for milk-drinkers, so I’m told.”

“Best you stay behind, in that case,” he retorted and Sonja chuckled.

“Adversary indeed,” she muttered and hurried back downstairs, her stride long with purpose. 


Vilkas shifted the weight of his pack over his shoulder, jostling his weapons uncomfortably, as he leaned against the stone wall that separated Plains District from Wind District. Instead of his usual heavy plate Wolf Armor, he was sporting a sturdy leather and mail version, black and edged with gray fur. Another Eorlund specialty piece. More appropriate for the subtly hunting required, but it made him feel exposed. Without the heavy, muscle-bound frame of the Wolf or the weight of his plate armor, he was disturbingly aware of his vulnerability. The frailty of man.

Along with his favored greatsword, he also carried a Skyforge spear and shield. He was entirely out of his element. The task at hand required a great deal more tact than a heavily-armored, massive-sword-swinging Nord could typically muster. It made him tense, but the thrill of it also excited him. He wasn’t headed out for a job that he could cleave his way through, and a part of him relished the opportunity for something different and challenging. It had been a long time since he had last hunted as a man.

But before he committed himself to the next couple of days stalking the tundra for lumbering pachyderms, Vilkas had other more agile and shapely prey in mind. From his perch, he watched Ysolda move about the marketplace. After his discussion with Sonja, he quickly retreated to his room to shove his belongings in a bag, collect his weapons, and don armor more appropriate for hunting than open combat. It hadn’t taken him long. He didn’t need much beyond his medicines since he had the benefit of a Wolfish resiliency few others could boast. He was out of Jorrvaskr long before Sonja, her huntsman, and her housecarl were ready. So, he seized the opportunity to snag a last minute chat with his former lover while the Dragonborn prepared for the journey ahead.

She was wearing a green dress that morning, the one that brought out the verdant color of her hazel eyes; his favorite. A thick woolen cloak hung about her shoulders and her face was flush from the chill nipping at her cheeks. It suited her. Her chestnut hair was a little mussed as if she had been in a hurry that morning when she pinned it back in the typical low bun of which she was fond. A memory of his hands tangled in those silken strands flashed through his mind unbidden and he shifted uncomfortably against the stone. She stopped at Carlotta’s stall and warmly greeted mother and daughter, fondly running her fingers through the young girl’s hair as she chatted with her mother about the price of her produce. She laughed, muted, but genuine. The small smile lit up her whole face and she looked—content? Happy, perhaps?

It occurred to him then that he could not remember the last time he had heard her laugh like that. Their time together had largely been filled with breathy whispers and moans of pleasure—sounds he prided himself on drawing from her pretty lips time and time again, but laughter? He didn’t think he had ever been responsible for her joy. Only her pleasure. That felt a hollow accomplishment from where he stood now. It only reinforced what he already knew, what he was already certain of: that ending their relationship had been the greatest kindness he had ever paid her. Disappointment swelled in his chest and it was almost enough to make him rethink his intentions. He almost turned away to slink through the Wind District to the stairs near the guardhouse and await Sonja near the gate, leaving Ysolda unbothered in her small, perfect moment of happiness without him.

But then she glanced up and those lovely eyes caught on his stark figure, dark in his leather and mail Wolf armor, hood drawn low over his piercing gaze. She looked away, flashing a brief, nervous smile at Carlotta before excusing herself from their friendly conversation. Carlotta stopped her only long enough to give her a few apples for her table, and then Ysolda took a few staggering steps in his direction, stopping at the base of the stairs and looking up at him, brow knit and eyes wide.

For a moment, he thought she might dissolve into tears right then and there. She had always been a soft, emotional creature, Mara protect that gentle heart of hers. But she didn’t. In the very next moment, her expression hardened and her gaze was suddenly much less fragile and far more angry. Her hands balled into fists in her cloak and she squared her jaw, gazing up the steps at him in open, righteous defiance. A look that clearly declared to him that she would venture no further. She was done meeting him on his terms. This sudden rebelliousness sent an unexpected surge of desire through him as he vaguely wondered what it would take to tame it back out of her, but he viciously banished that thought before it had the chance color his gaze with lust. Hurting her was not what he had gone to the marketplace to do, and if she wanted him to go to her—to be even a fraction as vulnerable as she had been with him—then he would do it. He owed her that much.

Somewhat reluctantly, he uncrossed his arms and stalked down the stairs until he was even with her, standing beside her, a respectable distance between them. He didn’t turn fully to look at her, however. Instead, he cast a sideways glance at her and said, “We need to talk.”

Ysolda crossed her arms and glared. “Now you want to talk?” she sneered, “What about?”

“The Hunt,” he answered, simply.

She looked a little doe-eyed then. Like prey. And she began nervously chewing the inside of her lower lip as she gave him an appraising look, taking in the atypical armor on his body and weapons on his back. “If she’s invited you, I’m uninviting you,” she said sternly.

“I have no intention to go where I’m not wanted,” he assured her, “Ironheart has only made me a part of the scouting party today for—protection. You and I will not cross paths unnecessarily.”

“Then what are we doing right now?”

He pursed his lips. “I want to know what you told Sonja to convince her to lead a Great Hunt when she does not fully understand what she’s getting into,” he hissed.

Ysolda’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “What are you accusing me of?” she snapped, obviously offended, “Swindling the Dragonborn?”

The volume of their argument caught Carlotta’s attention and the merchantwoman was casting disapproving glances in their direction—aimed largely at Vilkas for upsetting her friend. “Ysa…” he growled.

Don’t call me that!” He heard her pulse quicken. Could smell her blood racing through her veins and it made his stomach growl unexpectedly.

“We should continue this in private,” he insisted, thoughtlessly reaching for her elbow to guide her away, but she withdrew as if struck.

Don’t touch me,” she hissed, eyes wide, “Never touch me again! Do you understand?”

His expression soured into a full scowl as he briefly broke eye contact with her to scan the marketplace. Everyone studiously avoided his gaze as they pretended not to hear the awkward scene unraveling only a few feet away. “Damnit, woman,” he replied, “If you needed a mammoth’s tusk so badly, I would have gone to whatever market you wanted and fetched one for you, myself! You didn’t have to risk a stranger’s life to get what you wanted, or was there too much profit in the kill that you couldn’t help yourself?”

Ysolda looked as if she had just been slapped. “Is that what you think of me?” she whispered, pulling her cloak around her tightly as if the fabric could protect her from the chill of Vilkas’ words, too. It didn’t seem to help, however, and she suddenly seemed to become aware of the scene they were making as she guiltily glanced around the marketplace, herself. She cleared her throat and smoothed the front of her dress. With as much fearlessness as she could muster, she took a step toward him and looked him steadily in the eye. “Even if that were true,” she said, “I want nothing from you. Not anymore.” She straightened further, trying to make herself taller. “And I offered such an arrangement to Sonja,” she informed him, hotly, “But such items are not easily ‘fetched’ and she wanted our business concluded as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

She hesitated. “You don’t know?”

He glared. “Should I?”

Her anger seemed to cool a degree or two in a moment of confusion as she struggled to piece something together in her mind. “What would you do for your brother, Vilkas?” she asked at length which served only to plunge him into startled confusion.

“What are you playing at, woman?”

“It isn’t my place to tell what she has not shared with you, herself,” she answered with a touch of smugness, “Sorry, Companion. You’ll get no more answers from me.”

Irritated, Vilkas made a sound of disgust and moved passed her, headed for the gates, dissatisfied with his fruitless conversation and wishing he had not gone looking for trouble in the first place. He should have left her alone. What had he really been hoping to achieve in questioning her, anyway? Behind him, he heard her scoff at his back. “I wonder why it matters to you how I conduct my business,” she said before he was more than two steps away from her. He didn’t stop, didn’t so much as pause or look back at her, but his traitorous mind silently supplied an irritating answer: because Sonja was involved. He didn’t allow himself to explore that further and quickened his pace to the gates. 


Sonja shook out her witchplate armor experimentally and frowned when she heard the clamor of plate against plate. Even semi-liquid quicksilver made too much noise for an effective scout to wear. “They’ll see you coming if they don’t hear you first,” Faendal commented dryly as he tugged on the various belts and buckles of his leather armor; Lydia had just gone upstairs to wrangle up some last-minute supplies for their excursion. “Sun glare off that will spook an entire herd.”

“We’re just having a look around,” she reminded him, “No one’s taking down a mammoth today.”

“No,” the Bosmer agreed, “But how do you expect to get close enough to watch with the sun lighting you up like beacon?”

Sonja grunted her agreement, pursed her lips and dropped her witchplate back into the trunk. Magic did not lend itself to hunting. The Destruction School had a habit of destroying the meat one was trying to procure. Restoration, Alteration, and Conjuration were all useless unless one had the misfortune of being gored, mauled, or clawed half to death by prey or other predators. But, at that point, one was no longer hunting so much as fighting for one’s life. Whatever advantage was to be gained in the Illusion School by way of Muffle or Calm was outdone by the short length of the spell and the tingle of magic on the air, usually spooking off the intended before the spell had a chance to take effect.

Truth be told, hunting fell more into the lot of Anja than it did Sonja. Whenever their mother deemed it necessary to take to the forests surrounding the Imperial City in search of game, Anja and Thornir often accompanied her. Sonja was too much the heavy-footed warrior or calculating mage who had no use for stealth or a bow—mostly. Her acquaintance with Corvus had made a few interesting additions to her skillset. None of which would help her now. So, she dug around in the bottom of her trunk until she found the old worn set of leathers with which she had first arrived in Skyrim. “The wind will take those right off your back,” Faendal teased as he approached and caught her appraising gaze.

She quirked an eyebrow in muted agreement. The armor had seen better days and though it had seen her faithfully through the years, it was on its last legs when she made it into Skyrim. And after she had replaced it with the witchplate, it had fallen a tad into disrepair. “I’ve made due with less,” she shrugged, tossing the armor onto her bed before tugging her training leathers loose.

Faendal turned his back to afford her privacy as she began shedding her armor onto the floor. He leaned casually against the wall near the door, arms crossed so he wouldn’t fidget, belying his eagerness to be out on the hunt soon. “How long do you think we’ll be out for?” Sonja asked over her shoulder as she dressed.

The Bosmer shrugged. “Anoriath has done a good part of the work for us, but it will take some time to travel around the tundra. Mammoth strides are wide; they travel far very quickly. A herd he might have been tracking before he came for us could already be halfway across the hold by now.” He scratched his pointed chin thoughtfully. “We’re getting a late start in the day, besides. Could be out there for a few days until you’ve pinned down a strategy.”

Sonja nodded somewhat absently; that had been her estimate as well, but never having led a hunt before, she liked to check herself against Faendal’s expertise. “Will the Khajiit move off soon?” she asked, her concern evident in her tone.

Faendal thought for a moment. “They usually stay through the week,” he answered, “We should be back before then. Besides, Ysolda wouldn’t want them wondering off before she could deliver on her end of the bargain.”

“No, that would be bad business,” Sonja agreed, “I’d feel better knowing she’s seen to it.”

“We should see Little Bird before we head out onto the tundra, anyway,” Lydia added as she strode back into the room with her arms full of what supplies Tilma was happy to provide, catching the tail end of her thane and Faendal’s exchange.

Sonja hesitated as she buckled her cuirass. “I asked Vilkas to accompany us.”

Both housecarl and hunter’s heads perked up at her statement. Each glanced at the other to gauge for the appropriate reaction as they absorbed what Sonja had just told them. “He is a strong warrior,” Lydia said, tactfully, when nothing but silence continued to prevail over the barracks.

“Why?” Faendal asked simply, genuinely puzzled, casting a careful glance over his shoulder to be sure she was dressed before turning to face her fully.

“As Lydia said, he’s a skilled warrior and I…” she began.

“Did he accept?”

“Aye.”

“Ysolda won’t like it,” Lydia pointed out, bluntly.

“I know.”

“Then why would you ask him at all?” Faendal half-demanded. He had only been vaguely aware of Vilkas’ previous relationship with Ysolda insofar as rumor circulated through the barracks until Sonja’s little business deal with the merchantwoman led her to set the record straight for him—or as straight as she could make it, at least. She, herself, was not privy to the sordid details. Even under the influence of alcohol, Ysolda had proven to be rather tight-lipped on the subject, and Sonja was not one to pry further.

“Because I wanted to,” she snapped, irritated. When her answer drew even more concerned and confused looks from housecarl and huntsman alike, Sonja pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Am I not free to do as I please?”

Faendal frowned, recognizing her attempt to be dismissive when protecting a tender truth. He chewed the inside of his cheek, pensively, briefly considering forcing the issue, before he gave a sudden curt nod. “So be it,” he said, shrugging as if no longer interested in her reasoning for inviting the surly Companion along, “It matters little.”

Lydia shot him a look that clearly declared she disagreed, but she sensed objecting would get her nowhere. “I’m sure Ysolda won’t be so quick to accept your reasoning,” she stated sternly, speaking her piece before giving up, “We shall see.”

“I guess we shall,” Sonja agreed as she began shoving a warm change of clothes into the bottom of her bag. 


“Sure goes out of his way to avoid seeing her, doesn’t he?” Lydia observed as they descended the steps from Jorrvaskr. Sonja had gone to Vilkas’ room once they were ready only to find it empty. Tilma informed them that he had already left and was likely waiting for them by the city gates.

“Daedra hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Faendal added, “Can you blame the man?”

Lydia gave him a look that very clearly stated that she could and did. “Would you run from your woman?” she asked, pointedly as they made to follow Vilkas, “What’s her name? Carmella? Calista? Vanilla?”

Sonja snorted at the flummoxed expression on Faendal’s face. “Camilla,” he corrected defensively, “And I’d never break her heart.”

“Time will tell,” the housecarl warned, “You’ve left her for a long time with little to hope for.”

Faendal frowned. Camilla’s waxing and waning affections were a particularly sore spot for him. “Don’t you have a Companion to occupy you?” he asked, irritably.

“So?” Lydia tensed.

“Mind him and let Faendal be,” Sonja interrupted, taking in the contemplative knot on the Bosmer’s brow. He wasn’t really injured by Lydia’s teasing, but the housecarl’s words had forced him to confront an issue he had been willfully ignoring since he left for Whiterun with Sonja: would Camilla really wait for him and how long would she be waiting? He’d already been gone a month and had no intention of returning any time soon. Was it fair for a young beauty like Camilla to waste away waiting for a lover who was beholden to a temptress far more powerful and unforgiving: the open road? What was worse, he was being too generous in referring to himself as her lover. In truth, he had never been more than an admirer whose attentions Camilla had merely enjoyed. That thought darkened his mood and deepened his scowl.

Lydia looked between her thane and the huntsman and realized she may have gone too far. She hadn’t meant anything by it, not really. She just tended to be agonizingly straightforward. That she spoke so freely to Faendal was a sign of respect for him, but Sonja was right: she should have minded her own business. Chastened, Lydia bumped Faendal in the arm with her elbow. Not hard, but firm, companionable—apologetic. He glanced at her and when she caught his eye she bowed her head slightly. “Apologies, friend,” she said sincerely, “I spoke out of turn.”

The Bosmer’s eyes narrowed at her a little and he smirked sourly. “Think nothing of it,” he sighed, “You didn’t say anything I haven’t thought about already.”

“Still. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, chuckling humorlessly, “Probably.”

Sonja shook her head, glad not to have that argument follow them out onto the tundra. “I think he goes out of his way so she can avoid seeing him,” she said thoughtfully, steering the conversation back to its original topic to keep her friends from nagging at each other again, as they neared the top of the stairs descending into the Plains District.

“How can you be sure?” Faendal asked, skeptically.

“I don’t think he runs from his problems, either,” she said simply. On that, neither Faendal nor Lydia could disagree.

“Speaking of,” Lydia muttered as they spied Ysolda near Carlotta’s stand looking a bit—flustered.

“Maybe he didn’t avoid her after all…” Faendal pointed out.

“Shit.” Sonja sighed and attempted to make her expression as neutral as possible as she descended the stairs. “Greetings, Ysa,” she said. Even to her own hears, her voice sounded hollow and false.

Ysolda’s eyes quickly darted over the lot of them and she did her best to school her own expression. She was better at it than Sonja, but it was too late. All three of the warriors had already clearly witnessed her distress. “I heard you scout today,” she replied with the softest edge to her tone.

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a slight frown. “We need him, Ysolda,” she said, cutting straight to the point, “He’s too valuable to leave rotting by the fires of Jorrvaskr.”

The merchantwoman looked a little flummoxed to be so directly called out. “I know,” she admitted, “But I had hoped…I don’t know what I had hoped…” She sighed and shook her head. “He chose to remove himself from my life,” she explained softly, “He doesn’t get to walk back into it when it suits him. And this—the Hunt—it’s personal. He knows that, too.”

Sonja’s brow folded gently with concern. “I asked him to join us, Ysa,” she stated plainly. In her opinion, Vilkas more than deserved Ysolda’s ire for possibly a hundred private reasons that were none of her concern, but she would not contribute to any gained falsely. She’d accept her due course from the scorned lover, too. Fair’s fair. “It wasn’t planned. We were talking this morning about Hera, and…” she hesitated, “He’s a right ass, no question, but he’s smart and this is his home. I thought it was better to take advantage than let him mope in his cups at the meadhall.”

Ysolda actually looked a little relieved. “I didn’t think you had asked him along for any other reason, but it’s good to hear you say it.”

Sonja had been unlucky in love before. Albeit, in a very different way that had nearly cost her everything, but she understood from where Ysolda was coming. Heartbreak was hell. “I’m not unkind,” she replied softly.

For some reason Sonja could not immediately fathom, her words caused the other woman to look profoundly guilty. In the next moment, however, Ysolda was spilling her guts. “Ysgramor’s ass,” she cursed, “You don’t have to do this.”

Sonja hesitated a heartbeat, blinking stupidly at the merchant woman. “Come again?”

“You don’t have to do any of this.”

All three warriors comically mirrored each other’s expressions. “I—I don’t quite follow you, Ysa,” Sonja admitted, “You don’t want me to lead the Hunt?”

Ysolda shook her head, lips pursed. “I do, but…” she made a little noise of frustration that sounded more like a nervous giggle, “I didn’t mean to lead you to believe I didn’t have other options. It’s just—when you offered, it seemed a better solution and I don’t have the gold to trade in larger markets for a tusk. And you said it yourself, ‘What’s a mammoth to a dragon?’ And you’re the Dragonborn! I didn’t think it would matter in the end and I would have so much more to trade with...”

“Oh, Little Bird,” Lydia sighed, shaking her head, but she was amused more than anything else.

Sonja cocked her head to one side, eyes narrowed slightly as she listened to Ysolda ramble. “Why are you telling me this, now?” she asked.

The Nord woman fidgeted. “Vilkas—wanted to know how I convinced you to do something so dangerous for so simple a task…” she began.

“Are mammoth tusks freely available?” Sonja asked, glancing back to Lydia and Faendal for confirmation; they shook their heads in unison.

“No. Their ivory is highly prized and expensive, but…”

“You lack the gold to pay for one,” Sonja finished and Ysolda nodded, “I understood that when we struck the bargain in the first place. If you’d the gold to spare, you wouldn’t have had trouble petitioning for your merchant’s license.”

“Well…no…but…”

“Though, I would have spotted you the gold if it’d get me what I wanted sooner,” Sonja allowed, crossing her arms thoughtfully, “Do you know where one might be purchased sooner than we might hunt a beast down?”

“Possibly Solitude?” Ysolda answered, apologetically, “A week’s ride out if you’re not attacked on the road along the way.”

“It’s no certainty, though?”

“No.”

“So I might have to ride to the next town and the next in search of something I might have hunted down a few miles from Whiterun,” Sonja concluded, “And if I wanted to wander Skyrim aimlessly I wouldn’t waste my time searching for your tusk instead of my sister.”

Ysolda looked relieved. “I see your point.”

Sonja studied her face for a moment. “I never do anything I don’t want to,” she said at length, “If we’ve made a deal, I will keep my end of it, always.”

“I didn’t want to risk a stranger’s life,” she said softly, her words ringing with the sound of another’s thoughts, “Just to make a profit.”

“Neither do I,” Sonja agreed, gesturing over her shoulder to Faendal and Lydia, “Especially when I can’t convince them to stop following me…” Nord and Bosmer grunted in unanimous displeasure.

Ysolda smiled slightly. “Good that’s settled then,” she said, “Now, go. Find us a mammoth. I’ll make sure our Khajiit partners don’t wander off before we have the opportunity to make trade with them.” Sonja nodded and stepped passed her, headed for the gates. Lydia and Faendal followed while Ysolda watched them file passed. “Just be careful out on the tundra,” she added, “Even with Vilkas watching your back, it’s still a dangerous place.”

“Not exactly my first venture outside the city,” Sonja said because she was growing tired of everyone acting like she hadn’t travelled miles of dangerous terrain just to reach Skyrim in the first place.

A small, nervous smile flit across Ysolda’s face briefly. “Watch out for him, too,” she muttered, “He’s as stubborn as he his brave, and would die for any of his shield-siblings.” She looked away, embarrassed. “I may want to nail his balls to the floor, but I don’t wish him dead.”

Her words brought amused smiles to all three warriors. “Aye, we’ll all make it back in one piece,” Sonja promised, “Just focus on building the hunting party while we’re gone. I want to move on our prey as soon as possible.”

Ysolda beamed. “Kyne guide you, friends,” she wished as they departed. Vilkas may have shaken her faith in the arrangement she had made with the Dragonborn—and, truth be told, she should have doubted herself because she had lied by omission hoping to get more out of the deal than was strictly necessary—but Sonja had easily restored it with her confidence and practicality. It was a good day, she decided, the day she shook hands with Sonja Ironheart, even if the man she loved turned away from her for the last time. It was a different future offered in the brilliant blue eyes of the Dragonborn than the one she had imagined she saw in the coldness of Vilkas’ gaze; one that was more her own than anything the Companion could have offered her.

Notes:

So, not the best chapter to come back off of a two year hiatus, but at least I'm making my way back. I always felt like this was a meh chapter and I had frequently thought about deleting it or rewriting it, but every tweak I made seemed to just worsen the whole thing, so I gave up and left it as is.

And also, for those of you who may be curious as to why I fell off the face the earth for so long, it was due to a series of sometimes unfortunate, but largely tragically mundane events that led to my prolonged silence. Summary: I started a new job, became very ill, my fiance (now husband) took a job a few states over leading to the most miserable summer I have ever had to endure, he moved back (thank god), I totaled my car, had a couple surgeries (unrelated to the car accident), recovered (took a couple of months), continued working as my job slowly descended in chaos with longer and longer hours at the same shitty pay, considered quitting, received an unexpected promotion with a great bump in pay (yay!), got married (yay, again!), discovered new job was harder than I thought (boo!), had a great wedding reception in husband's hometown (yay, three times!), had difficulty adjusting to the new stress of work, and then abruptly lost my job when they terminated the position due to lack of funding. Yep. Just like that. Currently, I'm considering going back to school halfway across the country to get far far away from da bullshit. *sigh* Shit sucks, but it is what it is.

And the whole time, while all this crazy was happening, I felt this huge hole grow in my chest where Sonja was Shouting at me, "Bitch, you already have this crap written! Just post it!" I was rereading some of your comments and they made me smile. I want to go back to that. It made me happy.

It's not as easy as Sonja made it out to be, however. In addition to general editing, I've decided to really make my life hard and rewrite one of my characters, completely. Don't worry, you haven't met her yet. She's only been mentioned in passing so you'll never know the difference. I promise she'll be amazing, no matter what, though. Oh, and I'm adding more to Ulfric's story because why the hell not? I love that old Stormcloak dearly.

So, in conclusion: Sorry I smoke-bombed out of your fanfiction subscriptions, I'm back now and hope to keep it that way. I'll try to deliver up the next chapter in the next few days to make up for the last couple of years, lol. ♥

Chapter 26: The Dragon's Tooth

Summary:

Danger, injury, frustration, and magic. Just the first day of the scouting party for the Great Hunt. Sonja and Vilkas confront and check each other for the other's behavior, but it's necessary. Also, pussy willows. Written in memory of every freaking time your follower charges off into battle without you. Ugh.

Notes:

Alternates between Sonja and Vilkas PoV.

Also quite a lengthy chapter this one. Hope you enjoy.

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of violent, torturous death, childhood trauma/abandonment, death and grieving, threat of death, near death experience, depictions of severe burns.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It was the smell of smoke, the whisper of fire, and the dangerous caress of magic tingling down his spine that drew Vilkas’ attention away from Sonja as she walked beside him along the road away from Whiterun. She was about to lay into him—or chastise him at the very least—for speaking to Ysolda about the arrangement between them. Admittedly, he knew it had been none of his business the moment he opened his mouth to speak to his former lover in the first place, but he wasn’t about to let a Newblood talk down to him, regardless of her titles. He had turned to look at her, expression dour as ever, lips parted in a sneer as he prepared to snap at her, a wolf annoyed with a petulant pup, when he smelled, heard, felt the conflict roiling over the next hill. Mages. The change was abrupt as his focus was jerked from her fierce gaze, pulled toward a more dangerous enemy than his frustrated ally. On the periphery of his hearing, he heard the Dragonborn say his name; he was vaguely aware that she was touching him, tugging at his arm, but he was already lost to the impulse to hunt his favored prey.

He shed his pack as he sprinted off the trail, precious supplies for the journey they had yet to properly embark upon. They weren’t but a half day from Whiterun, after all, before the first sign of trouble lit up his senses like a blazing wildfire. Again, somewhere amidst the battle-murk, he heard his name called, heard the murmur of blades drawn, and the stomping of feet as his sudden departure detoured the rest of the party off the road.

When he crested the hill, the battlefield he longed for was cradled at the bottom in a nest of charred grass and blackened earth. A dozen or so mages danced through the ashes, hurling spells of fire and ice at each other. Two covens warring over some dispute, and at the center of this fire-scarred killing field, cowering and crying and trying to take some cover behind the corpse of her fallen horse, was a Redguard woman. A merchant with her wares scattered in a halo around the dead pack animal. She was not a fighter. She was not a mage. She was just another victim of a power Vilkas hated. Innocent and so powerless…he drew his weapon with a violent snarl of unfiltered rage, prepared to charge down the hill at the closest mage.

But his arrival had not gone unnoticed. He had not been quiet in his ascent of the hill or, obviously, the battle cry that tore at his throat when he unsheathed his greatsword. His allies had not been quiet either, having no understanding of what they were charging into after him, and the sudden appearance of five, well-armed warriors above them, shifted the balance of the battle in a new direction. Together, the mages greatly outnumbered the party, and it seemed the ice mages and pyromancers reached this conclusion at the same time. A temporary truce passed wordless between the magic users who had grown in Skyrim knowing only hatred, fear, and distain from others from whom they had only desired acceptance. It was a reality that had twisted them as easily as they gave in to being made pariah; they were not good men and women, mere bandits with spells instead of swords, but they were hungrier, angrier, and packed a more potent onslaught of unnatural pain when working together.

Before Vilkas could make his foolish charge down the hill toward what would ultimately be a very unpleasant death, heedless and blood-blind, he heard Sonja bellow, “GET DOWN!” And then he was forcefully pulled backward with more strength than he had anticipated. He lost his footing and slid a few feet back down the hill where the others had retreated at Sonja’s order, but the Dragonborn was still atop the crown where he had been standing a second earlier, her arms and hands spread wide before her as a dozen spells broke against her wards in a cadence of shrieking fire and shattering ice. And she was screaming. No, not screaming, it was not a high pitched peal of pain, but a guttural focused bellow, a sustained shout that shook through her, humming. It wasn’t a thu’um, but it could have been if she had the word for it.

Whatever it was, it was power and in the lull of spell slinging that followed as the stunned mages tried to readjust their strategy against not only another magic user, but a fiercely powerful one, she dropped her wards and let loose a fierce Shout, “FUS!” The bass of the vowel sent a shockwave that Vilkas could feel even standing behind her and then she jumped down the hill, reaching into the air, fingers grasping for something unseen until, with a flash of purple light, she plucked a sword from nothing. This—this was her battle-home, Vilkas realized, the combat with which she was comfortable, the fight with which she was familiar, battle as easy as breathing. He scrambled after her, still hungry for a fight, still filled with razor-sharp bloodlust.

Sonja made straight for the pyromancers while Vilkas charged the ice mages. Lydia close behind them, her shield raised and ready, but when she had to choose which to follow—the hotheaded Companion who decided charging headfirst into magic without something to put between himself and it, and her honored mistress whom she was sworn to protect with her life—she chose Vilkas because Sonja seemed to have things well in hand with a ward in one hand and a conjured blade in the other. With an impressive burst of speed, the housecarl managed to catch up to Vilkas and cover his approach with her shield.

Once close enough, the mages were at a disadvantage, scrambling to put distance between them and their attackers who were better armored than they with their thick robes and underdeveloped Alteration magic. Soon, a steady stream of arrows from the hill above them sailed in to pick off a mage or two just beyond the immediate reach of the warriors. And it was glorious. Vilkas’ senses were awash in the fear of his enemy, the scent of it, the sound of hammering, panicked hearts, the pure unadulterated rush of battle, of slaughter riding high through the hungry need of the Wolf. And though his allies did not share his Blood, they felt like a pack descending upon prey in united movement, watching his back, guarding his flank. His beast was practically baying for him to tear every mage apart with his bare hands. It was intoxicating and he at once felt a viscous discordant spike of shame and a hallowing hum of profound peace ring through him because he was loving every second of it.

Sometime amidst the chaos, the Redguard woman whose presence had triggered such a strong reaction in Vilkas attempted to run from the fight. She was halfway up the hill, mostly unnoticed by all but the hunters above and a lone pyromancer Sonja had not yet reached. Maybe it was vindictiveness that drove the mage to target the fleeing woman rather than continue to waste his spells against Sonja’s hearty ward. Maybe it was fear or stupidity or just plain nastiness, it didn’t matter. He still chose to spend his last moments breathing trying to incinerate an innocent.

“NO!” Faendal bellowed, watching the event unfold before his very eyes. It was thoughtless instinct that came over him as he flung himself down the hill toward the woman, crashing into her, arms wrapping around her shoulders, as his momentum carried him just far enough to take the brunt of the fireball against his back. The force of the spell exploded in a magnificent thundering of igneous light and heat, shoving Faendal into the hillside like a ragdoll with the merchant woman beneath him, mostly shielded from the flames by his body. Atop the hill, Anoriath was forced to leap away to cover and the hot shockwave of the spell blew forceful and menacing at Vilkas and Lydia’s backs.

Sonja turned in time to see her friend roll down the remainder of the hill, limp and seemingly lifeless, the smell of burnt flesh and hair heavy in the air. “Faendal!” her voice was a strangled croak of anguish and then something wild overtook her expression. A golden purpose shined violent in her eyes as she turned on the offending pyromancer whose smug expression melted beneath the intensity of a very angry and vengeful Dragon.

Everything seemed to slow then. Vilkas cut through his fourth mage. Lydia viciously shield bashed another to death. Anoriath clamored back up the hill. The woman was panicking over the body of her rescuer. Sonja released her ward and harpooned one of the two remaining pyromancers in the face with a jagged shard of razor ice. The mage crumpled instantly, blood staining the crystalline white spike. The last mage attempted to direct a stream of flames at Sonja, but she let another mighty Shout rip from her gut, sending him staggering backward long enough for her to close the gap between them. When she reached him, her left hand shot out to grip his throat and she half-hoisted him into the air a few inches from the ground; his feet kicked pitifully in a panicked attempt to find purchase and alleviate the crushing of his throat against her grip. He cast no further spells, however, which felt strange in the moment for the onlookers who didn’t understand the glowing blue aura enveloping Sonja as she siphoned off the pyromancer’s magicka, effectively disarming him.

She just looked more and more wild with the hard, dangerous glint in her eye that only seemed to grow brighter and more golden with the swirl of blue dancing over her lightly armored body. Once she had ripped the last of the mage’s power away and he was nearly senseless for lack of oxygen, the air seemed to chill a degree or two around her. The pyromancer felt the ice in his throat and began kicking again with renewed horror as the chilling spell spread across his body, crawling up his jaw and creeping over his chest. A thin veil of frost coated his skin like a death shroud and he started shivering violently, struggling, straining, convulsing against an unforgiving iron hold. He clawed uselessly at her, his fingertips blue and blackening. He tried to cry out for mercy through numb, purple, and frostbitten lips, but only managed a wheezing whisper of a death rattle before finally falling limp.

For Thornir,”Sonja breathed, chest heaving as she released her victim with a sickening crack of each of her knuckles. The lifeless body of the pyromancer crumpled to the ground, a deep, black patch of frostbite against his throat in the shape of her hand. He had known fear and pain before the end; the Dragon had made sure of it.

Bloodlust now satisfied, Sonja turned her attention to Faendal and released her conjured weapon back to Aetherius, intentionally glaring at Vilkas as she ran to her friend’s side. Lydia was already there, impatiently pushing the merchantwoman aside who seemed perhaps a little scorched, but largely unharmed. “He’s still breathing,” the housecarl informed her thane when she reached them, “I hope you know enough to heal as you do to kill.”

“You stupid, fucking mer,” Sonja breathed with obvious relief and then commanded, “Roll him over, let me have a look.” Lydia obeyed without hesitation, carefully easing the unconscious Bosmer onto his side and supporting his weight against her lap. His injuries were laid bare before Sonja who looked momentarily horrified, then relieved, and then finally determined. Thankfully, blessedly, fortunately, Faendal’s enchanted armor had absorbed most of the damage of the explosion, but his hair was badly scorched short and the back of his neck looked painfully blistered. “Help me get this off him,” Sonja continued, tugging loose the belts of Faendal’s kit until she and Lydia were able to ease it off his body. His back bare to Sonja’s inspection made her wince involuntarily. Though not a fatal or even crippling injury, his back was still a mess that looked rather painful.

For the most part, his skin was bright red and hot to the touch like a severe sunburn, tender and swollen, and large swatches of the first layer of his skin seared onto the inside of his armor. Toward the middle of his back, the skin actually blistered and bled, worsened by a deep impact bruise from where the fireball actually struck him. It smelled horrible, looked horrible, and undoubtedly felt horrible, but it would be relatively easy to mend. Perhaps a little more exhausting than fixing the odd broken limb or nose as she had been doing for the last month, but within her grasp as a healer. “I can fix this,” she assured, more to herself than anyone else as she stretched her hands over Faendal’s back, hovering inches above the ruined flesh.

The calming, golden glow of magic surged through her, dripping from her fingers like healing rain, soaking into the thirsty flesh and pulling the charred and bruised pieces of it back together. Easing, mending, rebuilding. When she was done, the worse parts of Faendal’s injury were still visible in an angry burn scar over the nape of his neck and center of his back, but mostly his skin was new. A little pink perhaps, but that would fade in time and he would be sore when he awoke which he did seconds later, breathing sharply and jolting upright away from Lydia. He clutched at his chest, breathing heavily and eyes wild.

“The fuck happened?” he demanded, looking around confused at the group that surrounded him. When his eyes alighted on the Redguard woman, everything seemed to fall into place for him and he looked at Sonja a little calmer. “So we won, then,” he said. She nodded mutely. “Good…good…” and he winced and grunted as he attempted to gingerly rise to his feet. Lydia helped him, pulling him upright with one hand and clutching his armor in the other. “Hircine’s ass, that stings,” he breathed as he cautiously attempted to feel out the injury to his back.

“It’ll be raw for a few days,” Sonja informed him, rising also, “I can make you a salve that’ll help with that, but try not to mess with it.”

He stopped prodding at his skin and gestured for Lydia to hand him his armor. “So how bad is it, then?” he asked.

“Just some real battle scars to show Camilla,” the housecarl replied, smiling faintly as she handed him his gear.

The huntsmen snorted loudly, taking her gentle ribbing in stride. He hesitated, though, when he saw the state of his linen tunic, ruined and scorched almost beyond use. He picked at the blackened fringes with a furrowed brow before tossing it over his head and stuffing what remained of the tails down into his trousers. As he attempted to don his cuirass next, he caught a whiff of the stench that was his own seared flesh. Abruptly, he jerked his head back out of the armor with a sour expression on his face. “Oh, that bad was it,” he said, sounding a little nervous. Vilkas could hear the fear the mer’s heart thudded against his ribs; the huntsman was trying not to show it, but he was shaken.

Sonja shifted uncomfortably. “I told you you’d only find trouble following me,” she said gently.

He looked at her with an unreadable expression, but something wordless passed between them and the mer’s heartbeat slowed. He took a deep breath and grinned at the Dragonborn as if unfazed. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing,” he pointed out good-naturedly before pulling the armor back over his head, breath held. He laced up the sides quickly, still smiling. “Disgusting, but serviceable,” he declared, “Tunic’s a bit ruined, but I…”

Sonja rested her hand upon his shoulder with such a weight that conveyed a tangled tumult of emotions only Faendal seemed capable of comprehending. “Don’t,” she breathed and a little of the mirth fizzled from his expression.

Hesitantly, he reached for her hand, but she started to withdraw it; he caught her by the wrist and pulled her back to him, placing the flat of her palm on his chest, over his heart. “Still beating, aye?” he demanded, sternly.

She paused, staring at him intently. “Aye,” she answered, sharply.

“Then I’m not a ghost,” he said pointedly and Sonja pursed her lips, nodding.

“Aye, you’re not a ghost.” And he let her go.

She withdrew and he sighed, shaking off the moment to address the merchant. “How’d you get yourself crossed with those mages?” he asked.

“I didn’t do anything!” she quickly assured.

“Looked like a coven war,” Vilkas pointed out, “We’ve cleaned out a few hovels and towers filled with their kind. If they’re not killing each other, they’re harassing travelers for basic supplies.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What’s your name?” Sonja interrupted.

“Nemah.”

“And how do you make your living, Nemah?”

“I sell this and that. Travel across Skyrim with my wares.”

“It’s dangerous times to be traveling alone.”

“Clearly.”

Sonja nodded absently and looked around. First at the hilltop and then down at the bodies strewn across the ground, and finally at the horse with its saddlebags ripped open, spilling out into the ash an array of alchemical ingredients, crystals, vials, and scrolls amongst other more mundane items. “Were you selling to them?” she asked bluntly and Nemah’s eyes went wide and panicky.

“Wha—I wouldn’t—how could you—they almost killed me!” she sputtered. Vilkas closed his eyes for the briefest moment, sickened by the fear clearly ringing through her voice. She was lying.

Sonja frowned, deeply. “Try to gouge them on the price, did you?”

“Please, I don’t know what…”

“I saved your life, the least you owe us is the truth,” Faendal snapped hotly and the fight went right out of the merchantwoman.

“Times are tough,” she sighed, guiltily, “Gotta take coin where you can get it.”

Faendal let out an audible cry of disgust, throwing his hands up in the air and turning his back to her, fuming. “Still, I’d wager you were more use to them alive than dead,” Sonja continued, crossing her arms over her chest, “Have to be the only merchant willing to do business with them for miles, days. What’d you do? Try to double deal? Profit from both sides?”

Nemah pursed her lips and anxiously looked from one face to the next until she caught Faendal glaring at her in profile. “Nobody else was supposed to get hurt!” she cried, desperately, “They were just supposed to keep killing each other until one or everyone was dead and…”

“You’d take their gold, in the meantime,” Sonja concluded.

“But they found out,” Vilkas snarled.

“Yes…”

“We interrupted an execution, not an attack.”

Nemah looked up at Vilkas with big, frightened eyes. “What are you going to do to me?” she breathed.

He scoffed at her. “Me?” he growled, “Nothing. Your life belongs to the mer.”

She turned pleading eyes to the elf who had already saved her life once that day. He scowled at her before glancing in Sonja’s direction for guidance. “Do as your conscious dictates, friend,” she replied, “I will not oppose you.”

A muscle flexed along Faendal’s jawline as he clenched his teeth in angry, muted contemplation. “Take what you need for my injuries from her bags, Sōn,” he said at length, “And whatever else you think might be useful. Then she can be on her way. We’ve already saved her life once today, no need for more. If she’s willing to take her life in her hands to meet bandit scum, then she can do it again to brave the road alone.”

Sonja shrugged. “Sounds fair to me,” she agreed and Nemah trembled with both fear and relief. At least none of the number of warriors was going to throttle her for her part in the catastrophe, but the road was perilous to brave alone, nearing dark, and without a mount to outrun danger. It was not a kindness Faendal was extending her, but it was fair—she knew that at least.


They continued down the path a few hours longer in contemplative silence. Despite their steadfast victory, defeating the mages and rescuing Nemah did not feel like a win. In fact, each of the party had a reason to be resentful over it. Faendal, for obvious reasons, felt foolish for putting his life on the line for someone who proved to be less than worthy. She’s a damn fool, but that doesn’t mean she should die for it, he tried to console himself. Whatever Nemah’s shortcomings, Faendal knew he still would have leapt down the hill at her again. There was no undoing that; he was just glad Sonja had been able to put him back together again so easily. Though she did look a little tired from the effort. Drained, perhaps even a touch pale, but her brown skin made it hard to tell. She wanted him and Lydia to return to Whiterun so he could rest, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her to the tundra with only Vilkas and Anoriath for protection. Even with a magic-wielding Dragonborn, their encounter with the mages proved they were stronger together than separated.

For her part, Lydia was frustrated with the overall recklessness of the group. Between Vilkas charging off the path without warning or explanation, Sonja sprinting after him without a second thought, and Faendal launching himself across the battlefield to take a fireball for a stranger, she wondered if they were ever going to make it to their destination in one piece, let alone back to Whiterun. To be fair, she thought Faendal’s sacrifice had been a very noble one and it went a long way toward making her like the mer more, not that she disliked him to begin with, but he was always so flippant and casual about everything (Camilla excepted), it was hard for her to determine what made him so loyal to Sonja. Now, she was more or less certain it was simply because he had a good and honorable heart and something about the Dragonborn brought it out of him more and more. The pair of them had a way of understanding each other without talking, sometimes, which Lydia often wished she could be a part of if, for no other reason, just so she could understand all those snarky comments and sly side-glances.

Anoriath was seriously beginning to wonder what he had gotten himself into. He was just a hunter who brought game back to his butcher stand to make a modest living. His talent was for felling beasts, not standing off against mages or bandits or who knows what all else with that lot. Apparently, the lady Thane attracted trouble often if her comment to Faendal was anything to go by. If his fellow Bosmer and the others wanted to follow her around at their own peril, that was their risk to take, but he’d wished Ysolda had given him a heads up. Just a little warning. Though, he didn’t know how she could have, and really what kind of cautionary would, “Oh, and by the way, Sonja is terrifyingly strong and attracts an equal amount of trouble, so…watch out!” truly be? The odd kind that would make him chuckle and brush her off because it was his job to know how to avoid trouble while out on the hunt. He hadn’t anticipated the Companion sprinting off into danger like he had, though. Of all the party, the veteran Companion had been the least of his worries until that moment.

Vilkas, of course, was keenly aware of his mistake and in hindsight, wished he had reined in his Beast long enough to at least warn the others what he was hearing. He doubted there would have been much, if any, argument then with each warrior ready and able to enter the fight knowing what they were in for. He had been a reckless, bloodthirsty, weak man, base and animalistic, hungry. It was an inexcusable mistake, as far as he was concerned. Shameful. Not only had he placed the lives of two of his Shield-Siblings in jeopardy, but also that of a couple civilians. Albeit, Lydia was a competent and powerful warrior. Without her shield to protect his approach, he would have suffered greatly at the hands of the ice mages and their chilling magic. But Anoriath was but a simple hunter and butcher. He had done well enough in the fight, killing one of the pyromancers, but he was shaken by it, unprepared and unused to shedding the blood of folk rather than beast.

He doubted warning them beforehand would have made much of a difference for the way events had played out, however. They had no way of knowing the circumstance for the coven war or Nemah’s part in it. Prepared or not, she would have always seemed innocent and that pyromancer would have still thrown his fireball; Faendal still would have taken it. And Sonja. Talos preserve him, what in the name of Sovngarde was that anyway? Her magical prowess was unnerving to him—to all of them, in truth. What she did to the pyromancer had been unimaginable, but none of them could entirely fault her for it. As far as any of them knew at the time, that mage had been responsible for Faendal’s death and it wasn’t hard to see how fond of him she was—though now, Vilkas wondered exactly how fond she actually was of the mer. Had he been in her place, he would have given the mage a slow death, too. As was only right. Though with his blade instead of that—that—Killing Frost. Suddenly, the famed honor-name seemed misplaced upon his old hero now that he had seen up close what her daughter could do.

And Sonja, herself…she was just trying to keep her eyes glued to the road ahead of them, her mind churning with a veritable blizzard of uncomfortable thought. It took a great deal of effort to keep her expression neutral as they walked along. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone else, especially Faendal who was privy to more of her past than the others, but he kept casting furtive glances at her, checking her expression for any indicator of distress. They locked eyes once and it seemed to her he knew what she was thinking, or maybe it was more plainly written across her face for someone who knew how to look than she wanted it to be. Whatever the case, she all but pleaded for him to let her be and, eventually, he obliged. She breathed a small sigh of relief and trudged on.

But a flurry of memory still skittered across that iron will of hers until her head ached not to think of it—of then—of Thornir. The remnants of his charred body twisted in a permanent state of pain, cradled against their father’s chest like a babe. The last time he held his son mirroring the first, only his tears were of despair that time as Thornir left the world screaming. She could still hear it on the wind: the long dead shout of pain still resounding through her skull with piercing clarity. Sometimes she could still smell the burnt flesh; taste the thick, greasy smoke; and flashes of fire and anguish and Thornir’s face greeted her each time she closed her eyes. That was a waking nightmare beyond nightmares, and she wanted, with all the fierceness of her soul, to undo that fatal moment. But wanting could never make it so, and letting go could never be an option.

All of that tore at her, compounded by her frustration with Vilkas for upsetting Ysolda and his sudden disregard for not only his safety, but also the wellbeing of the group. Because of course she was going to chase after him. Every fiber of her being was in opposition of standing still when the stubborn ass ran off. He was obviously distressed and single-minded. There was a fury in his eyes she had not seen before, even when he was growing impatient with Newbloods—herself, especially—in the training yard. That was the wild look of a man unconcerned with whether or not he lived or died, as long as he got to wet his blade with the blood of his enemies. So she had to care enough for the both of them. And of course Lydia and Faendal followed. They always followed her. Oath-bound and determined and foolish and—heartbreakingly loyal. Sonja could never believe she could ever be worthy of such faith. At that point, Anoriath would have been a greater fool to stay behind, alone and unknowing on the road. So, one thread pulled and the whole tangle went with it.

Even beyond that, she tried to reconcile the potency of her magic. She prided herself on being a talented battlemage, but she had never been able to do—whatever the fuck she had just done. It was unnerving, but it had to do with the dragonblood. It had to. If she had received an impressive bump to her physical prowess because of it, why not to her magical ability, as well? But that was more dangerous than her penchant for breaking limbs in the training yard. A wild spell could evolve, elevate, envelop. Catch more than it was meant to. Instant casualties. And she had gone too far. The merciless frosty death she had given the pyromancer had gone a bit too far, leaving her hand a little raw and frostbitten. It could have been worse, she knew. She could have lost her hand altogether, but it had been a long time since she had experienced blowback from a spell. Not since the beginning of University, she mused and that was somewhat sobering. Still, it had felt amazing, all that raw magicka coursing through her body like lightning. She had felt invincible, powerful—superior. That last thought made her feel a little queasy, unsure if it was her own sick desire or that of a dominating dragon. Either way, it was still in her head and she had to check the impulse, regardless.

“We should make camp soon,” Lydia stated, disturbing the silence, but she was right. The sun was getting low and would begin to set behind the jagged peaks, plunging the tundra into freezing darkness.

Anoriath nodded. “I’ve a place picked out for us up ahead.” He pointed to the spike of solitary crag just off the road a few hundred yards ahead of them. More steep, rocky mountain than hill, the landmark sat apart and lonely from any nearby range that built the borders of the surrounding valley.

Sonja had been watching its pointed mass grow as the distance between her and it slowly melted away. “What’s it called?” she asked, her tone colorless. Apparently, the landmark had many names, none of them official and none of them sticking as if the oddity of its presence made it difficult to define. The Lonely Mountain, Anoriath had called it, for obvious reasons. Lone Wolf Mount, Vilkas had insisted, for the wolves that roam the area at night. The Dragon’s Tooth, Faendal added, though Sonja suspected he’d made it up just to enjoy the looks of consternation on his fellow Bosmer and the Companion’s faces when it was obvious neither had heard that name before. Lydia agreed that she had heard it called Lone Wolf Mount, much to Anoriath's chagrin. For her part, the landmark instantly and irrevocably became The Dragon’s Tooth in Sonja’s mind. Faendal was better at naming things, in her opinion.

The group found a suitable spot for camp beside a small pond that welled up from the hidden aquafers beneath the tundra floor, nestled between the shallow ridges at the base of the Tooth. Faendal and Anoriath prepared to hunt for supper, much to Sonja’s consternation. “You should be resting, not stalking through twilight with just—him,” she argued, pointing at Anoriath.

The Bosmer had enough pride to look insulted and sputtered out a brief declaration of, “Hey!” But Sonja ignored him.

“You’d rather him go alone or that we don’t eat tonight?” Faendal pointed out.

“I’ll go with them,” Lydia volunteered abruptly before Sonja could respond and prolong the disagreement until they were bickering in the darkness, “I’m quiet enough, I think. You hunt, I’ll watch your backs.”

It was a reasonable enough compromise, so Sonja nodded, irritated. “Fine,” she growled, “Just be quick about it.”

The huntsmen and housecarl promptly disappeared around the edge of the Tooth, bows and sword in hand. Lydia did not have the same light step as either Bosmer, but she was a great deal quieter than Sonja could have managed, she was sure. Sonja watched the spot where they disappeared from her view for a few heartbeats before she turned away and went about setting up camp for the night. Vilkas helped her gather enough loose wood for a fire and pitch the one tent any of them owned: Sonja’s small two-man that had served her and Faendal well enough for their purposes in the past, but the rest were without shelter beyond the warmth of their bedrolls.

When that was done, Vilkas made himself comfortable propped against a boulder and set to work sharpening a knife to clean the animals when they came. Sonja found the metallic draw of the whetstone against the blade to be oddly comforting as she stacked the firewood in the pit they’d readied earlier. She gathered a handful of dry grass and other kindling in her hands and lit it with the barest spark from her finger. Breathing softly into her palms, she coaxed the flame to life, squatted beside the pit, and nestled the flaming twist of tinder beneath the cone of wood. The fire slowly grew, climbing up the splintered logs, and Sonja warmed her hands against it.

It took her several moments before she realized Vilkas’ hands had stilled and the air had grown silent. She glanced at him. He was staring her. “Something wrong?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“No.” He resumed sharpening his knife.

Sonja frowned and looked away, opting to busy herself with removing her bracer instead. Once freed of it, she flexed her stiff fingers and strode swiftly to the pond, abandoning the arm-guard fireside along the way. She fumbled with the laces of the fine, long leather glovelette, the fingers of her left hand still sore and a little numb from her vicious attack on the pyromancer earlier that day, but she managed after a couple frustrating attempts. The bandages uncovered, she rapidly removed the linen to expose her damaged hand to the chill of the evening air. It looked largely unchanged since the day the dragon had seared it; the difference was more felt than observed. Still, she was gentle with her ministrations in the pond as she tenderly but thoroughly rinsed the remnants of a dried poultice from her skin.

Then the painful part began as she cleared her mind and recalled what she had read in the tome Danica had leant her. She had not yet completed the volume, but she had skipped straight to the relevant chapter concerning thick, extensive scarring. Hopefully, that was enough and she set to work mending her own hand. Mara’s bleeding heart, that stings! But she bore through it, lips caught between her teeth and toes tapping anxiously against the ground. She didn’t make a sound, at least, other than her ragged breathing. When she was done, her hand felt weak and tender, but her range of motion had increased a fraction greater. At least that was something.

There was silence again and Sonja glanced over her shoulder, unsure of when the quiet had begun. She spied Vilkas standing at the edge of camp, just outside the halo of the firelight and staring off into the distance where their party had disappeared. Concerned the Companion’s seemingly superior sense of hearing caught something she did could not, she snatched up her belongings and joined him. “Did you hear something?” she asked, fiercely gazing through the darkness.

He shot her a furtive side-glance. “No,” he assured her, “They have been gone for some time, though.”

“It’s dark.”

“We could go looking for them.”

Sonja swayed in the breeze slightly, thinking. “No,” she said at last, “They wouldn’t have gone far. We would have heard them if there was trouble—or you would have, at least.” And she returned to sit fireside once more, catching only an irritable grunt in response to her observation, but Vilkas remained where he stood, impatiently tapping the tip of his blade against his fingertips. Crossing her legs beneath her, Sonja reached for her pack and dug through its contents until she found what she was looking for: an assortment of bandages and a thick leather pouch containing an earthy-smelling poultice. “Come,” she said to the Companion’s back, “Help me with this, will you?”

Vilkas hesitated, gaze still fixed on the distant dark, but he looked away, eventually, and stalked toward her, his eyes darting over the items gathered in her lap. “I don’t have a soft touch,” he objected.

“Don’t need one. Just an extra hand.” He almost shrugged before kneeling beside her, removing his gauntlets. She dipped her fingers into the pouch and began to rub the fresh poultice over her skin. He reached for the medicine to assist. “I can manage this part,” she muttered so he didn’t feel obligated, “It’s the bandages…” But he grabbed the pouch anyway and generously loaded his rough fingers with the coarse brown mixture. Unceremoniously, he smeared it over the uneven ridges of her ruined skin. He had not been lying when he said he did not have a soft touch, but it was not as rough as Sonja had anticipated, either. And he was thorough, working the poultice down her arm to her palm, between her fingers, to her fingertips.

She watched his hands work for a moment, feeling odd to be attended to so—efficiently? When she glanced at his expression, he had an intense look of concentration on his face like he was focusing intently on something very difficult. She wondered if that’s how he demonstrated that he cared: focus. Even if it was invasive. Like harassing Ysolda before they left. He was only trying to look out for his Shield-Siblings—for his adversary. Sensing her gaze, his eyes flicked up to catch hers and they stared at each other for a moment, assessing. “Speak,” he prompted.

“Where to start?”

“With this morning, I expect.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered Ysolda.”

“I know.”

“Then why stick your nose where it didn’t belong?”

“Ysa is my…”

“Nothing,” Sonja snapped, hotly, “She’s not your anything anymore.”

He glared at her sourly. “Aye, don’t I know it.” He sounded regretful and it made Sonja soften a little. She didn’t know exactly what had passed between Vilkas and Ysolda, but it was evident that it had been painful for them both.

“I overstepped,” she blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Vilkas blinked at her rushed apology and grunted an acknowledgement. “Ysa is—compelling,” he said softly, “She’ll make a fine merchant when this is through. I thought—she might have sold you a deal too sweet to be true.”

Sonja scoffed. “Even if she had, it’s my business.”

Vilkas gritted his teeth. “You’ve made your point. Won’t happen again,” he assured, “The ire of one woman is bad enough, but between the both of you…” Sonja pursed her lips, prepared for more of an argument than he had given her. Silently, she chewed on the tip of her tongue as she handed him the linen bandage to wrap around her arm and hand. “You have more to say,” he grunted, taking the cloth and carefully positioning it.

She glared at him for a heartbeat or two in sour silence before she spoke. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours,” she said, “And I don’t need to know, but if you ever run off like that again, I will beat you senseless and drag you back to Jorrvaskr by your thick skull.”

His expression devolved into a deep frown, the broodiest she had ever seen. “That was unworthy of a Companion,” he agreed, “But I will not be reprimanded by a pup.”

“I’m not a green whelpling,” she spat, “We both know that. And give me no reason to chastise you and I won’t!”

“Ugh, woman!” he growled, frustrated, “Fine. I will do better.”

Again, Sonja closed her mouth, almost disappointed that Vilkas was not giving her more to vent her frustration against. She felt a little combative at that moment and tapped the fingers of her free hand against her knee. “Alright, your turn,” she challenged, “Speak.”

His movements stalled over her wrist and his eyes flit back up to hers briefly. “What you did to that mage…” he began.

“What of it?” she asked, defensively.

“I didn’t like it.”

“Too bad.”

“The Companions…”

She made a sound of disgust. “Always unworthy of your Jorrvaskr because I’m a spellslinger,” she interrupted, “Like it or not, you and the rest of Skyrim are going to have to get used to the fact that the Dragonborn is a fucking mage.”

He glared at her, the bandages forgotten, but her hand still caught in his, the edge of the linen still dangling between his fingers. He was warring with himself, she could see. Several times, his mouth opened and closed as he searched for the right words to express his frustration. He was trying to keep his temper in check this time, at least. “Talos was a great warrior, a general…” he began again.

“Fuck Talos.”

“Ysgramor’s balls, woman, let me speak!”

“Then speak plain!” she nearly shouted, her pulse and frustration suddenly soaring, “Say what it is you really mean! That you think me an unworthy, spellslinging milk-drinker sullying your honorable home with my profane magic! A fucking beast!”

He stilled, his expression surprisingly pained. “Is that what you think?” he asked.

She blinked wildly, her chest heaving. She hadn’t intended to get so riled up, but it had been a surprisingly trying day between the unwelcome shock of reliving old trauma and trying to reconcile her growing powers. By way of answering him, she held up her left hand, the one that crushed and froze the pyromancer’s throat. The pads of her fingers and palm were splotchy, shiny, and red. His eyes darted over her injury, familiar with minor frostbite, and he frowned again. “Hard to argue the evidence,” she admitted softly, hating herself a little for speaking her confession aloud let alone to Vilkas.

“I don’t like magic,” he said, “It has taken much away from many good people. And I do not think much of those who wield it like they have the right to hold fire, ice, and thunder in the palm of their hand. Their bodies are usually weak and they do not know honor the way that I was raised to know it. But—without it, you would have died at the watchtower, consumed by the dragon’s breath. No shield, no matter how well-crafted, would have protected you from that. And I—I would have died today at the hilltop, stupid with bloodlust, run through with a dozen icicles and then burned to ashes.”

Sonja stared at him, confused. “So, you…”

“I don’t think you unworthy, Ironheart,” he stated plainly, “I don’t think you a milk-drinker or…or a beast…I don’t like your magic either, but better in your hands than most others. At least I know they’re strong. That you do not take a life the way you did and not suffer a little for it, too. And you’re right: there must be a reason why the Dragonborn—why you are a mage.”

She anxiously tapped her fingers against her knee again, her mouth twitching between a smile and a frown, unsure of which expression to make. “I don’t know if I like it when you’re agreeable,” she admitted, “I don’t know how to speak to you.”

He shrugged a shoulder and resumed bandaging her hand. “It is uncommon, so you needn’t worry.”

She snorted. “Good. It wouldn’t do to like my adversary, anyway.”

He scoffed. “Today, I was my own enemy. How could I be yours also?” She grunted in agreement as he finished wrapping her palm and secured the loose end. Then she withdrew and flexed it, checking the joint’s range of motion. “How’s it feel?” he asked, watching her.

“Good,” she assured, “You did well. Thanks.” And she slipped her hand back into the glove, lacing it loosely.

“You need to be strong out here. Able,” he reminded her, “It does you and the rest of us no good if you’re too broken to fight.”

She hummed her agreement. “Mind your own advice, Companion, and all will be well from this point on.”

Before he could respond, though, he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching and turned his head sharply to peer through the gloom. He barely made out the shapes of Faendal, Anoriath, and Lydia as they returned from their hunt. Sonja followed his gaze and heard a gentle snicker from Faendal as he laughed at some bawdy joke the other Bosmer had made. She sighed, smiling, and leaned back, stretching out across the hard ground to stare up at the sky as the stars grew brighter in the absence of the sun and the not yet risen moons. “‘Bout time you snowberries made it back,” she said loudly when they were near enough to hear her, “Vilkas and I were ready to go out looking for you.”

“Miss me that much, did you?” Faendal quipped as they all stepped into the firelight. The other elf made a sound of feigned indignation at her insult while Lydia looked amused, automatically—and rightly—excluding herself from the good natured insult for there was no plane in Oblivion that she could have ever been mistaken for anything remotely resembling a snowberry.

Vilkas scoffed, “Just that hungry.” Sonja chuckled.


Vilkas nearly snorted into his stew bowl as Faendal delivered the punchline to some vulgar joke he had heard in a greasy tavern once before he settled in Riverwood. It had been a very long winded story about the anatomy of a male Khajiit and the insatiable lust and curiosity of a fair Dunmer maiden. Something of a reverse Lusty Argonian Maid, really. Vilkas had begun to wonder when Faendal was going to get to the point when the Bosmer so cheekily and smugly brought it all to a surprisingly hilarious close that set the Companion into a fit of coughing as he inhaled a small hunk of rabbit: “Pussy willows.” Sonja was half breathless with laughter herself, but not so much that she was unaware of Vilkas’ small distress and leaned over to give his back a solid pounding with her open hand in an effort to help him dislodge his dinner from his lungs.

“You alright?” she wheezed. He grunted something that sounded like an affirmative and took a swig of water from his canteen to clear his throat. The rest of the meal continued in much the same way as Faendal and Anoriath took turns trying to top each other’s stories for the entertainment of the company. Vilkas did not offer any tales of his own because he had no talent for humor beyond his usual dry sarcasm, something he apparently shared with Sonja who insisted she was a poor storyteller as well. Lydia tossed her two gold worth in occasionally, though, which no one had really expected, but thoroughly enjoyed. Vilkas was content enough to listen to them all talk and to laugh along with them; and, for the first time in weeks, he started to feel a little more human again.

After supper, the party broke apart to go about their nightly rituals: cleaning and putting away the cookware, tending to gear if it needed attention, washing up for the night, and unrolling bedrolls. Typically, Vilkas would read before bed or all night if he couldn’t sleep, but he found people-watching to be more interesting at that moment. Faendal was stretched out on his bedroll inside the open tent, his back exposed and awaiting the attention Sonja promised she would provide. He scribbled in his journal while he waited, the tome cracked open on the ground before him, his mouth bent with concentration, and his fingers stained with ink. Anoriath was muttering to himself as he consulted a faded map by firelight, tracing the curves of rivers and peaks of mountains with his forefinger.

At the pond’s edge, Lydia stooped, silently scrubbing at the inside of Faendal’s armor with a bit of ratty damp linen and oil. Her expression was pinched with disgust, but she was dutiful. Besides, it was obvious it was not a task Sonja could have done herself—or rather, should have done. Vilkas didn’t doubt she would have made herself do it if Lydia hadn’t been so insistent. He thought of the look on her face when the Dragonborn turned the harness inside out. Stricken. Sick. Haunted. It was a mercy the housecarl granted her thane in taking it away from her, and Sonja had indeed looked grateful.

Sonja, herself, was stalking around the edge of camp, just beyond the reach of the firelight, but lightly illuminated by the dim glow of the moons. Vilkas could just make out the shape of her as she moved, the slow methodical sweep just out of the range of their sight. But only just. The ghost of her hovered nearly formless in the gloom as she paused every few feet, and then a brilliant spike of light from a spell as she laid her wards along the outskirts of their little sanctuary. Vilkas’ mouth twitched into a frown. More magic…It still set him on edge, even after their earlier conversation, but he had meant what he’d said then: better her hands than those of others. He reminded himself that her wards, like the healing hands of a priest, were protective: they guarded and preserved instead of attacking and destroying.

He remembered her accusatory confession, too: ‘That you think me an unworthy, spellslinging milk-drinker sullying your honorable home with my profane magic!’ she had declared, her expression torn between combative and—pained. ‘A fucking beast!’ Like his opinion alone stood representative for all of Skyrim. Oblivion, maybe it did, for all he knew. It would be a harder path for her to walk with such power in her hands through a land suspicious of and scarred by it. It would have been much better if she had only been a warrior. But she wasn’t and he couldn’t unmake her; she couldn’t and wouldn’t unmake herself. It was wrong to desire that of her, for her. So, there had to be a reason for it. Something he was too blinded by fear to see for himself. He wasn’t an overly religious sort, but he prayed to Talos. Believed in Shor and Kyne and Mara and Akatosh. There had to be a reason for it…

That besides, he didn’t really think those things of her anyway. Especially not the bit about being a beast; no, that was his moniker and he would not see it placed upon another underserving of it. Maybe he had been a little pessimistic in the beginning, if he was being honest. But how could he not be? She was just some weak-necked mage come snooping around Jorrvaskr a few times. He didn’t know her then. Not that he really knew her now, but he had a better feel for her habits than before. She was brash and stubborn and determined. She was capable of both great arrogance and deep humility. And when the Jarl needed someone to fight a dragon, she had gone to do it. She had been fearless when she struck the beast down. She had been merciful when Hera had been foolish. She had been forgiving in the end. That was not the way of the unworthy. He still thought she had a lot to prove, a great deal more to learn, but—he liked her more than anything else. Not that he’d admit it aloud, especially not to her, but had circumstances been a little different—if she hadn’t needed him to make her stronger—he wouldn’t have minded being a little less hostile toward someone with whom he sensed he might have a lot in common.

When Sonja was done, she came back into the warm glow of the light and plopped down hard on her bedroll beside Faendal who spared her a brief glance before tilting his journal away from her prying gaze. She smiled at him sideways, aware her close proximity was disrupting his concentration, and scooted over a few inches. “I’ve set calming runes around the perimeter,” she informed the camp at large, capturing everyone’s attention, “Anything bigger than a fox will set them off. Renders whatever’s caught in it as docile as a cow for a short time. So watch your step.”

“Handy bit of magic that,” Anoriath commented, impressed.

“Takes the edge off the night,” Faendal agreed, speaking from experience.

Sonja shrugged. “If one of you stumbles off to have a piss, it’s better you come stumbling back grinning fools than to not come back at all.”

“What if there’s a pack? Or bandits?” Vilkas asked, skeptically. He harbored no doubt her little rune could handle something solitary like a sabrecat, but half a dozen wolves? Some idiot group of thieves drawn by the promise of a campfire? Or even werewolves? Though the last was unlikely, at least on the tundra. The Circle had hunted or chased most of the feral werewolves from the area. Now, they generally stalked the forests in the south near Falkreath.

“It’ll effect whatever walks over it,” she assured, “The bigger and badder the creature, the less likely it will work, but it helps keep the usual threats at bay. Wildlife mostly. We still need to take the night in shifts, but a bright flash of green light and the sound of something like—clanging brass—should catch our attention, sleeping or not. Yeah?”

Vilkas nodded a touch reluctantly. “Useful,” he acknowledged.

“That’s the idea.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Anoriath volunteered, “My bow still needs tending.”

“I’ll stay up with you,” Faendal offered before Vilkas could open his mouth to do the same, “Got a bit here that needs more work before its finished.”

Sonja flicked Faendal’s ear; he winced. “You’re resting tonight,” she said sternly, “The whole night through.”

“What are you, my ma?” She flicked him again. “Hey, cut that out!”

“You were nearly roasted today, you mindless mer,” she reminded him, “If you want to be of any use tomorrow, you’ll do as I say!”

“I’ll stay up with Anoriath,” Vilkas said, firmly, supporting Sonja’s almost motherly scolding. Besides, he felt somewhat responsible for the mer’s current state; it had been his mistake that led them into danger in the first place.

Faendal grumbled under his breath, mimicking Sonja in comically mumbled tones, but acquiesced, lying still to allow her to examine his injuries. She rolled her eyes at the back of his head for his cheek, her hand flexing in a sincere desire to flick his ear again, but she stopped herself and said nothing. Instead, she extended her closed fist toward the side of the tent closest to Faendal and slowly opened it a finger at a time to reveal a small, white ball of light. Vilkas had seen that spell before when he had interrupted her early morning reading once, but watching her cast it was like watching her pluck a star out of nothing and affix it to the canvas just to shed better light on her friend’s back. It was strangely mesmerizing and uncomfortable, like his body was unsure which response it wanted to act on: fight or flight or freeze.

It was—odd—to see her so—soft, Vilkas decided. The way her fingers roved over Faendal’s spine, searching for—he didn’t really know what, actually. The mer looked well enough healed the first time; he couldn’t imagine what it was her knowing hands were seeking, but occasionally they lit up with healing light and Faendal would inhale sharply, unsuspecting. “Sorry,” she muttered every time, “Almost done.” The mer would nod and return to his journal, trying to correct a crooked line or a bit of mussed shading. Vilkas wondered if it was painful. Sonja’s tender movements didn’t seem aggressive enough to cause harm, but the sweat beading on the huntsman’s brow indicated otherwise. He was bearing it well, if that was the case. Not a sound escaped his lips beyond a few startled gasps.

When she worked her way up to his neck where the scars were darkest, their most gnarled, she peeked over the top of his head and caught sight of the sketch consuming the entirety of the open pages before him. At first her eyes narrowed and then she smirked, small and amused. Little more than a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. “That really what I look like?” she asked, her voice pitched low so only he would hear her, but Vilkas caught it and tried to catch a peek of the drawing, now curious. From a distance, he couldn’t make much of it out beyond a few darker lines of possibly feminine curves.

There was noted silence before Faendal finally replied. “You’re better in person,” he mumbled, “But I don’t think it’s half bad.”

Her expression was unreadable, not that Faendal could see it with his back to her anyway, but Vilkas wondered what was running through her mind. Was she touched by her friend’s careful representation of her? Made uncomfortable by it? Or some other unknown emotion? “Thanks,” she whispered, but there was something more she wasn’t saying.

It didn’t matter because Faendal seemed to hear it all anyway. “Welcome.” And they lapsed into silence for a few moments while Sonja finished healing him.

Vilkas looked away, suddenly and belatedly feeling like a voyeur. Those moments hadn’t belonged to him; he shouldn’t have eavesdropped. And when he glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed his transgression, his gaze immediately latched onto Lydia who looked curiously in his direction, evenly returning his stare with an almost accusatory intensity as she returned from the water’s edge. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. So, he did his best to look away, unconcerned, into the fire, his face a hard mask of disinterest. The housecarl didn’t say anything, of course. It wasn’t her way to pry or ridicule, but she knew he had been watching Sonja and Faendal, and her expression seemed to question his motivations. He pointedly ignored her.

As Sonja applied the balm she’d made from the ingredients she took from Nemah’s saddlebags, Faendal’s mood became lighter now the painful part of his treatment was passed and he returned to his usual chatty self. Unfortunately. “Sōn,” the mer grunted. Sonja hummed at him. “What sign were you born under? Make it a good one.” His question seemed to have something to do with the artwork he was creating.

She hummed again, thoughtfully. “The Thief!” she declared.

“Truly?”

“No. You said make it a good one.”

“Just tell me.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Probably.”

“The Lady.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Probably.”

“Wench.”

She scoffed, amused. “No, I mean it,” she assured, “I was born under The Lady.”

“But you’re so…”

Unladylike?”

“In the best way.”

“Eh, maybe not much of a lady, but all woman,” Sonja replied, dropping backwards off her haunches onto her butt to sit fully on her bedroll. She wiped her hands on her thighs, smiling at her own joke.

“Ralof would know,” Faendal quipped mischievously and Sonja flicked his ear again. He hissed in pain.

“Put your shirt on, ass,” she growled, actually looking a hair embarrassed which was an expression Vilkas never thought he’d see on the brazen Dragonborn’s face; he didn’t think she possessed the capacity to be embarrassed. The mer sat up and cautiously stretched his back, anticipating pain, but feeling none. He breathed easier then and searched his bag for a spare tunic. Vilkas caught a glimpse of the remaining marks, lessened, but still there, no longer pink and raw. It looked better than before and the huntsman moved more smoothly than he had all day. Vilkas was no expert, but he wagered that was a good sign—and perhaps a good gage of Sonja’s healing ability, but he didn’t really know. Broken bones, cuts, bruises, and burns were one thing; illness and disease were quite another.

Beside the huntsman, Sonja pulled her long, frizzing braid over her shoulder and began to pluck at the cords securing it. After a few moments, her hair was loose and wavy, appearing almost auburn in the orange glow of the firelight. It was much longer free of her favored thick plait. Somewhere near her mid-back, Vilkas guessed, if she wasn’t slouching so far forward. He’d seen the full length of it yesterday morning, but he hadn’t been paying attention then—Not that I’m paying attention now, he silently insisted. With sharp, impatient fingers, she worked through the tangles from the day and massaged her scalp of fatigue from the tight weave. She looked annoyed by the long length of it, occasionally making sounds of disgust when her fingers were tangled in those raven tresses. Truth be told, the length of her hair was a bit impractical for a warrior; it just provided another handhold for an enemy to grab onto in a close quarters fight. He wondered if perhaps it was a stubborn spark of vanity that led her to keep such an impracticality; an idea which was both somewhat amusing and unlikely: Sonja didn't seem the type to fret too much over her appearance. She was even careless in the healing of her facial scars.

When she was satisfied with her unruly hair now tamed, she loosely plaited it from nape to about a half foot down, letting the rest of it hang freely. “Wake me for the last shift,” she said to no one in particular as she kicked off the bulkier, more uncomfortable pieces of her armor and slid inside her bedroll.

“I’ll take second watch, then,” Lydia added, arranging Faendal’s armor near the campfire to dry out rather than freeze.

Sonja, tucked warmly into her bedroll like a cocoon, wriggled closer to Faendal until there was a small space beside her. Faendal glared at her, holding his journal away from the ridiculous and unexpected movement, and therefore the possibility of accidental ink stains. He even made a sound of irritation, but she ignored him and gestured for Lydia to squeeze herself into the space she had just made. “We’ll stay warmer this way,” she said when the housecarl blinked at her, bemused.

For a moment, Lydia looked like she might refuse and make herself comfortable beside the tent rather than inside it, but seemed to think better of it. Maybe she was taking pity on her half-Nord thane and the Bosmeri hunter who did not withstand the cold as well she did. Sighing, the housecarl unrolled her bedding, removed much of her armor, and struggled to make herself comfortable inside. It took some effort—some thrown elbows and more complaining from Faendal—for Lydia to finally force her way into the small two-man tent, but she managed it and soon, there was a neat row of their heads in the opening of the tent, protruding from their bedrolls. It was hilarious and Vilkas actually chuckled, shaking his head, as he watched it unfold. Faendal looked at him, unhappily. “Tell no one,” he grumbled.

“Oh, come on, Faendal,” Sonja said good-naturedly, craning her neck to look at him over her shoulder, “This is the most action you’ve had with any woman in a while, let alone two!” Lydia snorted.

The Bosmer groaned and put away his drawing before face-planting into the furs of his bedroll. “I should have died,” he grumbled, his voice muffled by the bedding.

“And stick that poor girl in Riverwood with that bard—what’d you call him Sonja?” Lydia asked.

“Sven the Spineless,” Sonja supplied, “Carries a tune only marginally better than he carries a sword.”

“Sounds awful.”

"You have no idea," the Dragonborn assured.

“So it’s a good thing you didn’t die,”Lydia concluded, “There’s still hope you’ll save Camilla from that milk-drinking snow-back.”

“From your lips to Mara's ears,” Faendal said still refusing to lift his head, but his tentmates didn’t seem to mind as they snuggled deeper into their bedrolls.

“Wake me halfway through your shift, Lydia,” Sonja yawned, “You don’t have to keep watch alone.”

“Will do, Ironheart,” the housecarl assured and then silence finally fell over the trio as they settled into sleep.

Vilkas glanced over in Anoriath’s direction, but the Bosmer was largely consumed with his bow, occasionally glancing around when he thought he heard something moving in the darkness. Usually it was merely the wind or vermin. But Vilkas was less content to stay huddled by the fire. He scaled a nearby ridge of the Mount instead and perched himself on a bit of flat rock, resting his sword across his lap. From the higher vantage point and the dim light of the moon, he could see farther across the tundra and Anoriath didn’t seem to miss his company. So he sat there, sentinel in the cold he hardly felt, eyes sharp and ears straining for the barest hint of intelligent movement. He’d know if anything was headed their way long before they reached Sonja’s protective runes. This was something he could do throughout his restless night while the party slept if only they wouldn’t worry about his lack of sleep the next day. He could sit there all night on his outcropping and enjoy the clear, chilled air in peaceful silence—provided no trouble came their way, of course. Which seemed unlikely to him because if there was one undeniable truth about Skyrim it was this: there was always something trying to kill you. Whenever. Wherever. Always.


Sonja started awake with a sharp intake of breath. She was still sandwiched cozily between Faendal and Lydia in her too-small tent, but she wasn’t feeling particularly warm anymore. She had been dreaming of Thornir again; really, it was inevitable after the day she’d had, but, despite the fiery nature of his demise, she felt chilled through to the bone like she had been running naked through the icy night. Her head hurt and she felt ill. This was not a good day. Not a good day at all…

The enticing thought of returning to sleep did occur to her, and even beckoned with a delicious tug of exhaustion across her weary eyes, but every time she tried to settle back into it, every time her mind teetered on that lovely edge of unconsciousness, a cruel spike of adrenaline shot straight through her from throat to toes, jarring her awake. A torturous cycle of horrifying memories and a painful desire for sleep. She groaned into her bedding, softly, frustrated and peeled an eye open to check the state of the watch. Anoriath was by the fire, propped up by a log, though he was dozing and Vilkas was nowhere to be seen. Assuming it must be toward the end of the first shift and now pretty sure she wasn’t going to easily fall back asleep, Sonja carefully and quietly eased herself upward, slipping from her bedroll and crawling out from between the slumbering huntsman and housecarl. The pair stirred slightly with her movement, but they did not rouse. Their sleeping bodies sensed more room, shifted over into more comfortable positions, and then lay still again. Sonja wasn’t sure if it was a good thing the pair of them were such heavy sleepers.

Once out of the tent, Anoriath started groggily at her presence. “Was about to wake your housecarl,” he assured her, his voice soft and tired.

“Where’s Vilkas?” she asked.

Anoriath nodded to the nearby ridge. “Up there.”

She followed his gaze and just caught the dark silhouette of the Companion’s broad body perched on a rock. “Alright, I’m up now,” she sighed, returning her attention to Anoriath, “Let Lydia sleep.” She looked him over critically. “And get some sleep yourself. You look like shit.”

He frowned at her bluntness but nodded. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he agreed and slunk off to his bedroll opposite side the fire from the tent.

Sonja rubbed the sleep from her eyes and scratched her scalp, mussing her sloppily braided hair, but she hardly noticed. She quickly donned the pieces of her armor she had shed before, but even beneath the thick layers of her clothing, armor, and jacket, she still felt a soul-piercing chill rattle through her bones. She shuddered and bounced on her toes like the small movement was enough to warm her blood, but of course it wasn’t. So she set about making tea, hoping the hot beverage would warm her up from the inside. By the time the water was hot enough, she was already beginning to feel a little better and happily clutched the hot canteen to her body like a personal heater. “Oh, Mara have mercy, that’s good,” she breathed. Then she grabbed the pouch of tealeaves and two bowls, and headed toward Vilkas at his self-appointed post.

The Companion had noticed when she woke, had heard her startled gasp when she snapped awake from a nightmare. From the corner of his eye, he watched her send Anoriath off to bed before she puttered around the camp, shivering like an old woman. It was too bad she did not inherit more of her mother’s constitution against the cold, but she seemed to make due with extra layers and extra cozy sleeping arrangements. He actually smirked when he heard her bless her canteen for its heat. And then he watched her approach him, clutching something in one hand while she pulled herself up the ridge with the other. It wasn’t a particularly steep climb or a dangerous one, but a person certainly needed two free hands to manage; so she was a little wobbly as she hopped onto higher footholds, but eventually she was within arm’s reach of his position on the ledge just below. She held up her free hand expectantly, unable to make the last few steps without help. He hesitated, considering making her drop whatever load she was carrying so that she might make it up under her own power—just to prove a point, though what point, exactly, he wasn’t certain. Perhaps he was just being mean.

She waved her hand at him impatiently. “Don’t be a cock,” she hissed sharply, her expression just beyond his vision hidden behind the ledge, but he was sure she was scowling.

He sighed as if annoyed and grabbed her hand—her right, he noticed. Even injured as it was, she still trusted it above her offhand. Still, he softened his grip slightly, concerned he might hurt her, but her fingers tightened around his palm, much stronger than they had been the last time they sparred. Good. Danica’s treatments are working, then…He hoisted her up with a grunt and she plopped down on his rock which was barely large enough for him to sit upon alone. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked her, frowning as he tried to reposition himself and his sword beside her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged and scooted over to make more room for him, “Thought I might as well take my shift now. Maybe relieve you too if you needed it.”

He glanced sideways at her. “I’m not tired.”

“Figured as much,” she nodded, “I always run into you at odd hours of the night and early morning. Figured you were a bit of a night owl or restless sleeper, too.”

He canted his head somewhat at her observation. “Something like that,” he allowed and then she handed him one of the bowls she had brought up with her. He accepted it, somewhat bemused until she opened the pouch of tealeaves. The sharp sweet scent of mountain flowers and juniper assaulted his senses as she spooned a little into each bowl and poured the hot water from her canteen on top of it.

“It’s godsdamned cold,” she shuddered, swirling the tealeaves in her cup and gripping it with both hands to warm her palms.

“You’re unused to the weather,” he commented dryly, mimicking her and swirling his bowl also, “You’ll adapt—or you’ll freeze to death.”

She scoffed. “Not my first time under the stars in Skyrim,” she informed him, “I know how to compensate—mostly. It’s just…” He turned to her, expectantly, but she didn’t finish immediately and when she did, he sensed it was not what she had originally intended to say. “Must not have bundled up enough before bed.”

He nodded as if he thought her lie a reasonable one and sipped his tea. Weak, but growing stronger and gritty without a proper strainer, but it was a nicety out on the tundra, one for which he was surprisingly grateful. There was a brief moment of silence between them and then, “Why are you here?” he blurted out almost as if his mouth and brain were not as well connected as they should have been. Maybe he was tired.

The sound of Vilkas’ abrupt question jarred Sonja from her thoughts and she glared hard at him, her brow folded with sharp confusion. “What?”

“Why are you here?” he repeated as if his meaning was obvious.

She blinked several times, struggling with comprehension but feeling vaguely defensive like she was about to be attacked for some unknown reason. “On the tundra? Or up here with you? On this plane?”

“In Skyrim,” he clarified.

“Oh,” she said blandly and then grew pensive, “Does it matter?”

The Companion’s expression became unreadable. “Just making conversation,” he replied, evenly, and then looked away, eyes scanning the dark shapes of the tundra for danger, “You were going to tell me yesterday, but we got to talking about Helgen and it never came up again.”

“You don’t do small talk,” she pointed out, “What brought this on?”

He shrugged and sipped his tea again. “You are my Shield-Sister,” he answered casually, “I’d like to know.”

“A Nord always likes a good story, is that it?” she asked almost accusatorily.

“Does it have to be more than that?”

She canted her head to one side. “No,” she allowed, “It doesn’t.” The tension visibly dissolved from her body as she leaned forward, bracing her forearms against her knees, and squinted into the darkness with him. Mistrust was a habit for her, he could tell. Distrust by default, even when it wasn't warranted or needed. “Though you’ll be disappointed. Mine’s not a tale of glory and honor, just—mundane.”

“Something tells me there is nothing boring about the life of the Dragonborn,” he replied.

She looked at him then with a funny little look in her eye caught somewhere between irritation and apology. “This isn’t a tale of olde,” she said, “I wasn’t led to Skyrim by Akatosh, himself. Talos didn’t come to me in my sleep and grant me dancing visions of a land of ice and snow. I came because I had no choice, because I didn’t have it in me to stay.”

He turned to meet her gaze. “Then why did Sonja Ironheart come to Skyrim?” he asked, pointedly, “If the Dragon had nothing to do with it?”

“A different kind of dragon, at least,” she allowed and her expression grew stormy, “Another Draconis. My younger sister fled to Skyrim. I followed.”

She has a sister…It wasn’t exactly strange to think that Freydis had more than one child. Many clans tried for as many children as they could support because so many of them often died too young. Even with the expert care of seasoned healers and alchemists, some tiny souls simply weren’t long for the world. But Sonja had never made a mention of siblings, at least that he had ever overheard or heard mention of from others. Though, when he thought about it, it was not as if anyone—himself included—had ever asked her for more detail about her family. They had all been so focused on the fact that a daughter of Freydis Ironheart had returned to Whiterun, eager to compare Sonja to their recollections of that legacy. And she seemed so—solitary—to him. As if she’d lived her whole life alone and intended to spend the rest of it the same. “Fled?” he repeated, “Fled from what?”

Sonja let out a single harsh laugh. “From me, I suspect.”

“You don’t get on.” An observation, not a question.

She grimaced and the regret he saw there was real and bitter and old. “No,” she admitted, “Never have.”

“Where is she now?”

A sad little twitch of a shrug followed by the almost morose mutter of, “I don’t know,” was her answer, “She’s had—a few weeks headstart on me.” She let out a little growl and rubbed her face with her scarred hand.

Surprisingly, Vilkas’ expression softened. Slightly. Minutely. Almost undetectable but for the eyes—and even then, it was hard to tell through the dark face paint. Perhaps Sonja had imagined it, but when he spoke, his voice was noticeably gentle. “Why so long?” he asked.

“Wasn’t the first time she’d disappeared for weeks,” Sonja shrugged, “I thought—I thought she just didn’t want me around. So I waited—like I always do—for her to get over herself and come home.” She pursed her lips sourly and scratched her temple with an irritated flick of her index finger. “It wasn’t until a contact of mine in Bruma sent word that Anj had made it over the border that I knew…” she made a sound of disgust, “That I knew she was serious this time.” She moistened her lips and cast a hard glance in his direction. “She brought our mother’s ashes with her so Freydis could be put to rest in the Hall of the Dead in town.”

He hesitated. “That why you came to Jorrvaskr?”

She actually looked a shade guilty then. “Aye,” she admitted, “I was looking for leads and needed the coin.”

He nodded, understanding, and glanced back to the tundra, passing his thumb over the rim of the bowl in his hand. ‘What would you do for your brother, Vilkas?’ Ysolda’s words echoed through his head, suddenly making sense. “That why you made this deal with Ysa, too?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t lose her temper with him for bringing it up again.

Sonja pursed her lips, but nodded. “Anj went with the Khajiit caravans when she skipped town, I’m just trying to follow her trail and Ysa—has an in with their leader.”

He frowned this time, feeling even more ashamed for harassing Ysolda earlier that day. Sonja had merely seen an opportunity to get what she really wanted—a lead on her missing sister—and took it. Maybe she didn’t know what she was signing up for turning the simple transaction into a Great Hunt, but it didn’t really matter. If he had been in her shoes, he would have gladly slaughtered any number of beasts, great and small, for the chance to find Farkas and Skyrim was too vast to search without a general direction at the very least. “But everything keeps getting in your way,” he observed, putting together the series of events that placed Sonja at a campfire out on the tundra instead of halfway across Skyrim, looking for her sister. “The watchtower…”

“And that damned dragon.” And the Greybeards and their call and the Companions and Hera…and…and…and…Sonja was beginning to wonder if she was letting things get in the way. If she shouldn’t just say, ‘Sod it all,’ and start walking. Anywhere. Maybe it was closer to Anja. Maybe it was further away. Maybe she would die shivering, starving, or bleeding—likely all three—lost somewhere in the woods or snowbanks or jagged peaks. Maybe she didn’t care and Anja didn’t either. But maybe it was better than standing still. Maybe…

He stared at her for some time, his light eyes dancing over the frustration and disappointment etched into her expression. If there was one thing that he understood above all else, it was the bond between siblings. Some days, they were your closest friends, and other times, they were your worst enemies. It seemed to him that Sonja had spent a long time trying to both love and hate her sister. As to which had won out in the end, her presence in Skyrim was proof enough. “You will find her,” he said abruptly and so confidently that Sonja blinked in surprise, “You’re too stubborn not to.”

She actually chuckled genuinely then and hummed her agreement. “If only all my problems bowed to my stubbornness,” she sighed.

“Have you met one that hasn’t yet?”

“One,” she admitted and though the smile did not slip from her face, her eyes looked a little sad, “He fell to my blade instead.”

Unbidden, the memory of the scar across her back and abdomen flitted through his mind; he didn’t know if that was what she was referring to, but he sensed it, somehow. It made some strange amount of sense that those moments her determination failed her left real marks across her flesh. “Thanks for this, by the way,” he said suddenly, changing the subject.

She looked confused until she realized he was referring to the tea. “No problem,” she waved him off, “Figured even a big, tough Nord like you needs a little warmth now and then.”

He snorted. “Don’t make me push you off this rock.”

She smirked and looked about ready to challenge him to try his luck, but thought better of it at the last moment. “And you?” she said instead, “What brought a young Vilkas and Farkas to the halls of Jorrvaskr?”

He glanced sideways at her again. “Sounds like you’ve heard a little of the tale already,” he observed.

She shrugged. “Eorlund mentioned Kodlak named you and Farkas sons of Jorrvaskr—an honor not easily earned,” she admitted, “And Ria may have mentioned you were the youngest to ever join the Companions—on multiple occasions, to anyone who’d listen.”

Vilkas hid his frown in his teacup and pointedly ignored Sonja’s implication about Ria. The girl had been smitten with him for a very long time and he’d made it his business to play ignorant of it. “To hear Farkas tell it, our father raised us at Jorrvaskr as happy pups, running around biting knees,” he sighed and the action made him look older, “I love my brother, but his brains are not his strong suit.”

“Lydia doesn’t seem to mind.”

“His brains have nothing to do with what she likes,” he pointed out.

Sonja’s eyebrows shot up but she nodded, agreeing. “No, I’d wager not.”

He smirked at her answer in the space of his hesitation, but the expression quickly died from his face as he spoke his next words. “We were brought to Jorrvaskr by Jergen Snow-Hammer,” he continued, making a face that conveyed disgust at even having to pronounce such a name, “A former Companion. I don’t know if he was any good with a sword, but—he had been a part of the Circle for a short while, so he must have known how to hold a weapon, at least.” He glanced at her again. She was still and silent and staring right at him with an intensity so sharp it felt like she was piercing through him instead of looking at him—like she could sense the way his story would end and was already pitying him for it. It made him hesitate and he considered not saying anything more. He didn’t have to, after all. He didn’t really owe her a tale, even though he had procured one from her. He could just let it lie, snap at her to mind her own business, and bury this old pain back down where it belonged. But—he didn’t want to—and something about the way she was looking at him with attentive, but unexpectant eyes made him feel—safe? No, that wasn't quite the word for it, but it was something like it, something close. And in the heart of Skyrim, in the dead of night when anything could attack them at any moment for any reason. Go fucking figure.

A muscle along his jawline twitched as he paused and Sonja wondered whether she had unintentionally overstepped in asking about his childhood or if he simply didn’t like the answer he was about to give her. “Whether he was our father or not,” he almost spat, “I don’t care. He left to fight in the Great War and never came back.” He huffed and scowled and looked away from her. “So he’s not my problem anymore. We’ve been at Jorrvaskr as long as either of us can remember, though,” he shrugged, trying to appear casual, “That meadhall is our home. The Companions as good a family as any.”

Sonja sat in considerate silence for a few heartbeats, her brow only slightly puckered with distaste for Vilkas’ story, and she mindlessly tapped her finger against the rim of her bowl again. When he looked at her to gage her reaction, she did not shy away from his gaze and instead studied his expression in return. He looked as tough and impassible as ever; a practiced expression she was sure, to cover a hurt nearly as old he was because it seemed to her—and indeed, probably to Vilkas, too—that Jergen Snow-Hammer was their father and dead or not, he had abandoned them on the doorstep of a godsdamned meadhall to be raised by warriors. That could not have been an easy way to grow up, no matter how much Vilkas and Farkas loved Jorrvaskr and the Circle. In his place, she’d want to forget her family name, too. “Fuck Jergen Snow-Hammer,” she blurted.

Vilkas blinked and suppressed a small smile. “Aye, pup, fuck Jergen Snow-Hammer,” he agreed.

She tapped her bowl against his. “To real family, then,” she proposed, “Blood or built, they still drive you mad, but there’s nothing like ‘em.”

“Blood or built,” he echoed with something a little like appreciation. They sipped the tea in unison and then tried to take their watch in earnest. The rest of the night only punctuated with Sonja’s occasional shivers or the distant howling of wolves.

Notes:

So, obviously, I'm still trying to get back into the swing of posting regularly with varying success, so I appreciate your patience, those of you still following along. This was a beast of a chapter to write, initially, and then edit and rewrite parts of it. But, it's done now and I hope you enjoy some Sonja/Vilkas quality time. :)

Oh, and "Don't be a cock," might be my favorite thing Sonja has ever said to Vilkas.

As always, feel free to comment, but be kind and/or constructive. Thanks!

Chapter 27: Greensping Hollow

Summary:

The second day of the scouting out on the tundra proves to be more active than the first. AKA, everything in Skyrim wants you dead.

Notes:

This chapter bounces around quite a bit between the Vilkas, Sonja, and even Faendal, at one point.

Also, it's another lengthy addition (and so soon!), so enjoy.

And, lastly, I am phenomenally terrible at providing trigger warnings at the begging of my chapters. Apologies to anyone affected, I will make updates to previous chapters soon and will start adding them from this point on.

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of physical violence and death.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja stirred, her face delving into the soft furs of her bedroll in an attempt to escape the light of the sunrise shining in her face. The bedding smelled of cedar wood and armor polish, scents she had not noticed before, but not unpleasant; thoughtlessly, she burrowed her nose in even deeper and inhaled long and slow. Her hand clutched into a fist as she stretched her limbs inside the comfortable warmth of the bedroll only to find she was holding the hilt of her dagger, grasping it protectively against her chest. Confused, she opened her eyes, squinting into the blazing light of the sun; she raised a hand to cut the glare and blinked around, exhausted. She wasn’t inside the tent with Faendal and Lydia, but the huntsman and housecarl were still there, still sleeping and sprawled out comfortably—over her bedroll? This puzzled her and she sat bolt upright, looking down. It wasn’t her bedroll she had been huffing like a lunatic. It was Vilkas’.

Sharply, she looked around for the Companion in question and spotted him walking toward her, returning from the pond’s edge his face freshly washed and clear of face paint. She glared at him, her features twisted in a grumpy scowl from lack of sleep and alarm. “When did I fall asleep?” she demanded of him when he was close enough.

He smirked at her, amused, and in the absence of the paint, it was a disturbingly charming expression. “I don’t know,” he informed her, “You came down to make more tea and never made it back. I think it must have been while the water was boiling.”

She blinked and valiantly fought a yawn. His estimation sounded about right; it was a little fuzzy, but she vaguely remembered watching the water ripple in the pot on the flames. Still, that didn’t account for how she wound up so nice and cozy in the Companion’s bedroll. “And about when did you come down to tuck me into bed?” she asked dubiously, wiggling her toes to discover she was missing her boots; her gaze shifted to search for them.

“Probably not long after you fell asleep,” he admitted, kicking her boots toward her, “You were taking too long.”

“You could have woke me,” she grumbled, shaking free of the bedroll, her vowels wide and round as she spoke around a mighty yawn, “Or Lydia. You shouldn’t have stayed awake all night.”

His mouth twitched and he squatted beside her to stoke the fire. “You needn’t worry,” he assured her, “I’ll manage.”

She stared at him. He didn’t really look well-rested, not that she expected as much after he’d kept watch all night, but he didn’t look as worn out as she had expected, either. His clean face revealed bags under his eyes, but they weren’t dark and heavy. Maybe he was used to irregular sleep? She didn’t really know, but she didn’t like the possibility of his reflexes slowing while they travelled, either. Then again, maybe it will keep him from running off again…she mused, ruefully. He cut a glance at her. “What?” he growled.

Belatedly, she realized she had been staring overlong. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without the warpaint before,” she stated, feeling a slight disconnect between her mouth and brain. He hesitated, blinking, and then grunted an acknowledgement. It was likely she never had seen him barefaced before since it was the first thing he put on in the morning and the last that he took off before bed. It was only absent now because he needed to splash a bit of cold water on his face to wake up some. “You look more like Farkas without it,” she continued, pensively, now openly examining his face like it wasn’t awkward, “Friendlier.”

“I don’t wear it to appear friendlier to my enemies.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just to intimidate newcomers to Jorrvaskr?”

“Worked none on you,” he pointed out and she smirked, kicking the rest of the way out of his bedroll—and cloak, apparently, he had thoroughly insured she would not freeze—and pulling on her boots which was her only missing bit of armor. He hadn’t undressed her when he tucked her into bed, at least. Then she hauled her sorry carcass to the pond and washed up also. With damp fingers she tamed her hair once more, plaiting and twisting it back to a thick braid from the crown of her head. When she returned, Vilkas had moved the left over stew onto fire to reheat it for breakfast and Anoriath was sitting up, groggily rubbing his eyes. Lydia was crawling out of her bedding, sharply looking around the campsite. “She’s over there,” Vilkas said, nodding his head in Sonja’s direction when he caught the housecarl’s eye.

Lydia turned in time to see Sonja join them. “Who stayed up for watch?” she asked in a tone that almost suggested she really didn’t want to know the answer.

“Vilkas and I,” Sonja replied, “For most of the night anyway.” She stooped to retrieve her dagger from the folds of his bedroll. “Then I passed out like the rest of you sorry lot.”

Lydia frowned, her eyes bouncing between Sonja and Vilkas before she shrugged. “Well, did we have any trouble?” she asked as she set about dressing herself.

“Only a few stray wolves,” Vilkas replied, “Skittish, though. They didn’t even come near enough to be caught in the wards.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Sonja asked, “Aren’t wolves up north bolder than they are in Cyrodiil?”

“Sort of,” Anoriath answered, yawning.

“They’re hungrier,” Vilkas continued while the huntsman struggled with a mighty yawn and stretch, “The land is harsher here. Prey struggles to eat from frozen earth…”

“…And if prey struggles to eat, so does predator,” Sonja concluded, “I get it.”

“There must be a kill somewhere nearby,” Anoriath hypothesized, “Something easier to deal with than attacking a camp.”

Vilkas nodded, agreeing. “Keep an eye out for it so we can give it a wide berth,” he suggested, “There might be more than wolves protecting a meaty carcass.”

“Let’s eat and get going then,” Sonja said with finality, and then to Lydia, “Poke Faendal awake, would you?” The housecarl grinned and gleefully stabbed the sleeping Bosmer in the ribs with her solid index finger. He flinched awake and tried to smack her hand away until he realized what was happening. Then he groaned and pulled himself out of bed, glaring. “Good morning, beautiful,” Sonja greeted, brightly, “How did you sleep?” He made a rude gesture at her. “Oh, good. I was worried you’d be uncomfortable.”


Watching Anoriath apply his blood red warpaint to his face in the reflection of the pool was a little mesmerizing to Sonja. The shapes, designs, and color all seemed to mean something significant and he smoothed the paint over his bronze skin with far more precision than Vilkas who looked a little like a raccoon in comparison. Comparing the perpetually frowning Companion to banded vermin made her smirk. “Is there something you need, Hunt Master?” he asked, glancing at her sideways as he applied the last few dots.

“No, just watching,” she replied distantly, “Yours is more elaborate than I’ve seen before. And red.”

He nodded, understanding, but did not immediately answer. Instead, he turned to gesture to Faendal a few feet away. “Care to partake, brother?” he asked, holding up the bowl of paint, and Faendal actually looked pleased to be asked.

“I’d be honored,” he accepted and took the bowl from Anoriath. Carefully he began to apply a different pattern to his face in the reflection of the water in the same slow, precise movements.

“It’s to honor Y’ffre and the Green Pact,” Anoriath explained, “Particularly as hunters, we are obligated. A Bosmer tradition less—strict—the farther from Valenwood one travels.”

Sonja cocked her head to one side. “A know a little of the Pact,” she admitted, “Not well—and probably a tainted outsider’s point of view—but, doesn’t it forbid the consumption of anything but animals?”

“Short answer: yes,” Faendal replied, “But it’s more complicated than that and has to do with our belief in Y’ffre. For most Bosmer who leave Valenwood, it’s harder to comply to the Pact in a world that does not understand or accommodate it.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious sort, Faendal,” she admitted.

“I’m not,” he assured her, “But it’s good to remember when in the company of another Bosmer. Y’ffre gave much to the wood elves.”

She smirked. “I think I understand.” She looked to Anoriath again. “Were you born in Valenwood? Or have you always lived here?”

“Settled with my brother in the last decade or so,” he answered, “We were all over before that, but yes, we were born in Valenwood.”

“Do you miss it?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “The Green is magnificent there. Living, breathing, and warmer.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“Oh, it is,” the Bosmer sighed, “Maybe I’ll go back one day, but for now, Skyrim is my home and I do like it here. Harsh and wild, but there’s a kind of beauty to it that you’ll see nowhere else.”

She watched Faendal finish applying the warpaint with a final stipe over his bottom lip to the point of his chin. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “If—you can’t harm plants,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing slightly at the red paste inside the bowl, “Then is that…?”

“Blood?” Faendal finished.

“Yep!” Anoriath answered gleefully, “It would be an insult to Y’ffre, otherwise!”

“Right. Of course.” Sonja nodded, slightly repulsed by the idea, but respecting the Bosmers’ practice all the same.

Faendal’s expression grew mischievous. “We could paint you up, if you like,” he offered, taking a few threatening steps toward her with the bowl outstretched. Anoriath’s expression grew a little tight, but he did not otherwise react.

She pursed her lips, taking a half step back. “All honor due to Y’ffre, but I think I’ll manage fine without it.”

“Isn’t the Hunt Master supposed to be ritualistically marked, anyway?” Lydia wondered aloud, adding fuel to Faendal’s teasing.

“On the day of the Great Hunt, itself, but she doesn’t have to beforehand if she doesn’t want to,” Vilkas answered without looking up as he closed his pack and slung it over his shoulder, apparently not paying attention to or, at the least, not invested in the Bosmers’ discussion of their rituals. “Tradition would prefer it, but I don’t think anyone expects it of an outsider.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed, annoyed at Vilkas’ use of the word ‘outsider.’ She pursed her lips and looked to Faendal, jutting out her chin a little in the process. “Go ahead, then,” she said, “I will take the marks today.”

Faendal hesitated, his outstretched arm dropping about six inches as his gaze flit to Anoriath. The Pact blood paint was definitely not for outsiders; his earlier offer only a jest. “Sonja, I…” he began, but she rolled her eyes and looked to Vilkas instead.

“You, then,” she commanded, firmly and waited.

He looked at her intently, finding the challenge in her expression and grinding his teeth almost absently. “Alright,” he agreed and dropped his pack to the ground. He stooped to search through it and straightened with his own small container of his characteristic eye-black. He popped it open and beckoned for her with a sharp impatient gesture, but she did not immediately move, wanting to make him come to her instead. With twin growls of frustration, they met somewhere in the middle. It was a silent and completely unnecessary standoff between two proud warriors. One vaguely insulted and tired of being cast the foreigner in her ancestral home, and the other too stubborn to admit when he was being an ass. So, Sonja glared at him much the same way she had on the first day that they’d met, almost taunting, and Vilkas was always welcoming of a challenge. He jerked his head to the right, wordlessly commanding her to present the scarred plane of her cheek to him, but she turned her face only scant inches so she could still glare at him properly. With a brusque, irritated gesture, he removed his glove with his teeth, almost snarling in her face, and pushed it into Sonja’s hand to hold while he worked. Then he loaded his thumb with the dark paste and drew upon her skin.

It turned out to be a more intimate experience than either had intended. Vilkas had to stand very close to Sonja and she was nearly his height so she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. His other hand, initially not engaged in the activity, eventually moved to steady her face; his gloved thumb braced against her chin and the other four digits resting along the curve of her throat. The smooth, gentle pull of the paint, now heated by his fingertips, was a pleasant feeling on her skin. That besides, whatever design he was drawing out on the canvas of her face, the shape of it mimicked a caress under different circumstances. It was distracting and she didn’t like it. She swallowed hard, thinking that perhaps she had made a mistake, and blinked, her eyes sliding away from his gaze to glare at his nose instead. She saw him blink also, in her periphery, and moisten his lips absently.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered as his thumb made the final curl of the spiraling wind marking he was painting; it swirled over that vital, pulsating vein in her neck and he felt her pulse thud a little too quickly against his touch. Knowing his proximity was responsible for either her excitement or discomfort pleased the Wolf inside him greatly and he had to focus very hard on the task at hand. “But there is much you still don’t know.” He turned her chin to face forward again before taking more paint onto his thumb.

Looking at him a little more directly now, Sonja chewed on her tongue and met his gaze once more. “Then teach me and quit reminding me I don’t belong,” she replied, her voice low and dangerous, “I already feel it every day.”

It looked as if that had never occurred to him before and he nodded, minutely. “As you say, Dragonborn,” he agreed and drew a vertical line above her left eye, the curve of two more over her cheekbone; the bent of his knuckles grazed over her mouth as he did so.

Reflexively she chewed on her lips, confused and made uncomfortable by the strange intimacy of the moment, so she just stepped away and cleared her throat. “Good. Let’s get a move on then.”

“Aye, we have a lot of ground to cover,” Anoriath agreed, brightly, but he seemed a little uncomfortable for some reason as he exchanged glances with a scowling Faendal.


Faendal didn’t like Vilkas Jorrvassen very much. It wasn’t that he thought the Companion a bad or otherwise dishonorable man, but he didn’t like the way he threw his weight around and looked down his nose at Newbloods. And he certainly didn’t like the way he looked at Sonja. Aggressive. All the time, sharp and critical of every move she made like she was an idiot who’d never held a sword before. Constantly so damned hostile that Sonja always seemed to feel cagey in his presence; always ready for an attack, a rebuke, or an insult. Now, Faendal wasn’t a soft-touch, he understood the bullheaded Nordic way; he’d lived in Skyrim for a long time and had gotten along fine with her people. He understood the hardline Vilkas was taking with Sonja was probably some warped expression of respect—or even that he cared whether or not she died which was saying a lot—for a Nord.

But Faendal still didn’t like it because to him, Sonja had nothing to prove. She was smart and strong and brave. Most of all she was kind. Not in an obvious way, she liked to guard her softness and tease him mercilessly, but he knew they were friends. She definitely cared whether or not he lived or died—as proved by that unfortunate pyromancer. She cared for his wounds and bullied him into resting in a way only a sister could. Painfully, she reminded him of Aife in that way and maybe that was part of why he had followed her all along.

So, he really took issue with the way the surly Companion ordered her about and he often saw what Sonja didn’t see. When she wasn’t looking, Vilkas’ usual sneer was a lot different, a lot less angry. It was dark and hungry and intrigued. Maybe the Companion thought no one else noticed or maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it, but Faendal made it his business to always watch Sonja’s back and his eyes were sharp and observant. He always noticed and he didn’t like Vilkas Jorrvassen one bit.


Though their night had been relatively uneventful, their journey throughout the rest of the day was considerably less so. It seemed that everything in all of Skyrim had been alerted to their presence and had set out to murder them. At least the weather was nice. But everything from a couple of plucky and persistent skeevers to a very large and hostile bear wanted them dead: a pack of hungry wolves, a sleek and stalking sabercat, and a particularly stupid group of bandits that they outnumbered by two. “All we need’s a dragon and then the day’s complete,” Sonja commented dryly.

“Don’t say that!” Anoriath anxiously scanned the cloudless sky as if Sonja could summon a dragon merely by mentioning it.

“It is a bit dangerous traveling out this far,” she continued, “I don’t know if it would be wise to move a whole hunting party through. Especially after we kill that mammoth. We’ll be slow moving back to Whiterun.”

Vilkas nodded, acknowledging her point. He had taken part in nearly a half dozen Hunts over the years; Sonja’s would have been the sixth, if he had intended to join the party. So he had a feel for it that Sonja lacked. “The hunting party will be much larger than we few now,” he countered, “Most wildlife won’t attack so many. Even bandits aren’t stupid enough to challenge armed men and women twice their number.”

“Not so sure about that,” Sonja pointed out, reminding him of the bandits that had attacked them earlier that day whom they had almost outnumbered by twofold.

“That went beyond stupidity and into suicidal.”

“So you think we can move a party through here, no problem?”

Vilkas shrugged. “It’s either that or we take a beast from the giants’ camp,” he reasoned, “Which is much closer to town and is traditionally done, but there’s always someone to pay for it afterward. The farmers take the brunt of the giant’s retribution and then the Companions are hired to deal with it.”

Sonja sighed. “Are we near where you last saw the herd, Anoriath?”

“Aye,” the Bosmer confirmed, “Just over this next hill and we should see the lake where they were watering.”

They crested the rocky hill and the sight took Sonja’s breath away. There had been a little meandering stream they had crossed over many times as they travelled. It swelled and diminished and disappeared in turns through the rough tundra floor, but it was back now, curving around the bottom of the hill they stood upon and pooling into the muddy depression there, a small glistening eyelet of water. But the water moved on, as it does, further west through the rocks until its small, whispering form bled into a much larger tributary. It wasn’t a violent action, this consumption, but the stream meandered no more. And the small river, which must have crossed many miles of frozen mountain where it was born and uneven tundra where it grew, rested for a moment against the levees of the broken tundra steppes. There the river grew fat and still, swelling into a lake of clear water that shimmered in the afternoon sun like glass. At the far end, the river moved on again, tumbling down a jagged face into the body of a much more mature waterway and disappearing from sight around the bend of a distant crag. Beyond it, in the deep distance were the towering cliffs of the Reach, shrouded in mist and faintly echoing of a maddening, harrowing cry.

That vision, though a truly beautiful one, was not what filled Sonja with pure wonder, however. No, it was the creatures huddled there along the steep shore of that gorgeous lake that made her skull buzz with awe. She had read about mammoths before in a bestiary some time ago in distant memory; she had seen pictures, flat and small and lifeless on the parchment; and listened to her mother’s avid descriptions of the primal beasts of her homeland. But this—this was something else entirely. No book or illustration or tale could have prepared her for the size or smell or feel of the beasts as they wandered, slow and sure, picking at the vegetation along the banks and drinking the cool water, gargantuan and mystic.

Sonja watched the sway of their thick, ropey coats of hair and felt the small, rumbling aftershock of every step in her toes. There was something—not exactly graceful—but magnificent about the herd of mammoths. They seemed old to her. From a distant time before they learned to fear the hunt of man and mer. Ancient creatures moving through a country that teetered on the edge of myth and modernity. A birthplace of legends. Like the Dragonborn. Suddenly, she very much wished not to hunt them.

“Glorious beasts, right?” Anoriath sighed, taking a knee to make his presence smaller. They weren’t yet close enough to alarm the watering animals, but Sonja sensed the herd knew they were there, watching.

She promptly dropped to one knee, almost upsetting her gear and Faendal in the process. “I’m surprised they’re still here,” she said, not quite whispering, but her voice much softer than usual, “It’s been days.”

“They’ve got a couple of calves with them,” Anoriath explained, leaning into her space to point down her eye line, “I think one of them is sick or injured. I couldn’t tell and they wouldn’t let me close enough.” Sure enough, the young Anoriath spoke of—quarter sized copies of the adults with blunted or absent tusks—were obscured by the shifting patrol of the herd. The mammoths knew how to protect what was most precious to them. “I was thinking our best bet is to separate one of the young, weak males,” the Bosmer hunter continued, “That one there. Not the best set of tusks I’ve ever seen, but they’ll still fetch a fine price in any market.”

Sonja let out a long, low breath. “We have to be careful,” she said, “I don’t want any of the young hurt.”

Anoriath turned to face her then, a faint look of surprise in his expression. “Don’t worry, the herd will move to protect the babies,” he assured, “They’d rather lose that male than a calf.” She nodded, frowning, not completely satisfied.

“He’s probably about grown enough to leave the herd anyway,” Faendal observed, squatting beside Sonja, “The males don’t stay when they’re old enough to mate. They wander off, alone, to find another herd or…”

“Die trying,” Sonja finished.

Her friend nodded. “Sometimes the giants pick them up,” he added, “But—if they don’t get on with the existing herd, they’re often slaughtered anyway.”

Sonja could almost talk herself into believing it was a mercy hunting the little runt down. Almost, but it was enough for now. “Alright, I agree,” she said, focusing, “We’ll take that male. And only that male. I don’t want to destroy this herd just because we’re careless.”

“You have a plan of attack?” Anoriath asked, sounding skeptical, “We can do a little scouting further north, if you like. There’s some spots along the treeline that might make for good killing grounds.”

“I have—something that resembles a plan,” she admitted, “I’ll let you know when it takes better shape.” She glanced around, suspicious of how long they had been perched atop the hill without something trying to sneak up on them. So far, the coast was clear—for now. “Tell me more about these beasts before we head north,” she continued, “I want to be able to pick them out in the dark.” Anoriath pointed out the ways to tell male mammoths from the females—apart from the obvious—and Sonja studied them, committing them to memory: the curve of the spine, the shape of the head, and the bulk of the body. Anoriath identified the herd leader, the eldest female, their matriarch; which among the young females were pregnant; and which were likely the strongest of the three males. He whispered his assessment to her and she nodded again, silently absorbing the information as her quick mind shuffled through a series of scenarios that she needed to consider.

Then Anoriath led them back along the tributary, northeast. “I have a friend from Rorikstead who hunts these parts,” he said as he hopped the calm, quiet river from stone to stone, “Nord by the name of Anders Kjeldsen. Good man, good hunter. We help each other out when the day gets long and fruitless.”

“He going to join us for the Hunt?” Sonja asked, hopping after him.

“Oh, aye, he’d very much like that,” Anoriath agreed, happily, “Probably bring a few able-bodies from the hamlet, too.”

“More the merrier!” Faendal chimed in, following Sonja. Vilkas and Lydia just stomped through the shallow water.

“Anyway, I only bring him up now because we’re nearing one of his favorite campsites, Greenspring Hollow,” Anoriath continued, “He might be around, or he might not. Either way, it’s a good place to rest. Maybe set up camp before we head out along the treeline.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sonja agreed and the party hiked a little ways further up, eyes constantly scanning for danger. Soon enough, the peak of a large stone outcropping became visible over the slope and Anoriath happily cried out that they were almost there. He even called out for Anders a few times, to see if he was anywhere nearby. Nothing but the wind answered back, shifting through the trees of the forest beyond the hollow and breezing over the crags and hills of the tundra. That was about when Vilkas went suddenly rigid, his face scrunched up like he smelled something foul and his stride growing long and quick as he hurried up the slope to head Anoriath off.

“Steady on,” the Bosmer hunter complained when Vilkas’ thick arm shot out in front of him to halt his progress.

“Something’s not right,” the Companion growled.

“You hear something?” Sonja demanded, levelling with the two men.

He shook his head in one curt movement. “I smell death,” he rumbled ominously.

Sonja’s brow furrowed and she cautiously breathed deeply, deliberately, trying to catch even the faintest hint of what would set Vilkas so on edge. And it was there, beneath the perfume of mountain flowers and lavender and the sharp bite of pine, the faintest trace of acrid, rotting flesh. “I smell it too,” she revealed, validating Vilkas’ claim to a skeptical Bosmer.

“Probably just the guts of a recent hunt…” he tried to explain away, nervously, fear for his friend building in his chest.

“Let’s just proceed with caution,” Sonja said reasonably and gestured for Lydia and Faendal to come closer. “You two come at the hollow from that side. Vilkas opposite. Anoriath and I will come straight up the middle.” Housecarl and huntsman nodded in agreement and quickly darted off to do as Sonja ordered. Vilkas lingered, his eyes scanning the treeline as he took several deep, deliberate breaths. Seemingly satisfied with something, he began to head off in the general direction of Sonja’s recommended approach. “Hey,” she hissed at him and he paused to look over his shoulder at her, “Eyes sharp. Stay safe.” He was the odd man out, after all. There was no one there to watch his back.

“Mind the hunter,” he replied, shrugging off her concern as he stalked off into position.

Sonja huffed, but turned away, looking to Anoriath instead. “You ready?” He nodded and the pair of them shirked their packs to the ground, resting them neatly beside each other. The bags made them too big to miss and the gear hanging off of them too swung to noisily to ignore. “Let’s go.” And they crept up the slope, low and silent—or as silent as Sonja was able, anyway. Sneaking was not her forte.

At the crest of the slope the large stones that lined the edge of the space beneath the outcropping came into view. It was easy to see why this was a favorite of a hunter frequently out on the tundra. The stone provided perfect permanent protection from the elements, and the rocks beneath would obscure the light from a campfire. Its elevation higher than the surrounding steppes would also offer a superior view of approaching enemies or wildlife. The unique profile of the crag must have been a warm, welcoming sight for Anders and Anoriath at the end of hard days and harsher hunts. It was the shape of safety, of respite, of peace—just a little, snatched away from the natural violence of the land. But now, it was silent as the grave and still. The stench of decay was more potent and prevalent. Sonja took shallow breaths through her mouth to spare her nose as she approached, eyes wide and searching for anything that spelled danger.

There was nothing she could see outside the hollow. A few signs of previous life, the odds and ends of camp, but nothing looked like it had been disturbed recently. So, she inched forward, finally reaching the natural wall the stones created. No glimmer of fire against the underbelly of the outcropping, no dancing shadows through the maw of rocks. It was cold and quiet and stank to Oblivion. Before she leaned over to peer inside, she cast a glance around for her companions to make sure they were nearby should something dangerous remain inside. She saw Faendal at Lydia’s back, guarding her flank against the possible and unseen threats of the treeline. They were close. On the other side, she spied the predatory form of Vilkas against the trees as he stalked with the efficiency of a wolf. He was close enough.

She had to stand on her tip toes to peer inside and two things were immediately obvious: first, that someone had suffered a very horrible, very painful—gratuitous—death; and second, aside from the shredded corpse, no one else was present. She leaned back and looked to Anoriath apologetically. “It’s bad in there,” she warned, “But no one—nothing—I don’t think there’s any present danger…”

The distraught Bosmer hunter didn’t wait for Sonja to delicately rearrange her meaning and stepped around her, hoisting himself over the edge and into the hollow. His howl of grief was confirmation enough of whose eviscerated remains rotted inside. Sonja huffed and briefly closed her eyes, a profound ache of sympathy piercing her chest like a spear of ice. She’d heard the cries of the grieving before. Many times. And it never got easier. That was a music, wretched and vital, no one could forget. But Anoriath’s unexpected cry startled the others. Moments later, Lydia and Faendal were at Sonja’s side, ready to face whatever creature drew such an exclamation from the Bosmer huntsman. “It’s him,” Sonja explained when they reached her only to find her morose and leaning against the stone, “We found the hunter’s body.”

Housecarl and huntsman frowned. “Know what happened?” Lydia asked.

Sonja shook her head. “Not yet, but it’s—cruel—in there,” she answered, “I don’t know what could have done something like this, but it’s violent.”

“Not an animal attack, then?” Faendal probed.

“I don’t think so,” she sighed, “It—it reminds me of goblin work. Maybe there was more than one.”

“At least he went down fighting,” Lydia offered.

Sonja shrugged. “Yeah, maybe, but I doubt that makes a difference to Anoriath.” She sighed and rubbed her face and then her brow furrowed. “Where’s Vilkas?” she swung around to look where she had last seen the Companion in time to catch him coming through the trees, exiting the forest.

“I thought I heard something,” he called out to them when he saw Sonja’s look of consternation, “I must have scared it off.” And then a troll came hurtling out of the shadows of the trees, headed straight for Vilkas.


It happened in slow motion. The look of terror on the Dragonborn’s face. Her cry of warning torn from her lips. Vilkas saw her reach toward him as if the gesture could protect him from what was about to happen next. He turned to see the ugly snarling maw of the three-eyed monster as it charged him and raised his shield in time to take the brunt of the blow. The force of it stole a grunt of exertion from his lips as he tumbled backward, back down the slope. And all the while, he wondered how in Oblivion did a fucking troll sneak up on him?

Time started moving quickly again when he reached the base of the hill and he was jumping to his feet once more. The troll lumbered toward him, snarling, roaring, salivating at the mere thought of what Nord flesh tasted like. Vilkas took his stance, positioned his shield, and thrust his spear forward, hard and fast, aiming for the beast’s stout throat. He was mostly on target. Spears were not his strong suit, but they proved more useful than his greatsword when combatting animals all day: longer reach and the protection of a shield to ward off multiple snapping jaws. The tip of the weapon sunk deep into the flesh of the creature’s shoulder. It staggered, its long arms swinging at him. Vilkas disengaged and evaded the heavy, clawed limbs as they streaked through the air. He thrust again managing to skewer a pectoral. Small victories against a foe that recovered so quickly.

If he had been alone, he might have Shifted to use the claws of the Wolf to wreak such glorious, bloody damage that the troll could not possibly heal through. Overkill. But he wasn’t alone and even then, he had promised Kodlak and keeping that oath was worth his death. No, he was just a man with a spear and a shield, pricking a troll to death with a needle. Vaguely, he wondered where the others were when a flaming spear came soaring down the slope and into the troll’s back. Briefly, he thought Hera had somehow tracked them down and come to his aid, but then another spear came flying, and another, and he saw Sonja sprinting down the hill.

The second spear found its mark and the troll roared in agony, but not the third; it clattered against the rocky floor, skittering forward. Without hesitation, Vilkas lunged for it, abandoning his shield and unlit spear. He rolled, the trained muscle of his coiled body propelling him through the movement as his outstretched hand curled around the shaft of the wayward weapon. Righted again, he brandished the flaming end in the troll’s face as it spun and flailed and writhed, two spears scorching its back. He thrust and parried and stabbed the troll with greater effect now that the spear tip burned. The bitter smell of melting hair and—a perfume of nightshade? Or wolfsbane?—permeated the air and the thick, gray skin of the monster could not close beneath the constant sear of fire.

And then Sonja joined the fight, pelting it with firebolts as soon as she was in range. Each struck the creature hard with the impact of a boulder. It sounded heavy against the creature’s back; it staggered and swayed, still fighting and disoriented. Then he heard the Dragonborn grunt so loudly it sounded more like a shout. Vilkas glanced in her direction, still stabbing at the troll, and saw her launch a veritable fireball of hot gas and heat skyward, away from the troll, away from him. Her expression was pained, grim, and pinched with effort, but once it was free of her fingertips, she was back on the troll, showering it in a storm of flames from her hands until, under their combined effort, the thing finally died.

Vilkas gave a shout of victory when the troll’s hulking body crumpled to the floor. Even with the touch of magic, it was a good fight. Above, Lydia and Faendal cheered and made their way down, loud and raucous in their celebration; Anoriath followed, looking pleased that the troll was dead, but his expression was still muted with grief. Vilkas kicked at the corpse and pulled one of the spears free, noticing for the first time something he had only been vaguely aware of during the fight: the weapons were kept alight by magic. He swayed a little and held the spears at a greater distance from his body, looking to Sonja to extinguish them. To his surprise, she was sitting on the ground, her knees tented in front of her and her arms draped over them; her head was hung a little against her chest as she took slow, deep breaths. She looked tired, drained. “Pup?” he said tentatively.

And she looked up, her eyes fading from gold back to blue, her features softening from draconic back to woman. She saw the spears in his hand and made a careless gesture in their direction. The flames sputtered and then subsided. “How does a troll sneak up on anyone?” she asked, her voice raw from shouting.

He wanted to give her a better answer, something smart and sharp, but he didn’t really know, himself. It was odd. He thought he had heard something in the trees and pursued it, but there had been nothing there in the shade of the pines. Until that troll came out of nowhere and nearly knocked his head off. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t heard a sound, smelled a stench, or even felt eyes upon him. He, a predator, had so easily been made prey and he didn’t understand how. His consternation must have shown clearly in his face because Sonja spoke again, softer, “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

So was he. “Did you throw the first one?” he asked instead.

She snorted, amused. “Oblivion, no. I wanted to skewer the troll, not you. So I handed it off to Faendal.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Your aim is better with a fistful of fire than anything else.”

She shrugged, her expression falling a little as she looked at the palms of her hands. “Aye, that it is.”

“Ysgramor’s hairy ass!” Faendal swore when he was within earshot, “What in Oblivion was that Sōn?”

Her expression darkened, but she didn’t stop staring at her hands. “What was what?” she asked, her tone colorless.

“The giant ball of fire!” Lydia supplied, her expression was caught somewhere between disturbed and impressed. Though, like most Nords, she was wary of magic, her housecarl training had tamed most of the discomfort out of her; after all, one never knew when she would be assigned to a thane or a jarl who dabbled in the arcane—or was particularly fond of their court wizard.

Sonja sighed, heavily, and looked to Vilkas when she answered. “It was an accident,” she admitted, “So I fired it off where it couldn’t hurt anybody.”

His brow furrowed and he approached her, forgetting he still clutched a spear in each hand. “What do you mean an accident?” he demanded severely.

She pursed her lips. “If I try to explain it to you, you won’t understand,” she replied.

“Try me.”

Behind her, the group slowed their approach, taking softer steps so they could properly overhear the conversation. Sonja frowned, eyes narrowed as she considered her next words. “Have you ever met an amateur practitioner?” she asked.

Already Vilkas was lost. “What do you mean? Like a novice?”

She wobbled her head somewhere between a nod and a shake. “More like a hedge wizard,” she corrected, “Self-taught, never cracked a spellbook open in their life.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her eye twitched with frustration. “Well, they’re few and far between because just feeling magic out without a guide of some sort like a tome or a teacher or a college is dangerous,” she explained, “It can get you killed.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he growled.

This time her mouth twitched into a deeper frown. “It’s not much different than a child playing with a sword,” she countered, “Magicka is like a muscle you have to work or it will never grow. It’ll remain stunted and useless. So, the spells an amateur can cast are not overly dangerous. Like that child with a sword, you can see it coming and stop them before they set the barn on fire or poke somebody’s eye out. The real danger is in what they can do to themselves in the process.”

“Like what?”

She hesitated and then held up her hands to show him her scorched palms. “It’s called blowback,” she explained, “And when you’re young and stupid and don’t know what you’re capable of, it usually just means burnt fingers or an unpleasant shock every time you come into contact with metal or a persistent chill you can’t shake. But sometimes—sometimes it’s more. Sometimes the spell grows beyond your control and you’ve pulled too much from Aetheris and it’s all you can do to fire it off somewhere safe and hope—and hope it doesn’t kill you in the process.”

Somehow, Vilkas’ brow furrowed even deeper. “Is this common?”

“No,” she said sharply, “In fact, it’s not something most colleges or universities like talking about, especially in areas where people are less tolerant of the arcane.”

“So—how do you keep novices from hurting themselves at university?” Faendal asked cautiously.

Sonja turned her head slightly to catch sight of him in her periphery. “Trainer bracelets,” she answered, “They’re these little quicksilver bracelets covered in runes that help regulate the flow of—oh never mind. They just work. But, eventually a seasoned wizard learns to control their magicka so precisely that blowback never happens—rarely happens.”

“But this is the second time this has happened to you in two days,” Vilkas pointed out rather more aggressively than was strictly necessary.

“I’m aware.”

“Second time?” Lydia and Faendal said in unison.

“Yesterday, with the pyromancer, she had frostbite on the hand she killed him with,” Vilkas revealed, previously unaware that he had been the only one to see her injury.

Faendal blinked and exchanged glances with Lydia before approaching Sonja. He spared a glance at the Companion, but did not seek permission before he placed himself between Vilkas and his friend. He turned his back to him and squatted in front of the sedentary Dragonborn. His head canted to one side as he caught Sonja’s eye and very softly, kindly, asked, “Why is this happening to you now?”

“Everything has been so—fucked up since Mirmulnir,” she muttered, “I haven’t cast much from the Destruction School since that night because we’ve been training at Jorrvaskr where there is no place for magic.” Her jaw twitched as she ground her teeth. “I need to go to a college soon or at least speak to Farengar about it. Maybe he can help.”

“First thing, when we get back,” Faendal promised, “We’ll bother the shit out of Farengar until he gives you whatever you need.”

Sonja glared at the mer, but it was softer than before. “I may be somewhat glad I kept you around,” she allowed.

The huntsman smirked and offered Sonja a hand up. “I know.”

But Vilkas wasn’t ready to let the matter lie. “No more magic before then,” he insisted, “It’s hard to fight when you’re not sure who’s trying to kill you: your enemy or your ally.”

Hurt marred her hard brow briefly before she icily packed it all away behind a mask so vacant it was eerie. “Is that what you need, Companion?” she asked, voice even. He didn’t answer. “Fine. No magic.” She looked at the seared troll corpse beyond him. “Hope we don’t run into anymore trolls or it’s going to be a hard fight.” Then she turned away from him and slowly stalked up the hill.

Faendal lingered long enough to take the spears from Vilkas’ hands, leaving the third still stuck in the troll for the Companion to retrieve for himself. “She’s saved our asses out here more than once,” the mer growled, “Maybe you should keep that in mind.”

Vilkas crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the cheeky Bosmer. “Why don’t you mind your own business, whelp?” he snarled, “This is between me and the Dragonborn.”

“Her name is Sonja. You should try using it sometime.”

The Companion felt his vision shift and blur for a moment as he watched Faendal’s back move away from him and up the hill, filing in with the others as they followed Sonja back up to the top. There was still the mess in Greenspring Hollow to sort out, but Vilkas’ mind was miles away from that tragedy. It was all he could do to focus on not Shifting, on beating the Beast back into its cage because he was all riled up now. Between the magic and Sonja’s carelessness—how simply she dismissed her mistake as a child playing with a sword?—that ‘sword’ would have consumed both him and the troll, burning them to ash. That was no way for a Nord to go. He would go out fighting, not vaporized in the heated flash of magic gone awry. And the way everyone looked at him like he was in the wrong! Like he was the crazy one for not wanting to worry about the Dragonborn roasting them all when their backs were turned! But that’s what dragons do, isn’t it? A nagging voice at the back of his head reminded him. They burn things to ash and consume. Wipe towns like Helgen off the map.

He looked up the hill and caught Sonja standing at the crest, looking down on him, waiting. She didn’t look like a dragon to him at that moment. She looked tired and swayed in the breeze like she might soon collapse; he wondered if maybe there was more to what happened than she was telling him because she looked absolutely spent. But her expression was hard as ice and she did not flinch or reach out for stability from anyone nearby. She just stood there, stoic and waiting, her silence seeming to ask the obvious question of What happened to ‘better my hands than most others?’ Vilkas didn’t know if he could extend that curtesy to her again, not after this.

Instead, he returned to the troll and retrieved his spear, bracing his boot against the monster’s body and pulling it loose. That’s when he noticed something very strange about the creature he could not have picked up on while battling it—and while it was on fire. It’s gray-green fur was matted and slick with a thick, oily substance. Tentatively, he swiped his gloved hand over its arm, gathering some of the slick on his fingers. He sniffed it with a face pinched in predetermined disgust only to be greeted with the scent of a sickly sweet flower. Wolfsbane. That’s how a troll doesn’t smell like a troll to someone scenting the air for danger.

Instinctually, he stepped back and huffed the scent from his nose like its perfume could harm him. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure it couldn’t. He wiped the grease coating his fingers hastily on his thigh and went about poking the beast with his spear, taking special note of its thick wrists and ankles, looking for signs of captivity because there was no way on Nirn a troll was smart enough to disguise its scent of its own volition. It was hard to tell, but it was possible. Some slight scarring that might have come from shackles. If it had been held captive, it hadn’t been for very long or someone had used alternative means of restraining it. But who? And why? And, most importantly, was this as directed at werewolves as it seemed? Or was he just being paranoid and unlucky enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

His eyes flitted back up the hill to the trees where he had first been attacked. He had heard something. He was certain of it, but everything became—fuzzy—in the forest. A warm haze like too much mead. Without a second thought, he bolted back up the hill and peered between the pines for a painful heartbeat before entering once more. He faintly heard Faendal exclaim, “The fuck’s he doing?” Otherwise, no one tried to stop him. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t going far. A few paces in was good enough and then he squinted and searched and poked at things with his spear until a small silver censer fell out of a bird’s nest above his head. It smelled of the same sickly sweet perfume as the troll, but there was more to it, something bitter and old, and he felt the effects of it more acutely now that he was paying attention. It dulled every sense, suppressing the Wolf, gassing it to sleep. It was subtle but powerful and made Vilkas feel deaf to the world around him. Anxiously, he kicked the trinket open and stamped out the smoldering cone inside it.

“Vilkas?” it was Lydia come to fetch him as probably the only one who didn’t feel personally insulted by his presence or dealing with a loss like poor Anoriath. Hurriedly, he kicked the censer away, beneath a nearby bush and rushed to meet her before she could see or smell what he had been dealing with. “There you are,” she said when she spotted him, “Something wrong?”

“No,” he grunted, “Just thought I saw—something.”

The housecarl looked around uneasily. “Aye, well, let’s go back to the others. Can’t leave Ironheart unprotected while she’s vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” he repeated. That struck him as an odd word to describe a woman who could hurl fireballs into the sky.

Lydia nodded as she turned away, headed back to the trees' edge. "Aye, took a lot more than she's admitting to keep that wild magic from roasting you," she said over her shoulder.

"Did she say something?"

The housecarl cut a glance at him, not disapproving, but hard. "She didn't have to."

Vilkas frowned, shifting uncomfortably and nodded. “I will bear that in mind,” he allowed and then they both walked out of the forest.


After the troll attack, it seemed pretty obvious to everyone that poor Anders Kjeldsen had been the victim of a vicious troll attack. Well—obvious to everyone but Faendal and Vilkas. Faendal felt the gruesome scene didn’t add up to troll feeding habits, but he kept his opinion to himself to spare poor Anoriath more pain for the loss of such a dear friend and—they all suspected by then—lover. Vilkas did not share his findings about the troll or the censer in the woods with the others because it floated so close to the edge of his own dark secret. But, the violent attack—which, to him, looked very plainly like a feral werewolf feeding—coupled with the presence of wolfsbane, made him think the Silver Hand might have been responsible, at least in part, for what happened there. Vicious troll attack was as good an answer as any other, though. It didn’t make poor Anders any less dead or Anoriath any less bereaved to know the full truth of it.

They burned the Nord hunter’s remains outside the hollow on the rocks without the aid of magic. It didn’t take long for the fire to consume what little there was left. Sonja helped Anoriath scoop his ashes into a large pouch. Not the most dignified of resting places, but it would serve well enough to get Anders to the Hall of the Dead where proper prayers and inurnment could take place. Then they moved east along the treeline, their pace slow with Anoriath’s mournful tread. Vilkas kept eyes trained on the shifting shadows of the pines the whole time as they used the few hours they had left of daylight.

They made camp early that night a little further along than Sonja wanted to be. There was a site a while back she liked better, but she was too tired to return. So, they settled down and pitched the tent, gathered what sparse firewood they could find without wandering too deeply into the forest. Sonja tried to participate, but she was still weak from what happened at the hollow and then hiking the rest of the day. She was not herself and even Vilkas slid her a break for not pulling her weight when there was food to make and a fire to build. For the most part, she just sat inside the tent on her bedroll much the same way she had when they were arguing at the hollow, but with her ankles a little crossed and her hands loosely clasped together, her eyes gazing blankly into the fire. It was a much different atmosphere at camp that night than the one preceding it.

“Do you need help with your bandages again?” Vilkas asked gruffly when Faendal set the rabbits to roasting. He felt everyone tense around him.

Sonja’s eyes flit to him, expressionless. “Not tonight,” she replied softly and then she returned her gaze to the flame.

He glanced at her hands and saw they were still raw from that afternoon. “If you have injuries, you should tend to them,” he pressed, trying to sound concerned but coming off as something closer to demanding. She looked at him again. “I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t heal…”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted, looking vaguely irritated, and she laid back across her bedroll, staring into the ceiling of the tent with her hands neatly folded across her belly. She was done talking. That was very clear.

Vilkas huffed and scowled and looked away, instantly the attention of the others scattered as if they had not been paying attention to the conversation. He tossed bits of grass into the fire and waited for the food to be done. “Faendal, could you bring me the map?” Sonja asked suddenly from the tent without moving, “There’s something I want to see.”

Faendal started, surprised to be addressed, but quickly abandoned dinner to collect the map from Anoriath. The other Bosmer handed it over promptly and then continued to stare off across the tundra, keeping watch with Lydia. Faendal briefly stopped at his pack along the way before bringing the map to Sonja. She sat up and accepted the rolled vellum, her brow bent with interest, and then he shoved a healing potion in her face. She blinked, taken aback, and slowly wrapped her hand around the phial. “What are you, my mother?” she breathed sarcastically, but pulled the cork with her teeth and downed its contents in two gulps. She shuddered at the taste, burped, and tossed the empty bottle aside, unconcerned, waiting for the potion to take effect.

Cross-legged, she hovered over the map, one hand trailing over the depictions of rivers, mountains, and forests, and the other pinching her bottom lip to itself in absentminded habit. She was thinking, intently, and Vilkas wondered what schemes were floating through her sharp mind. Eventually, he decided to get up and walk a slow perimeter around the edges of camp, senses alert for any sign of danger. Sonja had not bothered to acknowledge his presence further and he had no real interest in speaking to the others, so it was better to focus on other things.

“Anoriath,” he heard Sonja say; the mer hummed at her, “Are we near the road to Morthal?”

There was a pause as the hunter took his bearings. “Aye,” he answered, “Probably a few hours hike east. We’ll take it south toward the road to Whiterun tomorrow if you’re satisfied with what I’ve shown you.”

“That’s fine,” she agreed, vaguely, “I was worried we wouldn’t be able to move a large group through the way we came, but the road makes that easier.” She was quiet for a while. “There was a place closer to Greenspring Hollow I liked for a killing ground. Nice open area, lots of room to maneuver around the beast and there’s some deep crags we might be able to utilize.”

“I know of where you speak.”

“The party can camp farther off, I think,” she continued, “Probably at that last site we passed. Looked big enough for a larger group and good protection from the rocks. Only a half day’s journey from the road over flat enough terrain. Wouldn’t take them long if they hurried. Could even bring wagons to transport the meat back to town more easily if we’re smart.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lydia added, sounding somewhat impressed, “You do anything like this back in Cyrodiil?”

“No,” she denied, darkly, “I do not have a light step.”

Faendal snorted. “You throw ice spikes at most of our enemies, that’s not exactly subtle.”

The Dragonborn chuckled softly. “That’s about the way of it,” she agreed, “Ma never took me hunting when I was young because I was about as stealthy as ‘a dragon with mirrors for scales’ and my aim was shit with a bow.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re that bad,” Anoriath offered.

“I would,” Faendal added, “You haven’t seen her shoot.”

“I’m better with an ice spike.”

“I don’t know, that fireball was pretty impressive,” Anoriath ventured cautiously.

There was a pause and then, “That’s one word for it.” Her voice was strained and low. Then she cleared her throat and spoke more clearly. “Oy, Faendal! When’s supper ready? I’m starved.”

At the same time the mer answered, “Soon,” a chorus of howls pierced the night in the distance from the forest. Vilkas hurried to the north end of camp and glared through the gloom, searching. They were far enough away from the trees to see something coming, but they were largely exposed to the night. They hadn’t the benefit of protection from natural formations or mountains like the night before. Obviously, it was not ideal, but there hadn’t been much in the way of better options at the end of the day. Now, they were paying for it because what the others mistook for simple wolves howling through the night, Vilkas knew to be something more sinister.


Sonja’s eyes followed Vilkas through the darkness as he strode to the north side of camp. It was obvious to her that he was troubled, his expression tight and movements purposeful. His concern worried her and she carefully set Anoriath’s map aside. Cutting a glance at Faendal who looked around, attention piqued but not anxious, she reached for her elven sword and battered steel shield. The mer followed her movements with a questioning look in his eye, but she waved him off with a soft, almost casual gesture. She used her sword to help her off the ground and then tried her best not to stumble as she went to see what had Vilkas on edge because—annoyingly—it was usually something that warranted concern.

The Companion glanced at her as she approached, but his attention was very obviously concentrated elsewhere, toward the trees. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing yet,” he rumbled, “Just keeping an eye out in case they come closer.”

She nodded and scanned the treeline for herself. “If it’s just wolves, we can handle them,” she pointed out, “No need to be so worried.”

“I’m more concerned about you, honestly,” he stated bluntly, “You are not yourself.”

She blinked several times, screaming internally. “You needn’t worry,” she said dryly, recalling his words to her that morning, “I’ll manage.”

He sighed so harshly it came out more like a growl. “I didn’t mean—I was angry—I might have overreacted,” he began, annoyed that he didn’t know what it was he was actually trying to say, especially when his focus needed to be elsewhere.

“Are you trying to apologize?” she asked incredulously.

“No!” He actually looked affronted at the suggestion. “Ye—maybe.”

Sonja’s expression went flat. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” And she returned her attention to the treeline, silently leaning against her sword like a cane.

“You should be resting,” Vilkas pointed out.

“So should you. You didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“And you should let someone help you with your bandages. If not me, Faendal…”

She rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust. “I am not a child, Companion,” she snapped, “I don’t do things just to be contrary to you. This isn’t about you, at all. If I choose not to do something, trust that there is a reason for it and let me be.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive!”

“On your terms! With your limits! I’m not some little Newblood come to you wide-eyed and stupid. I have fought and killed and bled and burned before! I’ve buried loved ones and mourned them and fucking fought some more. So think twice before you tell me what I can and cannot do!”

He rounded on her then, his bulk taking up so much space in front of her, she felt small, especially in her weakened state, but she didn’t flinch or hesitate or look away; she just glared defiantly. He looked about ready yell in her face and she was more than ready for it, eager even for the real fight to begin, but his eyes flit to her cheek where he had painted her skin that morning and something in his demeanor shifted. He shrunk back a little, so he wasn’t so menacing and his brow furrowed more in consternation than in rage. “Do you know what symbol I chose to mark you with today?” he asked, his jaw tight.

The abrupt change in the conversation threw her and she found herself dumbly asking, “What?” before she could collect her thoughts well enough to be snarky or rude or mean instead.

“I drew the wind,” he answered, “Kyne’s breath. Her strength and blessing; she gave the thu’um to men long ago so we could break our chains and overthrow the dragons that enslaved us.”

Sonja’s mouth parted slightly in surprise. Honestly, she hadn’t really thought about what he had painted so much as how awkward it felt when he painted it, and had she been in a better mood, she probably would have made a jest that she thought he had drawn a cock or a pair of tits rather than something so—thoughtful. “I didn’t realize,” she said, eyes narrowed in confusion, “But what does that have to do with…”

“Breath is the vital essence of life,” he continued, looking a little uncertain as if he wasn’t entirely sure what point he was trying to make, either, “Especially to a Nord. It’s our power. Our life.” He looked at her, eyes searching her hard expression for something, anything, maybe. “And yours will shatter mountains. Yours will fell dragons and topple kingdoms if you want it. But not if you die out here on the tundra before you can ever climb the Seven Thousand Steps. So, no, I might not always make the right decisions, but I am trying to do what’s honorable and if I thought you weren’t worth the effort, I wouldn’t be here.”

Oh, this man, she thought, exasperated, This stupid, stupid man. She swayed then, exhausted from the effort of arguing, and reflexively reached out to steady herself against him, her hand splayed against his chest. It was unintentional, but he moved to cover her hand with his like it was the most natural gesture in the world and she inhaled sharply. This is what trouble looks like…“Alright,” she relented, pulling away and putting space between them, “Apology accepted.”

He blinked, obviously expecting her to continue raging against him, but nodded. “Good,” he said, “You’re insufferable when you’re angry.”

Her expression went flat again. “That’s rich coming from you.”

The cacophony of howls rang through the night again before Vilkas could retort, much closer than before. In unison they looked toward the trees in time to see three large figures emerge from the shadows of the pines. “Those look—bigger—than wolves…” Sonja observed.

“Anoriath! Faendal!” Vilkas barked, “Try to pick them off before they get any closer!”

There was a flurry of motion as both hunters sprang into action, hopping over bedrolls and packs. They had migrated to the other side of camp in a small effort to provide some semblance of privacy to Vilkas and Sonja for what had been a conversation with escalating volume. By the time they joined the two warriors, the beasts were already a quarter of the way to them and fast approaching. “What in Oblivion are those?” Anoriath exclaimed as he began to launch arrow after arrow at the feral creatures.

“Hircine’s ass, they’re…” Faendal breathed, also taking aim.

“Werewolves,” Vilkas confirmed and Sonja’s eyes went wide.

“Poison!” she shouted, “And silver! Does anyone have any silver?” But of course no one did because no one was expecting to have to fight werewolves which were largely considered old wives’ tales or rumors. Not to mention silvered weapons were incredibly expensive. Faendal did have a bottle or two of weak poison in his pack—thank sweet, sweet Mara for her mercy—which Sonja scrambled to retrieve, but by the time she fetched them, the beasts were already upon them and everything descended into chaos.

It was a surreal next few moments. Lydia and Vilkas each took a beast with Faendal splitting his attention between the two of them, peppering the werewolves with arrows in between the swings of the warriors’ swords. His precision was beautiful. But poor Anoriath was scrambling backward, trying his best to put distance between him and the monster because he was not as talented a fighter as he was an archer. Blessedly, he was quick, though, ducking under the long swipes of the massive werewolf. Sonja rushed to his aid, hoping to claim the beast’s attention. “FUS!” she Shouted and the force of it affected her nearly as much as it did the werewolf. She staggered backward a few steps, her sword and shield loosely clutched in each hand. Shit, she thought as her attempt to redirect the monster succeeded, This is not going to be easy.

There were a number of things weakening Sonja at that given moment. The first and most obvious being the massive blowback she had experienced earlier that day. It drained her almost entirely of magicka and her scramble to maintain some modicum of control resulted in her borrowing power from elsewhere, namely converting some of her life force into magicka. Something she would never tell the Companion, but it was either that or become a murderer—maybe not ‘become’ so much as ‘continue to be’, but she’d regret his death deeply, at least. The effort could have killed her, but it didn’t and her magicka regeneration was slow afterward. Glacially slow. So, she had enough to maybe lance a few ice spikes in a pinch, but no more. And her body—her body was severely weakened. Nothing a few days’ rest and many hearty meals couldn’t fix, but that was hardly attainable with a snarling wolf-beast fast approaching. So, Sonja was almost completely certain she was going to die.

She had no intention of going down easily, of course.

Werewolves were a sturdy animal, built for the hunt, and it was hard to avoid all the ways its superior form was made to kill a mortal, but Sonja was determined. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the strength of the Dragon or the carelessness of nearly imminent death. Oblivion, it could have even been Vilkas’ training, but Sonja experienced an eerie level of clarity. She dipped and ducked and dodged, stooping, bowing and leaping out of the way of slashing claws and gnashing fangs. She almost didn’t feel the strain on her body as her sword flashed out to strike exposed hide, slicing into thick flesh. She was sharp, fierce and fast, and very abruptly the fight was over as she exploited a final, fatal opening in the mad beast’s swing. Her sword pierced straight through the werewolf’s lower jaw, slanted, and impaled the brain. The beast’s body went lax, its snarling features suddenly much less horrifying as they slackened against her blade, the eyes rolling unnaturally in the head.

Sonja let out a stunted cry of surprise and relief to have defeated the monster, but before she could celebrate her victory, she was knocked sideways, clean off her feet, her world tipping and whirling out of view. Stars bloomed in her eyes as her head struck the ground and vaguely, she heard someone call out her name, but it sounded distant and muffled in her senseless ears. All that she was aware of, in any measure, was the ravenous, salivating werewolf growling on top of her. Its hideous maw almost seemed to smile at her with pleasure and rage and hunger; its brilliant eyes flashing in the firelight, casting its features in greater terrifying intensity. This is it. She knew, could feel it on every inch of her body like an invisible bruise. The monster raised one long, wicked claw to strike her dead and she grasped for her weapons, finding she had lost both in her fall. So she steeled herself for the rending impact of the beast’s claws and launched the biggest, fattest, most jagged ice spear she was capable of creating into the werewolf’s belly. It reared back, howling in pain, wildly swinging in its attempt to remove ice from its body. Then suddenly, it was knocked sideways, clean off of her, the dark shape of Vilkas carrying it forcefully beyond her vision, but it was too late. She felt it seconds before the Companion arrived: the tear of claws through her armor, through her gut.

She stared into the sky then, her vision darkening and her hands trembling as she tried to feel out the damage, but there was only blood. So much blood. She tried to heal herself, little sparks of sputtering Restoration magic dancing uselessly off her fingertips, but it made no difference. Her magicka was spent and slow like molasses and the strain was killing her quicker. Suddenly, Faendal and Lydia’s terrified faces came into view and they were speaking to her, their expressions panicked. She only blinked uncomprehendingly, unable to even express pain when Faendal’s hands fumbled to staunch the bleeding. Everything was growing fuzzier by the moment, static filling her ears until it was a roar. Her eyelids fluttered wildly as she struggled to keep her eyes open. The sky is so beautiful…

At some point, someone had fetched the entire combined pool of healing potions and there was a mad, flurried attempt to administer them. Some directly into the wound. Some were poured down her throat until she was choking on them. The jolt of healing energy snapped her awake and she sputtered against the rough hands on her chin, force-feeding her the potions. Somewhat lucid again, she was wracked by incredible pain and her hands reached out grasping into fists until someone gripped her hand tightly. “I need more,” she gurgled through the last of a potion.

“That’s the last of them,” Faendal despaired; she sensed his presence on her left, his hands still pressed against her wound.

“There must be something else we can do!” Lydia insisted; her voice echoed opposite Faendal’s somewhere on her right, holding her hand, gripping it with a fist of iron.

“Can you heal yourself? You must heal yourself!” Vilkas urged, he was somewhere above her. Maybe it was his hands cradling her head.

“I can’t,” she wheezed and, pitifully, she attempted again to no avail.

“Are there no magicka potions?” Lydia demanded.

“My bag,” Sonja ground out, desperately. She’d only brought two, not thinking she would need more. Her armor was enchanted and helped to sustain her magicka regeneration. She hadn’t anticipated experiencing such a vicious blowback of magic that her spirit was so slow to heal from. And she cursed herself for not taking them sooner; maybe she would have been able to save herself if she had. Or maybe she would have spent herself on slaying werewolves instead. It hardly mattered now that she was dying.

A handful of painful heartbeats later, she was being fed potions again. This time she recognized the tang of a magicka brew and gulped them down as quickly as possible. She felt the swell of magic inside her, so small and precious, the pool not as deep as she needed it to be, but it was all she had. So, she tried again, her hands wavering, slick in her own blood as she cast her Restoration magic. It was more effective than the slow acting potions, working to knit together her sundered flesh. She felt the deep gashes lessen and grow shallow, felt the rush of blood slow. She could almost seal it far enough to avoid fatality, but not quite. Furiously, she wondered where the Dragon was when it was her life on the line. “I need more,” she whispered.

“There’s nothing more,” Lydia said, her voice strained, angry sounding. Helpless. She felt helpless as her thane bled out on the tundra floor.

Sonja forced her eyes open. “If you’re willing…I can…” she paused to catch her breath, “Take a little.”

There was hesitation as everyone present struggled to understand her meaning. It was not any magic they had heard of, though Sonja seemed capable of much they had never heard of or seen before. But it was Lydia who was first to act, deciding her personal understanding of what was about to happen was unnecessary if it would save her thane’s life. She gripped Sonja’s hand again. “Take whatever you need,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering.

“It won’t hurt,” Sonja assured, but the housecarl didn’t care. So, Sonja took. First, she drained away her magicka, the pool of which was predictably small in one who had never cast a single spell before, but it was a scrap of something vital. Then she ebbed away her stamina; the thrumming energy of a strong and fit woman thrummed through Sonja’s hand as Lydia’s strength suddenly started to whither. She grew tired and started to lean to one side, bracing herself against the ground. Worried, Vilkas reached out to steady the woman, but she waved him off, assuring him she was fine. And then Sonja stopped taking and closed her eyes, concentrating.

Her body was strengthened by Lydia’s sacrifice and she used that strength to rekindle her power and make it grow. Everything is connected, she reminded herself, mentally repeating her old mentor’s words like a mantra. It was all interchangeable the spirit and the vigor and the vital essence; all power in different forms made separate only by the names a mortal mind had given them. But what was each to a Divine? Was the body, the spirit, and the animation each so isolated when they created Nirn? And is there not a spark of the divine in each race of man, mer, and beastfolk? Is it not possible to mimic our creators in thought if not in essence?

Obviously, Sonja had taken some very controversial courses.

But her body bent to her will, rekindling the blocked font of power within her until she was filled with the resonance of Aetherius. It was equal parts beauty and pain, and it dulled as she set her hands to healing her mortal shell, plunged back into the material reality of her dire situation. She sealed the nearly mortal wound, leaving behind the slightest scars. A little overkill for her, but she was feeling much better and aggressively pursued a sitting position to face Lydia. “Easy there, pup,” Vilkas cautioned, shifting his position to support her should she need it, but she was out of his reach in the next moment as she flung her arms around a very exhausted housecarl. A truly, belligerently out-of-character expression of gratitude for the usually solitary battlemage.

“I’m so sorry I left you at Dragonsreach for a week and a half,” she mumbled into Lydia’s collarbone.

The other woman barked out a harsh laugh. “I’m starting to wish you’d left me there longer.”

Notes:

So, um, yeah. Obviously, I have some different ideas about magic and what it is and how it works. I try not to get too bogged down in the explanations of it, at least not right now, because the first part of Sonja's journey is focused on honing her physical prowess. She's been gifted a lot of power, both physically and magically, to become a one-woman dragon-hunting machine, but right now, she doesn't know how to use any of it. So, it's all a little screwy.

Also, I have some deliciousness cooked up for the Companions questline and werewolves and such, so we shall see where that leads. *insert evil laugh here*

And lastly, poor Vilkas has some issues, but he's working through them. Promise.

Chapter 28: Rest Your Weary Bones

Summary:

It's the last day of scouting the tundra and the party is exhausted after such a difficult journey. They are eager to return to Whiterun and drink, eat, bathe, and—oh, sweet merciful Mara—sleep.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: References to near-death experiences.

PoV bounces between Sonja and Vilkas.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The journey back to Whiterun along the road was a lot less violent than traversing cross-country had been. The party even managed to make better time, catching a ride on a passing carriage on its way to Whiterun. Though initially wary of well-armed strangers trying to board his cart out in the middle of nowhere, the driver, a pleasant man with a pleasant, round face, recognized Vilkas from a previous job the Companion had been hired to complete and Bjorlam—the driver—had had the unexpected pleasure to witness a real warrior in action. Serendipitous. Merciful coincidence. Beautiful, wonderful, gracious chance. “And you really cut through those bastards!” Bjorlam exclaimed happily, “You and—and he must have been your brother, you look so much alike!”

“Farkas,” Vilkas confirmed, nodding, “Yes, I remember the job.”

“Great warriors, the Companions!” the carriage driver beamed, “You really made the road a lot safer taking out those bandits!”

“I think you have an admirer, Vilkas,” Sonja muttered under her breath, her voice low enough that poor Bjorlam didn’t quite catch what she was saying.

“Well, I’d be honored to give you and your friends a lift to Whiterun,” the excitable Nord continued before addressing his lone passenger, “Not a problem, is it, miss?” The woman, a Breton in battered leathers and clutching a worn bag to her chest, looked vaguely apprehensive at first, but hearing Bjorlam address Vilkas as a Companion put her at ease some and she nodded, sharp and nervous. That was all the driver needed. “Great! Great! Hop in and we’ll get going!”

Vilkas sat at the back, as far from the driver as he could get away with to discourage him as much as possible from continuing his embarrassing declarations of admiration. It didn’t really work; it just made the man speak louder. Everyone else sat wherever was comfortable without crowding the Breton and Sonja decided she would lay flat in the bed of the cart, right down the middle with everyone’s feet edged around her. She used her pack to cushion her head and watched ivory wisps of clouds unhurriedly drift through the brilliant cobalt Skyrim sky, her hands neatly folded over her belly, over the slashes in her armor.

Absently, she traced the scars there with her index finger as she replayed the events that had granted them to her. It had been a long time since she had come so close to death, though then it had been at the hands of a different kind of monster. One with dark hair, dark eyes, and a beautiful dark smile. Her breath hitched just thinking about it. “I don’t have much to compare it to,” she said loudly from the bottom of the cart the moment Bjorlam had taken a breath, “But I think that was probably the worst scouting venture—ever.”

Faendal snorted at her dramatic understatement and Anoraith was nodding without even realizing he was doing it, his face scrunched up in exasperated exhaustion. Vilkas tiredly rubbed his face; the entirety of his demeanor silently declared his agreement. Lydia, now mostly recovered from the events of the night before, cocked an eyebrow at her thane. “Is it always going to be this difficult to keep you alive?” she asked wryly.

“Probably. You have to earn your keep somehow.”

“Oh, did you run into a lot of trouble out there?” Bjorlam asked, his tone polite and eager for a story.

“Yes, our lady thane has a knack for finding it out,” Faendal replied and then winced as Sonja pinched his leg. “Well, you do!” he hissed.

“Is the lady a thane?” Something told Sonja that Bjorlam lived for adventure, but never really experienced it for himself, so he took up an occupation that was adventurer-adjacent. He could live vicariously through his passengers who had places to go and things to do.

Sonja sighed and opened her mouth, about to answer the driver when Vilkas caught her eye; he had turned rather abruptly, something like mirth glinting in his eyes. It was a little menacing and she didn’t completely comprehend what was about to happen, but she sensed it would be at her expense. “Aye, good sir,” he said, sounding almost eager, “You have the honor of transporting Sonja Ironheart, Dragonborn Thane of Whiterun!”

Instantly, poor, sweet Bjorlam practically exploded with enthusiasm, no longer concerned with the presence of a mere Companion in his carriage. “Dragonborn!” He almost fell off his seat. “Well, I never! I heard about the tower! Drove by and saw the ruins! Is it true? Is it true? Can you really Shout? Are you really Dragonborn?”

Sonja covered her face and groaned. She had hoped the ride back to Whiterun would be at least somewhat enjoyable, especially compared to the last two days. Now, she wasn’t so sure. “That’s what they tell me,” she growled somewhat aggressively, glaring daggers at Vilkas who seemed relieved to be forgotten by the driver, “But my friend, here, tells the story better. Why don’t you tell him about the dragon, Faendal?” And so the buck was passed but Faendal didn’t mind having the opportunity to spin a tale. Such things had always suited him.


It was well into the evening when they finally reached Whiterun. Bjorlam had made good time on the clear roads and Sonja tipped him generously for his effort which was a tale he would pass onto his grandchildren, if he ever had any: the day he drove the Dragonborn to Whiterun. The group wound their way up the walk to the gates, eager for the promise of safety and comfort beyond them. “It’s too late to go to Dragonsreach, now,” Sonja thought aloud, “Let’s go to the Mare for a mead before Hulda goes home. I’m buying.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Faendal assured.

“A cold mead would do me some good,” Lydia agreed.

“I should really take Anders to the Hall of the Dead,” Anoriath refused, softly, “He needs to be put to rest.”

Sonja clapped her hand on the Bosmer’s shoulder, comfortingly. “Aye, you go on ahead. And thank you for everything. Peace be to your friend.” The Bosmer pursed his lips and nodded his goodbyes. They would see him again soon in the next few days, anyway; he could take the night for himself and his loss. Sonja watched him slowly trudge up the nearby steps to the Wind District and sighed heavily. Such a shame. Such a bloody, pointless shame. “How about you, Companion?” she asked returning her attention to the matter at hand, “Up for a drink?”

“I must return to Jorrvaskr,” he rumbled, “I’m sure there was much that went unattended in my absence.”

“It’s just one drink, Vilkas,” she urged, “The Companions did without you for three days; they can stand to go without you a while longer.”

His eyes narrowed slightly and his mouth opened to give a final refusal to her offer. “Just one,” he growled, holding up a finger to illustrate his point, surprising them all, “No more.”

Sonja’s eyes widened slightly, obviously taken aback by her success. “Just one,” she promised, “Can’t deprive Jorrvaskr of its master trainer forever.” And then they made their way down Whiterun’s main drag to the ever inviting front doors of The Bannered Mare.

As always, it was lovely and warm inside, and the air smelled of sweet mead and savory cuts of meat, but it was practically heavenly to the four of them after the long, hard days they had spent in far less hospitable environments. This is why Sovengarde has a meadhall, Sonja decided, smiling slightly as she looked around the room. All the late-night regulars were there in their favorite spots, drinking their preferred drinks, and enjoying their typical meals: off-duty guards roaring with laughter over their after-work stew and ales; old soldiers, mostly forgotten, swaying to the music and swinging half empty tankards as they reminisced about the ‘good old days;’ Uthgerd alone, as always, glaring off into the ether as she numbed her pain with liquor much sweeter than the sins it tried to erase; and Jon Battle-Born grinning at Olfina like a fool as he flirted with her like a love-sick adolescent. Mikael was strumming his lute with an admirable proficiency, resting his voice for the night as it drew to a close. It was a welcome arrangement of familiarity, of sanctuary, of noises and smells. Just standing in the doorway wrapped them in a shroud of golden warmth.

But they hadn’t gone to The Bannered Mare just to stand in the doorway, so they moved through a crowd mostly too absorbed with itself to notice who had just joined their evening frivolities, and took a seat at the bar. Hulda watched them approach, taking in the sorry state of the four warriors, unwashed, bruised, bloodied, beaten and exhausted. She frowned when Sonja dropped into her favorite stool. “Four meads, Hulda, please. Thank you,” she ordered in a rush before the older woman had a chance to ask.

“You look terrible,” the innkeeper observed as she retrieved the drinks from beneath the bar and lined them up in front of her patrons.

“We were out scouting,” Sonja replied, “Sometimes that happens.”

“Well, Hera will be glad to hear you’re back safely.”

Sonja nearly choked on her mead. “Sorry? I don’t think I heard you right.”

Hulda crossed her arms and fixed Sonja with a hard stare. “She went to Jorrvaskr to bring you the mantle and spear as Kodlak had asked, but you’d already gone by then,” she explained, “The only reason she didn’t go searching the tundra for you fools was Tilma told her Vilkas had gone along, too.”

Sonja’s expression flattened and she did her best to avoid looking at Vilkas who she imagined to be sporting a slight smirk in spite of himself. He had just been told his old trainer thought highly enough of his skills to protect her niece, after all. “Didn’t know I had to tell Hera when I was leaving town,” she said, unhappily.

“You don’t. She was just worried.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just indigestion? She doesn’t strike me as the sort to worry.”

“Oh very funny,” Hulda admonished, “Such a smart mouth like all the damned Ironhearts, mine included. It’s not like she sat up all night, wearing the floor and wringing her hands, you cheeky little shit. But it would be her responsible for your funeral if you wound up dead is all. It’s not like you really know where you’re going, do you?”

“She’s learning fast,” Vilkas commented casually.

Hulda spared the Companion a disbelieving glance, but Sonja remained focused, regardless of how appreciative she was of his off-handed defense. “Be that as it may, you’d do well to see her tomorrow,” she continued, “She’s been working with Ysolda to gather enough hunters. Should be able to head out as soon as you’ve completed the ritual.”

“Oh. Good.” Sonja had forgotten about the ritual cleansing she was supposed to perform before the Hunt. Faendal had given her a vague outline of it once days before. She’d need more specific instructions if she was going to succeed in not offending anybody. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” she assured, “I need more than she might have thought to muster.”

Hulda gave her a look that very clearly declared she doubted that. “Come over in the morning if you can. There’s much she has to do without you wasting her time.”

Sonja frowned. “I’ll get there when I get there.”

There was a brief moment of silent argument between the two women before Hulda sighed and shook her head. “As it please you, Dragonborn.” And then she called for Saadia to mind the bar. She was going home early that night.

“I don’t think Hulda likes you very much,” Faendal observed dryly when the innkeeper was out of earshot.

Sonja shrugged. “She’s still sore I broke her lover’s arm, is all. She’ll get over it. Or she won’t. I don’t really care so long as she doesn’t poison my mead in the meantime.” Faendal and Lydia laughed.

Vilkas let out a small chuckle as he took another swig. “Whatever Hera has planned, you are the Hunt Master,” he said, “Don’t let her forget it. She might try to sway you and if her advice is good, take it. But we didn’t spend the last few days bleeding just so Hera could plan the Hunt.”

“I agree,” Lydia said, nodding.

“Besides, your plan is…” he began.

“Imaginative?” Faendal supplied.

“Elaborate?” Lydia offered.

“Unnecessarily dangerous?” Sonja winced.

Unconventional,” the Companion finished, “But good. It would be a shame to see it wasted.”

“You just want to see Faendal try to tame a mammoth.”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s more likely that I’m just going to piss it off,” the huntsman pointed out, “Not all animals are friendly with Bosmer.”

“Whatever gets the beast where it needs to be,” Lydia replied, smiling.

“I got a bad feeling about this…”

“Don’t worry friend,” Sonja assured, “I won’t let you get trampled.”

“Much,” Vilkas added slyly before finishing off his mead.

“Can I get you another, Companion?” Saadia purred from behind the counter, smiling prettily at him with more intent than just getting him to buy another drink.

Her attitude was missed by no one, least of all by Vilkas who indiscreetly eyed the beautiful Redgaurd woman. “No thank you, Saadia,” he refused, politely, “I was just leaving.”

“That’s too bad,” she simpered and Sonja had to stop from rolling her eyes—though she saw that Lydia exercised no such restraint. She’d never been in Vilkas’ company outside of Jorrvaskr before, not really, and so didn’t know if it was common for people to heedlessly flirt with him. She guessed that probably wasn’t the case because that would be absurd, but, in a way it wouldn’t necessarily surprise her either. He was attractive; she’d always thought so. Didn’t mean that every hapless damsel from the Rift to the Reach was waiting her turn to mount and ride him into Oblivion because of it. Though that did sound like fun for its own sake. It just seemed to her that he was too aloof to be inviting of coy attentions. All those breathy sighs, airy giggles, impish smirks, and erotic double-entendre just pretty dress covering up the wrong things. He struck her as the sort who liked the chase. The challenge. That he liked to work for his play. Maybe that’s why things had fallen apart between him and Ysola: he’d already won the game and taken his prize. What a shame…But then again, he was a man and the way he was looking at Saadia made her think he probably liked an easy meal when he could get it, too. Especially when it looked delicious.

She cleared her throat, loudly. “Anyway, if you’re off, I think we’ll go too,” she announced feeling oddly awkward to be present while he was possibly lining up his evening’s entertainment, “I think a long soak in a tub is in order and sleep. Lots. Of. Sleep.”

Vilkas’ attention snapped back to her. “Aye, it would do you some good,” he agreed, “I suggest you take a couple days to recover. Don’t let Hera push you into leaving sooner than you want. You still need to see Farengar.”

“Aye, you’re right,” she sighed, tossing the coin for the drinks on the bar for Saadia to scoop up, “Farengar might need some time to help me, anyway.”

“Not too long, I hope,” Faendal added, “That calf is the only thing keeping them there. If it gets well enough to travel or dies, they’ll move beyond our reach before we can even leave town.”

“I’ll have a better idea tomorrow.” There was a unified grunt of tired acknowledgement before Sonja, Faendal, and Lydia rose from their stools to leave. Vilkas lingered, tapping his fingers against the glass of his empty mead bottle. Sonja clapped him on his back, her unexpected touch causing him to start, ever so slightly, and tense. “Try to get some sleep tonight, too. If you can help it,” she muttered companionably, her voice pitched low enough to discourage Saadia from listening, “You look—and smell—like Oblivion.”

He looked sideways at her, a faint smirk pressed against the corner of his mouth. “I’ll try,” he rumbled.

Sonja tossed another few gold pieces on the bar. “The Companion will have another, Saadia,” she said, “Have a good night.” And then she left with her huntsman and housecarl.


Vilkas nursed the second mead he hadn’t wanted in the first place. He drank it at an agonizingly slow pace while Saadia continued to flirt with him, but he wasn’t really interested. He’d only let Sonja pay for his drink and stayed behind to remove himself from her and her followers’ company, sure that once they had returned to the meadhall together, he would receive another invitation to join them at the bathhouse like one big happy family and he wanted to avoid that. He’d wait a little longer before slinking off to Jorrvaskr to inform the Circle of what he’d found in the forest near Greenspring Hollow.

In the meantime, he’d amuse himself with Saadia’s attentions. Though his mind kept wandering back to Sonja and her generosity before leaving. ‘Try to get some sleep tonight, too. If you can help it.’ Companionable, friendly banter nothing different from what they'd exchanged already in the calmer moments between them, but then she'd left him in the care of a beautiful and attentive woman. Something his own brother, or even any of his shield-siblings would do in a similar circumstance, but it felt strange coming from her. His mind couldn't quite frame her in those terms at that moment. She was something else and, after the last two days, he didn’t really know what that was or could be. His mind was too numb to pick apart at it, but there was a maelstrom of differing emotions whirling there inside him; anger, exhaustion, and—fear—to name a few, and something else unnamable.

“Tough times out on the tundra, Companion?” Saadia asked, leaning over the bar to catch his eye again; she had noticed his mind wandering and that just would not do. His eyes flit back to her, giving up his storm of feelings in favor of something much more enjoyable.

She was beautiful, and had he the itch and still been blissfully ignorant of his Beast, he would have gladly scratched it, but the Wolf, for the moment, was calmer than it had been in a while and wasn't make demands of his body. He had just spent the last two days slaughtering every kind of tundra beast along the way. Including werewolves. Especially werewolves. He had gotten a little aggressive in the fight against them, not that anyone was free to notice, but it was probably unwise to have toed such a thin line. Still, if he hadn’t, they might have all been killed—and Sonja eviscerated beyond saving. That thought made his skin itch and he took another swig of mead.

He appreciated the show she was putting on. The way her soft, quilted bodice slimmed her shapely body and accentuated her plump, ebony breasts. She had a grace and elegance about her movements that seemed almost highborn, despite her insistence to Hulda that she had come from nothing and nowhere special. She was quite an appetizing prospect. But there was something—off—about her display, like she was trying too hard to get something from him, and he wasn’t sure what or why. Maybe he was just being paranoid; he hardly knew her, after all. She had only lived in Whiterun about a year or a year and half, working for Hulda the whole time, and he didn’t frequent the tavern, choosing to take his mead in the comfort of his own home, instead. Perhaps the lovely Redgaurd was lonely after keeping to herself for so long. Or was looking for someone strong to put Mikael on his ass for getting too fresh as the pig-bard was prone to do. That seemed more likely when he thought about it. “You have no idea,” he replied gently, “It is no place for the weak, but even still, it was a journey tougher than most I’ve undertaken. Like Skyrim’s grown more wild with the dragons about.”

She smiled, pleased she’d reengaged him. “That’s saying a lot for a man like you,” she pointed out, “I bet there isn’t much you can’t handle.”

He felt himself smile before he could stop it. This woman was a master of handling a man’s ego. “Aye,” he chuckled, “I’m always up for a battle, brawl, or challenge.”

She hummed at him, her voice low and musical. “That what you want?” she asked, propping her delicate chin in her elegant hand almost innocently with a gaze that suggested anything but modesty, “A challenge?”

“Perhaps.” He finished his mead and slid the empty bottle back toward her. “But not tonight.” And he rose from his stool, his aching body protesting his every movement. Especially his shoulder which he had ignored for the last three days—he tried not think how often he’d hounded Sonja to take better care of herself for safety’s sake while he was silently being so negligent of himself.

Saadia arranged her features in the perfect picture of pouty disappointment without hostility at being denied. “Too bad,” she sighed, “Maybe another time?”

Vilkas smirked at her. “Goodnight, Saadia,” he said, electing not to commit himself to or excuse himself from the promise of any future encounters.

The barmaid narrowed her eyes playfully and eased her pout into a saucy simper. “Mmm, hard to compete with that lady of yours, isn’t it?” she teased, unoffended.

“You needn’t worry about Ysa…” he began, trying not to groan, certain Saadia had heard about what happened in the marketplace days before.

“I meant the one here with you tonight.”

He hesitated, momentarily confounded by her insinuation. At first, he thought perhaps the barmaid had confused him with his brother and was referring to Lydia, but the housecarl had sat farthest from him. Only Sonja had sat beside him. “Ironheart is not…” he began again and then stopped himself when he saw her smile widen. She was playing with him and he was letting her. “You strike me as the kind of woman to like a challenge, too,” he replied, instead, voice husky and, perhaps, a touch more menacing than it had to be.

She didn’t bat an eyelash at him, didn’t quiver with anticipation, or even the slightest hint of fear at the sound of the animal in his voice. Instead, she crossed her arms beneath her chest, again drawing attention to the slopes of her lovely bust, and kicked a hip out to one side, better outlining the curve of her waist and the round of her rump. Practically a battle stance. “I do,” she admitted, voice still light and cheeky and tempting, “If the prize is worth winning.”

Oh sweet, fucking Dibella. He shrugged his uninjured shoulder, unconcernedly. “For you to decide, little starling,” he replied, “But I can promise you’ll enjoy finding out.”

She smiled, satisfied that she had won something from and eased her stance into something a little more demure, a little less tantalizingly combative. “Goodnight, Companion,” she purred and then he finally left the tavern.

Outside the air was cold, dark, and breezy. The fire in the braziers and lanterns fluttered and flickered and danced, but did not go out. Distantly, he heard Sonja’s laugh as she and her companions disappeared into the bathhouse, out of sight; the melody of her joy carried easily upon the breeze in the late evening, almost as loud in his ears as the call from High Hrothgar. Idly, he wondered if her Voice carried in everything she said, boisterous or whispering as he quickly strode across the market square and took the stairs two at a time, ascending to the Wind District. The scarred Gildergreen creaked and swayed, dead and haunting, with nothing and no one gathered around its withering roots besides a lone guard who had paused in his patrol long enough to look up at the sacred tree and place his hand against its trunk. An act of mourning. Vilkas noted him, but did not greet or otherwise acknowledge his presence, preserving the man’s private moment, and continued on his way to Jorrvaskr, bolting up the steps and through the meadhall doors.

The main hall was empty but for Tilma who, undoubtedly, had been roused with Sonja’s arrival some time previously; she’d always been a very light sleeper. The older woman looked surprised to see him. “They said you were—busy—and wouldn’t be back until morning,” she said with only the slightest touch of motherly disapproval.

“I need to speak with the Circle,” he said by way of explanation for his duplicity, “It’s important.”

Tilma’s expression tightened. “I think Skjor and Aela have gone for the night,” she informed him, unhappily, “But your brother and Kodlak would be glad to see you safe and hear your news.”

He nodded and took two steps toward the stairs to the living quarters before he doubled back and pecked the old woman on the forehead the way he used to when he was young. “Good to see you,” he muttered, “Go back to bed.”

She smiled, fine lines crinkling her face as she did so. “Need something to eat?” she called after him as he descended the steps.

His stomach was empty of anything substantial, just the mead from The Bannered Mare, and it was probably wise to eat something, but he wasn’t really hungry. “I’m fine!” he assured, pausing long enough to answer her before descending the rest of the way and disappearing through the doors.

The lower level was filled with sleeping bodies. He could hear the gentle snores and slow, heavy breathing from the barracks. Sonja, Lydia, and Faendal had taken care not to wake their shield-siblings with their late arrival it seemed. He strode swiftly, but silently down the hall toward the rooms of the Circle. Inside his room, he hurriedly tossed his pack onto the floor at the foot of his bed and slipped his weapons into their wracks a touch haphazardly. By the time he stepped out into the hallway, Farkas was leaning in the open doorway of his own room. “You’re back,” he said, smiling brightly, “I thought you had other plans tonight.”

Vilkas’ brow furrowed. Did they tell everyone they ran into that I was having one off with the tavern wench? Most likely, because everyone they had run into likely wanted to know where he was. “No, I had to lose them,” he said hurriedly, “Come, we must speak with Kodlak.”

Farkas’s expression darkened. “Trouble?”

“Some. Let’s see what the old man makes of it.” They walked softly down the hall to the closed doors of the Harbinger’s rooms. It was unlikely that Kodlak was asleep as the Blood made the blissful act of slumbering a tragically difficult one to accomplish, but it still felt wrong entering his chambers uninvited and unannounced however justified when a Circle meeting was urgent.

The Harbinger was at his desk, the light of a lantern burning low as he leaned over a tome, reading, squinting softly through small spectacles he only wore for such a task—and even then, only when he was certain he’d be alone. He hated the oddly dainty things. “I wondered where you’d gone off to,” he said without looking up from his reading, “It’s not often you leave Jorrvaskr on short notice.”

“A shield-sibling needed me,” he answered, feeling uncomfortable like he was somehow in trouble for not asking for permission first which was ludicrous and Kodlak would be the first to remind him the Companions owned nobody. “It was important. There wasn’t time to waste.”

Kodlak’s mouth twitched, fighting a small smile. “As you say, son. You don’t need to justify it to me,” he said, sounding amused, and finally looked up from his book. He removed his spectacles and looked Vilkas over. “It’s good to see you back safely. Not that there was a doubt, but you look troubled. Did something happen?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, “Though I know not what to make of it.” And he closed the doors of Kodlak’s room. He and his brother went to the table in the corner where the Harbinger joined them and Vilkas related his encounter with the troll. It was not typical to discuss such things outside the safety of the Underforge, but with just the three of them, heads bent together, it hardly seemed necessary to risk one of the Newbloods seeing them leave—especially with an erstwhile Dragonborn not yet returned from the bathhouse with her friends.

“Strange, indeed,” Kodlak said pensively when Vilkas was done telling his tale, “We’ve encountered many forms of wolfsbane poison in the past, but this is very different. It likely is the Silver Hand. I don’t think the Vigilants would be so reckless, but it sounds like the Hand is getting help from a wizard—or a gifted alchemist.”

Vilkas nodded. “I think they’re getting desperate,” he agreed, “We were hunting through their numbers very quickly before we decided to deny the Blood. And—I think Skjor and Aela continue to do so without us. These new forms of wolfsbane are troubling. I think they were using the troll to test it, but—I don’t know how or why they would leave it abandoned in the forest. It felt like a trap for a wondering Wolf, but a poorly laid one that cost the life of at least one innocent.”

“And nearly your life as well if Sonja hadn’t taken a leaf from Hera’s book and rained flaming spears upon the beast,” Kodlak pointed out.

“I admit, I thought Hera had found us, somehow. At first. Fire runs deep in that blood, I guess.”

Kodlak smiled darkly. “Aye, that it does,” he acknowledged, “But, I think you’re right about the troll. They are hardy beasts and recover very quickly. It makes a certain kind of sense to use one for their—foul experiments.”

“There’s more,” Vilkas continued, moistening his chapped lips in anticipation of another long explanation, “Later that night we were attacked by ferals.”

Farkas’ brow furrowed. “We cleared the tundra of feral Wolves,” he objected, “Pushed them to the mountains and the forests.”

“They did come off the mountain,” Vilkas allowed, “But they were unafraid of the tundra. We have not been hunting and Skjor and Aela’s attention is elsewhere. They sense the area is unprotected and are moving in on better hunting grounds.”

“How many?” Kodlak asked gently.

“Three at first. Then a fourth ambushed S—Ironheart.”

“Was she hurt?” Kodlak seemed very concerned, almost unusually so.

Vilkas hesitated. “Aye,” he answered softly, “Badly.”

“She looked fine when I saw her,” Farkas said, confused, “Little tired and her armor looked like it had seen better days, but…”

“She’s—smart and strong,” his brother interrupted, “Knew the basic ways to kill werewolves, but we didn’t have much in the way of those things. At least someone’s taught her something useful. And her friends are—very loyal. She pulled through.” He paused. “I slipped her a Cure Disease potion when we were pouring healing potions down her throat, so she remains untainted.”

Kodlak’s wolfish eyes danced over Vilkas’ expression searching for something, or perhaps he was already reading it plainly. It was hard to tell. “I will speak with her tomorrow,” he said at length, “I think it wise to see how she’s feeling—if she suspects anything of you.”

Vilkas cocked an eyebrow at his Harbinger. “You don’t think she…” he began, but he stopped. Sonja was too smart to be so careless around. She’d already picked up on his superior sense of hearing, had already teased him about it, and she had some basic knowledge of werewolves as demonstrated by how quickly she rattled off their weaknesses. It was not entirely out of the question that she might suspect or start to suspect his true nature—or the nature of others—soon. “Aye, that would be wise, indeed,” he relented.

“Now, about these ferals,” Kodlak continued, “There were four, you said.”

“Aye.”

“And they were hunting together?”

“I thought it strange, too.”

The Harbinger grew pensive again. “It is not unheard of,” he said reasonably, but he didn’t seem convinced by his own words. “Are you certain they were feral?” he asked.

Vilkas considered the question Kodlak asked of him. Feral werewolves were mindless beasts that only wanted for the slaughter, for some way to sate their endless hunger. It did not usually lend itself to pack behavior amongst other of their kind; there tended to be infighting, but simple, wild wolves often gathered around a feral and treated it like an alpha. An arrangement that somehow suited the beasts well. Packs were formed by those who held onto their minds enough to work together, to hunt together, and often live together. Like the Circle. “You think there is another pack nearby that we haven’t heard of?” he asked.

“It’s possible, however unlikely.”

“They smelled of the mountains and filth,” he said, thinking of last night, “If they were not feral, they’ve certainly been living that way for a long time and they showed no sign of recognizing the Beast in me.”

“An oddity, perhaps,” Kodlak mused, “Hard to say without more to go on.” Then his gaze bounced between both brothers. “I will think on this some more and the Circle will meet after I’ve spoken with Sonja, but you should get some rest, Vilkas. Stamina of the Beast or not, the last few days were trying.”

“Yes, Harbinger,” Vilkas said, nodding his head respectfully, but he hesitated to rise from the table as his brother had at their dismissal.

“You have more yet on your mind,” Kodalk observed, waiting patiently.

“I do,” he admitted, “But—it can wait until tomorrow after I’ve rested and know my own mind better.”

His answer stirred concern in the Harbinger’s face, but he nodded, understanding. “As you will, son,” he said, “I will be here when you are ready.” And the twins took their leave. Vilkas sensed his brother wanted to speak further with him, to glean details about their venture that he had not initially been forthcoming about, but he couldn’t right then, not even for Farkas. He was tired and unwashed and in pain.

The larger brother patted his back in silent understanding as was his pure and simple way. “Later,” he rumbled.

“Aye. Later,” Vilkas promised and then he disappeared into his room to strip, down a potion for his pain, and fall half naked upon his bed, hoping the Beast was quiet enough to let him sleep for the first time in two nights.


“Ysolda really lucked out that things didn’t work between her and Vilkas,” Faendal said loudly while the three of them soaked in the hot waters of the bathhouse alone at that late hour, luxuriating in the comfort of clean water.

Sonja snorted. “Tell us how you really feel, Faendal,” she teased.

“I think he’s an ass,” Faendal answered enthusiastically as if he had been challenged, “And I don’t know why he had to come along in the first place.”

Lydia chuckled, too. “Too many tagalongs for your liking?” she teased, “Afraid you’re not the favorite anymore?”

Faendal snorted. “I think we all know that’s not a danger,” he snarked.

The Dragonborn rolled her eyes. “He’s good in a fight, Faendal,” she reminded him, “And—if not for him—I would have been beyond your and Lydia’s help.”

At that, some of the mirth in the Bosmer’s face dulled. “Aye, that’s true,” he agreed, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone knock a werewolf to the ground before. I didn’t know it was possible.”

The housecarl nodded, expression grim. “He was a man possessed,” she added, “The beast tackled you and he was come over with a—a rage. I don’t think he thought of his own safety when he charged at it.”

Sonja’s gaze travelled to the ceiling to inspect it with great interest instead of looking at either of her companions. “I didn’t see much,” she said, distantly, “Everything was darkening so quickly.”

“Well—I can admit that it was good the Companion came with us for that, at least,” Faendal sniffed, reluctantly, “But, maybe ask Farkas next time, instead.”

Sonja snorted so hard when she saw Lydia glare at Faendal, she actually choked on water. “You’re just sore that your ears got singed when Vilkas went for those mages,” the housecarl retorted.

“That’s not the only reason.”

There was a moment of silence as the women absorbed his meaning. “He’s not all bad,” Sonja said reasonably, “He’s an ass, true, but it’s usually for a reason.”

“Is it?” The Bomser sounded skeptical.

“I think so,” she replied, “I just—don’t always know what it is.” But she had a pretty good idea. Adversary. Not a friend. Opponent. Not an enemy. An edge with which to carve a new face. To become more. To become better. To gain control. Sonja wondered if Vilkas meant it in all the ways his words had spoken to her, or if it had just been some simple Nord sentiment born from a culture whose people faced an adversary in the very earth they called home. Maybe that’s all it was. Just some turn of phrase, but Vilkas was a man of few words and not for lack of knowing more—as she had jested upon their first meeting—but because he tended to take care in choosing those he spoke aloud.

And the look on his face. Admittedly, she hadn’t meant to ask the question in the first place, but the words were out of her mouth before she could think better of their meaning. That didn’t diminish her desire for a response, however. Vilkas defied easy definition in a world where she kept everyone at varying distances. He tended to shapeshift through her defenses when she least expected it—from antagonist to trainer to skala to almost friend—earning little nuggets of candor she was not fond of forfeiting. And he seemed to do it so easily because…No. It was stupid and childish and romantic. But maybe it didn’t need to be. Sometimes people were just similar. That’s all. Maybe the pain in his heart reached out to the pain in hers and plucked a truth from behind her walls.

So, he had to know what he was offering when he answered her question in the light of the cooking fire that morning. His brow was too stern and his eyes too sincere for his mouth to be unknowing. It was more than just beating the Oblivion out of her in the yard or running her until she was vomiting behind Heimskr’s house. It was a chance to make her better than she had been before. To be the resistance she needed to smooth out the rough edges of her awakening powers. To oppose her, not to destroy or break or own or dominate, but to empower. And it wasn’t an offer made to condescend. He hadn’t spoken as mentor to a child, acting to raise her to equal footing. He had spoken as a man to a woman, not warrior to Dragonborn. Just Vilkas to Sonja. And he hadn’t disappointed, hadn’t dismissed her with an easy diminutive, reminding her of her low status in the Companions. He had thought about it. Taken her misspoken question seriously as if he had been wondering at the answer for a while, himself.

That was all a bit much to explain to huntsman and housecarl, however. So she held her tongue while Lydia had a laugh at Faendal’s consternation. “And men think we’re the mystery.”

“More like confounding puzzle than mystery, really,” Faendal countered, “Some of you, anyway.”

Sonja hummed. “Camilla not a puzzling enough for you?”

He sighed, heavily. “No, she’s the most puzzling of all.”

“Everything is confusing when you’re in love,” Sonja observed, dryly, before dunking her head beneath the water to wet her hair.

“You ever been in love before?” Faendal asked, unaware she had submerged.

“What?” she asked, coming back up to catch his last word. He repeated himself. “Oh,” she hesitated, “What kind of shit life would I have to have led to never have been in love before?”

“So, yes,” Lydia stated, bluntly.

The Dragonborn shrugged. “I was a child once, too.” Her guarded answer was confirmation enough for her friends and they knew better than to push it further.

“So, in the morning we go to Dragonsreach,” Faendal said, changing the subject as he took a pair of scissors to the uneven scorch of his hair.

“Yes,” Sonja confirmed.

“To annoy Farengar into helping you.”

“I’m sure he’ll find a way to make it about his dragon research.”

“You’re not exactly the kind of dragon he’s interested in, though.”

“Faendal.”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re fucking up your hair.”

The Bosmer turned his head this way and that to get a better look and it was, indeed, very uneven. “I think I’ll just shave the sides and have done with it,” he decided, annoyed.

Sonja smirked, wondering how crooked the lines of his shave were going to be in the dim light of the bathhouse, and sunk into the water almost up to her nose. She listened to the draw of Faendal’s razor against his skin as he carefully shaved his sandy-brown hair into a wide stripe down the center of his head. And then soft music joined the percussion of Faendal’s movements as Lydia began to absently hum a bright tune. The drinking song she and Uthgerd had been trying to teach her the other night, if Sonja wasn’t mistaken. Lifeblood was the name of it. A song of vitality, as the title suggested, but of battle and death too. Of Divines and mortality. It was about so many things and, in that moment, it was comforting to listen to the whisper of the razor and Lydia’s gentle singing. Sonja could almost forget—if only briefly—all her yesterdays and all her tomorrows. It was a dizzying, delicate feeling that, with even the sparsest acknowledgement, quickly dissolved in the hot water like sugar and time shunted itself back into her reality, whether she liked it or not.

“Sonja,” Faendal said softly sometime after he had finished shaving; he was running his palms over the smooth patches of his skull. “Are you worried about what’s happening to your magic?” he asked cautiously.

She didn’t answer right away. “Shouldn’t I be?” she asked, her tone somewhat sardonic, as she sat up in the water, rubbing her face.

He shrugged. “You were trained at University, yeah?” he said, sensibly, “You already know what’s wrong and what to do about it.”

Another long pause as she reached for the soap to clean her hair. “I do,” she allowed, “Which almost makes it worse.”

“How?” Lydia asked from the opposite corner; she had stopped humming when Faendal started asking questions.

Sonja spared a glance for her housecarl, but again did not immediately answer as she lathered her hair. “Because I was dangerous when I was in control of my power,” she said at length, “A weapon in all the ways people like Vilkas fear.” She leaned her head back, far, and gently rinsed the soap from her raven tresses. “Out of control and stronger than ever is beyond dangerous, it’s—disastrous.” She righted herself and pulled the wet rope of her hair forward, over her shoulder so she could run her fingers through it, removing any remaining tangles. “Worse than breaking a few limbs in the yard. Vilkas was right to be angry,” she continued, her tone tightening and her gaze offset, “To be—afraid. I should not have put you all in danger like that. Especially when we had enough to face already.” Finally, her gaze rose to look between housecarl and huntsman. “I will do better.”

“I’m not worried,” Faendal said, matter-of-factly, “I tend to stand farther back anyway.”

Sonja’s expression flattened. “Your heartfelt concern is truly overwhelming. Please. Stop. It’s too much.” The mer winked and rinsed any lingering hair from his body with a quick dunk under the water.

“I think it’s more than fear that angered Vilkas yesterday,” Lydia said while Faendal was underwater.

Sonja cocked an eyebrow at her stoic housecarl. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

Lydia looked like she was about to answer, but thought better of it when Faendal resurfaced. She shrugged instead. “Just a feeling,” she muttered, but it was obvious there was more she had wanted to say. Sonja’s brow puckered softly with intrigue and made a mental note to quiz her housecarl on it later.

“We’re not going to end up at the College of Winterhold, though, are we?” Faendal asked through a groan as he cleared water from his eyes. He was fine with the frigidness of the tundra, the Rift, and the southern forests. Even the howling winds of the Reaches and nipping chill of the seas near Solitude, but there was just something horrible about the frozen northern mountains and shores.

“Possibly,” Sonja sighed, reaching for a sponge, “If Farengar can’t help me.”

Notes:

Okay, so first off, sorry this took so long to post. I came down with the flu and just could not function long enough to do anything other than sleep, cough, and generally drool on my pillow. Not exactly good head space for anything, let alone creative juices as the only juices surrounding me were contained in a sippy cup with a metal straw (#savetheturtles) or leaking out of my face. Then, I had to be a good, supportive wife and edit my husband's master thesis. *sigh* So. Much. Knowledge. Of. Gristmills. The horror!

Secondly, there was a lot of stuff going on in this chapter! Everybody's winding down from all the crazy shit that happened in the last two chapters aka my ode to all the times I've died because I was too squish. There's more werewolf stuff, more Sonja and Vilkas interaction (not like there wasn't enough of that recently), more flirt (though perhaps not where you wanted or expected it to be), and bathhouse girl talk with Faendal!

Now, about that flirt...

So...I am one of those people who goes back and forth on Saadia's innocence or guilt during the quest In My Time of Need. I know that it is left intentionally vague to make that decision completely up to the player, and I've read forums for people arguing one way or the other. For my part, the first time I ran the quest, I chose Saadia because she needed help and those Alk'ir dudes were not forthcoming with information to make me trust them. But, on a second playthrough, I went the other way and felt properly vindicated with the alternative, too. So, I explore some of the arguments surrounding her innocence or guilt through Vilkas because, regardless of whether or not she is a traitor or a victim, she is resourceful and manipulative (that doesn't have to be a bad thing, especially if you're just trying to survive) and if she saw something useful in securing the interest of a noted warrior, surely that would help to insure her safety in Whiterun a little longer until the Alk'ir either moved on or she could plan an escape. Just a thought. Also, I do think she is absolutely lovely to look at. *sigh* Damn pretty people!

Chapter 29: Preparations

Summary:

The Great Hunt is fast approaching and there is much to be done before Sonja leads her hunting party across Skyrim in search of their prey.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Depictions of childhood emotional and physical trauma, family death, and PTSD.

This is a hefty chapter. I tried to break it up into two, but I couldn't find a break that I liked, so beware, you're about to read nearly 30 pages of content. You might want to set some time aside.

PoV Sonja, Vilkas, and Ysolda. ;)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I can’t help you,” Farengar said in a tone of voice that Sonja was sure he thought passed for something like sympathy, but sounded more like irritated, haughty dismissal like always.

“You just got done telling me how you practically begged Balgruuf to let you examine me after I ‘absorbed the power of such a majestic beast.’ I’m here now. What do you mean you can’t help me?” Sonja growled, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the court wizard with a surly frown. It was early the next morning, or as early as Sonja could stand getting out of bed after such a late night. She was a little cranky and the smell of Dragonsreach’s kitchens was making her stomach groan for a second breakfast. Faendal was leaning against the wall behind her, fully prepared to harass Farengar the moment Sonja gave him permission to, and Lydia stood off to her side, looking intimidating.

“I’m far too busy with my research,” he insisted, “Jarl Balgruuf needs answers and I have to give them to him. I still haven’t translated the Dragonstone you brought me—the syntax is giving me some trouble—and I’m waiting on the arrival of tomes I sent for from the College three weeks ago!”

Sonja cocked an unsympathetic eyebrow at the wizard. “I’m not asking for much,” she assured, “Just something to keep the magic from running wild until I can regain control, that’s all. Novice stuff, really.”

To his credit, the court wizard did look somewhat apologetic. “I don’t have what you need on hand and I just don’t have time to make it for you right now,” Farengar insisted, “I’m sorry, but if this is such a great concern, maybe you should to the College of Winterhold. I’m sure they have what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t have time to go to Winterhold,” Sonja argued, “I’m asking you. Now. Please, Farengar. There must be something I can do for you? Huh? Something I can trade for your time? Need something else fetched from a dark, dank tomb? I’m good for that!”

Farengar crossed one arm over his chest to support the other as he pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Unless you happen to have more contextualized samples of this writing, then no, there is nothing you can do for me,” he stated tersely.

Sonja’s eyes flit to the open books, unfurled parchments, and ink splotched maps littering the court wizard’s desk. It was a mess of academic, arcane thought and nestled in the middle like a precious egg was the Dragonstone. It was laying with the sharp, short characters facing up. “Maybe not exact translations, but what if I have the next best thing?” she asked, smirking softly.

The wizard glared at her. “And where would you have gotten your hands on such priceless information?” he asked incredulously.

The Dragonborn rolled her eyes. “Says ‘you’ like it’s insulting to be me when five minutes ago, he wanted to feel me up and take notes on the majesty of my nature,” she said to Lydia as she gesticulated toward Farengar who sported a slight blush when she looked back at him.

“I would never!” he sputtered, looking so flummoxed, it was sad.

“Bleak Falls Barrow was filled with it,” she interrupted before he could get properly worked up.

He glared again. “Of course it was! It housed the Dragonstone! I need more! I need already partially translated materials or…”

“I can help translate it.”

There was a long silence before Farengar spoke his next, incredulous word: “How?”

“Alright, not all of it,” she admitted, reasonably, “But there was a wall in the main chamber where we found the Dragonstone that was covered in those markings and when I got close to it—one of the words—it’s hard to explain, but it’s part of the way I can Shout, I think. I know that word. Or—remembered it, maybe. Oblivion, maybe it wanted me to know it. I don’t know how it works, but I do know what the word ‘fus’ looks like. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

He looked skeptical. “Though admittedly helpful, one word is not enough…”

“After the Hunt, we are going to search for another wall,” Sonja interrupted, “I’ll take all the notes and rubbings I can and Faendal can sketch everything and we’ll bring it all back to you. And if this wall works the way the one at Bleak Falls did, you’ll have more to work with.”

Farengar looked like he still wasn’t convinced, but Sonja suspected it was a show. Though not the key to all his research, it was still a lot of information he really couldn’t pass up. “Very well, my thane, you have a deal,” he said will false reluctance.

Sonja visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” she breathed, “I’m glad we could work something out.”

“I will have to make them more powerful for you.”

“I suspected as much.”

“It will take time.”

“How long?”

“About two days if I devote all of my attention to it.”

“If?”

“You have my attention. We have a deal. Do not worry.”

“Two days is perfect.”

“You will need to purchase a few things in town that I do not have in stock myself.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“They may be expensive.”

“I’ll work something out.”

Farengar nodded. “Very well.” He stooped over his desk and scrawled a brief list in the messiest handwriting Sonja had ever seen and then handed Lydia the parchment, waving it impatiently until the indignant housecarl took it. “Come back later this afternoon and we’ll get started.”

“Until then.” And the three of them quickly left the court wizard to his work.


Vilkas had slept a light, dreamless sleep. It was the closest thing to blissful he had experienced in years and that thought made him miserable. He was trying so hard to push the animal down deep where it couldn't gnaw on his mind, ravenous, but even the rare, blissful moments that felt like peace were tainted by the mere memory of a time when such gentleness wasn't so starkly noted. Still, it was better than it had been and he couldn’t wallow in his anguish all day when there was much to do. So, he rolled out of bed, gathered clean clothes and soap, covered himself with a cloak, and slipped out of his room into the still hallways of Jorrvaskr.

It was midmorning. Everyone had already wandered upstairs to eat or train in the yard. So, it was very late for him, but he did his best to look grumpy and unapproachable in the hopes that he would be allowed to slink out of the meadhall unhindered. His dangerous gaze served its purpose and he managed to make it to the bathhouse—the market square was only just opening for the day—without anyone passing him a second glance. There was no one else in the bathhouse yet, either. Folks had already come and gone or were waiting for a little later when the space would be a little more private like it was then. So, Vilkas hurriedly stripped, tossed his clothing onto the nearest dry surface, and sank into the nearest steaming pool. It was amazing and he almost regretted not doing it the night before when he could have taken his time and just soaked until his muscles stopped throbbing. But he had needed to speak with Kodlak and he had definitely needed sleep. If the price for doing what was necessary was only a quick, unsatisfying bath, he’d pay it without complaint.

Efficiently, he washed himself, scrubbing harder where he suspected he was most ripe, and hastily lathered his hair, massaging the dirt from his scalp. He submerged to rinse himself and when he came back up, he was not alone in the bathhouse any longer. Ysolda had just walked in with her clean clothes and toiletries, and she stood stark still when she caught sight of him in the water. “Oh, you’re back!” she squeaked, eyes wide and awkwardly avoiding trying to make out the shape of him through the water.

“Aye,” he said, rubbing water from his eyes and slicking his hair back from his face, “Late last night.”

Ysolda nodded aggressively. “Good. Good. There’s a lot to tell Sonja,” she said, addressing the wall to his left, “I’ll—I’ll just go look for her right now…” She spun on her heel and bolted out the door without a backward glance.

Vilkas almost felt guilty for being where, as far as Ysolda was concerned, he shouldn’t have been. She knew him well enough to know he preferred the early, early morning or the late, late night to avoid the company of others while bathing. Undoubtedly, she had not been expecting to see him when he should either still be out on the tundra or just not there. He practically ambushed her without even trying. Still—how was he supposed to know? It wasn’t reasonable to expect him to tiptoe around Whiterun forever on the chance that he might bump into Ysolda. Whiterun was a small city. It was bound to happen now and again, even if he spent most of his time at Jorrvaskr. Still, he descended into deeper grumpiness, finished his bath, and got out before he received any more surprise visitors.

He bought two apples from Carlotta as he passed her stall which just confused her expression into something like a smiling scowl, caught somewhere between being hateful on behalf of her friend’s broken heart and good customer service. That soured his mood a little further and he took the stairs to the Wind District two and sometimes three at a time. He nearly ran Sonja over as she exited Jorrvaskr with Lydia, the ever faithful Faendal nowhere to be seen. “Watch where you’re going,” she snapped, also appearing to be in a poor mood, but then she realized it was him and her expression lightened considerably, “I need to speak with you later if you have time.”

He nodded. “I’ll be around.”

“In the yard?”

“Tending to work in my room. There were a lot of jobs that came in while we were away.”

“I’ll find you.” And then her stomach grumbled rather loudly; she looked annoyed by it. Lydia chuckled with an expression that suggested she may have told her thane more than once to eat something before leaving Jorrvaskr.

“Until then,” he said, sliding past her into the meadhall and thrusting his second apple into her hand as he did so. He heard her mumble thanks at his retreating back, but did not look at her until he was descending the stairs to the living quarters. He caught sight of her biting into the fruit as the door closed behind her. Feeling strangely lighter for reasons he would not allow himself to examine, he passed through the doors into the lower levels of Jorrvaskr.

He returned to his room to work, as he had told Sonja he would, but found it difficult to concentrate. Listlessly, he flipped through the missives sent in from all over Skyrim asking for the aid of the Companions. Some of them were worthy causes that needed to be addressed as soon as there was a Companion to do so: citizens in dire need and escaped criminals. Others were only worthy for the coin they offered. But his mind wandered and he found himself replaying through the events of his time spent out on the tundra with Sonja and her followers. Her magic and her fierceness, her strength and her weakness, her cleverness and her brush with death. His feelings toward the woman had had violent peaks and valleys over the course of two days before finally levelling out in middling regard on the last day to spare himself, and her, further confrontation.  But he couldn’t stop thinking of it now. Of her. Maybe he could have focused better on his own crankiness instead if he had not run into her upstairs and noticed the light in her eyes upon seeing him.

No, he told himself sternly as he threw the letters back onto the table and went to the weapon racks against the changing screen perpendicular to the doors. He needed something to busy his hands and reclaim his focus. He took up his greatsword and went to his bed, retrieving the oil cloth and oil that he kept in a drawer of his bedside table. Unsheathing the weapon, he went about cleaning the blade of any lingering dirt, water, sweat, or blood. It was an old, calming ritual of his even when the blade didn’t need tending as it did now. He checked the sharpness of it; Skyforge steel did not easily dull, but it might serve to have Eorlund take it to the grinding stone just the same. He checked and cleaned the grip, no mildew or signs of rust, the leather wrap still fit against the valley of his palm like it was an extension of it.

He returned the weapon to the rack and collected the spear and shield. With methodic care and respect for Eorlund’s work, he serviced both pieces before turning his attention to the leathers he had worn on the tundra. It was good, distracting work and Vilkas was completely absorbed in the technique he employed with each cleansing and preserving swipe of his cloth and oils for almost the entirety of the process. Almost. When he reached the cuirass after having already cleaned his boots, bracers, gloves, shoulder guards, and grieves, his eyes trailed over the scratches across the chest panel from the werewolf he’d tackled off of Sonja. The claws had not gone deep enough to warrant a replacement from Eorlund; it had largely been an incidental grazing as both Beasts tumbled to the ground.

He still tried to think of something else as he tended to the cuirass, but it was no use. The floodgates were open and he was remembering that night all over again as he had revisited it a dozen times in the day that separated him from the original instance. The Wolf came from nowhere. He hadn’t seen or smelled or heard it until it was too late. The Beast was on Sonja and the look on her face was clear as a cold morning: resignation. Not fire as he was used to seeing, but acceptance like she knew the end was approaching and she was ready for it. So starkly fearless as she was going to face her death. She was too proud to just let it kill her, though, and gave the animal a deadly shard of ice to sport in its gut. Later, he realized it was all she had been able to do at the time, but it had looked so inadequate in the moment. And then after—it had been a long time since he had seen someone whose life he valued dance so close to the edge of death. That was a panic he would not soon forget; a failure he would not soon forgive.

He huffed and scowled and tossed his cleaned leathers back into his trunk. He didn’t know his mind any better than the night before. What would he tell Kodlak? That a Newblood—Dragonborn, though she may be—and mage was twisting his thoughts into such complicated knots that between her and the Beast, he didn’t know how he managed to think of anything else? He let out a long, low breath and counted backwards from twenty. Somewhere around five he knew that Kodlak would not shame him for anything and that it was best to just tell the Harbinger what his concerns were. Before he spoke to Sonja. So Kodlak would have the whole picture. So, he put the oil away, tossed the cloth into a pile of linens to be washed, made a vague attempt to organize the requests into different piles, and then finally went to speak with Kodlak.

“Ah, there you are,” the Harbinger said, still drinking the last of his morning mead at the table in the corner. He rose when Vilkas entered and gathered the few plates of his breakfast and set them on the desk, out of the way. “Why don’t you bring the board over here and close the door so we won’t be disturbed?”

Vilkas smiled gently and nodded. He went into Kodlak’s bedroom and retrieved a game board from atop his dresser. The pieces were already arranged upon it, left precisely as they had been the last time he played against the Harbinger in their ongoing game of Tafl for the last few months. Carefully, he brought it back into the main room and placed it upon the newly cleared table. Then he took his customary seat and waited for Kodlak to assume his. The old man did so and slid an unopened bottle of mead toward Vilkas before settling in. His sharp eyes darted over the black and white pieces to regain his bearings and search out new strategies. “I believe it was your turn,” he said.

“No. It was yours,” Vilkas countered, “And you’ll need it.”

Kodlak smirked. “Don’t argue with your elders, boy,” he chastised, “I said it was your turn and so it is.”

The younger man scoffed and pulled the cork from the mead bottle. It was their custom to exchange a little friendly ribbing before the start—and throughout—and after. He’d already planned out his first move in the time it took him to retrieve and set up the game board. “Very well, Harbinger,” he growled and moved his darker piece into position, sipping his mead.

“Ha!” the Harbinger chided, “An obvious gambit!”

“Is it, now?”

The old man looked again, smiling, and made his move. “Yes, boy. There is still much I have yet to teach you.”

“Aye. I don’t doubt it.” Another move, a piece taken. “Første blod,” he declared, For this session, anyway.

Kodlak watched Vilkas take the small glass disc and set it on the table, off to the side where he would build his graveyard throughout the course of their game. He had intended to sacrifice the piece, but the fact that Vilkas didn’t seem to notice the strategy was not a good sign. Instead of pointing this out, however, the Harbinger elected to lean back in his chair as if deep in thought for his next move. “There was more you wanted to say last night,” he said after a moment.

Vilkas’ glanced away from the board to the floor. “It had been a hard journey,” he said blankly, “I was tired.”

The Harbinger hummed and moved a piece. “So, you’ve come to do nothing but play Tafl, then?” he asked kindly and then waited.

It was silent a while longer as Vilkas struggled to find a way to give voice to his current dilemma, before he wet his lips and spoke in a very cautious tone. “If we had a whelp who used magic, would we not dismiss her from these halls?” he asked, though he wasn't sure that was precisely the question he wanted to ask.

“You speak, of course, of Sonja.” There was no surprise in the Harbinger's face.

“Aye. Her magic is—uncomfortable—to be around.” That was a bit of an understatement. It had been uncomfortable before he had seen Sonja use Lydia’s strength to heal herself. After, it was nigh unbearable, but Sonja had kept her spells to herself, so he had only his own nervousness to blame.

Kodlak’s sharp eyes darted over Vilkas’ face, thoughtfully. “You knew she was a mage when she came to us,” he recalled, “You made your objections known then, but she impressed you enough in the yard for you to declare her worthy and, with the revelation that she is Dragonborn, you take to her training personally.” He paused. “Why bring it up again, now? What else happened on the tundra?”

Vilkas hesitated. “I can hardly explain it,” he admitted, reluctantly, “but she used magic I have never seen before.”

The Harbinger’s expression darkened. “Was it—dark?” he asked hesitantly, his tone hummed with an unspoken doubt, “Profane?”

Vilkas recalled the moments preceding Sonja’s demonstration of bizarre power. She was hanging on by a thread, her gut tore open, her blood sprayed across the bushy tundra grass. The potions they had given her were too weak and too slow to save her. She was dying. Fading fast, her eyes lulling without focus. She couldn’t save herself with conventional healing. She'd proved her powerlessness and seeing it seemed to take strength from them all. The Dragonborn was going to die and he didn’t understand why. Why had Akatosh allowed the danger to grow so great? Why would he let it take her now? But, as his mind grappled with those questions in those vital moments, rather than take what she needed as she could have, as anyone else would have, she looked into the eyes of the woman who was sworn to guard her with her life and asked, not pleaded or begged or commanded, but simply asked her to be her salvation. If Lydia had refused, he was certain Sonja would have let herself die rather than take what was not freely given.

“No,” he said at length, “It might have been, in different hands, but not in hers.”

Kodlak canted his head, intrigued. “What did she do, son?” he pressed, gently. After a moment’s hesitation, Vilkas told him. The Harbinger’s face slackened with surprise and perhaps even a touch of wonder as he leaned back in his chair again. “I—don’t know how to feel about that,” he admitted. It was hard for even the average Nord to swallow.

“I know,” Vilkas agreed, “She goes against my every instinct and everything you taught me about being a Nord.” He took a healthy swing of mead from the bottle. “Her magic makes my scars itch.”

“Itching battle scars only means they’re healing. Maybe you should let them.”

“Kodlak…”

“Do you want to send her away?”

“No, but it’s not about what I want. It’s about what is right.”

“Do you think it right to send her away, then?”

He hesitated. “No—I don’t.”

Kodlak nodded pensively. “It is true, that normally we would not suffer a spellslinger amongst us which is why one never would have passed the test in the first place, but Sonja was an exception. An exception, you, yourself made. And—aside from saving us a bit of coin on healing potions and tithes to the temple—she hasn’t used her magic in these halls or in our yard or on one of our jobs.” He paused. “Unless I am mistaken?”

Vilkas shook his head. “No, you are right. She has been mindful of our traditions. The tundra was not a Companion matter. I should not have made it my business…” Though he had been invited along, it might have been better to have refused.

The Harbinger shrugged. “Perhaps not, but it sounds like it was good that you did,” he said, reasonably, “Besides, Vilkas, as I have told you time and time again, the Companions own no one, even if they are a mage. She is free to do as she likes with her magic when she’s not doing it in our name.”

“I know. I know. It’s just…” This was something else entirely. Something he struggled to reconcile.

“The Companions don’t own you either, son,” Kodlak added when Vilkas did not finish his sentence, “If it is necessary for you to go chasing after the Dragonborn from time to time, then go, but don’t expect to still be her master trainer when you do. If you go with her, you go as Vilkas and no one else.”

But Vilkas still took issue with a lot of things. “How can I train her when I know what her magic is capable of?”

“Does she truly remind you so much of what happened?” Kodlak probed, gently, not wanting to pick at such a sensitive subject carelessly, “When you look at her, do you see your enemy?”

Vilkas looked away, wrestling with his mind as it edged toward memories he’d rather keep buried. It was so easy to slip back into them, sometimes. The scent of blood and fire, the prickle of electricity across his weak, defenseless body, the cries of his brother, whimpering afraid and in pain—and his mother, sweet Mara, she was begging…He snapped back with a violent shudder that almost upset the game board. “No,” he huffed, a little shaken, “No, she is…” He thought of the morning he intruded upon her private reading, how she reached out and hid her magic from him because she knew he wouldn’t like it. How she had asked for Lydia’s consent. “Kinder,” he finished, softly.

“Then what is it you fear?” Kodlak asked, his tone patient and soft.

“That I am too weak to see the difference when it matters most,” he admitted with shame, “That my fear will prevent me from seeing it.”

“You are a Companion, Vilkas,” the Harbinger said, matter-of-factly, “A true Nord. An honorable man. When has fear ever stopped you from doing what’s right?”

The younger man smiled faintly. He appreciated Kodlak’s words and, to some degree they were a great comfort to him, but there was still a lingering doubt, somewhere in the pit of him, near where the Beast constantly gnawed on his humanity. And that doubt had a voice that sounded like his pleading mother, had a face that looked like his weeping brother. It was more than fear; it was old pain, an agony that nearly stretched the length of his life. It had left deep, painful wounds upon his body, but more than that, it had scarred his soul. Could even an honorable man rise above that?

Kodlak moved a piece while Vilkas pondered. “Åpning,” he declared and Vilkas returned his attention back to the game he was losing.


Sonja found herself once again inside her mother’s childhood home, unhappily sitting across from her aunt who looked annoyed by her lateness. Hulda had said to visit in the morning. It was five minutes until noon. Still morning—technically. Each housecarl stood stoically behind their respective thanes, proudly performing their duty. Sonja vaguely found herself wishing she had asked Faendal along instead of sending him off to run errands with Ysolda; she was sure he would know precisely how to get under Hera’s skin without even trying. “How was your venture out on the tundra?” Hera asked, pouring the mead.

“Harrowing.”

“That bad?”

Sonja cocked an eyebrow at her aunt, annoyed. “You true Nords always go on about how ‘Skyrim is not for the weak’,” she grumbled, “That the tundra and the forests and the mountains are dangerous places and yet when someone goes out and actually confirms that, indeed, they are extremely dangerous, you all sound surprised by it.”

Hera let out a harsh laugh. “Aye, Hulda said you were in a mood since last night.”

“It’s just your company.”

“Better get this over with, then. So you don’t have to suffer much longer.” The older woman stood from her chair and went to the corner of the room, striding swiftly and with purpose. She opened a large cabinet there that, once the doors were swung back, revealed an assortment of impressive looking weapons. She selected two items and unhooked a third: a battered Nordic shield, a thick and shaggy mantle, and the most beautifully carved spear of luminous white bone Sonja had ever seen.

Hera returned with the treasures, draping the mantle over the back of her chair and propping the spear and shield against the armrest. “Rise,” she prompted. Sonja quickly set aside her mead and nearly hopped to her feet. “From one Hunt Master to the next, as the seasons pass on beneath the grace of Kyne, I pass on the mantle of the Hunt to you, made from the bounty of our last victory,” Hera said with a tone of recitation in her voice. Sonja sensed that she was hearing words that had been spoken again and again over generations of Nordic hunters. “May Kyne’s blessing be with you now as it was with me then.” She swung the mantle over Sonja’s shoulders and it felt heavy and warm. She was not a small woman, but she felt a dwarfed by the weight of it. That heft and thickness was precisely what one needed to stay warm on freezing Skyrim nights.

Next, Hera took up the spear. She spun it expertly in her grasp with an appreciation for the astonishing craftsmanship of the weapon, and then held it out to Sonja. “From one warrior to another, as the strength of the White River and the swiftness of the North Winds guided Ysgramor and his Companions to build this great city, I bestow the white bone spear, Whiterun, unto you, made from the bones of whales, giants of the seas.” Sonja could hardly believe what she was holding as she accepted the spear from Hera. “May you always be strong and swift as the rivers and the winds of our land, and may this spear protect you as it has protected me.” Sonja marveled at the intricacy of the carved Atmoran knots along the shaft and the razor sharpness of the spearhead. It was impossibly light. Turning it over in her hands, she quickly discovered why: the shaft was hollow.

“A relic from Atmora, brought over on the Jorrvaskr by the vessel’s captain, Jeek of the River before the founding of our city,” Hera elaborated as Sonja ran her fingers along the carved shaft, “Whatever craftsmanship made a hollow spear stronger than any made of solid oak has long since been forgotten. That weapon will pierce the hide of any game you seek.”

“It’s incredible,” Sonja breathed, truly awed by the pains the spear’s maker must have taken in its creation.

Hera nodded, agreeing. “It served me well in last winter’s hunt,” she recalled, “I struck the killing blow. Pierced the beast’s heart. It was a good hunt.” And then she took up the shield and offered it without preamble. Sonja somewhat reluctantly handed the spear off to Lydia so she could take the shield from her aunt with both hands. Appraising it with the same eagerness with which she had taken in the carvings of the spear, she was surprised to discover it was a little less grand. Made of steel, ebony, wolf fur hide, and dark wood, the scarred face of the shield looked as if it had seen better days. “Nothing fancy,” Hera explained catching the questioning expression on Sonja’s face, “Just a shield. Nothing to do with the Hunt. I noticed you didn’t have one of your own.” She gestured to the shield. “It was Freydis’ when we were just whelps starting out at Jorrvaskr.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Or mine. We might have shared it. It was long ago.”

Sonja’s grip on the shield tightened until her knuckles went white. This was not the passing on of relics from one hunter and warrior to another; this was between an aunt and her niece, and Sonja felt very strange accepting it. “I borrowed one from Jorrvaskr when we went scouting,” she said, her tone flat, “The grip was shit.”

The older warrior hesitated, waiting for more from Sonja than the odd blurb she had been given. “Yes, many of the blades and shields from the armory have been abused mightily over the years,” she agreed, slowly, “Yours now, just the same.” She shrugged, unsure if it would make a difference to Sonja who the shield had once belonged to. “If you still want it.”

Sonja stroked the edge of the shield with the blade of her thumb. It was a childish impulse to deny it and she was not so immature. She had agreed to do right by the Ironheart name, and antagonizing Hera at every turn would not serve that commitment. “Thank you,” she said, at last, “You’re right. I needed one.” It was a strange feeling to be handed so much tradition, but that was all that had been happening to her since she arrived in Skyrim and, often, she was at the center of it. It had been daunting at first, but she was beginning to warm up to the idea. The mantle warming her shoulders was heavy and proud and smelled of wild tundra, of her mother’s homeland. She had held the spear Whiterun, the namesake of her mother’s hometown, and now her hands were wrapped around the edges of her aunt’s shield that had protected both young Ironheart sisters in the tender years of their inexperience. How many of the scars across the shield’s surface could have been killing blows that cut short a young Freydis’ life? To which marks did Sonja owe her very existence since her mother was spared them? “I will carry them all with honor.”

Something like pleasure tugged at the corners of Hera’s eyes and she nodded. “Good. Good,” she said, sinking back into her chair, “See to it that you learn how to handle such a fine weapon. You were sloppy when we fought.”

The Dragonborn sighed heavily, frustrated with her own lacking skills. “Yes, I will ask Aela for a few more pointers before we head out.”

“Which is when, exactly?”

“Three days.”

Hera scoffed. “So long? I already riled up the hunters to get going the moment you got back.”

“They will have to wait.”

“Why? We could move on the camp west of town this afternoon and be celebrating by tonight.”

Sonja pursed her lips. It seemed Vilkas’ estimation of Hera’s intentions had been correct. “That is not the plan,” she said firmly, “I don’t want trouble with the giants.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” she replied sharply, “You’d rather send a few dozen people out across the tundra you just called ‘harrowing.’”

“There is strength in numbers.”

“Aye, which is why it makes more sense to go after the camp. A giant or two won’t be a match for so many and everyone can go home to their own beds.”

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue. “No,” she said with so much finality she was practically daring Hera to object again, “We will leave in three days. We are hunting a free-roaming herd. There is no reason to seek battle with otherwise peaceful shepherds, giants though they may be. I’ve selected a young male. I will provide details tonight at The Bannered Mare. This is what the Hunt Master has decided.”

Hera tapped her fingers against her armrest, thoughtfully. Her expression very plainly declared she wanted to argue, but she remained quiet for some time. “Alright, girl,” she said, her voice sounding vaguely dangerous, “Have it your way.”


Sonja safely deposited the shield and mantle she had received from Hera on her bed in the barracks. The spear she leaned against the wall, however, and then went back out into the hall. She walked toward the Harbinger’s closed doors behind which, nearly three weeks prior, she had first met Kodlak and he had agreed to have her tested despite the fact she was a mage. She’d been in Skyrim an entire month and felt no closer to finding Anja than she had the day the Thalmor ordered she be executed with the rest of the Stormcloaks. That was a painfully sobering thought, the passage of time. Much had happened in such short weeks to delay her. She remembered her errant thought to just walk off in any direction, but the desire had cooled. As much as she disliked standing still, there were some things just too big to walk away from. I will do better.

But, she wasn’t headed for the Habinger’s room this time. She was going to seek Vilkas out before Faendal returned with Ysolda and made it impossible for her to do so. She’d never seen the inside of his room before. The Companion preferred to keep the door closed, but she knew it was across the hall from Farkas’; so she turned right just before Kodlak’s rooms and made her way straight toward it. The door was open which was an oddity in and of itself, but Sonja supposed he had no reason to close it if he was inside and expecting company. So, she stepped inside—and found an empty room.

Her eyes flit over the space from the tall bookshelves lining the opposite wall, filled with books of every size and shape and binding—and were those scrolls?—to the furniture tucked into the corners: a table littered with papers, inks, quills, and a few candles; dressers half opened with some of his clothes neatly folded inside and others heedlessly thrown in crumpled heaps, more books stacked on top of them; and a trunk cracked open against the foot of his large bed filled with most of his gear, neatly arranged and already serviced; the bed, itself did not look very comfortable, though it was wide, it was sparsely covered with the thinnest of padding and furs. Immediately to her right, there was a tall wooden screen that she supposed he changed behind and the top half of it was covered in maps of Skyrim, her holds, her towns, and her cities; weapon racks lined the bottom half and they held his gleaming Skyforge weapons, sharp, clean, and oiled. It was like walking into his mind, a strange peak behind the curtain of his constant dour expression, and she felt like she was crossing some forbidden line of privacy the man liked to draw around himself.

Hesitantly, she tapped against the screen with the knuckles of two fingers. “You decent?” she asked, her voice quieter than she would have liked, but she felt like she was trespassing. There was no response, so she assumed he was not there and promptly turned around to leave before he found there, lingering in his space where she did not belong, but her eyes alighted on yet another tome atop the dresser near the door. She paused in her exit just to read the title and hesitated. A Dream of Sovngarde. She knew Sovngarde because of her mother, but Sonja never practiced or heeded either of her parents’ faiths before—before now. Now that she knew there was truth to it all.

Cautiously, she cast another glance out the door and down the hallway. Vilkas could be light on his feet, but he was not exceptionally silent. At least not compared to the fine art that was Faendal creeping through the trees or Anja as she slinked through houses of slumbering, unknowing fools. And he had no reason to mind his step if he was merely coming back to his room, so surely she would hear him coming.

Feeling her actions thoroughly justified, she plucked the book from its resting place and opened it. The spine sighed against her palm as she eased the tome flat. She began reading. No, more like scanning at great speed, the thrill of being caught somewhere she should not be motivating her to complete her task as quickly as possible, but then her eyes were catching on too many words and her pace slowed the further her attention was engaged. Soon, she almost forgot where she was standing as the words on the page momentarily transported her elsewhere, far beyond the confines of a room that was not her own, across time and space and into the mind of a man, a soldier, afraid to die.

She didn’t notice when Vilkas stepped into the room behind her. She didn’t feel his presence when he stood mere inches from her, peering over her shoulder to see what she was reading. It wasn’t until he muttered almost in her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive expanse of skin where her neck met her shoulder, that she became aware of his proximity. “What are you reading?” She nearly dropped the book, snapping it shut in her surprise like she was trying to hide her trespass from him; her own spine was rigid as she side stepped away from him.

“Mara’s bleeding heart, you scared me!” she breathed, eyes wide and heart pounding both from being caught and startled—and possibly from the sound of his voice in her ear and the warmth of his breath on her skin.

Vilkas looked amused, his white-blue eyes twinkling with a brightness she was unaccustomed to. Especially in absence of his eye-black. “If I had been a saber cat, you’d be dead,” he pointed out.

“I hardly think I’d be having a little read out on the tundra,” she retorted and then huffed, “You told me you’d be here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I was speaking with Kodlak,” he replied, holding his hand out for the book, “It’s fine.”

She was actually relieved he seemed to be in such agreeable spirits and readily handed over the tome—well, perhaps not readily. She would have preferred to finish the paragraph she’d been reading before he’d surprised her. “I won’t waste your time,” she assured, “I just wanted to ask if you would help me with the preparations for the Hunt. I don’t know the ritual. Faendal only knows it in broad strokes. And Hera and I will likely kill each other in the process, so…” She trailed off, aware that he was not paying attention to her. He was staring at the cover of the book with an odd look upon his face. “Are you listening to me?” she asked.

He hesitated. “No, sorry,” he said at length, “I was just thinking.” He looked up at her and waved the book slightly. “How far did you get into it before I stopped you?”

She blinked, thrown by his unconcern for her request. “Uh, near the end, I think,” she answered, “I skipped over most of the beginning because I was…” she trailed off, ‘because I was afraid you’d catch me’ hung undeclared in the air between them. “There were only a few pages left.” She thought for a moment. “I walked through mists toward the sound of laughter, merriment and the songs of the north,” she recited, “The mists soon cleared, and before me lay a great chasm.” She smiled softly. “He’d just gotten to Sovngarde in his vision. I didn’t get to read the rest.”

“You have a good memory.”

“From learning incantations,” she explained, feeling somewhat uncomfortable for even mentioning magic while standing in his space, his sanctuary, “Can’t afford to get those wrong.”

He studied her expression for a moment and then turned his attention back to the book, cracking it open and flipping through the pages until he found that for which he was looking. “Here,” he said, spinning the book back toward her, “Finish. I won’t deny you the pleasure.”

A love for the written word had not been something she thought the surly, growling Companion would possess. Her eyes lingered on his as she accepted the tome from him and then she cast them back across the page to seek out her place again. Silently, she read a few more words as he walked away from her and toward the bookcases. “Aloud, if you don’t mind,” he said, but it wasn’t a command, “I’d like to hear it, too.” A request.

She hesitated, surprised by his request; it seemed such a soft desire, but wouldn't deny him even if she felt a little silly for doing it since it reminded her of school. And he listened, still at times when the descriptions of Sovngarde were vivid and stirring, but then he’d remember himself and remove another book from the shelf and stack it on the table in the corner, on top of the papers scattered there. When he’d completed that task, he went to his bed, closed his trunk and sat on the lid, leaned forward and arms propped against his knees as he listened. Sometimes he stared at her. Sometimes he stared off into nothing. And sometimes his eyes were closed like he was seeing something more than the words were giving. “The horns are blowing, and the banners are raised,” Sonja concluded, “The time has come to muster. May Talos grant us victory this day, and if I am found worthy, may I once again look upon that great feast hall.” Slowly, she closed the book and looked at him expectantly.

“You read very well,” he said from behind the knit of his tented fingers.

She shrugged. “I’m a poor storyteller, but I can read others just fine.”

He nodded, understanding. “It’s important to a Nord,” he said, “Stories written and stories told. I have no talent for it, myself, but I admire it others.” He paused. “And your voice is pleasing to listen to. I wonder if it’s because you’re Dragonborn. Your Voice echoes even when speaking.”

"I hadn't noticed," she admitted, "Is that common?"

“I don't know, but it wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, straightening his posture, “I’ve read a lot of histories, both legendary and mystic. Heroes are always performing great feats the likes of which have never been heard of before their time.” He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. “That’s what heroes do.”

“I didn’t realize you were so well-read,” she confessed, examining the bookcases again, missing the way he was looking at her, “Have you read them all?”

“Kodlak says that the blade of a good warrior must always stay sharp, but the mind of a great warrior is sharper,” he said, nodding as he finally stood from his trunk, “He taught me to read and write and sum my figures. Whatever I wanted to learn, he taught it to me or, if he didn’t know, he pointed me toward someone who did. And Hera trained me to fight and filled my head with stories like the skalds tell.” He chuckled and shook his head with a nostalgic smile. “It used to drive poor Tilma mad when she tried to put Farkas and I to bed, but all we wanted was to act out the stories the Firespear told us.”

Sonja smirked, imagining Tilma pulling her hair out in frustration as she chased the young twins around Jorrvaskr. “It’s no wonder you became Companions so young,” she observed, “Practically raised by the Harbinger and the Master Trainer, what else could you and Farkas have grown into?”

He nodded, agreeing. “Tilma was more mother to us than Hera, though,” he corrected, “She taught us not to be feral little mongrels, bandaged our scraped knees, and soothed fevers.”

“A thankless job.”

“Aye. I try to repay her now that I’m older and know better the worth of what she gave to us.”

“By chopping wood?”

“And whatever else she asks of me.”

She looked him over, gaze not exactly soft, but not as piercing as it usually was. “That’s sweet. I didn’t expect that from you.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. “I was thinking about what you said to me yesterday morning,” he said, abruptly changing the subject from his softer side toward Tilma, “And you’re right. I should focus on teaching you instead of scolding you for what you don’t know, for what was never taught to you.”

She blinked at the abrupt redirection of the conversation for the second time, but nodded. “Good. I’m growing tired of being in the dark.”

Vilkas gestured to the stack of books he had selected from his shelves while she was reading aloud. There were five of them. “These will help you get started, I think,” he said, “You can take them all now or come for another after you’ve finished one. I know the barracks are small.” Sonja looked over the titles. Nords of Skyrim. An Explorer’s Guide to Skyrim. Lost Legends. Herbane’s Beastiary. Children of the Sky. “I have more when you’re finished with these.”

“Which do you recommend I start with?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then handed her the top one. Children of the Sky. “And I will help you with the rituals,” he added, “Tonight, after the feast, meet me on the porch and we’ll go over them.”

Sonja gripped the book in her hand and the leather binding groaned beneath her fingers. “Thank you, Vilkas,” she said sincerely, “I needed this.”

Vilkas nodded approvingly. “Come to me with questions. I know our histories almost as well as Vignar by now—except I can actually remember them.”


Vilkas watched Sonja leave his room with one of his books in hand and felt clearer on a great many things—and more clouded concerning others. Seeing her standing in his room, nose deep in one of his books, completely oblivious to his approach, and smelling of lavender and mint evoked an unexpected and strong reaction in his Beast—at least, he thought it was the Beast. It was a hungry, possessive feeling; he liked her there and wasn’t keen to see her go, but it wasn’t as intense as the Wolf tended to be. It didn’t feel like that sharp animalistic urge to kill or dominate. He just didn’t want her to go. Only that much he confessed to himself, but he would not acknowledge that it had not been the Wolf that had wanted her to stay. It had been the man.

Especially after he had seen what tome, of the multitude on the shelves, had caught her eye. How strange that it should be that one; he thought he had accidently sold it some months prior when he had taken a selection of old books down to Belethor’s in exchange for newer titles. He had lamented its loss the night Kodlak revealed the true nature of the Blood to the Circle a month ago. It would have done his heart good to turn through its pages then—or maybe not. Maybe it would have only been painful and bittersweet like it had been wrapped in the melody of Sonja’s voice. Her Voice…He didn’t know what possessed him to ask her to read it aloud to him. It was such an odd request to make—a somewhat vulnerable one—but he was glad he’d done it. He didn’t think she even noticed how her tone changed when she read to him, how her voice filled the room, and sang the words off the page. It moved him as much as the story had. And listening to her, watching her as she was taken with every word, as she melted into the moments of a man preparing to face his death, Vilkas felt his fear and anxiety alleviate some.

In that moment, as she unknowingly plucked around the edges of one of his deepest pains, he could see that she was not the monster that lurked in his past. She was not the mage who had hurt him and his family. He had to stop making her out to be him, even if he had to talk himself through it every single day. She was just a woman, strong and stubborn, with a deep appreciation for the written word if her expression was anything to go by. A warrior and a mage. He didn’t even see the Dragon in her at that moment, as if it, like his Wolf, had been sated by recent bloodshed and was resting easily, coiled in the heart waiting for a chance to rear its head again. Kodlak was right. He knew what was right and no amount of fear was going to stop him from providing the help he had already offered, the help she had already accepted. He might not have understood the depth of his commitment when he spoke to her that early morning by the Skyforge, but Talos damn him if he ever backed out of it. He was better than that. He had to be.

“I scent a pretty lady,” Farkas said brightly as he stepped into Vilkas’ room.

The smaller twin’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “Sonja was just here,” he explained, “She needed to speak with me.”

Farkas grinned. “About?”

“The Hunt, amongst other things.”

“It will be glorious,” Farkas said, excited, “Hera really got everybody going while you were gone. More than half of Whiterun’s hunters and their families are ready to go wherever Sonja says, whenever.”

Vilkas hummed his approval. “It will be a good hunt. I wish I could see it.”

Farkas cocked an eyebrow at his brother. “‘Cause of Ysa?” he asked rhetorically, “I heard about your little fight in the market the other day.”

Vilkas groaned and rubbed his face, frustrated with the nature of small towns. It did not surprise him that word of his ex-lover’s quarrel had already spread. “What are they saying?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer for himself, but he was worried for Ysa’s sake. She’d suffered enough already.

“Depends on who you ask,” Farkas replied, “Lots don’t think it’s their business.” That was good. “But mostly ladies think you’re an ass.” Vilkas could deal with that. He wasn’t keen to find another bed to crawl into soon, anyway. Though—Saadia had been very tempting. He wasn’t sure he wanted to subject someone else to his base desires just because the Wolf needed to rut. “And the men think Ysa’s crazy,” Farkas concluded.

Vilkas frowned. “I should have just stayed away,” he lamented and shook his head. At least then the end of his not-really-a-relationship relationship would have passed on in silence only marked by Ysolda and not subject to town gossip.

“Maybe, but you were just looking out for a shield-sibling.”

“They know what we were arguing about?”

“Oh, no. Doesn’t sound like it, anyway. Possibly Carlotta knows, but she won’t say for Ysa’s sake. No, Lydia told me last night when I asked her about it.”

“Oh.” Vilkas absorbed that information more slowly than he cared to admit. “You were with Lydia last night? Doesn’t that woman sleep?”

Farkas grinned. “She did. Eventually.”

Vilkas must have slept sounder than he thought. He actually chuckled. “Well, good on you then, brother,” he said, “Enjoy yourself.”

The larger twin’s eyes brightened with mirth. “And what about you?” he challenged, “I know you used Saadia to throw the others off last night, but it must have been a pretty convincing show for a reason.”

Vilkas pursed his lips. “No,” he refused, “I will not discuss this with you.”

“Why not?” Farkas declared, indignant.

“Because, there is nothing to talk about,” he insisted, “I couldn’t use Ysa. I’m not going to use anyone else.”

Farkas’ brow furrowed, deepening their resemblance. “With Ysa, it was because she wanted a life with you and you didn’t want that, right?” he asked.

Vilkas really didn’t like talking about his love life with anyone. Not even Farkas. “Aye,” he grumbled.

“I understand that, but—if it was someone else, like Saadia who just wants a tumble—you’re both getting what you want, right?”

“But she doesn’t know everything,” he hissed, “She doesn’t know that she’s taking a monster to her bed. She can never know. How can I lie to anyone like that? Even for a night?” That confession rattled through his ribcage so violently, it almost choked him. He had not anticipated something so dark to dislodge itself so suddenly.

“We’re not monsters…”

“No, you’re not,” Vilkas rushed, hearing the sadness in his brother’s voice, “And neither is Kodlak. You both have always had better control over your Beasts than I ever have.”

You’re not a monster, either.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

Farkas stared at his brother in doleful silence, aware that he was out of his depth. He didn’t know what to say to his brother who always felt too deeply and overthought every detail. He didn’t know how he could make Vilkas see that he was a good man, that he was a good brother that he loved dearly. He didn’t know how Vilkas could have lost sight of himself so completely that he no longer thought himself worthy of love or even the mere comfort of another body in his arms. He just didn’t know. “I love you, brother,” he muttered, sadly, “But this is not you. And when Kodlak finds a way to free us of the Blood, I want you to remember what I said: You. Are. Wrong.”

“Farkas…” Vilkas began, feeling a little exasperated. He wanted to try to explain to his brother that it was not that simple. That he admired his easy control of his Beast, but that it was not so simple for him. That he struggled. Deeply. Every day. And that the moments of relief he managed to find for himself were tainted with the uncertainty of who or what wanted the sex or bloodshed more: him or the Wolf. That some days he could feel the difference between him and his animal so starkly, it felt like a cancer or a possession was ravaging his body and other times—other times he couldn’t tell the difference at all. That he hated what the Blood made of him and he couldn’t imagine sharing that with someone else, even for one meaningless night.

But he couldn’t get the words out, or least, arrange them in a way Faraks would understand. He knew it would be too much for him, so he struggled in silence until the larger twin hugged him, hard, and enveloping. All mush beneath that armor and muscle. “Shut up,” Farkas grunted, “You don’t need to say it.” He paused. “Mostly ‘cause you’re wrong.”

Vilkas rolled his eyes and returned his brother’s hug with his own rib-cracking strength. “You drive me mad, you fucking mountain, but,” suddenly Sonja’s toast drifted through his mind, “There’s nothing else like you.”

“I know. I’m pretty great.” Vilkas made a sound of disgust and broke the embrace, shaking his head with brotherly adoration.


“Oh, Ironheart,” Kodlak called as Sonja passed his room; she stopped a few paces down the hallway and glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Do you have a moment?”

Sonja wondered if she did. “For you, I can make time,” she answered and entered the Harbinger’s rooms, “What did you need?”

Kodlak looked her over with a warm smile that did not quite reach his eyes. No, his eyes were sharp and observant and searching. “Just to chat with you about your scouting venture,” he said companionably, “Vilkas told of your many glorious exploits.”

She cocked an eyebrow at the old man as she approached. There was a game board before him on the table, a version of King’s Table, if Sonja was not mistaken. The game was half-played and Sonja wondered if Vilkas had been the Harbinger’s challenger. “What did he say, exactly?” she asked, sliding into the seat opposite Kodlak and placing Vilkas’ book neatly in her lap, “I didn’t think he was too pleased with me.”

Kodlak smirked. “He mentioned your magic, true, but,” he hesitated, “I think you may be the first spellslinger he respects.”

Sonja tried to suppress the small smile that spread across her face, but largely failed. “That is good to know,” she admitted, “But I don’t think I have anything to add to what he’s told you already.”

“He was impressed with your knowledge of some of the beasts you encountered,” Kodlak continued, “Did you study such things back in Cyrodiil?”

“Aye,” she answered, “At—uh—what I call University, but you would probably prefer spellslinger college.”

The Harbinger chuckled. “Knowledge is knowledge, lass,” he said reasonably, “Though not fond of magic myself, I can appreciate the practicality of some of the lessons they must have taught you at that fancy college of yours.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed slightly with suspicion. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being—interrogated—or something like, though she didn’t know why the Harbinger would care about her education even if he had happily been responsible for Vilkas’. “Alright,” she sighed, “As far as beasts go, yes, I took a course in the identification of creatures in Cyrodiil both magical and mundane. Some of that knowledge carries over here, but creatures found only in the frozen North, I know nothing of.”

“Vilkas can tell you anything you want to know of those creatures.”

“Yes. He’s already offered.”

“Good.” He paused. “Using fire against the troll was very clever,” Kodlak continued, “In fact, it was how Hera earned her honor-name. She’s hunted dozens of trolls with a flaming spear.”

Sonja laughed humorlessly. “Of course she did.”

“She came by looking for you the day you made off with my master trainer,” he said, teasing slightly, “Said you and she agreed to be acknowledged kin. Made it her business to build your hunting party for you in your absence.”

“Yes. She certainly has her own ideas for how best to lead the Hunt.”

“I’m sure she does,” Kodlak chuckled, “For what it’s worth, I’m pleased you both put your differences behind you.”

Sonja sighed and nodded. “Aye. Thank you for your guidance that day. It was needed.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

She cleared her throat. “Was there something else you needed, Harbinger?” she asked.

“Ah, yes, werewolves,” he replied brightly, “I was impressed with your knowledge of werewolves. Are they common in Cyrodiil?”

“Somewhat,” she answered, bemused by his enthusiasm, “At least they once had been for them to earn a place in beastiaries everywhere. I myself have only fought one while I was doing work for the Fighter’s Guild. There was always a contract or a bounty for one every once in a great while.”

“You worked for the Fighter’s Guild?”

“You know it?”

“Know of it.”

“It was good, honest work. Put bread on the table after—after pa died.” Sonja paused. It still didn’t felt right to say aloud that he was dead. “Anyway, I was surprised to find werewolves in Skyrim,” she admitted before Kodlak could say anything else, “I seem to remember reading something about them being an old wives’ tale since there was no evidence that they were real and living in this frozen climate.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Obviously, that was wrong. And, true to the way of Skyrim, they were bigger and fiercer and there was more of them than the beast I’d encountered back home. Though—I think the creature I slayed had been starving for some time.”

“Aye, werewolves used to be a rarity in Skyrim,” Kodlak replied, “Only a few hunters and some of our warriors ever crossed paths with the beasts. It seems like that’s changed in the last few decades, though. We’ve taken many a contract to kill such creatures.”

“Do they always hunt in packs here?” she asked, “I had read that they sometimes do, but that seemed to rarely be the case back in Cyrodiil.”

“No, it is unusual. Vilkas was concerned about it as well. We haven’t received any requests for werewolves in some time, but we may soon if that pack was hunting near the northern villages before meeting your group.”

“I’d like to go if we do receive anything,” she offered, “It may not be the place of a Newblood, but I know a thing or two about the beasts. I could be useful.”

Kodlak hesitated. “It is usually work reserved for members of the Circle,” he said, “But, if Vilkas thinks you’re ready, he may be persuaded to take you. He wouldn’t deny you the chance for some vengeance against the kin of a beast that nearly killed you.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “I don’t want vengeance,” she said, “The beast is an animal. It did as animals do and I failed to protect myself from it. The fault was mine. I only offer my blade because I want the chance to see them up close again. To fill in the gaps of my knowledge.”

“Werewolves were men or mer once,” he observed, “Do you think nothing of that remains?”

Sonja grew pensive. “My understanding is that it is rare for a beast to retain thought,” she said, “Though it has been recorded that some do. Usually—if I’m not mistaken—it’s due to some deal made with a daedre.”

“Aye, I’ve heard the same,” Kodlak allowed, “But have yet to witness it for myself.”

“Well, until I do run into a werewolf that I can hold a conversation with, I’ll continue to strike them down without mercy,” Sonja concluded.

“And if you do find one?”

She smiled. “I’ll buy him a drink and have a chat,” she teased, “Hear him out and see what the beast has to say.”

Kodlak smiled. “Be careful where you take him,” he warned, “I don’t think he’d be welcome at The Bannered Mare.”

“No, I imagine not.”

“I have taken up enough of your time, Ironheart,” Kodlak said, chuckling, “We’ll talk again soon. You have a Great Hunt to prepare for.”

“Aye,” Sonja acknowledged, rising from her seat, “I’ll see you at the feast.” And then she cast an appraising look over the game board and slid one of the black pieces into position, cutting off the escape the white had been preparing to make. Kodlak grunted, impressed and a touch put out. “Good day, Harbinger,” she said, brightly and then swiftly left the room, book in hand, smiling to herself for tripping up Kodlak in his own game.


The rest of Sonja’s day passed in a whirlwind of minor details: reviewing the supplies Ysolda and Faendal had procured, refining her plans with Anoriath, purchasing the items Farengar needed to build her supercharged trainer bracelets, arranging for the hunting party to meet at The Bannered Mare later that night, and then finally returning to Farengar for the fastest examination and demonstration of her growing power on the vacated Great Porch (he then abruptly told her to leave him to his work and come back tomorrow evening.) Sonja returned to Jorrvaskr with enough time to kill to start reading the tome Vilkas had leant her before the nightly meadhall feast. She gave Lydia leave to seek out and spend time with Farkas since she was reasonably certain nothing was going to try to kill her while she was reading a book in the middle of the city.

But, Faendal remained with her, making corrections to some of his drawings and finishing others. He was less guarded now that she had seen with what he filled the pages of his journal. She had known that he was drawing her since he had often jested about it, but she hadn’t been prepared to see the sketches for herself and still wasn’t sure how she felt about them. Faendal was a masterful artist. Dibella had certainly gifted him with an eye for detail and a steady hand to bring his drawings to life. A skill Sonja definitely lacked, but it reminded her of Anja who had once painted beautiful canvases when they were younger. Idly, she wondered if Anja ever missed it. But, Faendal’s drawings, as far she could tell when she snuck a peak at the rest of them while he slept, were almost entirely of her.

From the day he’d met her up until their last noteworthy adventure, the Bosmer had painstakingly, lovingly catalogued her finest moments—and some of her not so fine. There was a bit of a tender one of her sleeping with the Dragonstone like a security blanket back in Bleak Falls Barrow that she had not expected and another of Lydia knocking her hide to the ground in the training yard with overstated blood and dirt. In the margins or floating through the page, some of his small neat handwriting offered scraps of insight into the story the pictures were telling: “Let sleeping dragons lie” or “A dragon never stays down.” Or “True Victory” over the drawing of a defeated Hera and a defiant Sonja holding a broken spear. In between these sketches, he filled pages with the events that led up to and then followed them with such thoughtful description that Sonja thought she was reading the saga of some great, long-dead hero. It was sweet.

His depictions of her were so affectionately accurate, it was heartwarming. He had changed nothing and yet it felt like he had changed everything. Her scars were all there, that hard scowl she always wore, her perhaps slightly masculine bearing, and that lone flyaway hair that never laid flat no matter what she did to tuck it back into her braid. All there and yet, she felt she looked bigger than she was, even in miniature on the pages of his journal. The stories sounded grander even though she’d lived them and Faendal hadn’t exaggerated, exactly. He hadn’t lied or fibbed or smudged the truth. It was as he had written and she was as he had drawn. Yet, the Sonja he created was so much more impressive than the Sonja that actually existed. Somehow, he had taken all the best parts of her and made them real on the page.

Faendal should have been a bard, she mused, followed by, Camilla doesn’t deserve him. That last thought bemused her. Where Faendal chose to throw his heart away was his business, but she didn’t like that her friend was so smitten with a girl who did not clearly see his superiority over Sven, the Spineless Shit-Bard. How was it even a choice? She glanced in his direction as he carefully outlined the constellation for The Lady in the sky above her head where she sat by the campfire and healed him. Watching him made her smile softly. A part of her truly appreciated knowing she had someone in her life who saw the good in her no matter what—but, another part was afraid of what it would mean when she failed that expectation. She tried not to think about it.

“Time for the feast, dearies,” Tilma said as she poked her head out through the door to call them inside.

“Be right there,” Sonja assured, looking the woman over with a new, appreciative warmth now that she knew a little more about Vilkas and Farkas’ childhood. It was a kind heart that took care of children not her own and all but dumped upon her. Tilma smiled and then let them be. After a few moments spent finishing off chapters and adding the finishing touches to constellations, they closed their respective books and went inside to join their shield-siblings in the nightly feast.


Later, Sonja met Vilkas on the porch as he had asked and he surprised her with a game of King’s Table which he called Tafl. The rules were largely the same with a few minor differences, but she wasn’t worried that she’d be lost. Vilkas seemed to anticipate her being a novice and had, therefore, selected a smaller grid board. This is going to be too easy, she thought, eager for the chance to beat him in something she sensed he enjoyed very much. She had been quite the King’s Table champion during University and kept her skills as sharp as she could while working for the Fighter’s Guild, playing anyone who would accept her challenge. When Vilkas offered to take the King’s side (often considered the more difficult position to play as it had fewer pieces—and it also happened to be Sonja’s preferred side), she let him, already relishing what she imagined his face would look like when she wiped the floor with him.

“You’ve played this before,” Vilkas observed about five moves into the game.

“What makes you say that?”

“I recognize the maneuver you’re using.”

“Beginner’s luck?”

“You’re awful at bluffing.”

“Alright, fine. You have me.”

“Not yet, but I’m working up to it.” Sonja stared at him and waited for his mind to process what his mouth had just said. “In the game, I mean,” he added belatedly.

She coughed, trying to cover up her laughter and failing. “My father taught me to play when I was young,” she said, mercifully changing the subject, “It was his favorite pastime back when he was just a young soldier in the Imperial army.”

Vilkas grunted, acknowledging with a hint of a smile. “Kodlak taught me.”

“I figured.”

“It’s a good strategy game,” he continued, sliding another piece into place, “Not the same as real battle, but it works the mind.”

“I think pa was just happy one of his kids wanted to learn to play.”

“Your sister didn’t care for it?”

“No, she hated the game. Liked to cheat too much.” Her move.

“I think I’m beginning to see why you didn’t get along.”

Sonja shrugged. “We’re very different people,” she said reasonably like that fact didn’t tear at her for the entirety of her life and estrange her from her sister, “Just the way of it.”

Første blod,” Vilkas declared as he took one of her pieces.

She blinked, first in shock that she had not seen the move coming and then because she had no idea what in Oblivion Vilkas had just said. “Sorry?”

“First blood,” he clarified, “Is it not customary to declare when you take the first piece?”

“Not the way I learned it, no,” she answered, “But, we’re not playing by my rules. Is there anything else that needs declaring?”

He nodded. “When you have a clear opening to the board’s edge, you say ‘Åpning’ or opening to inform your challenger there is a flaw in his defense,” he explained, “It is his job to figure out how to fix it or where it is, though.”

Sonja’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like quite the advantage for you,” she accused, “Are you sure that’s not just a rule you want me to follow?”

He smirked. “Where would the challenge be in that?”

“Fine. Appening.” Her pronunciation was nasally.

Instantly, his smirk disappeared and he examined the board to find the hole in his defense. He found it quickly. She would have had him in three or four moves if he hadn’t noticed it. He scoffed. “We will have to play the larger grid next time,” he commented with a smile, “Obviously, I underestimated my opponent.”

She returned the smile. “It’s good to have an opponent again,” she admitted, “I haven’t played in—months, I suppose. Slim pickings around the Fighter’s Guild when you’ve beaten them all repeatedly.”

He nodded, agreeing, and leaned forward a little like he was telling her something conspiratorial, “None of the others will play with me anymore,” he revealed, “No one likes playing against someone they can’t beat. Only Kodlak humors me in a game.”

“I saw the board.”

“We’ve been playing that particular game for a few months now.”

“Which were you? White or black?”

“Black.”

“Oh. You’re welcome, then,” she teased, “I halted Kodlak’s advance.”

He canted his head with an amused smile. “What?”

“The Harbinger is going to have a harder time charging your lines.”

“You tampered with my game.”

“I improved it.”

Vilkas shook his head and glared good-naturedly. “You’re nothing but trouble, aren’t you?” he sighed, examining the game board.

He looked up when he realized Sonja had stilled. She was looking at him intently. “Am I?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Yes,” he replied, “But I don’t mind a bit of trouble.”

She smirked. “We’re good, then?”

“Aye, pup, we’re good.”

“Good,” she declared triumphantly, “Because I think I have you!” and she moved her piece into position. “In the game, I mean,” she added with a teasing lilt to her voice.

He groaned. “I want a rematch.”

“Won’t erase this loss, but sure, I’ll gladly beat you again.”

He preferred her like this, charmingly cocky and at ease. She was so much more agreeable when she didn’t have the Dragon trying to roar through her every action. “I believe I was supposed to tell you about the hunting rituals,” he said as he moved the game pieces back into position on the board.

“I would prefer to not to make an ass of myself, yes.”

He snorted. “I can’t promise you won’t, but…” And he told her what she needed to know, explaining every action and why it was important as they played their second game. She was attentive and asked questions when she needed clarification. Her natural curiosity must have made her a good student during her years at University, Vilkas decided. She really listened and absorbed everything he had to say—Now if only she’d do the same in the yard, he thought, Things would be much easier. He won their second game.

Towards the end, she ran through what she had retained from his explanations; he was impressed with what she remembered and pleased with how beautiful she found the whole thing to be. “No, truly,” she said, “I wish my mother had raised us here. There’s a lot I feel I missed out on growing up in the Imperial City.”

He looked at her a while. “Do you think it would have been easier for you?” he asked, “When the dragon came?”

She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not,” she replied, “I doubt I would have been a mage, then. Maybe I wouldn’t have survived the watchtower.”

“Why did you become a mage?” he asked softly, genuinely curious.

She was silent a moment, remembering. “I went with my ma to the guardhouse to see my pa once when I was fairly young—not yet ten, I think—she sometimes did some smith work for the Guard and I was helping her bring the order in,” she recalled, “We passed the training yard on the way and I saw the battlemages practicing.”

“And that was it? You had to be just like them?”

She smiled faintly. “Something like that,” she allowed, “Watching them—it was everything I liked about being a warrior like my ma and pa. They were strong and fast and good with a blade. And it was—more, I think. I don’t know. Maybe I just liked the tingle of magic on the back of my neck.”

That same tingle made him feel sick so it was hard for him to imagine, but he could almost understand it, almost grasp what it was that had drawn her in. Like he knew when he was a child that he wanted to be a Companion. Some things were just so plain. “Magic is different here,” he observed, “Mages are very soft. I haven’t encountered a spellslinger who could handle themselves the way you do. Perhaps the odd spellsword, but…”

“More sword than spell?”

He nodded. “If you had grown up here and had a knack for the arcane, your parents might have sent you to the College of Winterhold—though I have a hard time picturing Freydis agreeing to that.”

Sonja sighed, nodding in agreement. “Aye. Ma didn’t like me going to University,” she replied, “Though I really didn’t understand why until I came here. It’s a miracle she let me go at all.”

“So it was your father that thought you should go?”

“Why not? He’d fought alongside battlemages before. They’d saved his life. It was an honorable pursuit as far as he was concerned.”

“And so you became a battlemage,” he concluded.

“And so I became a battlemage,” she confirmed.

Vilkas opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it as his attention shifted to the door beyond her and a second later, it opened. “Oh, there you are, Sonja,” Ysolda breathed, “I was looking…oh.” Her eyes caught on Vilkas and then dropped to the game board and drinks between them before returning to Sonja. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, brow furrowed.

“No,” Sonja replied casually, “Vilkas was just filling me in on the rituals before we headed over to the Mare.”

Ysolda blinked. “We?”

Sonja cocked an eyebrow at the woman. “Aye,” she replied as if it were obvious, “Vilkas was a part of the scouting party. Even if he doesn’t join the Hunt, I thought he should be there when I go over things with the hunters. In case I miss anything.”

Ysolda pursed her lips and nodded. “Of course,” she said, her tone strained, “Come along, then. The hunters are awaiting us.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Sonja assured, gesturing to the game board, “We have to clean up, first.”

Ysolda nodded again. “See you there, then,” she said, meekly and then she walked around the side of Jorrvaskr and out of sight.

Vilkas waited until he was sure she was gone before he addressed Sonja. “I don’t have to go,” he said, “It would be better for her if I didn’t.”

Sonja shrugged. “It has nothing to do with either of you, honestly,” she replied, “I have need of you for now, but I know better than to invite you on the Hunt and, even if I did, I think you’d refuse for her sake.” His expression told her that she was right. “I’m not trying to trample through your—business—with her, but I value your opinion and would like it when I address the hunters.”

“Alright,” he said at length, “I accepted a job when I joined your scouting party; I should see it through before you go.”

“That’s all I ask.” And they quickly cleared the board and placed it just inside Jorrvaskr on the nearest table.


Ysolda did her best to ignore Vilkas when he entered The Bannered Mare after Sonja. It was nearly impossible as the tavern erupted with salutations of varying type and volume, however. A rowdy bunch of men and women itching for the kill, they were ready for their Hunt Master to give the word. Sonja had to push through them a little aggressively and Vilkas helped silently from just behind her, checking Idolaf just for, Ysolda was sure, fun. When they made it to the table, drinks were ordered and maps were spread about. Vilkas tried to speak over the din, but Sonja quieted everyone with a forceful shout for silence. Her Voice was impressive and reminded everyone that they had the Dragonborn leading them in the Great Hunt that year. It was sure to be glorious. There were murmurs of excitement and even some of reverence as Sonja began to explain what would happen in the next few days.

Ysolda tried to listen. She really did, but she’d already gone over the plan with Sonja and the others a hundred times already. This meeting was more for the hunters, so Sonja could break them up into the groups she needed. Ysolda wouldn’t be a part of any of that. She was a part of the butchering team that would help skin and cut the animal apart for transportation. All she had to do was stay a safe distance from the killing ground and wait until the horn was sounded for yet another victory of the Great Hunt. So, her mind wondered and so did her eyes as they found their way back to Vilkas—who was standing too close to Sonja to be reasonable, even in cramped quarters with hunters leaning every which way over the table to get a look at what the Hunt Master was pointing.

She frowned. She liked Sonja, had shared a few drinks with her, and was wrapped up in a very profitable arrangement with her, but she didn’t like how—cozy—she seemed to be with Vilkas. What was worse, she seemed to do it without even noticing or trying. It just was. Effortless. It didn’t seem to Ysolda that Sonja had it in her to be vindictive or manipulative. She remembered her words to her before she left to scout the tundra with Vilkas: “I’m not unkind.” And she had said it like a woman who knew exactly what a broken heart felt like. No, she didn’t think the pretty Dragonborn had designs on Vilkas that she was playing underhanded to achieve. Sonja was—beautiful and strong and titled and the Dragonborn, she could have any man or woman she wanted without effort or even having to worry about who might object if the lucky person was already spoken for. Not that Vilkas was spoken for, least of all by Ysolda, but Sonja didn’t need to play underhanded at anything and it wasn’t in her nature, anyway.

She didn’t doubt that Sonja genuinely wanted Vilkas there for the purpose she had stated, but it was less about her intentions and more about the ease of her friendship with the Companion. Drinks and Tafl out on the back porch, alone and at ease. Ysolda couldn’t remember a time she had ever seen Vilkas look so content in the company of another person, herself included. And she knew how much he liked the game. She knew he played it often with Kodlak because no one else would challenge him, but he’d never bothered to teach her when she offered to learn so that it could be something they could share together. No, Vilkas had always kept her at a distance, even in the most committed parts of their distant relationship. That was probably what hurt her most of all: that even when she thought he had loved her, there had been nothing between them even then.

So, maybe it was a mercy that the Companion had granted her in finally putting an end to the shallow nonsense that stubbornly clung to her ideals of love. Vilkas had known all along that he didn’t return her affection and she had been too blind and stupid not to see it, too. She looked away, suddenly pained by the sight of him leaning in to say something to Sonja so she could hear him through the crowd. It didn’t excuse anything. It didn’t absolve him of the pain he’d caused her in finally putting an end to it all far too late. It didn’t make it alright that he had climbed into her bed for a couple of weeks just to blow off some steam when she thought he was coming back to her. She’d never thank him for breaking her heart, but—she could understand it. And, maybe for her own sake, she shouldn’t waste another drop of energy in actively hating him. He wasn’t going to go away any time soon and she couldn’t avoid him forever. And, honestly, he really wasn’t worth the effort.

“And we’ll have the Circle hunting at our side!” Jan Battle-Born declared with enthusiasm, “The best warriors in all of Skyrim!”

There was a cheer of excitement that everyone but Vilkas had joined in on. He only nodded, stoically as Sonja took a long pull from her bottle of mead. “What’s the matter, Vilkas?” Idolaf asked, “You not ready for the Great Hunt?”

“It will be glorious and you follow the Dragonborn in the days to come,” he replied evenly, “Unfortunately, I am needed elsewh…”

“Nonsense,” Ysolda said loudly, interrupting Vilkas, and everyone looked in her direction, “I was told all the Circle would join us. Was I mistaken?”

Sonja’s face went through a series of comedic expressions that ranged from amusement to confusion to concern to something oddly caught between all three. “Uh…” Vilkas blinked, unsure of what to say. He didn’t know if Ysolda was setting him up for something or unexpectedly inviting him along. “No?”

“To the Circle!” Sonja bellowed, instantly reclaiming everyone’s attention to toast and shout and drink. Everyone seemed too happy to indulge to pay much mind to the odd looks Vilkas was shooting to Ysolda. She merely nodded at him in resignation and acceptance and then wound her way through the crowd and out the door. As she walked back to her home in the evening air, she wasn’t entirely sure she made the right decision in finally inviting Vilkas on the Great Hunt, but—she felt lighter than she had all week.


In the stillness of the night, the Circle met in the Underforge. It was their first meeting since Kodlak had revealed the nature of the Blood to them all. Once, they had used the dark space almost nightly to gather before for a hunt. It was their sanctuary from the rest of Jorrvakr, a place where they could go to shed their skins and relish in the strength of the Wolf. But no longer. To Vilkas, it felt tainted like everything else the Beast touched, and what had once felt safe and comfortable like a den now felt heavy and oppressive like a coffin. Now, it smelled only of Skjor and Aela who still took solace in the curve of the stone walls and still gathered by the blood basin before the hunt. It was still home to them.

“I have called you all here tonight to discuss some troubling news Vilkas has brought to my attention,” Kodlak said when each of the Circle settled into their places around the stone basin.

Aela cocked an eyebrow at Vilkas. “What news?” she asked, “Did something happen while you were scouting?”

“Aye, much,” Vilkas answered and with a nod from Kodlak, he told his blood-brothers and sister about the troll, the poisoned incense, and the feral attack later that night.

When he was done, Skjor was scowling deeply. “It’s because we are no longer united that the Silver Hand and the ferals are encroaching on our territory,” he growled, angry, “It is only Aela and I and we can only focus our attention on one or the other, but not both.”

“No one is blaming you or Aela, Skjor,” Kodlak replied sharply, “But you are, in part, correct. Because some of us have chosen to abstain, there are few of us to hunt or guard the night. This was something I should have foreseen and failed to. I’ll own my piece for that, but it is done and I will not change my mind now. We must find another way to deal with the threats on the horizon.”

Skjor shook his head, disgusted. “The solution is simple, if you and the boys would only see it,” he retorted.

“We’ve made our choice, Skjor,” Vilkas snapped, “As you’ve made yours. You can rot in the Hunting Grounds for all I care, but I will not go with you.”

The older man scoffed. “You used to be a fierce hunter, boy,” he sneered as he rounded on Vilkas, “Now, look at you! Look what abstaining has done!” He inhaled deeply, scenting Vilkas’ skin. “Your Wolf is thin and weak and starving! What use are you to the pack like this? Hmm?”

Vilkas stood to his full height which was only an inch or so taller than Skjor and looked him dead in his white-blue eyes. “I don’t need the Wolf to give you a worthy fight, Skjor,” he rumbled dangerously, “You forget yourself. Look at what the Beast has made of you.”

“That’s enough,” Kodlak commanded, sternly, “We are all still apart of the Circle. We are all still family. This is our burden and we will face it together. Do I make myself clear, Skjor?”

The Second grumbled, still glaring at Vilkas, but nodded. “Yes, Harbinger,” he said, “I understand.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Then you and Aela must turn your attention to the ferals coming off the mountains.”

It was Aela’s turn to be outraged that time. “But we already hunt the Silver Hand and their numbers grow few,” she objected, “We could finish them off and then worry about the ferals.”

“Their numbers are not so few you can destroy them in a fortnight,” Kodlak challenged, “It could take many months more and feral Wolves will be terrorizing the open tundra in the meantime.”

“But if we don’t wipe them out, they’ll come after us instead,” Aela insisted, undeterred.

“Better us than unsuspecting citizens,” Vilkas added, “Ferals are like a plague. They Turn whatever they don’t eat. They have to be stopped.”

“And the Hand recruits more idiots the longer we leave them unchallenged,” Skjor said, coming to Aela’s defense, “We can’t let them go unchecked.”

“Skjor and I alone can’t fight a war on two fronts,” Aela concluded, “Between the ferals and the Hand, we’d be overwhelmed and with these new poisons, it might not be much of a fight.”

“I’m not worried about their perfumes,” Skjor grunted.

“You should be,” Vilkas said sharply, “I felt the effects firsthand. It puts your Wolf out before you even notice it’s gone.”

“Yes, your weak Beast fainted,” Skjor replied, pointedly, “I’d like to see it work on me or Aela.”

“We could handle the ferals,” Farkas said suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Farkas, I thought we agreed…” Vilkas began.

“I mean, we’re not weak,” Farkas interrupted, “We can still fight. We still have our senses. We can still kill them as men.”

Everyone blinked. “That could work,” Kodlak approved, “You won’t be able to cover as much ground without Changing, but you’ll get there eventually, and ferals have no reason to avoid a couple men out wandering the tundra at night.”

Vilkas shook his head, chuckling at how simply his brother saw through to the heart of the matter because he was the only one not trying to prove the superiority or inferiority of the Blood. He just wanted the ferals dead and the Silver Hand dealt with. “No one cares if the Companions take jobs for a few Wolves,” Vilkas added in support of his brother, “It’s harder to explain why we’re slaughtering a bunch of people claiming to be werewolf hunters, though. Much easier prey for a Wolf.”

“But slow your pace,” Kodlak warned a pleased Skjor and Aela, “You push them too far, too fast and they become desperate. Desperate men do desperate things. These new forms of wolfsbane are proof of that. Who knows what else they’ll come up with next?”

“We’ll bear that in mind,” Skjor replied noncommittally and Vilkas seethed. He knew that Kodlak’s warning would do little to temper the mated pair’s bloodlust if it did anything at all.

Kodlak seemed to know it to. “Stalk carefully, the both of you,” he rumbled, “Some prey have teeth and they are not afraid to bite. See that it doesn’t take you and the rest of us down with it.”

“We will not fail,” Aela assured which made Vilkas feel only marginally better. She had a cooler head than Skjor, at least. If Kodlak’s words were only going to get through to one of them, it would be her.

“Good,” Kodlak nodded. “Then there is no more to say.”

“What of Sonja?” Vilkas asked, “You said you would speak with her.”

Skjor and Aela exchanged glances. “Are you considering the Dragonborn?” Aela asked.

“She’s not yet passed her trial to become a Companion…” Skjor added.

Kodlak waved them off. “She is educated,” he explained, “The school where she learned magic actually taught her one or two more practical things.”

“Like?” Skjor prompted, not looking impressed.

“The identification and destruction of werewolves,” Vilkas supplied, “She knew how to kill them, how to make it hurt, and managed to kill one while—injured—before she was overcome by another.”

The den grew still. “She’s spent a lot of time with you, Vilkas,” Skjor pointed out, “Are you saying she might suspect…”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Kodlak interrupted, “Though that was my concern, also. I don’t think she knows what to look for unless a Wolf stands already Shifted before her. She has been taught, like most, that werewolves are mindless beasts beyond saving. So, she can’t even begin to suspect any of us. It would seem impossible to her.”

That was bittersweet to hear. On the one hand, Vilkas was extremely pleased that Sonja did not suspect a thing. On the other, he wondered how disgusted she would be if she ever found out that he was one of those ‘mindless beasts beyond saving.’ Not that she would ever find out, of course. Only the Circle knew the secret of the Blood and she would never become part of it. “I will be mindful while in her company,” he assured the Circle, “But it is good to know she is not suspicious.”

“It would not do to have the Dragonborn as an enemy on top of everything else,” Skjor agreed, “Perhaps it is wise not to risk it all. You should move her training along as quickly as possible, Vilkas. The sooner she goes to High Hrothgar, the better.”

Vilkas hesitated. “I agree. After the Great Hunt, I will push her harder. She can take it.”

Kodlak looked somewhat displeased by that notion but nodded nonetheless. “Do as you see fit, son,” he said, “I trust your judgement.”

Notes:

Oh, where to begin?

There is a lot going on in this chapter. Everyone is dealing with something. I can't even.

Though, I think my greatest concern in this chapter was probably Vilkas since we get more about why he has such a problem with magic. It really has taken a lot from him. He's been emotionally and physically scarred by it and now he has to deal with it in Sonja who, up until events on the tundra, hadn't really used much magic in his presence. She had been largely focused on the physical aspect of her Awakening. So, it was an extremely rude awakening for him when he saw her do the things she did. It's hard for any magic-hating Nord to swallow; it's doubly difficult for him. Part of him wants to be completely disgusted with what she is and what she did, but he can't bring himself to feel that way about her because she is so different from his past experiences with mages and magic in general. Plus, he is attracted to her, whether he admits that to himself or not, and that confuses things. He wants her to fit into a neat box, but she doesn't.

Also, his self-loathing for what the Beast has made of him is starting to grow. Breaking it off with Ysolda wasn't just about sparing her future pain because she wanted more, it was also about him and his taint. He doesn't think he is worthy of anything, really, let alone the love and trust of another person whether it be a relationship (which he was never prone to being in) or a one-night stand. I think it's an issue of consent for him because whoever he takes to bed can never know he's a Wolf and that inherently feels dishonest now that he views the Blood in a negative light.

That aside, Sonja has her stuff going on, trying to navigate everything that's been thrust upon her. Hera is frustrating. Expectations are crushing. Faendal's journal is meant to illustrate that even though it's done in love. Also, Sonja will make it a favorite past time to come up with different nicknames for Sven, the Spineless Shit-Bard because he super sucks. Sonja and Vilkas have the most adorbs Tafl game ever in which Sonja's not being so fighty or guarded. Though, to be fair, he isn't asking any invasive questions, either. Just shooting the breeze kind of stuff, but it's cute. Poor Ysolda chooses to be the bigger person and walk the high road which is a good move for her, I think. She can't let her broken heart define her. And lastly, that Circle meeting...oh, damn, what's going to happen next?

Well, the Hunt, of course, but after that...!?!

Chapter 30: Musings

Summary:

What else is going on in Skyrim while Sonja prepares for the Great Hunt?

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of injuries, near-death experiences, torture, implication of sexual assault, PTSD, grief and mourning.

I hope that's everything. Sorry if I left anything out.

Sonja appears briefly in this chapter, but is mostly only referred to.

PoV is Vignar, Anja, Elenwen, Mystery Guest, and Ulfric. Yeah, there's a lot going on and none of it is Sonja/Vilkas related because I'm a demon. Sorry!

Mod that appears in this chapter is Rift Raft by Other M on Steam.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Vignar thumbed the note in his hand thoughtfully, considering its single word contents: Dragonborn? Certainly, there was some amount of interpretation that went along with the messages he sometimes received from Windhelm, but this one was more or less straightforward. There was only one thing Ulfric Stormcloak would want to know. It was the same thing all of Skyrim wanted to know: the identity of the Dragonborn. He knew there were rumors circulating through the holds. Some of his friends in other cities had already written to him seeking out details since the only thing any of them knew for sure was that the Dragonborn was in Whiterun. They still thought it would be a strong, Nordic warrior and honorable man, a Talos incarnate, who would rise to the place of Ysmir. Vignar did not correct them because he was not so sure himself.

He had heard about the western watchtower from the Companions. Listened to their tales and the descriptions of how Sonja had struck the killing blow, taking the dragon’s soul into herself. He had watched her face carefully during these retellings and she always looked so uncomfortable like she didn’t like having the story retold or maybe she knew there was more to it than they could understand. Admittedly, he had thought it might have been some sort of foul mage’s trick the girl had played in the beginning. That she had only done something that gave the appearance that she had taken the dragon’s soul. Kodlak never should have let a mage into the ranks of the Companions, anyway, even if she had put up a good little fight in the ring against Vilkas. The boy must have taken it easy on her because she was cute. Everyone had been taken in by her charm, even the Jarl had made her thane. A thane! It cheapened the title!

But, as the weeks went on, it seemed less and less likely that she was lying to everyone. She kept breaking shield-siblings, Vilkas was harder and harder on her by the day, and Vignar had seen her best Hera with his own two eyes. That victory was fueled by draconic rage, no question. And now she was preparing to lead many of the townspeople on a Great Hunt. Sonja Draconis of the Ironheart Clan was no mere mage, that was certain, but his stubborn heart still had trouble accepting that she was the ultimate Nordic hero of legend. She did not fit his expectations and probably never would because she was an olive-skinned half-breed from the south who knew next to nothing of Skyrim’s sacred traditions and legends. He didn’t have a problem with other races of man and even some mer, but he was of the opinion—as most of his generation across Skyrim were—that some things were only for the Nords. How could the Dragonborn be anything else? Freydis should have never left Skyrim.

So he hesitated to write her name on the page and send it back to Windhelm because that would mean he was accepting her as Ysmir even if the Greybeards had not yet declared it. He didn’t really have the luxury of taking his time to send his answer, however. The messenger, though intentionally absent colors to gain access into the city, was surely one of Ulfric’s own and he was waiting for Vignar’s reply. The message had to go straight back to Windhelm post haste. Still, he milked the time he did have for all it was worth, pondering what it would mean if he wrote her name on the parchment.

He looked up from his small table in the corner of the meadhall toward the large feasting tables were a few Companions were nibbling at lunch. Sonja and Vilkas were there, seated next to each other, deep in conversation. Vignar caught snippets of it, they weren’t conspiring, their voices were not low. They were discussing a book the master trainer had leant her about Nordic culture. So, perhaps she really did know nothing, but she was making the effort to learn and—“Always carry a wind with them,” she quoted, “I liked that part. It reminded me of my mother: as deadly as the icy winds of the North.” Vilkas agreed. "To walk with such power behind you—I understand why the thu'um is so feared and respected."

It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing and it didn’t completely convince him that she was Skyrim’s Dragonborn, but—if not her, then who? Neatly, he scribed her name on the page, blew the ink dry, then folded it up and sealed it. The messenger was eager to take it from him and left before Vignar could think better of his answer. The moment his hand was empty of the paper, however, he felt his doubt bubble up and then subside. It was beyond him now. May Talos forgive him if he was wrong. May Kyne have mercy on his soul if he was right.


“I’ll meet you at the Flagon,” Rune said as soon as they were inside the gates of Riften. It had been a long carriage ride and he was eager to be safe inside the Ratway. Though ‘safe’ was a relative term. He was also keen to put as much distance between him and Anja’s little tagalong who was seven kinds of mouthy that the lady thief adored and never corrected which had made for a very long carriage ride, indeed.

Anja nodded, grinning at him. “I’ll get things sorted and head your way, sugar,” she assured and then watched him slip off into the shadows of the evening air, headed for the graveyard.

“So—where do you live?” Sohpie asked, expectantly.

Instantly, Anja’s face fell. “Right. That.” She was not ready to be responsible for a child. She was not ready at all, but she had shot Ulfric Fucking Stormcloak in the shoulder to free Sofie, so it was a little late to arrange for an alternate living situation. Not that she didn’t want Sofie. The little brat was good company and had potential for Anja’s line of work. She liked her in an older sisterly kind of way, she decided. Maybe vaguely motherly when she thought about the poor condition of Sohpie’s health, but Anja was convinced she didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, so sisterly it was.

Most of all, though, Anja had felt like a little wayward child growing up in the respected Draconis household where the shadow of Sonja the prodigy was long—and even the good-hearted honor of her twin was yet another expectation she couldn’t meet. Maybe that’s why she liked Sofie so much: they were kindred spirits in that way. Sure, their situations were not identical. Anja had had parents who loved her, something poor Sofie no longer possessed, but Remus had never been much of a father to Anja, and Freydis, though loving, could never relate to her petite, light-footed younger daughter. Anja had been the most disappointing of her siblings, according to her father, and it had led her to do some rather questionable things at quite an early age. Perhaps things could have been different for her, had she received the affection she craved—or even had the good fortune to have a good friend when one was most needed. Instead, she had met Corvus and everything had gone to shit. So, maybe, Anja saw an opportunity to rewrite some of her old, tragic history in Sofie who thought no one else in all of Skyrim would ever care about her again.

That didn’t change the fact that Anja had no proper home and there was no way in Oblivion the Guild was going to house a child in its cistern. That besides, perhaps a cistern was not the best place for a child with a questionable constitution to live. Anja was going to have to do better than she was used to doing for herself which seemed a daunting and expensive task, but surely there was some suitable shack for sale somewhere amidst the smaller residences on the eastern wall. Or another dwelling in the canal? That could work. Anja had a little boat she lived out of because she, herself, hated the dank atmosphere of the Cistern. It was moored in the canal near one of the water gates, discrete with a tent affixed over the back half of it. The guards never gave her any trouble for it, apparently not an uncommon sight during the summer months for certain seasonal workers. If she got a place on the waterway, she could moor her boat nearby and still be close to the Ratway. She’d have to charm the steward at the keep in the morning for the chance to purchase even such a modest dwelling. But one thing at a time.

“I know it ain’t much, little one, but it’s the best I can do for the time being,” Anja said as they descended the groaning wooden steps to the lower levels. Her boat floated serenely in the dark waters of the canal just off the walkway in front of Elgrim’s Elixirs. She gestured grandly to her dinky little boat.

She underestimated the fancy of a child. “It’s like you’re a pirate!” Sofie declared, hopping into the craft heedlessly, causing it to sway dangerously. She almost ended up in the water herself, but Anja steadied her. “Whoa!”

“Maybe don’t do that—ever again.”

“‘Kay.”

Anja sighed and looked around the interior of her little boat. “We’ll get you a bedroll in the morning when the shops open. ‘Til then, you can use mine. I’ll be fine with my cloak. It’s a lovely night and certainly much warmer than Windhelm.”

“What about dinner?”

“Right…” her expression twisted as she thought, “I’ll bring you something back from the tavern, but you have to wait here for a while. Can you do that for me?”

“But I want to meet your friends.”

“They’re not my friends and they don’t want to meet you.”

“What about Rune? Isn’t he your friend?”

“No. We only had a business arrangement.”

“So you don’t have any friends?”

Anja hesitated. “Well—I have you.”

“I’m ten.”

“Tragically, I see your point.”

“Why aren’t you friends with any of the people at the Flagon?”

“Because they’re assholes.”

“Then why hang out with them?”

“Because they’re assholes who get me paid.”

“Oh.” That she completely understood. Poor little Sofie knew how powerful a gold coin could be when you had an empty stomach. “Can’t you find work somewhere else, then?”

Anja sighed heavily. “Despite my numerous talents, I’m really only suited for one kind of job, darling,” she admitted, “And this is the place to be If I want to earn coin off of it.”

“Okay. I’ll stay here,” Sofie relented reluctantly.

“Good,” she ruffled the girl’s hair despite her complaints and attempts to swat her hand away, “If they have sweetrolls, I’ll bring you one.” That made her smile and she sat on the boat like the picture of obedience which Anja did not believe for one moment. Chuckling to herself, Anja made her way through the shadows to the graveyard as Rune had and slipped through the secret entrance. She was looking forward to the quietness of the Cistern, though she was not fond of the dank darkness. It was still good to be around fellow professionals. What she was not expecting, however, was pandemonium.

“FETCH SOME HEALING POTIONS, SAPPHIRE! ALL OF THEM! QUICK!” Brynjolf bellowed through the Cistern, his voice echoing through the wide open space. He was on the floor at the mouth of the small hallway that led to the secret entrance, crouched over the body of Vex who was bleeding, peppered with arrows, and barely breathing. There was a trail of blood, slick and so obvious, Anja didn’t know how she’d missed it.

“What in Nocturnal’s name…?” she breathed, eyes wide with shock and concern. Obviously something very bad had to have happened to their best infiltrator to leave her in such a state.

Brynjolf glanced back at her, hearing her entrance and exclamation. “Unless you have some unknown talent for healing, lass, you best stay out of the way,” he warned before returning his attention to Vex.

Anja fidgeted and then sprang into action. She wasn’t a healer, by any stretch. But she had grown up in a house with a mage, so she knew a thing or two. She pulled her cloak off her back and shed a few of her weapons to make it easier to maneuver around Brynjolf, Vex, and the encroaching crowd. “Back up,” she commanded of the nosey Guild members, “Or I’ll put arrows through the lot of you.” They hesitated, but there really was no reason for them not to heed her order, so everyone edged back and Anja sank to her knees beside Brynjolf.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” he muttered to her, but his face was too tight with worry to quite pull off his usual charming half-smile.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she produced her strongest healing potion, popped the cork with her teeth, and handed it to Brynjolf. “Give this to her when I say,” she said, “Healing by potion alone is slow, but she could still heal around the arrowheads. I need to remove them.”

He looked at her bewildered. “You’ve done this before, lass?” he asked, nervously.

She thought of how she used to do it for Sonja and her mother after a few truly harrowing Fighter’s Guild contracts. “Yes. I’ve done this before.”

Brynjolf took a deep breath and nodded. “On your mark, then,” he said, repositioning himself to better pour the healing potion down Vex’s gullet.

Anja tugged her gloves off with her teeth as she conducted a brief examination of Vex’s wounds. The shallower ones had to come out first. They’d heal the quickest. “This is going to hurt, Vex. No way around it. Hold on…” She chewed on her lip and started tugging out arrowheads. Her intelligent, dexterous fingers were a great advantage in this particular situation, but she had been honest, there was no way around the pain. Vex weakly reacted, but she had lost so much blood, she was barely conscious.

After Anja had moved three, she gave the nod to Brynjolf to start pouring and Sapphire arrived moments later with a crate of the precious bottles clinking against each other and Delvin on her heels. “Just keep giving them to her when you run out,” Anja instructed as she continued to pull arrows free from Vex’s body. She was six down, two more to go, but the one in her chest was dicey. Stuck deep in her breast bone. Anja was certain it was likely puncturing something it shouldn’t be.

“Vex?” Brynjolf breathed, “Tyv, she’s out!”

“That’s normal!” Anja assured, “The pain and blood loss got the better of her. Try to give her the potions without drowning her, if you can.” Anxiously, she chewed on her lip harder, gripping the final arrow and trying to work it loose, but it wouldn’t budge. She needed force and strength had never been her thing, but anyone else might make it worse with their ignorance, so…“Nocturnal have mercy…” she pleaded and yanked the arrow free from Vex’s chest. It came loose with a sickening sound and lots more blood. Vex started choking and wheezing. Sapphire started panicking, Delvin got very still and very pale, and Brynjolf was at a loss, awaiting instruction. Anja’s hands were coated with Vex’s blood and her heart was in her throat, but she took another potion from Brynjolf’s stunned hands and poured the entirety of it into Vex’s wounds. Then she tore through her own bag, ignoring the startled cries of everyone standing by, watching, and frantically searched until her bloody fingers wrapped around the parchment she was seeking.

She pulled the scroll open so fast and with such force, she nearly tore it in two, but she flattened it against her thigh, pressed her left hand against Vex’s gaping chest wound and spouted off the incantation on the page as quickly as she could. It was not a large healing spell, but it would be enough to stop the fatal bleeding. Anja had purchased it fairly recently as a bit of insurance. Sonja had demonstrated the usefulness of magic on the fly numerous times. A practicality Anja could appreciate, especially when her life was on the line. Though she was not the one in danger, this time, she couldn’t just let one of the guild masters die on the floor of the Cistern when there was something she could do about it. She could always persuade Vex to buy her another scroll if she survived, right?

It took a couple of painfully still moments of silence before Vex’s breathing eased and she started blinking awake. “Ow…” she croaked and Brynjolf laughed out loud, relieved. Instantly, the tension in the room dissipated and everyone took a collective deep breath, Anja included.

“Well done, lass!” Brynjolf exclaimed, wrapping his large hand around the back of Anja’s neck in a gesture of comradery and praise, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Oh, you know,” she said dismissively, trying to put on her trademark smile and failing, “Around.”

“That was mighty impressive, that,” Delvin chuckled nervously, “If you’da lost your nerve, we’da lost our lil’ Vex.”

Anja huffed, still a little flummoxed from the adrenaline and still covered in Vex’s blood. “I never lose my nerve, love,” she tossed, flippantly, but leaned backward until she was sitting flat on the stone floor.

“Am I dead?” Vex wheezed, reclaiming everyone’s attention.

“Not dead,” Brynjolf assured, “Thanks to Tyv here.”

Vex groaned. “Thanks…”

“Don’t mention it,” Anja said brightly, finally regaining her composure, “Because I will. Frequently. When it best suits me.”

“Fuck you, Tyv…”

“If you ask nicely.”

Brynjolf and Delvin chuckled, pleased that Vex was sorted enough to insult the woman who had just saved her life, but they still needed answers. “Good you’re still with us, lass,” Brynjolf said, leaning over the injured guild master’s face to catch her eye, “But can you tell us what happened?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said a familiar voice beyond the crowd. It was Mercer. Instantly, any unnecessary guild members scattered, leaving only Vex, Brynjolf, Delvin, and Anja only because she hadn’t gotten up quick enough. The Guild Master stood in front of the four of them, arms crossed and expression semi-permanently unimpressed. Anja had only ever seen him around the Cistern once or twice. Apparently, he had his own sprawling mansion topside near the keep. Prime real estate, a gift from the Guild’s patroness: Maven Black-Briar, second worse kept secret of Riften. But, she had dealt with men like Mercer before. Power hungry, she could see it in his eyes. It was what made him so good at his job. Managing secrets and valuable assets came naturally to him because he approached life in general as a game of chess: a constant power struggle between pieces on a game board. And he likes being the only player. His kind was dangerous and needed to be handled carefully if she ever wanted access to the kind of wealth he generated.

“Well?” he prompted when no one answered him.

“Was it bandits?” Brynjolf asked, trying to make answering easier for Vex.

“No,” she breathed and then coughed, spitting up the last of the blood that was still in her throat.

“She’s still weak,” Anja interjected, “She needs water and rest, and food when she can stand it…”

Brynjolf glanced back at Anja. “Thank you, Tyv, but we have it handled from here,” he said kindly, gently dismissing her from the conversation before Mercer could do so less gently, but Delvin immediately marched off to see that Vex was brought clean water.

She pursed her lips, but nodded. “As it please you, love,” she said sweetly, smiling, “I’ll just be over here, washing the blood from my hands.” She made her way to the water’s edge at the center of the Cistern, still well within earshot, and began washing her hands. Mercer watched her go, his sharp green eyes mistrusting. Brynjolf shot her a meaningful look, but she pretended not to see it. He sighed.

“If it wasn’t bandits, Vex,” he continued, ignoring Anja, “What was it?”

“Mercs,” Vex growled, her voice stronger without the blood in her throat, “At Goldenglow.”

“Shit,” Brynjolf cursed.

“That shifty little coward’s got a death wish,” Mercer muttered irritably.

Brynjolf sat up. “This contract’s too hot for us,” he said shaking his head, “We don’t have the resources to crack the extra security.”

“We don’t need extra resources,” Mercer insisted, “We just need someone good enough to get in. Clearly, Vex isn’t up to the task.”

“She went in blind!” Brynjolf shot back defensively, “Off bad information!”

“Then she can go in again now that she knows what she’s in for.”

“Not for a week at least,” Anja interrupted, standing from the water’s edge and inserting her cute little nose where it didn’t belong, but she couldn’t help it when she smelled an opportunity, “She won’t be able to do more than hand out jobs until she’s strong enough.”

Brynjolf wanted to facepalm. Mercer merely turned his hawkish gaze on her and looked her over from head to toe, unapologetically. “You’re Tyv, right?” he asked in a way that did not truly feel like a question.

“Someone has to be.”

“One of Brynjolf’s pets.”

“I do like being tied up…”

“Tyv…” Brynjolf growled, warning in his tone.

“He said you’re the first thief he’s seen in a long time with any talent,” Mercer continued as if Brynjolf hadn’t spoken, “I don’t see how that’s the case, but he has faith in you so maybe there is something you can do to be useful.”

“Wait a moment,” Brynjolf objected, “You’re not thinking of sending her in instead, are you?” He gestured to the injured blonde Imperial on the floor in front of him. “Vex couldn’t get in!” He looked genuinely worried for Anja’s wellbeing which was sweet, but also worrisome. Though it was obvious the Goldenglow job was extremely dangerous, risk was her specialty. Risk was wealth and she needed the coin bad to both pay for a new place and a new face. She didn’t want the well-meaning, charming rogue to talk Mercer out of taking a chance on her.

“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work,” Mercer challenged, “If so, let her prove it.”

“It’s too dangerous…”

“I’ll do it,” Anja interrupted, sparing a glance at Brynjolf before fixing her gaze on Mercer, “You want me, I’m yours. I’ll take the contract.”

Mercer smirked, but it wasn’t pleasant. It reminded Anja vaguely of a sabercat. “Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients,” he explained, “However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson.” He looked in Brynjolf’s direction and smiled slightly, apparently pleased with his victory in spite of his colleague’s objections. “Brynjolf will provide you with the details,” he concluded, forgoing any further explanation, like he wanted to punish the Nord for having the gall to argue with him at all. He sauntered away, eying Anja once more, before disappearing down the hall of the guild masters’ rooms.

Brynjolf was obviously very unhappy, though it was hard to tell who he was more upset with: Anja or Mercer. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, lass,” he growled when Anja caught his eye but before she could open that smart mouth of hers and say something that had even the remotest chance of cooling his anger. “But I have to see to Vex first.”

Anja nodded. “I’ll help,” she offered and though he looked like he was considering refusing her, he nodded and scooped Vex up in his arms. She offered little resistance for the sake of her dignity, but then let Brynjolf carry her down the same hallway Mercer had gone. He took her to a dimly lit room that appeared to be her personal chamber, though it was rather stark. No decorations, just a bed with comfortable furs, a nightstand, a small table with one chair, a dresser, a safe, and a weapon rack. The lack of personality was perhaps reflective of Vex in a certain sense: solitary and withdrawn. She interacted with people only as much as she needed to get a job done. Anything truly personal was hidden beneath the surface.

Seconds after Brynjolf laid Vex across her bed, Delvin finally arrived with a jug of water and a ceramic cup in his hand. Sapphire was with him, too, carrying a shapeless shift in her hands. “I can dress her,” Sapphire said to Anja who had started to remove Vex’s boots; she was not as aggressive as she usually was, but she still wasn’t quite warm, either. In the last month Anja had been a member of the Thieves Guild, her relationship with the woman had never improved beyond professional indifference, but it seemed there were some things that got under that tough skin of hers. Maybe Sapphire had a heart after all.

“Thanks, lass,” Brynjolf said appreciatively gesturing for Anja to let Sapphire do as she offered, then to Delvin in a much sterner tone, “And you leave the room when she does, you old dog. Vex has been through enough.”

Delvin had the audacity to look insulted. “Don’t leave me here with him,” Vex pleaded with a small smile that suggested she was not actually worried.

“Oh alright, alright,” the Breton thief grumbled, “Just trying to show a little concern for our dear Vex, but oh no…” He placed the jug and cup on the nightstand within Vex’s reach. “Rest well, love.” And then he left without further argument.

Once Sapphire had assured them one more time that she could handle Vex alone, Brynjolf and Anja left too, but he didn’t lead her back toward the Flagon where he usually talked business. He went further down the hallway instead and into another room. His, Anja realized as she looked around the space with far more personality than Vex’s neat chamber. Maps and art on the walls, books and bobbles on shelves, a cluttered desk of plans and correspondence, a wardrobe half open and filled with fine clothing for his numerous grifts, a fine table with two chairs, a small alchemy workstation, a cabinet filled with liquor of varying types and perhaps vintage, a roaring fireplace, and the most ostentatious bed Anja had ever seen. It was fit for a jarl. Or even a High King. No safe, though; its absence was conspicuous and Anja guessed it was likely hidden beneath some facet of his furniture. She smirked. “I feel like I’ve been granted sacred access into that wily mind of yours, Brynjolf,” she purred as she went to the nearest shelf and inspected his keepsakes.

“Any of those lovely sticky fingers of yours make off with my property and I’ll cut them off,” he warned, going straight for the liquor cabinet.

Anja chuckled. “That’d be a shame,” she replied, “I have th…”

“The best hands I’ve ever seen,” Brynjolf interrupted, recalling her boast from the first job on which he’d enlisted her help. He wasn’t looking at her, though, as he selected his evening poison. “Aye. I remember.”

She almost pouted to be denied her customary banter and crossed her arms over her chest, moving away from the shelves of Brynjolf’s treasures. “It’s gotten you paid, hasn’t it?” she pointed out, perching on the edge of the table, “Gold in my pocket is gold in yours? I’ve made you a pretty little fortune running errands for Delvin and Vex.”

That was something no one could dispute. From the moment he welcomed her into the fold, Anja proved her value through a variety jobs. There was little she couldn’t do, though he noticed she tended to avoid shill jobs. Lifts and grifts were her bread and butter. That pretty face and silver tongue of hers charmed the coin out of a lot of unsuspecting pockets. “No need to dangle the purse strings, lass,” he assured as he turned to face her with two drinks in his hand and held one out for her, “I keep the books. I’m the last person you need to prove your skills to.”

She stilled, but took the offered goblet. It was wine, probably fine knowing Brynjolf’s tastes. She swirled it in the silver chalice. “Mercer did say you had faith in me,” she purred, “That’s rather sweet of you. I hope you put in a good word for me, too.”

The Nord thief smirked his famous half-smile. “Faith is an expensive investment,” he observed, “But I’m afraid you’ll be the one paying the ultimate price.”

She looked at him intently. The Nord thief was usually so well composed, charming, and maddeningly evasive, qualities she greatly appreciated, but he wasn’t quite pulling it off at that moment. It was obvious he was still upset. “Well, aren’t you all heart?” she teased, deciding to prod the beehive, “I didn’t know you were such a soft-touch.”

His smile faltered a little then, aware she was trying to put him off balance. “I don’t like him sending you in with so many mercenaries guarding the place,” he admitted, forgoing his usual witty wordplay, “It’s too dangerous. You saw Vex. It’s suicide. And blood is never good business.”

“Like you said: she went in blind,” Anja countered, “Vex is good, but even the good have a shit day. I’m great and I have a much better idea of what I’m up against. I won’t fail.”

His lovely green eyes gave her a thorough once over as if he was appreciating one of the fine artworks hanging on his walls. “That confidence of yours, while charming, will get you killed one day, lass,” he said gently, “And I’m not keen to send you to your death.”

“That bleeding heart of yours, while endearing, won’t get me paid, honey,” she snarked, “And I’m keen to become wealthy.”

“Can’t spend the coin if you’re dead.”

“It’s not up to you, though, is it?”

He sighed. “No. It isn’t,” he agreed, “But Mercer is only sending you because he thinks you’re expendable. This isn’t the in you think it is. If you succeed, good. You were expected to. If you don’t, that’s fine too. You were just one of my—pets.”

Her brow furrowed. He wasn’t telling her anything that she didn’t already suspect. Mercer was as cutthroat as they come. She didn’t expect him, or really anyone in the Guild to care about her life. They weren’t like the Guild she had left behind in Cryodiil. They had been a family, her family. She wasn’t expecting that in Skyrim; she wasn’t looking for it; she wasn’t even sure she wanted it after everything had gone wrong the last time. Yet here she was, confronted with a deliciously appealing Nord thief who did care, not only about her, but his colleagues, too. The fear in his face when he thought Vex was beyond saving had been real. Sapphire’s panic had been real. Delvin’s quiet horror was real. There was more to Riften’s Thieves Guild than she had originally thought, but this wasn’t about sentiment. This was about coin. This was about getting paid. “I know this is dangerous,” she said, her tone tight, “You’ve warned me. I still want to do it. I want my pay day.”

“Alright,” he relented.

“Tell me what I need to know.”

“Goldenglow Estate is a bee farm. They raise the wretched little things for honey,” he explained, “It’s owned by some smart-mouthed Wood Elf named Aringoth. The job was to teach him a lesson by burning down three of the estate’s hives and clearing out the safe in the main house, but—well, you saw how well that went.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Vex’s room. “The catch is that you can’t burn the whole place to the ground. That important client Mercer mentioned would be furious if you did.”

“Who’s the client?” Anja prompted.

“Who do you think it is, lass?” he asked, his expression unreadable.

“Someone worth Vex’s life, according to Mercer,” she answered, “That can only be…”

“Maven Black-Briar.”

Anja drank deeply from her goblet. It was delicious, but she was having difficulty enjoying it at that moment. “There’s no way around this one, Brynjolf,” she pointed out, “Even if I hadn’t volunteered, someone would have had to do it or we’d find ourselves the wrong side of our own patron.”

“I know.”

“You just didn’t want it to me be?” she asked, playing with fire.

“You’re worth more to me alive than dead,” he replied, unconcerned.

“Why’s this place so important to Black-Briar?” Back to business.

“Goldenglow provides the honey she needs for her meadery.” He shook his head. “If she doesn’t get it there, then she’ll have to import honey which would cut into her profits. We had an arrangement with Maven. We kept an eye on Goldenglow Estate to make sure the honey kept flowing. If the workers had a dispute, we’d rough ‘em up. If competitors tried to buy honey from Aringoth, we’d steal the shipments. In return, Maven allowed us to extort Aringoth and bring in a huge payout.”

“And now the honey and the money’s stopped flowing?”

“More or less,” he admitted, “Out of the clear blue, Aringoth stopped sending us our cut. Maven stopped receiving shipments and demanded we get to the bottom of it. So we send in Vex to scope the place out only for her find out the hard way that he’s hired a bunch of mercenaries to guard the place.”

“Placing us in our current predicament,” Anja concluded.

“Precisely.”

Anja took a deep breath and mulled over what Brynjolf had just told her. The whole thing was a godsdamned mess as far as she was concerned. It made sense for Black-Briar to keep such a strangle-hold on the estate; that was ruthless business sense at its best right there. Anja could appreciate that, but for Maven to weasel out of paying the Guild for its services by allowing it to cut its take loose from what she assumed was Goldenglow’s slim profit margin as the apiary only had the one, dangerous client was overkill—and stupid. Of course this Aringoth wound up doing something stupid. He was desperate and desperate people often did colossally stupid things like hiring an entire company of mercenaries to protect him and his property from the fucks who were practically pillaging it on the regular. From his point of view, he didn’t have very many options. It wasn’t the way Anja would have handled such an asset, that was for sure. You had to be careful when milking a business for all it was worth or it’d fizzle out and run dry far too soon. It’s like no one knows how to play the long game around here, she mused.

“Septim for your thoughts?” Brynjolf asked.

“Planning,” Anja replied, distantly, “I’ll talk to Vex tomorrow after she’s gotten some rest. See what details she has on the mercs. I’ll need a day to prep. Hit the place the next night. Give the bastards some time to relax after our recent attempt.”

“You’re really going to do this, lass.”

She smiled at him. “Absolutely.”

He nodded. “You have sanction to kill Aringoth if he tries to stop you from getting the job done, but Maven prefers that he remain alive.”

“Azura’s tits, Brynjolf, I thought blood wasn’t good business.”

“Mercer’s order, not mine,” he explained, “The Guild has a lot riding on this. I don’t like it any more than you do, but if you have to choose between spilling his blood and letting him alert his personal army, I trust you’ll make the right decision.”

“No one will know I’m even there until the hives are up in flames and by then, I’ll be long gone,” she assured.

“You watch yourself on that island,” Brynjolf warned, “Those mercenaries obviously don’t take prisoners.”

“I won’t muck it up,” Anja promised and she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t.


Sofie was already asleep by the time Anja returned to her little boat, all wrapped up in Anja’s bedroll and breathing easy. It was late. Much later than she had intended to be out, but then again, she had not planned on walking in to find a critically injured Vex and a panicking Cistern. She sighed, already she wasn’t sure how she was going to keep doing this if all she was ever going to be able to do for the girl was disappoint her. She had to do better than this.

Gracefully, she eased herself onto the boat with barely a wobble on the water and stowed the dinner she’d brought wrapped up from the Flagon under one of the benches. Sofie could have it in the morning for breakfast. There was an extra sweetroll in there. Then she wrapped herself snuggly in her cloak and hunkered down, propping her feet up and laying back to stare up at the stars.

Tomorrow, she had a lot of work to do to prepare for the heist. Potions to buy or make, maybe another scroll, some light reconnaissance, and—she glanced at the sleeping heap that was Sofie inside the tent—a backup plan just in case she didn’t make it back. Without her, the girl would surely end up at the orphanage, eventually. Even with her clever wit, a child was virtually powerless. Anja doubted she would even be able to get passed the front gates out of town without a guard asking were her parents were which was a problem because there was really only one place in the world that she could think to send a child where it was guaranteed that she would be cared for and protected in the event that something should go sideways: Whiterun. With Sonja. There wouldn’t even be a moment’s hesitation; Sonja would do for Sofie and then she’d go looking for answers for what happened to her little sister. Anja pursed her lips with displeasure. Even in her worst case scenario, her big sister was still so—decent. Not like her. Never like her.


Elenwen peered down the length of her long, thin nose at one of the many missives neatly collected on her desk: the latest reports from her capable justiciars all over Skyrim. Some were more mundane than others, but there were a handful of vital projects from which she was keen to see results. Particularly those from her assets in Stormcloak territory. The little Nordic rebellion was a special kind of beast that needed specific tending, especially with such an uncooperative figurehead: Ulfric Stormcloak, himself.

Now that was a Nord she liked—in the way one liked a well-trained dog. She’d crawled around his mind once, long ago when she was younger and hungry for advancement; she may have been overenthusiastic in her attention to detail with him. A novice mistake she was now too seasoned to make again, but he had been so useful in the years that followed, despite the trauma. That was something, even if he was causing her trouble now. She pursed her thin lips in muted frustration, she had had to go to Helgen, herself, to make sure everything had gone to plan for that damned stubborn man and then a dragon swooped in and complicated things. A dragon! And now there was talk of Dragonborn in Whiterun. Tullius was pursuing that lead at the encouragement of his Nordic captain, but the Blades had to be at the bottom of that rabbit hole, there was no doubt.

Whatever the case, at least the chaos had provided Ulfric the opportunity to escape the block to fight another day—and Galmar had had all the time he needed to infiltrate the fort from the cave her sources had leaked to him. Even if that blasted dragon hadn’t interrupted, Ulfric would have been rescued by his faithful housecarl just in time. So much effort. So much waste. Maybe it was time to put the dog down. Her angular eyebrow quirked at the thought. One had to be certain a good tool was useless before disposing of it.

“Pardon the intrusion, Emissary,” Rulindil said as he stepped into her office, fresh from the interrogation chamber, “But your guest Madame Joliame has just arrived from High Rock.”

Elenwen sniffed, coming out of her reverie, and laid the reports she was reading in an immaculate stack before her. “Excellent, Rulindil. Thank you,” she replied, “Have you made her comfortable?”

“To your specifications.”

“Wonderful,” she paused, thoughtfully, “I think it best you start without me. She and I are quite familiar with each other and I don’t want to contaminate the results of our little experiment.”

“As you wish, Emissary,” Rulindil nodded respectfully.

“To work, then,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her delicate, golden hand, “I’ll be along shortly.” The Third Emissary turned to leave his superior’s office and resume the work he’d already started downstairs. “Remember to mind your emotions around her,” Elenwen added before he’d taken two steps passed the threshold, “The point is not to make things easy for her.”

“I assure you that will not be a problem,” Rulindil drawled with a smug smirk.

Elenwen almost chuckled at his confidence. She appreciated his fervor. “You’d be surprised what that little witch is capable of. Don’t underestimate her,” she warned.

Rulindil schooled his expression, but arrogance was still shining plainly in his eyes. “Of course, Emissary. I will be mindful.” She waved her hand to dismiss him again and he left, returning to the interrogation chamber.

Elenwen listened to his light footsteps as the distance grew between them until she heard the door close behind him. Rulindil was quite skilled in his work, took great pride in it and he had every reason to. For the most part, she had no complaints for her Third Emissary’s initiative or the quality of his results, but Maelys Joliame was a different kind of animal and she didn’t want him to make a misstep with the fiery little half-breed. Especially when the stakes were so high.


Chaos. It was all just chaos grating on her senses as she reached out, straining to connect to a conscious body, but it was all nonsense and jumble. Static in her ears and a blur of bright colors and shadows in turns and altogether. There was no concept of time or place. She had no idea where she was, when or in what condition her body languished. She had suffered like that for days, since the moment she was arrested by the Thalmor under the authority of the White-Gold Concordant for “questionable activities of worship.” She was a cunning woman. A healer. She prayed to Mara when she needed guidance. She prayed to Kynareth when she needed strength. And she prayed to Arkay when healing was not enough. There was nothing to question, but she couldn’t argue, she wasn’t given the chance to in the ambush and even if she had been, what would she have said? I know who sent you. Tell that bitch to come do her own dirty work! For starters.

Suddenly, reality and perception snapped back into painful alignment with a sharp, horrid spike of acerbic odor. She blinked, dazed, and not fully aware of the arrangement of her limbs; she tried to lean over and vomit, but found a hard, cold collar of steel prevented her from moving far enough to clear her body. As a result, she dribbled off the side, aware that sick was running down the sleeve of her dress. Her arms, too, were shackled into place on the armrests of a hard, rough chair. Her legs at the ankles, restrained. As the reality of her situation began to sink deeper into her mind, her eyes became increasingly aware of her surroundings.

At first, the mage light above her head was so bright that it made her stomach churn, but that faded in time and she could see her body, fully dressed in the green dress she had worn the day they had taken her. Travel worn and dirty; her captors had not troubled themselves to bathe her in her unconscious state which was a good thing, really. She would have been disturbed to think that she had been touched by hands not her own and not with her permission in the most vulnerable state of nakedness. Next, she realized she was hungry and thirsty. It must have been quite a long journey, wherever they had taken her if she felt so weak and starved. Also, her captors must not have bothered to feed her either—perhaps because they did not want to risk waking her which was probably very wise on their part. She would have killed them all and escaped the second she had the chance.

Beyond her person, there was a rough-hewn table. Stained, some old and brown. Others still retaining a vibrant red color. If the chair hadn’t given it away before, she was certain then that she was in some sort of torture chamber. The air was stale with the scent of suffering. But, oddly, there was a decadently decorated carafe of fine porcelain and matching cup on the table, too, and, sitting directly across from her in a chair far more comfortable than her own, was an Altmer in black and gold robes. A Thalmor. She saw him long before she felt him, her senses still slogging through the after effects of whatever drug her captors had given her. So she studied him, one blue eye and one green eye roving over his face to memorize the features of who she assumed was about to become her terrorizer.

He was handsome, she supposed. Any Altmer would think so. His skin was not quite so bright a golden color as was often prized amongst his kind, but his cheekbones were quite lovely, his brow severe and distinguished, and his sandy colored facial hair neatly trimmed. His eyes were cruel though. Smallish, sharp slats of calculated darkness; amber so dark it was almost ruby. And he was staring at her with a smile that was meant to be pleasant or so she suspected, but was more off putting than anything else. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice elegant, his tone refined. Pompous.

“My head hurts,” she answered, her voice raspy from disuse and lack of water.

“Ah yes,” he nodded, knowingly, with an odd, detached sympathy that felt professional, “That’s due to the effects of the poison we gave you. Based on canis root extract. Marvelous little concoction, really. Quite effective when used during—asset cultivation—but we had to give you a stronger dose to keep those famed powers of yours from flaring up before we were prepared to deal with them.”

She stared at him, blinking slowly, willing her mind to focus; she couldn’t even feel the whisper of her magicka, yet. That drug must have really been something. “I need water,” she said, “I’m thirsty.”

“Oh, where are my manners,” he said as if he were truly displeased with himself, “You must be quite parched after your journey.” He took up the carafe in front of him and poured water into the cup, slowly filling it. When it was full, he slid it across the table to her as if she were capable of reaching for it herself. “There you are,” he said as if the matter was handled, “I’ll call for some supper for you as well in a moment, if you like.”

Her eyes flit from the precious water still rippling in the cup from the movement of being pushed across the table back to him. “Why am I here?” she asked, “What do you want?”

He smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes. “You were arrested. Don’t you remember?”

“Why don’t you remind me?” she asked, feeling the edges of her perception finally beginning to clear.

“We have eyewitness accounts of you conducting rites in the name of Talos,” he replied matter-of-factly. Lie.

“You’re lying.”

“What reason would I have to lie to you? Now? When you are already in my custody and so far from anyone who could possibly save you?” he pointed out. Need.

“Because you want something from me.”

“What could a mere cunning woman have to offer the Aldmeri Dominion?” Pomposity.

“Elenwen’s behind this, isn’t she?” she demanded.

“No.” Lie.

“You’re lying, again.”

“Emissary Elenwen is unaware of your presence here with me today.” Lie.

“You’re lying. She’s here, isn’t she?”

“No, you have been relocated from your home in…” LIE!

“You’re still lying and if you’re going to keep doing it, you should try harder to do better.”

His mouth twitched into a sneer. “You’re mistaken, and insulting me will only…” Lie. Anger. Frustration.

“Make you angrier?” she interrupted, “Good. I want you to lose your temper. Whatever gets her in the room quicker so I can stop dealing with her lackey and just get on with…”

“Will you be silent?” he hissed, his hands which had been neatly laced upon the table throughout the course of their conversation were now gripping each other so tightly it looked like his fingers might snap. Pride. Indignation. Embarrassment.

She smiled, identifying his hot button. “Lackey,” she said, slowly, like she was enjoying the taste of every syllable on her parched tongue, “Peon. Subordinate. Which does she call you?”

“I am a Third Emissary of the Thalmor and you will…” Outrage. Resentment.

“I will do nothing. I will say nothing until Elenwen gets here. I do not deal with trash.” She didn’t know how many times a pure-blooded Altmer had hurled the same insult at her and she was forced to bear it silence, but the proud Thalmor was unaccustomed to such targeted abuse. He was on his feet, his face twisted in the most impressive mask of indignant rage she had ever seen, and showered her in a tirade of self-righteous racial-purity nonsense, spittle flying from his mouth with his vehemence. He was working himself into a frenzy, his emotions climbing higher into the peak of his belligerence until he found release in the form of sparks dancing across her skin. Perhaps she had pushed him too hard, but it was very rare that she used her gifts to torment rather than ease the suffering of others. If her life had not been at risk, she wouldn’t have stooped to such a perversion in the first place, but what was done was done and she was vaguely certain the fool Altmer was going to kill her, he was enjoying her pain so much.

Her eyes rolled, and her body jerked and contorted as much as it was able in the shackles that bound her. Bruises began to form beneath them and some of her skin began to sizzle under the concentration of his spell. He stopped just shy of killing her, of course. A disciplined torturer never killed his victims too soon. His rage had quieted in the swell of his psychotic pleasure and he was more composed when he spoke to her again. “You are quite the piece of work, aren’t you? You little half-breed mongrel,” he said, his tone almost kindly as he came around the table and leaned over her.

She was barely sensible to what he was saying which wouldn’t do, so he reached for her, gripping her jaw like a vice and directing her gaze toward him. He pushed a little Restoration magic through her, healing the bruises and the burns she had sustained so Elenwen would never be the wiser. Their little intimate moment could just be between them. When her eyes finally focused, the magic ceased but he continued to hold onto her face so hard her jaw began to ache. “Water,” she breathed.

“Water what?”

A pause. “Please.”

“I like hearing you beg.” He reached for the cup with his free hand and brought it up to her lips, but did not tilt it far enough for her to slake her thirst. She nuzzled against the rim, but between his hold on her jaw and the collar restricting the movement of her head, all she could do was strain and shift uselessly in the chair. “I could torture you all day,” he sighed as he finally granted her what she needed. He wasn’t lying. The pig got off on hurting her. Desire. Arousal. Superiority.

She tried not to look at him as she focused on trying to drink as much as possible before he pulled away from her again, but he was uncharacteristically patient and let her drink the last drop before returning the cup to the table and releasing her face. A small reward for the joy her anguish had granted him. She worked the joint of her jaw and glared at him. “Are you going to be more amenable now?” he asked, politely, reaching into her space to catch a drop of water that chased the line of her frown to her chin.

“Is it just my pain that arouses you?” she asked, her voice much smoother now that she had finally had a drink, “Or do you have a fetish for half-breed mongrels?”

Instantly, he upended her chair onto the floor. The wind was briefly knocked from her lungs from the impact, but the second she could breathe again, she started laughing. He came into her view, sparks already dancing in his hand, ready to ignite her nerve endings again. “I think you’ve failed your own test,” she said before he could turn his magic on her and he hesitated. Confusion. Comprehension. Fear. His gaze zipped to the loft above and he spied none other than Elenwen standing in the shadows, watching. How long she had been standing there, he did not know—but Maelys did. She’d felt the cold, heartless wench the moment she came into the room halfway through her electrocution. She was displeased.

Elenwen sighed theatrically and descended the stairs into the torture room proper. “You may go, now, Rulindil,” she said, her voice emotionless, but her gaze chilling, “I think I’ve seen all I need.”

Rulindil hesitated a fraction of a second before regaining his composure and smoothing his crisp Thalmor robes. “Yes, Emissary. Of course.” He hesitated again, deliberating whether or not he should leave Maelys on the floor, before stooping and setting her right. “I—apologize for my—enthusiasm, Emissary,” he said when he reached Elenwen.

She regarded him briefly. “I quite enjoy your enthusiasm, Third Emissary. It’s one of your better qualities,” she replied, “It is your weakness that got the better of you this time.” Disappointment. Unsurprised.

“You are right, of course,” he said, nearly a whisper. “It shan’t happen again.” Shame. Deep, deep shame. Anger.

“No. It won’t,” Elenwen agreed and she dismissed him. Rulindil quickly climbed the stairs, carefully avoiding looking at either woman below as he exited the torture chamber.

Left alone with Elenwen, Maelys turned her unabashedly hateful gaze on the older mer. “What do you want from me?” she demanded.

Elenwen’s thin lips curved into a smile. She remained standing on the opposite side of the table. “You’ve grown quite a lot since I last saw you, Lys,” she said almost fondly, casually invoking her childhood nickname, but her disgust rattled through Maelys’ perception, “You were—twelve years old? I believe?”

“Fifteen.”

“I always have a hard time with the ages of men,” she said as if she truly lamented the fact and then she calmly walked toward another table pushed against the wall. That one was not covered in stains. It appeared to serve as a desk and resting upon it was a small chest amongst other papers and records. “It’s been thirty years,” Elenwen continued, retrieving the box and bringing it back to the table, “Plenty of time for you to hone your unique gift, but you have grown quite powerful, haven’t you?” Excitement. Fear. Ambition. She opened the box so its contents were shielded from Maelys’ view.

“It wasn’t just Rulindil you were testing, were you?” she asked softly.

Elenwen looked up. Pleased. “Oh, that perception of yours will come in handy in so many ways.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Oh, you definitely will if you don’t prove useful,” Elenwen assured. Truth. “I cannot tolerate useless tools.” She removed two silver cuffs from the box and finally approached Maelys. “I won’t torture you to gain your cooperation,” she said. Truth. “You’re too good. You’d either have the torturer so worked up, he’d kill you accidently, or he’d be so besotted with you, it would make an alarming amount of sense to let you go.”

“Then you have no way to secure my cooperation,” Maelys pointed out, “Your potions and poisons leave me too clouded to sense anything. You can’t condition me. I’ll recondition your agent. And even if you attempt to do it yourself, I will find a way to kill you in the process.”

Elenwen smiled. Pleased. “You’ve grown so smart, too,” she said. Truth. “Your mother would be very proud.” Pleasure. Regret. Resignation. Maelys nearly upset her chair again trying to strangle Elenwen with her bare hands. “Careful now,” Elenwen chastised, “This sort of behavior will get you nowhere.” Truth.

“Never speak of my mother!” Maelys spat, “You are unworthy of her memory!”

Pain. Regret. Resignation. “Still as fiery as ever, though,” Elenwen continued, “You get that from your father. He’s doing quite well, by the way. At least according to my reports.” Truth.

Maelys stilled. “You have him?”

“Not yet. And it can stay that way if you do as I ask.” Truth. “I have no use for some washed up Breton fool other than to leash you.” Maelys sat very still, her mind racing to find a way out of her current predicament. What Elenwen wanted from her would make her a monster. It was one thing to push the buttons of a torturer until she got what she wanted from him; it was another to break the people Elenwen wanted broken and surely that was what the mer wanted from her. That was Maelys’ greatest value. “He’s all you have for family in the world, yes?” Elenwen pressed, growing impatient, “Surely you don’t want him to meet the same fate as your mother.” Regret. Regret. Regret.

Maelys shut her eyes very tightly and prayed to Mara for mercy. “I will do as you ask,” she said after a moment.

“Excellent,” Elenwen said brightly and then she slid the silver cuffs over Maelys’ wrists without releasing her from the chair. The cuffs had a strange fastener on them that securely locked into place once closed. Only then did Elenwen undo the restraints securing her to the chair and Maelys became aware that she could not feel her magicka at all. Her hands were free, but she was not and she might never be again. There must be a way, she thought, half praying, I’ll find a way. She had to.


Eyes so golden to look into them lost him in the scorching heat of the sun. And they are sharp. Keen. Roving over every inch of his body like the hands of a lover. Watching, but uninvited. Learning. Prying the truth from his every move without effort. He’s an open wound to her hungry gaze. Naked and exposed. Raw and bleeding.

Then her eyes melt into shadows and he’s alone in the swirling mist of memories he’d rather forget. Each an agonizing scar on his body—his mind—his soul. Somewhere through the echoes of old screams, her voice filters through. Smooth like silk, like a snake slithering through the annals of his pain. “Beware the Golden Witch,” she whispers, and he swears he can feel her lips move against the swirl of his ear, but when he turns—there’s no one there. Just black, empty space where the imprint of torture, of horror usually lives, but it’s oddly silent now.

A second later and he thinks he sees something in the distance. A soft glow. The suggestion of light on the horizon. It swells and brightens until it dissolves the surrounding darkness. It’s too bright. It’s too much. He can’t take it and covers his burning eyes to protect them from the ferocity of the glare as it presses in on him. So heavy, he can feel it on his skin. Tangible. It’s there. Enveloping him in ways the darkness never could.

A woman speaks his name, but he’s sure he’s never heard the music of her voice before. It’s sweet and kind and warm. She says his name again and his heart beats so fast it hurts. He almost drops his hands to risk the light in search of the owner of such a Voice, but he hesitates. Glued to the spot, petrified by the prospect what such a risk would mean. In those moments of his indecision, her voice begins to fade until he can’t hear her anymore.

The light goes out and he’s crumpled on the cold, stone floor, alone. Again. Anguished tears prick at the edges of his eyes as he slams his fists into the ground, disgusted by his own cowardice. But then—suddenly there’s a hand reaching down for him and the delicate, but strong fingers of a woman’s grasp caresses his cheek. He looks up at the cloaked figure looming over him. A splendor of back and gold. An old enemy—but he can’t see her face to be sure. “What more do you want?” he almost begs.

Her head cocks to one side as if he’s asked a curious question and she caresses his other cheek, sinking down onto the floor in front of him until they are level. Lowering herself. It plucks a confounded scowl from his brow and he can almost sense her amused smile from the cover of her hood. “Tell me,” he pleads again, “Tell me what you want!”

Her hands slide away to grip the edges of her hood. Pushing it back, she reveals a face—of a stranger? A shock of red hair, a glimmer of strange eyes, one green, one blue, a pout of a smiling mouth. He’s sure he’s never met her before and yet…“Let me in,” she answers, “Please?” And she leaps at him, mouth crashing into his with such a fierceness, it steals his breath away…

Ulfric gasped awake and sat bolt upright in his bed, his arms reaching for a woman who was not there. In a moment of blind, confused, panic, he attempted to recall her face again—that beautiful, fierce gaze—Dibella have mercy!—but the memory of her faded fast from his mind and soon she was entirely lost to him. He took a steadying breath, then, blinking rapidly to regain himself, and rubbed the exhaustion from his face.

He was alone in his bedchambers. A fire roared on the hearth, casting a warm, orange glow through the room, but it felt foreign to him in that moment—like the dancing shadows carved a new face out of the once familiar space. It reminded him of the first few weeks of his return from Thalmor captivity. Everything felt wrong. Everyone was a stranger. Every place was alien. He’d gotten through those early days by seeking out small points of connection, by finding those small familiarities wherever they were hidden. And they were not in that room.

Impatiently, he threw back the thick blankets and furs of his bed and slid out of their warmth, stalking over to the nearest chair to reclaim his robe. Covering his nearly naked body, he headed for the door, pausing only long enough to collect his sword. The weight of it in his hand was welcome as he stalked through the hallways of his home. He didn’t care how foolish he might appear to the errant servant or guard, wandering through the corridor in nothing but his smalls and a robe with his weapon in hand; it was a comforting reminder that he was dangerous. That he wasn’t vulnerable or weak. He was a warrior. A Nord! A true son of Skyrim! His grip tightened against the hilt as if to reinforce his thoughts, but it wasn’t as strong as he wanted it to be.

He found his way to the shrine quickly enough without encountering a single soul.  He lit the incense as he had a thousand times before. Whispered flame to life with a breath of Yol upon the wick of each candle. And knelt, poised at the base of the shrine to Kyne. The words of his old meditations swirling through his mind; he could almost hear Arngeir’s voice counseling him through the power of air, of breath, of The Way. But it wouldn’t set in. It wouldn’t stick. They were poor shadows of a life he left behind crumpling beneath the weight of his since experienced horrors. He sighed heavily. It was almost a sob, but there were no tears in his eyes. He only ever wept in his dreams. With an air of desperation, he leaned his head against the base of the stone shrine and prayed. Prayed that the dawn would break soon to scatter the darkness of his home, to warm the chill from his bones, to remind him of the light.


“You look terrible,” Galmar grunted when he found his jarl in the private chapel. Ulfric was sitting in the far corner from the shrine, on the floor, back against the wall, one hand propping up his head as if it was too heavy to hold itself up, and his robe barely preserving his modesty. Not that Galmar cared one way or the other about that, really; he just didn’t want to see his jarl’s bits if he didn’t have to. If he had to draw a line somewhere, that would be it. But that was hardly important. Ulfric looked exhausted. Beaten. Like he’d just rode a hard night home from the front lines. That harried, wounded soldier look. Only most of Ulfric’s physical injuries had already long healed. It was the ones you couldn’t see that plagued him now. The ones no healer could touch.

“You don’t look much better,” Ulfric replied dryly as if there was nothing amiss with his current disheveled state.

Galmar frowned. Not at the insult but Ulfric’s dismissiveness. “You need some food in you,” he said, changing the subject, “Maybe some mead, too.”

Ulfric grimaced at the mention of mead as if there were darker demons lurking at the bottom of a tankard than there were hidden amongst the restlessness of his bedsheets. “Aye, you’re right,” he acknowledged and he moved to push himself up from the floor. Instantly, every ache in his body reminded him that he was no longer a young man and he groaned with the frustration of a warrior with more spirit than vigor. His hip in particular was troubling him; spending all night awake and sitting on the cold, stone floor was not doing his old war injury any favors. Galmar helped him to his feet without a word passed between them and once Ulfric was upright, a single pained look and affectionate pat on the shoulder was enough thanks. Such was the way between friends so dear they were more like brothers.

“I’ll meet you in the Great Hall,” Ulfric said as they exited the chapel, “I should dress before I scare off the kitchen girls.”

Galmar snorted at his jarl’s joke. “Maybe that’s what you need, did you ever think of that?” he asked.

Ulfric cut him a glance. “Frightened kitchen girls?” he said, being deliberately obtuse. 

“A woman,” Galmar corrected, “To wear you out enough to sleep soundly through the night.”

Ulfric frowned. “I have a war to fight, remember? I have no time for dalliances.”

The housecarl shrugged. “Maybe you should make time,” he prodded, but he relented when his jarl shot him a warning look. Ulfric’s love life was a sensitive subject. Mostly because he didn’t have much of one, tended to prefer it that way out of habit, and his lack of an heir had been a point of conflict amongst his supporters when he gathered other jarls to his cause before moving on High King Torygg. Such things were not private matters for nobles. Marriages and children were viewed as alliances and legacy, so some of the traditionalists—mainly Skald—had been particularly determined to know if Ulfric had any bastards running around that he could legitimize. After all, if he was going to become High King and win Skyrim’s independence, it was important that he had an heir to make sure that fight didn’t die with him should the worst happen. He had not, to his knowledge, sired any children; he had been careful not to. It had not been a good conversation.

The men parted ways when they reached the Great Hall. Galmar went to the feasting table and Ulfric continued to his bedroom. In the daylight, it looked familiar again and he was relieved. The servants had already drawn a bath for him and the tub was still steaming in the corner of the room. Everything was as it always was, had always been. He was jarl of the keep and it was comforting.

Still unwilling to be separated from his sword quite yet, Ulfric placed it against the edge of the washtub so that it was still within his reach. Then he stripped, sheading his robe and his smalls, baring his heavily scarred body to the morning light. Sometimes he imagined he could feel the pull of every mark against his skin; sometimes he wasn’t so sure he was imagining it. Silently, he sank into the hot water and let the heat melt all the stiffness and chill from his body. He just sat there for a moment, making no effort to wash himself yet, and enjoyed the quiet pleasure of the simple luxury. He liked small luxuries like hot baths, warm beds, and good food. Nothing extravagant, but enough to offer a little nugget of peace, an unexpected moment of sanctuary amidst so much daily turmoil. He’d spent the earliest stages of his life deprived of such things atop a mountain in the company of monks. Then he went to war and there was no room for them in the heat of battle when he was fighting for his life and the lives of his brothers-and-sisters-at-arms. Then he was captured. Then he was broken. Then Markarth, more prison, more heartache. There was hardly any time between them that he had not spent fighting. He’d never take hot water, warm furs, good mead or hearty stew for granted ever again.

Eventually, his thoughts wandered in the silence back to Galmar’s well-meaning, but inappropriate suggestion. A woman to tire me out, he mused, shaking his head. What would such a woman be like? Look like? Smell like? He thought of his dream, of that body he could not quite remember the curve of or the lips he could not quite recall the shape of, only that they seemed to perfectly fit against his own. He remembered her Voice though. Like birds on a summer day. Like a breeze through the trees or the ocean against the shoreline. It was beauty in lyric, in chord, in hum. Like Kyne had whispered in his ear. A woman like that could tire any lover out.

It had been years since he had taken a woman to bed and he had had few encounters overall. Not for lack of interest or even, later on, availability. But he had been raised a monk through his adolescent years, so by the time he was finally granted the pleasure of even being near a woman, he hadn’t the slightest clue what do with himself. Rikke had straightened that out for him, Dibella bless her, in the kindest and yet most matter-of-fact sort of way. Her way. It was one of the reasons he would always consider her a friend, no matter what mistakes she made in taking up with the Legion when he needed her most. Her death would grieve him no matter what colors she wore.

Then—Thalmor imprisonment. Those years had not been…no…he would not think of it.

There had been a few others in the spaces between his struggles. The act itself had always been enjoyable. He liked sex. He was good at it. Rikke had taught him how to be a generous lover and how to receive generosity in return. So, each lovely lady after her had not been dissatisfied and neither had he. It was what came after that tended to ruin everything. His nightmares, his fits of confusion, the grizzly scars themselves rendered more gruesome when clearly cast in firelight. His inability to—connect with so much horror hidden behind his eyes. There was not much he could offer any woman that would tempt her stay except his title and his wealth, and he did not want a wife who loved only those things. It was better and much easier to remain alone and focus on things he understood, things he knew well: struggle, war, and death. He sometimes found it difficult to believe he had ever been a man of peace.

He shifted in the water, his gaze sliding to the hilt of his sword visible above the edge of the tub. It had been his father’s before him and his father’s before that for generations. Each man who had held it forged his own legacy with that sword, a legacy that he then passed down to his son. Ulfric treasured what had inherited, though he regretted the way in which it had come to pass. Eulogy by letter, smuggled out of prison…But he didn’t know if he had anything worth passing on when he was gone. All he’d ever done with his sword was bring war and that was not a burden he wanted to give to anyone else. Maybe he’d feel different once Skyrim was free of her Imperial shackles. Maybe then he’d change his mind about taking a woman and making an heir or a whole litter of little Eastmarch Bear cubs—Talos preserve me, I’ll be too old to lift them before long!—but until that day, if it ever came, his father’s sword would remain on his hip as he tried to carve his worthiness out of history.

Notes:

Hehe, so for people only invested in the story between Sonja and Vilkas, I am sorry, but I did say that this fic was about more than just the Dragonborn. There is a lot of content that has nothing to do with her. She is, of course, still my main character and the story focuses mainly on her, but things are happening all over Skyrim. Besides, I am in love with Ulfric and I cannot lie. Which is part of the reason why this update comes so late.

As I have already mentioned before in previous notes, this story is already written and I am just editing, rewriting, and posting chapters which is why you get some updates within days of each other or I'll post two at once. But, lately I've been fixing a lot of plot holes as I go along and adding new content to either fix those problems or flesh out something that I think needs more weight to it. After I had such a positive reaction to my interpretation of Ulfric, I thought I should pay him a little more attention than he originally gets. I did already have an entire subplot worked out for him, it was still great and shameless wish fulfillment, but I thought he deserved a more dignified make over that focused on all aspects of his extremely complex character. Plus, if I left the old story as is, y'all wouldn't be getting more Ulfric until well after Sonja had gone up the 7,000 and come back down three months later. Yeah. Nobody wants that. I don't want that. I want more Ulfric now!

Also, I had decided a few months ago that I was going to completely rewrite Ulfric's love interest because she was great and all, but a little--manic pixie dream girl ala Skyrim--and Ulfric deserves better. I'm giving him someone with more character now and she is better equipped to deal with his issues. She's an empath, in case that wasn't clear during her section. She cannot read minds, only sense the feelings of the people around her and she's quite good at filling in the blanks those emotions suggest. Like Diana Troy from Star Trek for any of you super special space dorks. #livelongandprosper #iknowthatsfromtheKirkseriesbutitsthebesttaglineeversodealwithit We'll learn more about her through Ulfric's storyline, but she does not usually use her powers for EVIL like Elenwen wants to; she was perfectly happy being a lil' healer lady back home in High Rock, curing illnesses and easing emotional pain.

What else? Oh, yeah. Elenwen. That's entirely new. I decided I wanted to try to write from the point of view of one of my big baddies. She's horrible and elegant and cruel. Just a spooky, golden Cruela DeVille. That was not my original inspiration, but now that I've typed it, I can't unthink it. Damnit.

Oh, Anja is finally making progress on the Thieves Guild questline! Little Brynjolf interaction since we missed him in the last couple of Anja chapters. And we get to see the doubt surrounding Sonja's identity as Dragonborn through Vignar who kind of expresses what all of Skyrim is thinking to a certain degree.

Stay tuned because next up is a Sonja/Vilkas chapter! Yay!

Chapter 31: Breathe

Summary:

Sonja and the hunting party finally make it out onto the tundra. The journey begins.

Notes:

Back to Sonja and Vilkas PoV with a dash of Hera!

Of course, the Dovahzhul in this chapter is taken from Thuum.org. Don't forget to mouse over sentences to view translations.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Breathe.

An action so easily taken for granted. Sonja didn’t think she’d ever truly breathed before. Not the way a Nord did, at least. Not with such hyperawareness of her lungs, the muscle twitch that filled and compressed them, or the cold air that soared through her nose, down her throat, and into the very core of her. Each breath felt deliberate like a conscious choice to keep living, to face the struggle, to fight the daily battle of a mortal life. Each exhalation a prayer and a song of reverence, of gratitude, to the Warrior-Goddess who first breathed purpose into the chests of a wandering, purposeless people. It was choice and freedom and power. It was strength and spirit. And it was beautiful.

Sonja continued to be mindful of her breathing, meditating on each in- and exhalation as it passed through her nostrils and whispered back over her lips. She had done similar thought and breath exercises before as part of her training in blending the vigor of a warrior and the cunning of a mage, but this was different and spiritual, an aspect of herself that she had never truly exercised before because she had never seen a need. Now, it felt like an atrophied muscle that once knew how to stretch. There was instinct in there that needed heeding. Maybe it was because she was Dragonborn, or maybe all mortals felt it: that pull, that Divine arthritis pressed into the whorls of their existence like a fingerprint forever memorialized in the clay it once held, once worked. Marked heavy with the dream unknowable. She stilled.

And in that stillness, at the back of her mind where the Dragon coiled, sated and lazy from her last demonstration of power, it rumbled like thunder, reminding her of its presence. Reminding her that she was wider than she’d once thought, bigger than anyone would truly be able to understand, deeper than her mortal shell could comprehend. It whispered to her in a language old and familiar with sharp edges like claws and round vowels like the trumpeting of a warhorn. It wanted and lusted and preened, itching to stretch its nature beyond her reach. Its heart was draconic and, though not unfeeling, unknowing of a condition it was not born to endure. She had to focus passed it and its hungry desires.

She measured her breathing as she bathed in the cold waters of a stream just outside Whiterun in the dim green glow of the auroras rippling through the night sky. She did not allow the goosebumps rising on her uncovered flesh to quicken her lungs and soon the initial shock of the chill dulled and grew warm as her breath tempered her from the inside. Mind over matter. A phrase too simple to properly describe a feeling so complex. Her hands glided through the water, cupped it, and brought it up to her face, and she rubbed the clear, icy rinse into her skin as if it could take away her scars and the pain attached to them.

Next, she wet her hair and rubbed whole lavender and lichen into her scalp. The scent of the flower was beautiful and familiar, considered sacred and beloved of Shor’s Widow, and the lichen’s rough texture grated pleasantly against her damp skin. She was forbidden the use of soaps or lotions or oils as they were concoctions of man and mer, and—aside from alerting her prey of her presence long before she could reach it—she could be only of the tundra she intended to stalk. When she had rinsed all trace of petal and greenery from her hair and finished bathing, she dried her olive skin and dressed, donning the new armor Hera had commissioned from Eorlund for the occasion. It was a style similar to the kind he fashioned for the Companions, but not quite. Thick and warm and dark with whorls of the wind pressed into the leather of her high collar and shoulders. Unenchanted, only well-made. It was armor befitting a Hunt Master.

Faendal and Lydia rejoined her as she came back over the ridge. They had stood sentinel over her flank during her private moment, keeping a wary eye out for any trace of danger, even so close to town. Lydia returned her shield which she had held for her and Faendal the spear Whiterun he had safeguarded. They fell into step beside her and hiked back toward town to rest, for the hunting party would leave at dawn.


Breathe.

Sonja awoke remembering to breathe. She had slept well, perhaps the best she had in months and she was—ready. She hadn’t been sure she would feel that way. From the moment she’d arrived back in Whiterun after the scouting party, it had become more and more real that she was about to lead a few dozen people across the tundra; she’d never done anything like it before in the entirety of her thirty years on Nirn. No, she’d been the one to take orders, not give them and that was an intimidating responsibility. And yet—she felt ready.

Silently, she slipped from her bed, splashed some clean water on her face from a basin in the corner, and woke Lydia. The housecarl blinked awake, but it didn’t take her long to get moving. The women dressed in muted darkness, the whisper of their clothing and armor the only disturbance in the silent room of sleeping shield-siblings, and then swiftly left the barracks with only their weapons and a small pouch in hand. Faendal would see to their already packed gear because the Hunt Master had somewhere else to be.

Upstairs, Tilma was already working at breakfast. Practically all of Jorrvaskr would be away on the Hunt so everyone would be stirring soon to muster at the stables. Laid out at the end of the table was a bit of porridge and meat for Lydia; Sonja could not partake. A hungry hunter was a fierce hunter. But Tilma had placed a stout cup of tea out for her, a fortifying brew that would sustain her through the days to come and made of “Oh, don’t worry about that, dearie,” Tilma pointedly evaded, “Vilkas knows how to make it.” That was probably an indication that she should be worried about the beverage’s contents, but she trusted Jorrvaskr’s matron to do the motherly thing and not poison her; so she drank as quickly as the hot water allowed. It tasted bitter and herbal and suspiciously metallic.

Their morning sustenance taken, Dragonborn and housecarl left Jorrvaskr and made their way to the Temple of Kyne. They ran their fingers over the trunk of the dead Gildergreen as they passed. It was a shame the great tree was not alive to feel their touch. Inside the temple, the dying, the injured, and the sick moaned in their sleep, still languishing in their dreams, but Danica did not yet attend to them. Their ruined bodies required rest a while longer. The priestess, herself, was standing at the far side, dressed and maybe a little bleary eyed for the early morning. She was speaking in hushed tones with Hera who was armed, armored, and wide awake.

“Hail, priestess,” Sonja greeted softly when she was near enough to be heard without disturbing any of the sleeping.

“Good morning, Hunt Master,” Danica greeted, “Housecarl.” Lydia nodded politely. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Aye.”

“What offering have you brought for this holy place of Kyne on this early morning?”

Sonja plucked a coin purse from her belt and handed it to Danica. “One hundred gold pieces from Her followers for the glory of Her Temple,” she replied. Everyone involved in the Hunt had tossed their few gold in to make the tithe. Less an ancient tradition than a more recent and practical one. Pelt, bone, feathers, and fruits of the earth had once, long ago, been worthy offerings. It changed when gold could better provide for the upkeep of a temple than natural bounty. “Is this acceptable?”

Danica took the purse and nodded. “A worthy and generous gift. Kyne blesses you and Her followers.”

“Then let us begin,” Sonja said and she handed Danica the small pouch she had brought with her. The priestess took it and placed it and the gold upon the altar. Methodically, she removed each item from the pouch carefully, lining them along the platform before the winged idol of Kyne, beside the other ritual items she had already gathered there. Then she handed an empty cup to Hera who filled it with the water flowing through the temple. Once the cup was back in Danica’s hand, the priestess began to pray in a harsh whisper that was scarcely quiet enough not to wake her slumbering patients. Sonja sank to her knees on the stone floor as was expected of her and she returned her concentration to breathing. On either side, Hera and Lydia stood, silent, stoic, and waiting.

While the priestess entreated the Storm-Goddess for protection over Her children who sought to hunt in Her name, to honor the traditions of olde, and take only what was needed. Sonja thought of the book Vilkas had leant her two days ago: Children of the Sky. She had managed to finish reading it while she was waiting for Farengar to finish with the task she’d set him to, and understood exactly why it had been the first he had suggested she read. It spoke of the sky and the Voice and breath and wind and force. It was all a part of her and a part of what she was next undertaking, not just as Dragonborn, but there, now, on the floor of the temple as Hunt Master. As a Nord woman. It didn’t matter that she had other blood running through her veins, it was all hers and she was a Nord and an Imperial and a Dragon.

Suddenly, Danica gestured to the women on either side of Sonja and she became aware that they had reached the part of the ritual where it was her turn to pray. An unexpected thrill of uncertainty zipped straight through her as she opened her mouth to speak. She’d never really prayed before, but she’d practiced the words over and over again the day before like she was cramming last minute before exams at University. It was just another incantation, she had told herself, but a part of her wondered if—because she had a spark of Akatosh in her blood—when she prayed, did the gods actually listen?

“Watch me, Goddess of Storms, when I roam and at rest,” she said as Danica held out a basket filled with hawk feathers, leather cords, and ivory beads. “As I boldly seek trails, and I slay now in your name.” Lydia and Hera deftly plucked what they needed from the wickerwork and began to braid, plait, and weave Sonja’s hair, which she had left loose for the occasion, back from her face. “So those blessed by your light, may they pass every test.” They hung feathers and threaded beads through her tresses. She felt each braid pull tight against her scalp. “The knowledge we seek, and unwavering flame. The fear we confront, in the prey that we hunt.” Hera paused in her work and removed something from her pocket, but Sonja could not quite make it out in her periphery. Whatever it was, she secured it to one of Sonja’s braids, near her ear. It must have been acceptable because no one tried to stop Hera from her little addition, so Sonja carried on, “Overcome as you guide, and our blades never blunt. We watch for the Hawk, on the grayest of days.”

Danica wet her fingers in the bowl of water Hera had given to her. “Your servants and advocates, trained in the Old Ways,” Dragonborn and priestess concluded in unison as Danica swiped her damp fingers over Sonja’s forehead. Beads of water trickled down her face. She blessed Sonja’s shield and spear in the same way.

“You’re doing well,” Danica muttered reassuringly with a small smile before returning to the altar to collect the items Sonja had brought with her: three small jars of warpaint in black, blue, and white. Vilkas had helped her make them the night before, showed her which plants and blossoms to use to achieve the right hue, and had helped her fix it when the blue had come out too purple. Danica held one out to Lydia, another to Hera, and kept one for herself.

Lydia went first. “Black for your gaze,” she said as she loaded her fingers with eye-black. Sonja closed her eyes as the paint approached her face. “May Kyne keep your eyes sharp even in darkness.” Lydia painted a wide band of solid black from temple to temple over Sonja’s eyelids and across the bridge of her nose. The dark slant of her eyebrows and the lines beneath her eyes disappeared beneath the paint.

Hera went next. “Blue woad for the North Wind,” she said, taking the blue and neatly drawing the same three lines Vilkas had painted when they had been out on the tundra, but over both of her eyes, over the black paint. It did not have the same effect on her as when he had done it. “May Kyne’s breath make you swift and fierce.”

Finally, Danica approached with the white paint. Tasked with the most elaborate of the marks, she rolled back the sleeves of her robes in preparation. “White for the snow-feathered messenger,” she said as she carefully painted the angular shape of a hawk on Sonja’s brow, its wings outstretched beneath her eyes, through the black and blue. Its beak was pointed just above her brow and the fan of its tail feathers trailed the length of her nose to the tip. “May Kyne’s grace always guide you through times of uncertainty and strife.” And she drew one last final stripe over Sonja’s bottom lip to the point of her chin. “Go, now Hunt Master, Daughter of the Sky, good hunting and Kyne guard you.”

Sonja finally opened her eyes, her skin feeling strange, heavy, and thick from the layers of war paint. “Take care, priestess,” she replied, covering her heart with a closed fist and bowing her head, “And thank you.”

Danica smiled. “It was my pleasure,” she assured, but then her gaze hardened, “Try to bring everyone back alive and unhurt, will you? It’s hard enough with the war on. I don’t have much more room in my temple for the injured.”

Sonja smirked. “I will do my best.”

“And take care of Jenssen,” she added as an afterthought, “He’s happy to tend to Kyne’s followers, but someone has to look after him, too.”

“He will be safe.”

Danica nodded. “Walk with Kyne.”

“And you.” The three warriors gathered up the paints, returned them to the small pouch, took up their weapons, and left the temple.


Vilkas sat uncomfortably on a borrowed horse from the Battle-Born farm. It was a plough horse, not really meant for riding, but it heeded his commands well and had a gentle temperament. Still, he’d prefer to be on his own two feet walking, but it wasn’t really practical for their purposes that day. Sonja wanted to push the party through to the campsite in one long day. It was doable if everyone was on horseback or in a cart; if they took the roads as long as possible and kept a pace faster than the comfortable gait the typical carriage horses meandered. They’d be tired when they finally pitched their tents at twilight, but Hulda’s hearty cooking was sure to reinvigorate the exhausted. It would be hard, but not overly difficult for the able-bodied. A good challenge for those who had forgotten the legendary tales of the Great Mammoth Hunts of olde. He was looking forward to it and was pleased that Ysolda had decided not to hold a grudge—though he did not, for one moment, take that to mean she wasn’t still rightfully, righteously pissed off at him. He shifted in the saddle again and waited.

So far, all was well. In the predawn light, the hunters and some of their families were assembled, packed and loaded onto any of the three carriages borrowed from the local farmers. Those who had horses, rode them. Those that had horses to spare, spared them, particularly to the Circle who were unofficially acting as security for their journey over the next few days. It served a double purpose of allowing the Wolves to feel out the shift in power over the territories of the tundra and it had been a huge boost to morale that sent hearts singing when Hera engaged the Circle of Jorrvaskr for the Great Hunt.

Though pushy by nature, it was good that Hera recruited on behalf of Sonja. From what Vilkas heard of their original party, it would have been a truly treacherous undertaking with only a half dozen or so hunters to the cause. An error made in inexperience—and perhaps a touch of naïve hope. It mattered little now. Hera had rallied and when Jorrvaskr’s old Master Trainer called, the Circle would always answer. Only the Harbinger remained behind to watch over the nearly empty halls of Jorrvaskr, officially. But, Vilkas knew Kodlak wouldn’t have been able to make the trip; his illness wouldn’t have allowed it. Silently, he chastised himself for not swallowing his discomfort and asking Sonja for help as he had initially intended. Soon, he promised. When they would not be overheard by Skjor or Aela.

Eventually, his sensitive ears caught the sound of the gates opening above them. Sonja had finally completed the ritual and would join them soon. Faendal waited for her nearer to the stables on one of Hera’s plough horses from the Ironheart farm. He held the reins of a beautiful, if aged, black fell pony, also one of Hera’s, but it was saddled and ready for Sonja’s use.

It wasn’t long before the painted Dragonborn finally came into view with Hera and Lydia on either side, eyes blackened for their own purposes. As they passed the Khajiit caravan camped at the base of the hill, Sonja looked to them, caught the eye of the eldest who must have been their leader, covered her heart with her fist, and nodded to him in a proper, honorable greeting. The cat canted his head, intrigued, tail flicking back and forth behind him, and then he nodded his head slow and deliberate while offering up the palm of his hand. A greeting of his own. Sonja smiled and kept walking. She took her horse from Faendal and mounted smoothly, hinting at some experience with horses. Lydia climbed up to seat herself in front of the Bosmer; they had to share a horse, but the huntsman was quite spritely. Hera joined her own waiting housecarl.

The hunters began to grow restless now that their departure was upon them and they began to mutter amongst themselves as Sonja gently urged her horse to the front of the caravan. She smiled at Vilkas as she passed and he felt his blood run hot just from the pure fierceness of her countenance. She was a vision of Nordic beauty, of Skyrim’s wilds. Raven hair loose but plaited back from her face in the intricate weave of battle braids adorned with bone-white beads, cords, hawk feathers, and a lone charm of ivory and mother-of-pearl near her ear. Her piercing blue eyes shone a brighter blue from the darkness surrounding them, the brilliant woad looked dull in comparison, and the sharp form of the hawk on her brow conveyed a feeling of intense focus. Beyond her, the curve of her shield and the spike of the spear Whiterun peeked over the ridge of her mantled shoulders. Too late did he realize he was returning her smile with what felt like a dopey grin until Lydia passed through his vision after her, shooting him a pointed look that was not unkind or even discouraging, but knowing—which was, perhaps, worse.

At the front of the party, Sonja turned her horse to face her hunters. “FOR THE GLORY OF KYNE!” she bellowed and there was a deep, dangerous rumble in it that carried far across the tundra. It was kin to thunder. Then she blew the war horn and their journey began.


The Circle moved around the caravan in a lazy loop, senses vigilant for any signs of danger while Sonja largely remained at the front with her housecarl and huntsmen beside her. Occasionally, Anoriath and his brother would trot their shared horse up to level with them and discuss some concern or thought about the road or weather, but the day was generally peaceful and the winds calm. A perfect day to travel. Sonja hoped it would last.

At midday, they stopped to rest the horses for a few moments and take a lunch of dried rations. Vilkas was glad to get off his horse and stretch his legs. He scanned the distant horizons, taking surreptitious breaths to scent the air. They’d been lucky so far. Nothing alarming prowled too close. Just a lone sabercat, but the beast wasn’t stupid. It would wait for someone or something to get separated from the group before it struck. He cast a cursory glance over the party just to be sure no one had wandered too far away, just in case. Immediately, his eyes caught on the imposing silhouette that Sonja cut against the blue sky. She was ahead a little ways and off the road, standing on a rise, looking out across the distance. What she was looking for, he didn’t know, but it wouldn’t do for the Hunt Master to get mauled when they were only a half day from home. He jogged over to her, head on a swivel, searching for that sabercat.

Atop the slope, Sonja was staring off across the valley, looking for nothing in particular, but alert for any distant danger. She couldn’t partake in the afternoon meal, so she went to drink her tea from a jug and wait for her hunters to rest. Glories of Kyne, indeed, look at that view…Anoriath had been right. There was a wild beauty about Skyrim that Cyrodiil lacked, an edge of danger that simply did not exist in the dense forests and grassy meadows of Sonja’s homeland. That wasn’t to say the Imperial country was completely safe. Sonja’s former profession had depended on the need for security, after all: contracts from the Fighter’s Guild. But it wasn’t as brutal as the frozen North. It was more forgiving—and complacent, in a way, so near to the heart of the Empire.

Skyrim was more or less up front with its perils. Wore them like gems. That was part of its charm. Everything was trying to kill you, crush you, or eat you at any given moment. It was a harsh life that was offered on the hard tundra, in the serrated snowy mountains, in the dark, thick forests, and on the vaulting reaches. It had already tried to kill Sonja on multiple occasions, but had not yet succeeded, thankfully. And, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, that kind of life was something that appealed to her more than what she had left behind in Cyrodiil. A better fit for the jagged edges of her personality.

She wondered what she would have done—in that other realm filled with ‘what ifs’—if the incident at the western watchtower had never happened. If someone else had taken the dragon’s soul, instead. If she had never known about the responsibilities left to her by her mother’s family…What would she have done, then? And after she found Anja? Would she drag her troublesome younger sister back across the border to carve another life for themselves in Cyrodiil? No, not even then. Skyrim was her home now, Dragonborn or not. And that realization both thrilled and terrified her because it felt so damned right. Maybe it was in her blood, after all. Whether it be Ironheart or Dragonborn, she belonged in Skyrim.

Breathe.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew her attention and she sensed who was coming before she’d turned to face him. “Let me guess,” she sighed, “I shouldn’t be alone?”

“There was a sabercat nearby.”

She searched her surroundings more carefully but spotted nothing. “I’ll be more mindful,” she assured.

“That would be wise.”

“How are they doing?”

“We’ve hardly gotten anywhere yet. Everyone’s still excited.”

“Good, they’ll need that.”

“They’re all so hungry for the Hunt, it won’t matter where you lead them.”

She scoffed. “Even if it’s straight into a werewolf den?” she asked pointedly.

“Even then.”

She smirked, but in a more serious tone asked, “Do you think we’ll run into more?”

Vilkas’ brow furrowed. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so,” he said after a moment, “That was quite a few we encountered last time. Probably the only group in that part of the valley.”

“Too many beasts and not enough space, they’ll thin themselves out,” Sonja simplified, nodding, “That does make me feel better.”

Vilkas hesitated and then fiddled with something on his belt. “You should still be prepared though,” he said and she nodded with an expression that very clearly declared ‘No, really?’

“We’ve brought poisons—most of them weak, but they were cheap and better than nothing. I have extras to hand out to the others should the need arise.”

“Good, but—it’s best to let the Circle deal with them. Keep the citizens out of the fight as much as possible. Even if they are hunters and warriors, we have more experience fighting the beasts than they do.”

Sonja cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re not the only one who’s killed a werewolf or two, you know.”

He cut a glance at her. “It’s better to keep them out of our way for everyone’s safety,” he said reasonably, “I know this isn’t a Companion job, but I’m asking you, as a shield-sibling, to leave the Wolves to us. It’s not you or Faendal or Lydia I’m worried about. It’s them.” He nodded toward the caravan. “I need you to protect them if the Circle can’t.”

It was strange to hear him speak to her as if they were on a job which made her respect him more—not that she disrespected him, to begin with—because even when he wasn’t being paid to be a Companion, he would always be one. “I’ll protect them. Don’t worry,” she said, sternly, “I promised Danica that I would.”

“Then perhaps this will help,” he said and held the hilt of a dagger taken from his belt out to her. She blinked, confused as she already possessed her mother’s Skyforge dagger, but accepted the weapon anyway and unsheathed the blade with a metallic whisper. It was silvered. “Couldn’t get you a silvered sword in only two days, but Eorlund was able to get that done on short notice. I thought it was better than nothing…” he said, rambling slightly.

Sonja blinked, her mind momentarily blank, surprisingly touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “This will require me to get up close and personal with a werewolf, you know,” she pointed out.

Vilkas looked at her as if she had just unknowingly said something very funny. “Something tells me that won’t be a problem for you,” he replied, again with a smirk that declared he was saying something much funnier than he actually was.

She thought he was taking a dig at her for the last werewolf knocking her flat on her back. She frowned. “Well, I appreciate it just the same,” she said, grumpily “I’ll repay you when we return to Jorrvaskr.”

He shook his head to deny her and then seemed to think better of it. “As it please you,” he said, “But I want no repayment.”

“I don’t like debts.”

“It’s not a debt. It’s a gift.”

She knew it had been, but she was trying to make it not so. For some reason, a gift from Vilkas made her feel extremely uncomfortable. “Thanks, but you didn’t have to.”

He shrugged. “It’s more for my peace of mind anyway,” he said, “I can’t be there to tackle every werewolf that gets the best of you.”

She glared at him and as she did so, she saw the dangerous shape of a stalking predator just beyond his shoulder. “I’ve spotted your cat,” she said softly and he turned to look also. It was still and low to the ground, sizing them up.

“It would be better to kill it now than have it stalk us at night.”

“I agree,” she muttered, “But not just yet. There’s still a lot of daylight between now and then. It might lose interest.”

“It’s just a lone sabercat. Hardly a challenge. We could take care of it in moments.”

She looked at him, her chin raising slightly in challenge. “Take only what is needed,” she said, repeating some of what Danica had prayed that morning, “I don’t need a sabercat. Do you?”

He smiled slightly, little more than a smirk. “No, Hunt Master,” he replied, his voice deep like the purr of the predator in question, “I don’t.”

“Good,” she approved attaching her new dagger onto her belt, “Then let’s get going. We have much farther still to go.” And they rejoined the hunting party while Vilkas tracked the sabercat from the corner of his eye, waiting for it to pounce. It never did.


Sonja had underestimated the enthusiasm of Nords. They made it to the designated campground well before she thought they would, and they were happily setting up their tents and melting snow for drinking water before the sun kissed the western horizon. It was good. Their energy was so infectious, Sonja almost wanted to go for the herd that very night, but that wouldn’t do. Enthusiasm or no, she needed all her hunters at their best to take the beast down; good food and better rest was the only way to ensure that, so they would go the next day, as planned. Even if Faendal looked like a child denied his favorite game another moment longer.

She flattened out her bedroll in the tent she newly purchased the day before. Though she liked sleeping snuggly for the sake of warmth, she realized that Lydia enjoyed it less so and had selected a slightly larger canvas to better accommodate three people. She still kept the other, however, and had brought it along just in case someone ended up needing extra shelter. She’d noticed that some of her Nordic hunters were very proud of their natural resistance to the cold and one or two of them hadn’t brought more than a bedroll for the night. Blowhards. She secretly hoped they’d be frozen little Nord-cicles by morning in need of hot drink, hot food, and a warm fire before they could be functional for the day.

While Sonja proceeded to arrange her gear inside her tent, the cooking fires were going strong and the smell of food was filling the air, watch shifts were being formulated for the night, and Jon Battle-Born was demonstrating such a surprising proficiency with a drum and the lovely tone of his voice that Sonja was wondering how Mikael stayed employed with a superior, if untrained, talent in residence. From the sound of it, Hulda was wondering the same thing. Sonja chuckled, sat cross-legged on her bedroll, and started to remove her gloves and bracers. Her stomach made an unpleasant groan at the smell of the food cooking outside and she wondered if Vilkas remembered he was in charge of making that extremely questionable tea she was to drink in place of food. Almost as if summoned by her thoughts of him, he suddenly called to her through the tent flap. “Hunt Master?” he said, “I have your—dinner?”

She made a face, leaned forward, and pulled back the tent flap, granting him access. “I can hardly wait,” she said with deep sarcasm as he handed her a steaming bowl.

When she took it from him, he tied the flap back and then sat in the entrance on the edge of Lydia’s bedroll, his feet still outside. “You should drink it quickly,” he urged, “It’s worse when it’s cold.”

“Impossible,” she grumbled as she brought the dark contents of the bowl up to her nose and sniffed at it. It smelled different: spicy, maybe? Cautiously, she took a sip and hummed in surprise. “This is different,” she said.

“I put cinnamon and honey in it,” he supplied without looking at her; he was too busy watching everyone gathered around the fires at the center of camp, “Did it help?”

“A little,” she admitted, “Still pretty horrible though.”

He scoffed. “I tried.”

“The attempt is appreciated.”

“You were right about the sabercat, by the way.”

“It get bored?”

“Aye. Haven’t seen it most of the afternoon.”

“There had to be easier prey than us out here and it lives to hunt another day.”

“Yes, I’m sure the sabercat thanks you for it,” he said wryly, casting a brief glance in her direction.

“If you have a problem with my judgement, you can get in line behind Hera,” she grumbled unhappily before guzzling the marginally improved tea as quickly as its temperature would allow.

Vilkas hummed knowingly. She hadn’t mentioned how her meeting with her aunt had gone before then. He assumed it must have gone better than expected since Hera was being so compliant and hadn’t publicly made her displeasure known. Though, amongst acknowledged kin, maybe she thought better of it. “Did she give you a hard time like I said she would?”

She nodded, sucking on a globule of honey that did not quite dissolve in the tea. “Aye. Of course she did. Thought I was being stupid for not choosing the easier target.”

He frowned slightly and shook his head. “Hera has never been one for—sentimentality,” he said shrewdly.

“That why you think we’re out here? I’m too sentimental?” Her tone was sharp and ready to cut him to ribbons.

“Tell me why we’re out here and then I’ll tell you what I think.”

She chewed on the tip of her tongue. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

His brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have followed you back out here if I thought you were stupid.”

“Yes you would. Just to haul my dumb ass back to Whiterun.”

He snorted, nodding. “Fair point,” he conceded, “But I wouldn’t have let you drag anyone else out here without making my thoughts known. They deserve to be warned, at least.”

She hesitated, mentally debating with herself. “The first night I came to Whiterun, I helped your brother, Aela, and Ria slay that giant out on Pelagia’s farm.”

“Farkas told me.”

“I’d never seen a giant before then. They don’t really wander around Cyrodiil. I’ve read about them, but…” she paused, thinking of the mammoths; there were just somethings one had to see in person to understand, “I was struck by how—human—it looked. Not really monstrous at all.” She scoffed at herself. “Stupid, I know, but when I learned later that they herded mammoths and avenged those taken from them, it just seemed…”

“Unkind?”

“Wrong,” she finished, “Wrong to take what isn’t ours.” She sighed heavily. “So, maybe it is foolish that I insisted we come so far out here for the sake of giants, but—doesn’t this feel more like a Great Hunt than the raid we would have conducted on the giants’ camp?”

Vilkas leaned over and pushed the other tent flap back so she could see out into the middle of the camp where everyone was laughing, drinking, and eating. “That’s the first I’ve seen these people forget about the war and dragon attacks,” he said, “I don’t care why you brought us out here, but it’s a piece of the Old Ways and they needed it.”

She looked at him intently, mystified by the depths that made up the man sitting in her tent. “That makes the risk worth it for you, does it?” she asked softly, curious, “A couple nights to forget the hard times back home?”

He shrugged and let the tent flap fall again, obscuring her view. “Practically? Probably not. That’s why Hera will give you a bad time for it,” he said, retuning his attention to the people in camp, “But nothing worth having was ever won without risk. That’s why they’re all here. It’s why I’m here.”

She smirked. “Even if I have a soft spot for giants?”

He scoffed. “I didn’t think you had soft spots at all,” he joked, “But even then.” He grew pensive. “I’ve killed my fair share of giants over the years—and more than a few tried warning me off before the battle started in earnest. Maybe you’re not wrong. Maybe you are. I can’t say.”

“And the only ones who can don’t share a common tongue with us.”

Vilkas looked amused by the idea of giants having their own language. “They do grunt and shout a lot at each other.”

“So do you and Farkas, but I don’t insult your intelligence over it.”

He chuckled. “I am looking forward to getting you back into the yard when this is through,” he growled, “See if I can’t knock some of that smart from that mouth of yours.”

She hummed her agreement. “It will be good to spar again,” she said, “I’ve learned much recently. I want to put it to good use putting you on your ass.”

“Good—I was thinking of dispensing with Lydia. She’s good practice, no doubt, but I think it might be time I push you harder, if you’re up for it.”

“I’m always up for it.”

“Then you’re mine when we get back to Jorrvaskr.”

“In the yard, you mean,” she teased, delighting in the one slip of the tongue he had and with which she would forever torment him.

The Companion visibly rolled his eyes. “You’re terrible.” She laughed heartily at his expense.


Later that night, Lydia warmed water in a bucket for Sonja to bathe. Apparently, it was not wise to keep the woad on overnight, according to Vilkas and Hera both, as between it, the lack of food, and the strangeness of the tea to her body, she would be quite ill by morning. Sonja was happy to clean the dried layers of cracking paint from her skin. They’d mark her again in the morning and Jenssen was capable of delivering the blessing. Faendal helped her with her bandages in lieu of Vilkas who had already started patrolling the perimeter with his brother. Which was fine. There was absolutely no reason she should prefer Vilkas to her friend when it came to the very necessary task of changing her bandages. No reason at all.

Afterward, she, Faendal, and Lydia walked through the camp, making sure everyone had what they needed for the night, that everyone was warm and well. Aside from Nila and Tor being perhaps a shade too tipsy than was wise, everyone seemed to be settled well enough. In fact, some were too comfortable. Sonja eyed Hrongar’s large tent with some serious doubts about how warm it actually was inside it. It was certainly well-made and fit for a jarl out in the field, but it seemed unnecessary for a man who was sleeping alone. “Hail, Hunt Master,” he greeted, “Housecarl Storm-Shield. Willow-Brook.”

Both women nodded in return and Faendal seemed impressed that Hrongar remembered his name. “Just checking in on everyone before we turn in for the night,” Sonja said, matter-of-factly, “Do you have everything you need, Thane Hrongar?”

He cast a brief glance at Lydia and Faendal before answering. “Almost,” he said pointedly.

Sonja blinked, screaming internally. “I need a moment alone.” Without batting an eye, Lydia continued onward and spoke with the remaining hunters in camp. Faendal was slower to move off and gave Sonja the most obnoxious set of eyes he could make as he did so. “What is it you want, Hrongar?” she asked, severely, when the Bosmer was gone.

He was obviously troubled by her tone. “Nothing you won’t give freely, lady Dragonborn,” he assured, “If I’ve angered you…”

“No,” she interrupted, “I told you. I’m not upset, only…”

“What?”

“Not interested.”

“Ah.” That wounded his pride deeply. “I see.”

She sighed. “It was good, don’t get me wrong,” she assured, not really caring much for his ego, but not wanting to be unkind about his performance, either, “But my focus is elsewhere and I…”

“I could reclaim your focus, if you’d like.”

She paused, smirking. That was unexpectedly amusing. “Hrongar, you wouldn’t know the first thing about claiming any part of me,” she replied, her voice a dangerous purr.

“If you’re not pleased with what passed between us last time, I ask that you allow me the chance to make it up to you.” He stepped closer to her, but not too close, he was definitely hovering around the edges of her space, waiting for permission. She liked that.

Briefly, she was sorely tempted. Hrongar was attractive and had served his purpose well last time they had lay together. Adequate more than memorable, but that might have partly been her fault for being drunk. The idea of a sober coupling was not unappealing. And the Dragon liked the idea of having someone trying desperately to prove himself to her. That he was the wealthy brother of a jarl made it even better. That last thought made her mind up for her. “No, Hrongar,” she said, reluctantly, “Not this time.” She wouldn’t let the Dragon rule her or her sex life.

He was obviously disappointed, but not angry. “Too bad,” he sighed, “Perhaps I will be lucky enough to be thought of again when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Sonja snorted, amused. “With that sense of humor, it’s practically guaranteed.”

“Goodnight, Hunt Master.”

“Goodnight, Thane Hrongar.” And she moved on to rejoin her huntsman and housecarl, one of which had been lost to attending to the needs of Camilla and Sigrid who had come up from Riverwood to help butcher the animal on behalf of the small village and the other who had run into Vilkas and Farkas at the end of the row of tents. Neither seemed particularly appealing at that moment, but she stopped by Faendal first. “Everything well?” she asked, tone colorless, when she reached her friend, his paramour, and the blacksmith’s wife.

“Aye, Hunt Master Ironheart,” Sigrid confirmed with an air that seemed to suggest she was just as annoyed with Camilla and Faendal’s fawning. Sonja didn’t really know the woman very well and had only done some minor business with her husband during her short time in Riverwood, but she decided that she liked her more than Camilla for her tone alone.

“I was just wondering if there wasn’t an extra pelt we could use,” Camilla explained sheepishly, “These Skyrim nights get so cold.”

“Then why did you come?” Sonja asked bluntly and the Imperial girl looked started to be questioned so directly. Faendal shot her a very sharp look. “I mean why did you come without proper gear?” she amended which was only marginally better.

“We’re fine enough,” Sigrid assured, “She’ll warm up as soon as she’s wrapped up snug in her bedroll.”

Sonja looked to Faendal, expectantly. “Well, do we have anything to help miss Camilla?” she prompted.

He glared at her for her tone, but nodded. “She can use mine,” he said and Sonja struggled to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

“As it please you,” she said and waved him off as he went to their tent to fetch extra bedding for his lady-love. Sonja waited until he was out of earshot before turning her attention to Camilla again. “So,” she said conversationally, “How’s Sven the Skeever-Shit Slug-Bard?”

Camilla looked outright offended, but Sigrid turned several shades of purple in her attempt not to laugh out loud. Hod, in the next tent over, openly cackled like a wild man. “I-I don’t know,” the Imperial beauty stammered, “We don’t see much of each other anymore.”

Sonja canted her head. “No?” she said, her eyes intently searching the girl’s face.

“No,” was the defiant reply that put a little spark in Camilla’s eye and a sharp angle to her chin.

Sonja smiled. “Good.”

“I mean, he writes to me sometimes, but I don’t respond.”

Sonja did not restrain herself from openly rolling her eyes then and Sigrid just shook her head, speechless. “Still finding it difficult to make a choice, are you?” she sighed.

Camilla looked a shade guilty then. “Look, I don’t see how it’s any of your concern, but…”

“It’s not,” Sonja agreed, interrupting her, “So don’t finish that sentence or I might feel obligated to shout at you on behalf of my friend.”

She blinked and nodded, unsure of which shout Sonja meant, and—truth be told—Sonja didn’t know which she intended, either. “Faendal is really sweet, though,” she added meekly.

Sonja eyed the girl, unconvinced of her affections, as Faendal came bounding back with his bearskin pelt for Camilla. “Here you go,” he offered happily.

Camilla smiled at him and accepted the bedding. “Thank you, Faendal,” she said, sweetly.

“My pleasure.”

Sonja’s eye twitched. “Alright, if that’s all, we’ll be on our way,” she said, jabbing Faendal in the ribs until he started walking again, “Goodnight ladies. Hod.”

The Riverwood group bid their goodnights to Sonja and Faendal’s backs. As soon as they were out of earshot, Faendal rounded on Sonja—sorta. He was quite a bit shorter. “What’s your problem?” he hissed.

“A lot of things, actually,” she snarked, “Dragons, mostly.”

“Why were you so rude to Camilla?”

“I wasn’t being rude.” He stared at her, unblinking, until she sighed. “Alright, I was,” she admitted, “But she should have come better prepared.”

“Better prepared? The only reason you stayed warm your first few nights in Skyrim was because you had your legs wrapped around the first Nord that saved your life.”

“Hadvar was the first Nord who saved my life, technically.”

“You’re dodging.”

“And you’re angry and need to mind your tongue,” she snapped, “I won’t let another insult like that slide coming from you or anyone.”

“I care about Camilla.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t mind it before. Why now?”

Sonja fidgeted. “It’s not my business. I’ll be civil in the future.”

“Godsdamnit, Sonja,” he growled, “Just answer the fucking question.”

“No.”

“Just—no? That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“You’re fucking insufferable.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

She shrugged. “Would have been a shit compliment if it was.”

Faendal was practically foaming at the mouth by the time they reached Lydia, Vilkas, and Farkas. The larger twin took one look at the Bosmer hunter, seeing his obvious frustration with Sonja, and quipped, “What’s the matter with you? Lover’s quarrel?”

Sonja grimaced and Faendal threw up his hands and stalked back off toward their tent. “Poor choice of words,” she informed him.

“Oh?” Farkas looked caught somewhere between surprised and confused.

“Things not go well with Camilla?” Lydia asked, her face already drawn in predetermined pity.

Sonja made a noncommittal head wobble between a nod and shake. “No? But that was largely due to me,” she admitted and then Lydia just gave her that look. The one that immediately plunges the recipient into twenty kinds of guilt. “I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

Vilkas looked passed her to the tent where Faendal was moving Sonja’s bearskin under his bedroll to replace the one he’d given to Camilla. “You might want to do it sooner rather than later or you’re going to freeze the next couple of nights,” he informed her.

Sonja looked back over her shoulder. Her head dropped back and she comically cursed the heavens in silence for a few moments before heading for her tent. “I should probably go to bed as well,” Lydia said, watching the scene unfold from a distance. It was clear from the look on her face that she’d rather not get in the middle of the good friends’ spat, but duty did bind her to safeguard Sonja’s life and Faendal did look like he wanted to kill her. She sighed.

“Sleep well,” Farkas said, smiling sweetly at her. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder in a cute, but respectful demonstration of affection. Vilkas pointedly became suddenly absorbed with something inane in another direction.

Lydia returned his smile and fondly patted his chest as she started to move away, but then stopped, doubled back, and planted a very long kiss on the Companion’s surprised mouth. Farkas froze like a deer before melting into it and kissing her back. “Goodnight, puppy,” she breathed on his lips and then she was walking away with a maddening swagger to her hips.

“Brother?”

“Yes, Farkas?”

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Vilkas nodded. “Yes, brother. I believe you are.”

“I like it.”

Vilkas chuckled and slapped his brother on the back to regain his focus. “Of course you do,” he sighed, “Of course you do.” He steadily redirected Farkas back toward the outskirts of camp, but the larger twin craned his neck to get a better look at Lydia until she was gone inside the tent.


“So, let me get this straight,” Hera drawled, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at Skjor and Aela, “You’re spread too thin murdering a bunch of bandits with silver swords that you want my help dealing with the ferals in the valley.”

“It’s not murder, blood-sister,” Skjor corrected, “We hunt, no different than what we’re doing now. And keep your voice down.”

“If you can’t tell the difference between a man and a beast anymore, Skjor. It’s too late for you,” Hera sneered, but she cast a cursory glance around them, scenting the air and listening for possible eavesdroppers. There was no one else but her housecarl, Rengeir, standing a few yards off, keeping watch and minding his own business. They were well enough away from the camp for their conversation to be guarded, but it didn’t hurt to be safe.

Skjor threw up his hands in frustration and stalked off a few paces. “You’re as stubborn as ever, Firespear,” he growled, “I don’t know why I waste my time on you.”

“Peace, love,” Aela soothed and then turned to Hera, “Please, sister, if you will not do it for us, do it for the people of Whiterun Hold—as their thane.”

Hera’s eyes narrowed at her fellow She-Wolf. Aela knew her well enough to appeal to her sense of honor more than her bloodlust. “Can’t the boys handle it?” she asked, “Or are they too thirsty for the blood of the Hand, too?”

Aela and Skjor exchanged dark looks. “No, they do not hunt with us,” Aela answered carefully, “They will help you with the ferals, but…”

Hera’s brow furrowed, aware there was more they were not telling her. “But what?” she demanded.

“They abstain from the Change,” Skjor spat like he’d just tasted something foul, “They are weak and we worry they will only be overwhelmed. They need a strong hunter to protect them. I know you want nothing more to do with the Circle, but you had love for all of us once.”

The Firespear stilled. “Why are they abstaining?” she asked, her voice much softer than either Wolf was used to.

The mated pair exchanged looks again and something wordless passed between them. “It is not for us to say,” Aela answered, reluctantly, “It’s between the old man and the twins. If you want to know, it should be their decision to tell you or not.”

Hera canted her head. She didn’t like that answer and part of her wanted to push Aela until the younger warrior grew frustrated enough with her elder that she’d tell Hera what she wanted to know, but she didn’t. She still had enough love for Kodlak that she’d not torment his Moonborn children, unnecessarily. “I will speak with the boys, then,” she relented, “And if they want my help, they have it. If not—I will not stand in their way.”

“That’s all we ask,” Aela assured, though Skjor did not look nearly as satisfied.

Hera nodded a silent departure before walking off into the night, resuming her patrol with the intent of eventually running into the twins. Rengeir caught up to her after a moment and fell into step beside her. “What did they want?” he asked.

“My help,” Hera grunted.

The housecarl looked surprised. “Desperate times in the Circle?”

“Perhaps.” Hera’s brow furrowed deeply. “The boys are abstaining from the Change.”

Rengeir’s brows shot clear into his hairline. “Interesting.”

“That’s one word for it.”

There was brief silence. “What are your thoughts?”

“I don’t know yet, to be honest.”

“You worry for them.”

“I will always worry for them.”

Hera had ‘retired’ from the Circle and from her position as Kodlak’s Second nearly a decade before, the first in centuries. Warriors of the Beast Blood often lived lives too violent and ruled by such insatiable hunger that it was rare any of them lived long enough to consider a more peaceful existence, and, by then, bloodlust was a hard habit to break. She and now Kodlak were exceptions to that rule. Her reasons for leaving were between her and the Harbinger and she preferred it to remain that way, but she sensed that the boys—or at least Vilkas—might have understood. Especially now that she knew they were abstaining. Something had changed and she was equal parts concerned, resentful, and—hopeful.


From the sleeping folds of a camp on the tundra, my vision rises from the fire flicker at its center. The heat pushes me skyward into the glimmering waves of the auroras, the faces of Jone and Jode peering behind them like two great eyes. Breathe. It is so light up so high. The air so thin and precious, my lungs flex achingly for it, but there is no urgency. There is no fear. This is the way of it amidst the clouds. Without thought, I spread my arms like the wings of Kyne’s blessed snow hawk and soar, taken by the sharp, cold currents of the North Winds higher—and higher—and…

I’m somewhere above the clouds and yet I find stone and mass and earth. A hidden perch in some unknown place of the sky and it is quiet here, though it does not feel like it should be. It is silent because of death, because those who once lived here are gone from the world. It is cold here and it is empty. I only hear the wind and the echo of long-since silenced roars. I see only the clouds and the mist where I sense there should be the sharp shapes of scaled backs and horn-crowned heads. This is a place of dragons and it is desolate.

I open my arms again and move through it, scanning the ruined stone buildings of restless worshippers who should be long-dead but still quiver in their coffins, waiting and hopeful and hungry for a taste of life nearly forgotten. But there’s nothing here to cling to anymore. There’s nothing and no one and the dead can only wait endlessly for a purpose that will never come, bound in undeath for the anguish of eons. It is so quiet here. Even with this abomination trembling beneath the stone’s surface. Nii los ful nahlot het.

The sky around me lightens and I am aware that the sun is coming. A new day is dawning and I cannot linger in this strange, dead place. I must go back. But, as I spread my arms again, trusting in the North Winds to take me home once more, I hear it: the thunder of wings moving through the air. Great black wings. I see it. I see him. There on the horizon, rising with the dawn as he slips through the clouds with grace and power. I know him. And he knows me.

I think to leave before it is too late, but I can’t. I feel trapped by his dangerous gaze as he advances and lands upon this great stone perch with such weight, it trembles beneath him. I can feel the tremor of it in my bones and wait for him to approach me, but he doesn’t. His eyes are unseeing. He looks through me instead of at me. He does not know I am here.

He slinks away, less graceful on solid ground, but still powerful. His claws crack into loose surfaces and drag at it with each step, the long, low sway of his horned tail sweeping heedlessly behind him. Heedless. Yes, that’s what he is. He has no reason to heed or fear or mind. Not when everything else must heed him. But he’s—weak now. Tired. His journey has taken much from him and so he rests. There is more yet he must do for the voices that call to him from beneath the earth.

Lahney Dir Alok. Many of zeymahhedro lie krent in the denek where the weak joorre drey vaaz niin. Zu’u fen drun sosaal! They know not what horrors wait for them. I am dovah! I will consume this plane! Mulaag Du’ul Rel! Daar suleyksejun fen ag ko yoli!

His roar is great and terrible and echoes through me to the magnitude of hurricanes. I understand him and know nothing of which he speaks all at once, but I want it to end. He must be stopped. Niid! You will go no further! But he hears me this time. I can see it in the way his great black head cants to catch the whisper of my voice against the storm of his. He turns and his eyes finally find mine. Dovahkiin! He is not surprised. He is not afraid. He is hungry. Malsu’umven. Zu’u lost saran fah hi.

Sonja started awake with the sound of a draconic voice crawling down her spine. “Nii los ful nahlot het,” she blurted in her confusion.

Faendal snorted awake beside her and groaned. “Ill smuffer you wiff…wiff…” he was unable to complete his thought as he began to fall back asleep, but Sonja was not yet comprehensible and thrashed a little in her uncertainty in her bedroll, stirring Lydia.

“W’ass wrong?” the housecarl snorted, propping herself up on her elbow. She blinked awake when she saw the terrified look on Sonja’s face in the dim predawn light. “Sonja? What’s wrong?”

The Dragonborn stilled, her mind clearing with each passing moment as she slowly breathed the way she had been recently taught. “N-nothing,” she murmured, “Just—a strange dream.” Her brow furrowed, changing her wide-eyed expression from one of fear into one of confusion. “I think I was…” Flying. It sounded to absurd to say aloud. “I don’t know what was going on. I can’t remember.” It was all fading so fast, leaving only a sense of dread in its wake.

“We should have snuck you some bread last night,” Faendal sighed, now fully awake from the disturbance, “Your empty stomach’s spinning nightmares in your head.”

Sonja took a deep breath and rubbed her face. “Aye. You’re right,” she growled, “Go back to sleep. I’m going to get some air.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lydia offered, sitting up and reaching for her boots.

“It’s fine,” Sonja assured, “I want to be alone.”

The housecarl stilled. “As you say.” But she was obviously concerned. Sonja merely grunted in acknowledgement and crawled out of the tent, dragging her boots and the remnants of her armor with her. She dressed briskly in the cold morning air and looked around the silent camp. It was still early enough that no one was out and about yet, aside from the watch, but she could sense the hunters gently stirring in their tents, nuzzled by the morning chill. They didn’t have to rise as early that day since they intended to hunt their prey at twilight, but there were still final preparations to make before the hike to the killing ground and beyond.

Now awake and needing something to set her mind at ease, Sonja stalked over to one of the supply carriages and dug around through the contents until she found what she was looking for: four large clay jars soaked in water for hours and still dark from the moisture and filled with the blackest pitch. She hefted one of the jars and took it to the center of camp where she started digging a shallow depression in the frozen ground with the blunt end of a pickaxe. With that same pickaxe, she pulled some of the hottest, smoldering white coals from the fires and lined her new pit until it was full. Then she slid the clay jar onto the heat and let it sit there until the pitch loosened up enough to bubble.

It would take some time, so she sat on the ground a few feet away from it, legs tented in front of her and arms propped over her knees. Her gaze wondered to the sky. For a brief, horrifying moment, she thought she saw a black figure mar the horizon in the distance, but it was gone when she blinked. A trick of the light, she told herself. She never saw it again. She reminded herself to breathe.

Another few moments and she was no longer alone. Hulda climbed out of her shared tent with Hera and Rengeir close behind. As the camp’s undisputed cook, she needed to prepare the morning meal. “Which will be quite poor without rabbit to go with it,” she was saying to Hera as they approached the cooking fires, “See if that huntress won’t go take a few true shots and bring me some.”

Hera turned to her housecarl with a look that asked if she really needed to say it aloud. Rengeir smirked. “I’ll find Aela,” he said, knowingly, and broke off to search the huntress out. Vilkas and Farkas emerged as he passed their tent. The twins watched him go with mild interest before heading for the center fires also. Farkas sat on one of the stumps they used for furniture around the camp, closest to Sonja. As Vilkas passed Hera to join his brother, the old warrior reached out and gripped him by his upper arm, hard. “I need to speak with you and your brother later,” she said, tone tight and low, “In private.” He scowled at her, confused. “The moons are bright,” she said pointedly and instantly the consternation evaporated from his face.

“And the winds shift,” he answered.

“Not all of them,” she replied, “And I want to know why.”

He pulled away from her then. “The wind explains nothing to no one,” he snapped, “That’s the glory of being the wind.” And he resumed his progress toward his brother.

“I only want to help, boy,” she said and his step faltered, “Just think about it.”

He glanced back at her, but did not stop. “Later.” He reached Farkas and Sonja, and sat in the dirt next to the Dragonborn.

She looked at him meaningfully. “What?” he growled.

“Hera being a bitch?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. Just sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She hummed, knowingly. “It’s too early for puzzles anyway, I’d be annoyed too,” she said referring to their odd exchange.

He cut a glance at her. “You look like shit,” he said, changing the subject, “Didn’t you sleep?”

She shrugged. “I thought I had, but…” she hesitated, considering telling him about the dream she couldn’t quite remember. “Must not have slept well after Faendal took my bearskin.”

“You let him get away with too much,” Farkas observed.

“He’s my friend, not a child. I don’t let him get away with anything,” Sonja corrected.

“You treat him like a child,” Vilkas countered, “Interfering with that woman he’s keen on.”

Sonja sighed more like a growl and pursed her lips. “I know,” she admitted, “That was unworthy of me.”

“It’s alright,” Vilkas said reasonably, “You’ve saved his hide so many times, it’s no wonder you’re invested in who he gives it away to for the night.”

Sonja made a face. “Make me breakfast,” she half-commanded, desiring an end to the conversation.

“You should be kinder to the man who brews your tea,” he said pointedly, hauling himself back up to his feet.

“Or what? You’ll poison me?” she challenged, “If you were going to end me, it would be with your bare hands. I’m not worried.”

“End you? No,” he agreed, “Make it taste worse than it already does. Maybe.”

“That is actually worse than poisoning me.”

He smirked and then walked off to gather what he needed for Sonja’s brew, leaving her alone with his brother. “It’s been a long time since my brother’s had someone to kid with like that,” Farkas observed.

Sonja glanced up at him. “No one to take the piss out of him back home?”

Farkas shook his head. “Not really. Not like that. Aela’s not one for boasting and he and Skjor aren’t like that. And I’m too slow…”

“You’re not slow,” Sonja corrected automatically and then blinked. She really didn’t know much about Farkas one way or the other to know whether or not that was true; she just didn’t like hearing the large Companion say it.

Farkas smiled at her appreciatively. “I am though, compared to Vilkas,” he insisted, “He’s always so far ahead of me.”

“He’s always ahead of everyone.”

“Not you. That’s what I’m saying. Kodlak will give him a hard time, but it’s different…”

“Like a father with his son?” Sonja supplied.

Farkas nodded, smiling. “He told you about us growing up, then?”

She returned his smile, but it was a little sad. “Sort of,” she allowed, “We were swapping stories over watch one night.”

The larger twin looked mystified by her statement. “Really, now?” he said, obviously surprised, “He must really like you then.”

“We get on,” she allowed, brushing off any other possible meanings Farkas’ statement could have.

He chuckled. “You are a lot alike,” he observed in that way only a sibling or someone equally close was capable of because they understood the nuance of your heart like few others.

Sonja leaned over to inspect the pitch, hoping that it was bubbling so she could excuse herself. It was not. “Makes us a good match up in tafl, I’d expect,” she acknowledged, “We’re still tied out of six games.”

“You beat him at tafl?” Farkas was in utter disbelief, “He will be sad the day you go to High Hrothgar.”

Sonja stilled. “Me too,” she confessed, nearly whispering. She had just gotten used to Jorrvaskr and its residents; Lydia, Faendal, and Vilkas chief amongst them. Tilma and Kodlak. How much longer was she meant to stay before it was time? It had already been three weeks. She couldn’t be expected to stay in Whiterun for years upon end until she was a master of blades like Vilkas. She didn’t have to be perfect, she just had to be good enough. How much longer would that take? Maybe Shalidor’s Maze will be my answer, she thought, If I can make it there and back and survive the trip, I go to High Hrothgar next. It was as good a goal as any.

Vilkas returned as she stared thoughtfully at the slowly bubbling pitch. “Is that what you were waiting for?” he asked, his hands full of the items he’d need as he gestured toward the jar.

She snapped out of her reverie, “Aye. Thanks,” and sprang to her feet. She returned to the supply carriage and retrieved an alchemy pouch from one of the baskets and a long metal rod.

“Good morning to you, Hunt Master,” Acolyte Jenssen greeted as she returned with the rod under her arm as she riffled through the pouch for specific components.

“Good morning, Acolyte Jenssen,” she mumbled, withdrawing a stoppered bottle of firesalts.

“Are you ready for this morning’s blessing?” he asked, expectantly.

She looked at him and then to the pitch she had just reheated. “Can you give me a moment?” she asked, “If this goes too long on the fire without the salts, it won’t set up right.”

Jenssen arched a dark eyebrow, but nodded. “Of course,” he agreed, “Do you mind if I watch you? I’ve never used alchemy for anything but healing potions.”

She smirked, happy to have an audience with academic curiosity. “As it please you,” she accepted and gestured to an empty seat beside Farkas. She went to the bubbling pitch on the hot coals and spooned several portions of firesalts into the inky blackness of the jar, then bone meal, and two pinches of voidsalts. “We called it ‘the poor man’s firewall’ back home,” she explained as she started to mix the powdered ingredients into the thick, black sludge with the metal rod, “Pitch, alone, lights up easy and stays burning long, but I need it to be bigger and brighter. We need a barrier. The firesalts make it bigger. The voidsalts make it brighter. And the bone meal insures it does not blow up in the face of the person lighting it.”

“You learn that at your fancy mage college, too?” Farkas asked.

“Aye, potioncraft was a specialty of mine,” she said without looking at him, “Mostly stout drafts. I can brew you a stamina elixir to set you straight for the whole day.”

“Or all night,” Farkas joked and Sonja laughed aloud.

“Need one, just ask,” she replied, mischievously, “I’ll set you up good.”

Farkas barked out such a boisterous, belly shaking laugh, Sonja was sure that there was no one left sleeping in camp. “Have no need, myself, but I’ll keep the offer in mind,” he said so gleefully, Acolyte Jenssen chortled along with him.

“Don’t get him started,” Vilkas warned, handing Sonja her tea. It had a dried apple slice floating in it this time. “Or he’ll never stop.”

She sipped the tea and grimaced. He was making slow progress toward improving it, but it was just a long road to walk. “Good way to start the morning,” she replied, “Gets the blood pumping and air in the lungs.”

Farkas’ eye brightened. “Not the only way to get the blood pumping!” And he devolved into giggles again.

“See,” Vilkas pointed out, “No stopping him now.”

Sonja looked beyond him to her tent where Lydia and Faendal were climbing out of its depths. Faendal only had eyes for Camilla farther down the row of tents, but Lydia was looking around for the source of Farkas’ animated laughter. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said to Vilkas in an undertone, “Watch this.” She waved to her housecarl. “Oi, Lydia, come join us by the fire!” Immediately, the large twin straightened and looked around, worried his lady housecarl had overheard his coarse humor.

Before she could join them and ask after what was so amusing, Aela appeared from around the edge of the nearest tent and stopped her, asking for Faendal. Lydia pointed the huntress in his direction and she moved on. Sonja’s gaze trailed after her, curious how her friend would respond to being carted away from his paramour by someone as fierce as Aela. He left with the huntress without hesitation, casting an awkward farewell over his shoulder to Camilla. Well, at least he knows better than to sass the huntress, Sonja thought, darkly.

“Aela gathers those with the greatest skill with a bow to hunt for our breakfast,” Vilkas observed, “Shouldn’t be long between her and the Bosmers.”

He casually handed Sonja a chunk of his bread and she took it absently. It was halfway to her mouth before she stopped herself. “Ass,” she growled, ready to chuck it back at his head.

“Don’t be dramatic. Eat it. It’s for you.”

“I thought I was to fast until we felled a mammoth?” she pointed out, not ready to believe the Companion just yet.

“The point of the fast is to honor the struggle of the hunt our ancestors suffered,” he explained, “To make the animal’s sacrifice worth its death. I don’t think a bit of bread will change any of that, do you?”

“That’s not the point, though. Is it?”

“I only offer it out of practicality,” he insisted, “From all the groaning your stomach’s making, it sounds like it’s trying to consume itself.”

She protectively splayed her hand over her belly as if to protect it from insult. “Is this allowed?” she asked, eying the bread longingly.

Vilkas made a little head wobble somewhere between a nod and a shake. “On long hunts, aye,” he admitted, “Just to ease the burden a little since it is only you who starves until we take that mammoth down.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not fucking with me?” she asked severely.

“No. I’m not fucking with you.”

“I’m holding you to it,” she said, tearing into the bread with a hungry snarl, “On your head be the consequences.”

“So mistrustful,” he chastised.

She shrugged. “There’s always someone trying to get the better of you,” she said, reasonably, “It doesn’t hurt to be sure.”

“Sure,” he agreed, “But I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She looked at him, chewing on his bread and biting back a small smile. “I know.” And then she refocused her attention on the bubbling pitch.

Notes:

The actual hunt is coming soon, I swear. I will admit that when I originally wrote the hunt years ago, it was much shorter, but sorta meh so that it barely felt like it was worth it. I think I've done a much better job rewriting its importance. Plus, I've done more research so it actually sounds like it could be a thing and not "I shot it wiff arrows 'til it got reeeaaal still." This will be much more epic, promise. ;)

Also, I really don't like Camilla. I think she sucks. But Faendal's heart wants what it wants.

Chapter 32: The Great Hunt

Summary:

Finally, the Great Hunt begins! Some elements of the side questline Kyne's Sacred Trials were used as inspiration for this chapter.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of animal death, blood, and gore.

Sonja and Vilkas chapter!

Sorry it took so long to post. Hope you enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The sun was setting, a sliver of radiant orange light on the western horizon. The last of its golden rays cut upon the teeth of the distant, vaulting, howling reaches and those fingers of light splayed across the tundra floor, mottling it in shades of fire. Few clouds floated, pastel lavender and harmless, through the violent, vibrant twilight sky, outlined in only the softest caress of sunset. And beneath this dome of brilliant color and whispering wind, the ancient mammoths lumbered along the shore of the kaleidoscopic lake, restless for their young that had not yet healed and the danger another night would bring to them.

Sonja watched the herd from a distance, kneeling low so as not to attract attention and her right hand shading her eyes from the blinding sunset. She admired the long sway of their movements, the grace of something so mindful of its vastness that it could pass through the world either unhindered or with great care. “Are you ready?” Faendal muttered. He was crouched to her right.

“A few more moments,” she replied, “I want the fire to be bright when they light it.” The Bosmer huntsman nodded and slipped back down the rise, out of sight. Sonja lingered a moment longer and then followed suit.

The sun sank a few more degrees, shifting the shadows over the land again, altering the perception of those who inhabited it. The mammoths grew restless. Sonja nodded to Faendal and he crept around the edge of his hiding place. He slipped soundlessly toward the herd with enviable grace and skill. Sonja moved off to the left, into the shadow of a high rise where she had hidden her horse. She waited, her eyes staring at Faendal with intensity and anxiety as he approached the male they had already selected.

It didn’t see him right away. It took a moment for it to notice something so small and quiet beneath its eye line, but Sonja knew the very instant the animal locked eyes with Faendal because it swayed gently as if it had just heard the most beautiful lullaby. It was unbelievable for something so grand to be taken by something so soft and small. Mystic, even. Sonja had never seen anything like it. The mammoth was not entirely under the Bosmer’s control, however. The beast was still hesitant, though intrigued by the strange little creature that was singing to it. It inched forward, restless, warring with itself to stay with its herd or go with the tiny Bosmer.

For the moment, the interaction had gone unnoticed by the other mammoths who were closer to the lake, so Faendal had time to coax his animal a little further and he did so, slowly, every foot hard-won. They were almost to the pitch line by the time the herd realized there was something wrong with one of their number. First, one male turned his massive head in that direction; then it trumpeted, trying to catch its brother’s attention. It nearly succeeded. Faendal’s mammoth paused in its step and its trunk twitched as if to reply, but it didn’t. The second male called again and then a female, and when they did not receive an answer, the herd began to shift into a defensive formation around the two calves, protecting what was most precious to them. The strongest went to see what had absorbed their brother so.

Faendal felt the rumble of the coming mammoths and shifted to the next stage of the plan. He stopped charming the mammoth and blew a shrill call over a carved whistle. Sonja mounted her horse and waited anxiously, trusting her hunters to do what they were told. They had to. Faendal’s life depended on it. Their quarry shook its head and reared back, now free from the wood elf’s spell, ready to trample what it now perceived as a threat. Sonja nearly urged her horse forward right then, but Faendal was already moving out of the way, quick as lightning. The mammoth’s brother and sister picked up speed to join in the attack, but a frightened cry behind them halted their progress. It was their matriarch calling.

At the other end of the lake was an entire group of hunters, shouting, brandishing their weapons, and waving torches through the air. They were closer to the calves than their brother and his lone attacker, so they changed course and doubled back toward the new threat. Faendal started running for his horse hidden over the next rise and his mammoth followed. Sonja raced out behind them. The moment they were clear of the pitch line, it erupted in a flash of light and heat as Hera who had been concealed closer to the trees lit it, blazing a path from treeline to lake’s edge. The herd could not follow its lost brother. On the other side, the stampeding protectors of the herd came to a graceless halt when a second wall of fire sprung to life between them and the hunters that had drawn their attention, ignited by Anoriath and his brother. The herd was now safely corralled by the lake, but the beasts were restless and afraid. They stomped at the ground nervously as they paced, looking for a way through the flames.

From behind the mammoth, it was Sonja’s task to keep the beast moving forward in case it no longer thought chasing Faendal worth the effort. She shouted at it and used the spear Whiterun to prod at its hindquarters, letting it know its enemy had allies. Hera joined her moments later on her own mount, harassing its other flank and distracting it long enough for Faendal to scramble onto his horse and keep going. He even got a few shots off, twisted and craned in his saddle, keeping the mammoth harried, agitated, and engaged. Together, the three of them herded the beast toward the killing ground where Vilkas had positioned the remaining hunters.

Sonja and Hera broke off, dismounting hurriedly and sprinting the last few yards as Faendal rode straight through, leading the beast into the heart of its demise. The moment it was in position, a dozen torches sprung to life and battle cries echoed through the air, dazing and terrifying the mammoth with unexpected light and sound. It fought. Of course it fought; generations of its ancestors blared through its bones to keep living. And those predecessors did not walk a hundred paths before their children and perish only to have those younglings fall to the same spears that took their parents, and that sharp, vital desire solidified into a resounding, unconquerable pang of instinct to fight. To thrash, to gore, to herald into the night that it would not be undone. The mammoth was fierce prey, indeed.

The hunters stabbed and feinted and waved their torches, frenzying the animal as it stomped and attempted to trample them. It swung its massive head low, sweeping its beautiful four-pronged tusks through a pool of bodies that scrambled to evade them. The night was filled with the sounds of their struggle: the percussion of the mammoth’s stampede, the horn of its call, the whisper of torches pulled through the air, and the shouts of men both crazed for the kill and terrified of their prey’s strength. It was an ancient song of struggle sung through time without end. A primal act where life and death intermingled in their purest forms.

Vilkas stood in front of the beast. Stronger and quicker than most of the other hunters for the Blood in his veins, he commanded the mammoth’s attention, but he couldn’t break through the massive animal’s defense for a clear shot at its heart. They needed to mitigate its movement; as it was, the wide arc of the mammoth’s head allowed no hunter to get close enough to strike a killing blow. Though the beast had felt the sting of a few lucky spears in its flank and ribs. “TO THE PIT!” he heard Sonja bellow through the din, her voice ringing in his ears, delivering the very order he had just been pondering himself.

Together, with Vilkas maintaining the focus of the mammoth, the hunters forced the animal to move away from them, toward the natural hole in the tundra floor. It took a bit of maneuvering, the mammoth was smart enough to know it was being manipulated, but it was not fully aware of its situation until one of its back legs slipped through the opening and lodged there. Then it was full-on panic. It would have been better if a front leg had gotten stuck that way the beast couldn’t keep rearing up to stomp at oncoming hunters, but the pit had done its job. The mammoth’s range of motion was dramatically reduced, but it was now a great deal more panicked than it had been before and flailed about with greater intensity.

It could feel how close it was to death, surrounded by spears and fire and men with painted faces, and it was afraid. Deeply, humanly afraid for its life. Sonja could hear it in its cry as it trumpeted into the night, head still thrashing, and it made her heart clench. It was time to end its suffering; the fight had gone on too long. She ran at it, calling for Vilkas to follow her as she passed him. He was there at her side, charging, without hesitation. Sensing her intent more than taking cues from her, he drew the mammoth’s attention away and the beast swung its head at him. He leapt and rolled, found traction and charged again while Sonja slid beneath the curve of its massive tusks. Now aware danger was much too close, the beast reared up, prepared to stomp what it did not have the maneuverability to gore, and came down with the force of all its weight.

It felt like an earthquake in Sonja’s bones. She was so close, she could smell the musk of its hair, feel its breath on her skin, sense the sheer vastness of its body. It was magnetic. It had pull like gravity and she felt hurled towards it as she sidestepped the mammoth’s attempt to trample her and lunged. She had taken a few extra lessons from Aela in the days preceding so she would not shame herself or the spear with her inexperienced hands, but she still had not felt that she had improved any. Yet there was something about adrenaline and purpose that smoothed over those uncertainties, and she struck true simply because she had no other choice but to do so. Her body knew what had to be done and the spear Whiterun never missed its mark. The craftsmanship of the weapon was unfathomable as it pierced thick hide and muscle, nicking bone and severing tendon, until it found its resting place in the mammoth’s great beating heart.

She felt the vital muscle thud against the tip of the spear, felt it vibrate down the shaft into her fingertips. It was intimate. It was tragic. The animal slowed, staggering sideways, the last of its fight ebbing out of it as its blood began to pour through the center of the hollowed bone spear. One giant felled by the bones of another. It collapsed with an earth moving shudder and aftershock of wind, Whiterun still stuck in its chest. Then there was a roar as the hunters celebrated their victory. But their Hunt Master did not join in. Instead, she released the spear, her hands coated in the mammoth’s blood, and stepped over its faintly twitching trunk, over its glorious tusks for which the entire Great Hunt had been launched, and gazed into its eyes.

His eyes were smallish and brown and wet beneath fluttering, thick lashed lids. They seemed gentle to her. He was still alive, but just barely. All the animation of his body was fading in the last gentle waves of his ruined heart. It wouldn’t be much longer now. So, she knelt there, beside him, and ran her blood soaked fingers through his hair with a touch of illusion magic to fill his last moments with peace instead of fear. “Go gently,” she whispered against his coat as she stroked him, not caring if anyone heard her comforting a mammoth, “I’ve been where you are. Go gently.” And she felt something thick wrap loosely around her waist. It was his trunk, bleeding a little and reaching for her. He knew. He had heard her. He was grateful. Then the limb went limp. The death rattle was whispered. And then—there was a sudden whirl of wind around them both and a vision of a great spectral mammoth rose out of the corpse of the fallen.

Suddenly, everyone had gone very quiet, mesmerized by the events unfolding before their very eyes. The mammoth spirit was larger than the body that had contained it and Sonja had to crane her neck to look up at it, unsure what to make of what was happening. Vilkas had said nothing of this. Hera had said nothing of this. No one had told her that the soul of her prey would rise up to confront her after its body had fallen—unless—no one knew it would. Cautiously, she extended her hand toward it and its trunk lifted to meet her fingertips. It was an odd feeling to caress something without mass, substance, or texture and still feel something pushing back against her skin. But, with contact made, she also became aware of something else. She was safe. It had no intention of harming her or any of her hunters. It was going soon, but it had a favor to ask and it touched the tip of its agile trunk to her forehead. Sonja looked up, back into those eyes, and then it disappeared, melting into a swirl of breeze, knowing she had understood. A lone snow hawk feather floated through her vision from the sky and landed softly in her hand. No one saw the bird that dropped it.

“What happened? What was that?” Lydia asked, jogging forward with her spear still in hand.

“That was one of Kyne’s great beasts!” Jon Battle-Born exclaimed, his expression was of wide-eyed shock.

“Those are just legends!” his brother insisted.

“You saw it with your own eyes, same as me! Same as all of us!” Jon challenged and other hunters joined in agreement or disbelief.

“Call for Jenssen! He would know!” one said.

“Of course it was Kyne’s great beast! We hunt with the Dragonborn!” cried another.

“She is not yet Ysmir!”

“But her Voice carries thunder!”

“Kyne blesses our Hunt! She holds a token from her messenger!”

“ENOUGH!” Sonja bellowed, silencing the lot of them with the roar of her Voice, “Call for the butchers. Take this animal apart before he’s spoiled,” she ordered, “He did not die for us to squabble and neglect his bounty.” They all looked like they wanted to say more, but the fierceness in her eyes deterred them. They grumbled amongst themselves as someone rode off to fetch Jenssen and the men and women skilled with a knife. They lit more torches as they waited and Sonja twirled the white feather between her fingers.

Vilkas approached her, his gaze puckered with concern. “Sonja?”

She looked at him. “That wasn’t typical of a Great Hunt.”

He shook his head. “Maybe once—long ago.”

She nodded. “It felt old.”

“How—how did you know what to do?” he asked, mystified, “What did you say to it?”

She blinked. It hadn’t occurred to her that it might look as though she had conjured the spirit intentionally. “I didn’t do anything, but…” Show mercy. She thought of the mammoth’s heartbeat thudding thick and slow through the spear. How could she not feel for the beast? Especially when she had been so close to death, herself, so many times before. She knew that fear, that chill, that emptiness beyond the brink. Her brow furrowed and she looked at Vilkas a little exasperated. “I just calmed it a little. I didn’t want it to suffer.” She shrugged. Such a simple answer.

He looked impressed or confused or some combination of both. “I have never witnessed anything like it before in my life,” he said—which was becoming less surprising when in her company. He pointed to the feather, “But I think they might be right. You have been granted Kyne’s boon.”

She twirled the feather again. “It’s not for me,” she said.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something I have to do.”

“For who?”

“The mammoth.”

“What?”

She hesitated, glancing around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. Only Faendal, Lydia, Farkas, and Hera stood within earshot, talking amongst themselves. “His spirit,” she clarified, feeling vaguely foolish as if Vilkas was about to tell her she was crazy, “He asked a favor of me.”

His eyes widened slightly. “I’ll go with you.”

“No.”

“I want to.” He wanted to see the miracle for himself.

“This is my task,” she insisted.

“It’s not every day a man sees what happened here,” he argued, “See one of Kyne’s great beasts rise from the flesh like out of our legends…”

She stopped him with a hand against his chest; automatically, he moved to cover it with his own like a reflex, but she moved away before he could. “Then watch from a distance,” she said, “But don’t come near. Even if it looks dangerous.”

He hesitated, but then nodded. “As you say,” he promised.

She turned away from him. “Faendal,” she called, “Come with me. There’s something I need your help with.”

The huntsman canted his head, but hurried after his friend as she made her way back to her horse. “What’s going on?” he asked when he caught up to her, “That mammoth spirit was…”

“Do you think you can tame another one?” she interrupted.

He stared at her for a heartbeat. “Maybe—mammoths are—complex creatures,” he explained, “It was hard to coax the first one. It takes a lot of effort. Maybe tomorrow. Why? We’re not going for another…?”

“No, but…” She paused as she pulled herself up onto her horse. “There are a couple of small ones I don’t want making a fuss,” she concluded and held a hand out to him.

Faendal stared at her with an open mouth, unsure of what exactly Sonja had in mind. “I can probably manage a couple of calves,” he admitted, taking her hand. She half pulled him up into the saddle behind her. They rode off into the darkness as one of the carts and butchers arrived to break down the mammoth carcass. Vilkas followed on Faendal’s mount, leaving behind a very confused and annoyed housecarl and aunt who scrambled for their own horses to pursue the erstwhile Dragonborn. Lydia doubled up with Farkas—the poor horse—so he wouldn’t worry after his brother. And they all disappeared with a vague order to Anoriath that he was in charge until they returned. The hunters gossiped amongst themselves over what might have set the Dragonborn riding off into the night, but they were fairly certain it had something to do with that strange, white feather. Kyne’s boon.


“This might be a bad idea,” Faendal whispered as he and Sonja reined the horse to a halt at the lake’s edge. The fire walls were still roaring and the mammoths, though less agitated than they had been before, were still nervous and pacing. Every so often, one of them would call out a sad, sweet, longing note followed by silence as if they were listening for a reply, but heard nothing.

“They’re mourning,” she whispered back, “Calling for him.”

The mer looked at her sideways. “What’s your plan for getting to the babies?” he asked. They were curled up near the shore, sleeping. The others were arranged around them at varying distances, gazes directed outward for oncoming danger.

“Over the water is the easiest route,” she replied.

“Through it.”

“Hmm?”

“Through the water, you mean.”

She blinked at him. “No,” she insisted, “I mean over it.” And she slid out of the saddle. He followed her. They were far enough away from the mammoths and the fire was such a big, bright distraction all its own that Sonja was fairly certain she could cast a spell without the herd noticing. There was really only one way to find out, though. She made the arcane gestures sharp and succinct, there was a brief flash of white light, and then it appeared to Faendal that nothing happened. As he was about to point this out, however, Sonja stepped lightly onto the surface of the water as if it were solid ground.

He chuckled to himself softly. “It must drive you mad that magic is practically forbidden at Jorrvaskr,” he observed, stepping closer to the edge of the water.

She nodded, expression stark. “You have no idea.” She made a similar gesture toward him and another flash of light encased his body.

He shivered as a chill chased the light from the tips of his pointed ears to his toes. Though he was not accustomed to having spells cast on him beyond the healing magic Sonja often—and most recently—used to mend his various injuries, that was not the reason for his discomfort. Her magic felt strange and cold like ice. He didn’t remember it feeling like that before. She held her hand out to him; he accepted her offer of support and hesitantly stepped out onto the water, fully expecting to plop straight through the surface, but he didn’t. He didn’t even wobble, unsteady. The lake felt solid. “Maybe we should take a trip up to the College,” he muttered, impressed as he bounced on the balls of his feet, testing the strength of the water’s surface.

“Why?” she asked, smirking, “You suddenly keen to learn a few new tricks?”

“If this is one of them, sure,” he replied, enthused.

She laughed quietly to herself. “I can teach you a thing or two if you’re truly curious,” she promised, “But right now we have bigger things to worry about.”

“Aye. Much bigger.

They moved silently over the lake. Luckily—or perhaps blessedly—the mammoths had not noticed Sonja’s spellcasting, nor were they aware of her and Faendal’s approach; they were too focused on the possibility of danger coming from the tundra or the forest. Sonja moved quieter than she ever had before. Perhaps the water muffled her movement or perhaps she was wound so tight she couldn’t make a misstep. Whatever the case, Dragonborn and huntsman reached the shore without incident and edged toward the sleeping mammoth calves.

They were absolutely adorable. Little copies of their parents and yet the size and heft of a large, fully grown Nord man. Like Farkas. Farkas was about the size of a baby mammoth. The thought made Sonja’s mouth tweak with amusement. She’d have to tell him that when they returned to camp. Something told her that he’d find that endlessly amusing. One of the younglings had the barest beginnings of little, blunted tusks with the merest suggestion of multiple prongs and the other had a bit of a stumpy trunk. The curves of their sides rose and fell in slow, measured breaths as they slept, soundly, unaware of the presence of strangers.

Faendal caught her eye and Sonja nodded. He crouched down between the two, placed a hand on each sleeping frame, and gently began to hum. Sonja tensed, worried the rest of the herd would hear him, but he was barely audible over the sound of the crackling fire wall. The babies stirred, but did not wake and Sonja knelt beside the one with little tusks. Using her Restoration magic, she peered into his physiology—or sensed it rather. She was no expert on the arrangement of mammoth anatomy. It was more a feeling of ‘I’m young. I’m male. And I’m so sleepy. The singing’s nice. Also I’m hungry.’ He was fine and healthy. So it must be Stumpy. She slid across the earth to the other calf’s side and examined—her. ‘Blood boils…tear…rip…burn…’ Sonja frowned. The poor girl was miserable.

Chewing on the inside of her mouth until well beyond the taste of blood, Sonja crept around the ailing baby mammoth until she was near her head. She gestured for Faendal to scoot back some and he complied, continuing to hum, and keeping an eye out for the rest of the herd. Sonja looked at the bushy face of the sleeping girl and pursed her lips. Gods, please let this work…She pressed the white feather against the calf’s forehead with her open palm and whispered the word the mammoth spirit had told her to speak: “Helbrede.” It felt strange and foreign on her tongue, but her pronunciation was accurate and the moment the command was uttered, the white feather flared up like a star beneath her hand. The female stirred beneath her touch and suddenly, Sonja saw the stretch of that young mammoth’s life in a brilliant spike of foresight that seared hot behind her eyes.

Faendal stopped humming in his surprise and reached for Sonja to pull her away from the mammoths now aware of their presence, but she didn’t move. Or couldn’t move. She looked enthralled as if her eyes were seeing something else entirely. The other baby stirred in absence of his song and panicked, trumpeting his little cry for help and running off toward the nearest approaching adult to hide. Faendal pulled on her again as the rumble of the coming herd grew more violent with their proximity and she finally snapped to. The young female was standing beneath her hand, her stumpy trunk wrapped around her forearm. “Let’s go!” Faendal hissed.

Sonja gently removed her arm from the calf’s grip and chased her Bosmer friend out onto the surface of the lake again. Some of the herd stopped at the water’s edge. Others stopped much sooner to examine the state of the female calf. She was standing, hopping a little in excitement and energy she had not demonstrated in weeks. One of the adults, the mother Sonja guessed, wrapped her large trunk around her daughter’s face, nuzzling and embracing her. They looked happy, but uneasy of the creatures floating on the lake.

“What happened?” Faendal asked, breathing a little heavily from the excitement of nearly being trampled by a herd of mammoths for the second time that evening.

Sonja shook her head. “I can’t explain it,” she admitted.

“Try.”

She moistened her lips, thinking. “I just saw—everything…” she shrugged, feeling like her explanation was falling short, “The beginning and the end of that little mammoth.”

He gaped at her, not in disbelief, but wonder. “She live a nice long life, I hope?”

Sonja smiled and let out a nervous, joyful huff of laughter. “Aye, friend,” she nodded, “She will.” She would be the herd’s next matriarch and lead her family over hundreds of thousands of miles of trails etched into her memory for decades to come. She would birth and raise generations of young, and when it was time for her to pass nearly a century later, the music of the herd’s mourning would be deafening and beautiful.

Faendal looked at the mammoths again. “They’ll want to move on now that she’s better,” he said, “Maybe even tonight after everything.”

“Then let’s give them a way out,” she said, “There’s no need to trap them here anymore.” She and Faendal edged toward the western firewall. The mammoths tracked them with their gazes, but did not go near them, cautious. She cast an ice storm spell down the line of pitch, extinguishing and freezing the black substance into shards of darkened inert glass. They moved back to the eastern wall, giving the herd a wide berth over the water as the matriarch debated what to do next. One thing was for certain, the old female mammoth did not feel safe there any longer and they had an opportunity for escape, however odd the circumstances were surrounding it—and the calf was well again. She bugled her decision and the herd moved quickly to the west, both calves lost amongst the center of the group.

Sonja put out the eastern wall when the herd was a safe distance away. She and Faendal watched them until they disappeared over the next hill. “That was good,” Faendal said.

She nodded. “We already took something precious from them. It seemed only fair to give something back.”

“Kind of makes me never want to hunt another mammoth again,” the huntsman admitted.

“Me too.”

“Guess we’ll have to stick with dragons.”

She grimaced. “I have to go to High Hrothgar, soon.”

He looked at her. “Are you ready for that?”

She shrugged. “Find out soon enough.”

He nodded. “I’ve never been. Should be a sight to see.”

She glanced sideways at him. “If—you wanted to return to Riverwood,” she said cautiously, “To be with Camilla—I’d understand.”

The Bomser looked at her, his gaze vaguely mistrustful. “Would you, now?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s your heart, Faendal. Give it to who you please. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I never liked any of the girls my brother brought home, either.”

He smiled, understanding her perfectly even though she’d never say it directly in a million years. “Aife was the same way,” he said and they spoke no more about it.


Watching from a distance as Sonja had asked of him had been difficult for Vilkas. There was a very strong pull in his gut that urged him to go running through the flames to draw the mammoths’ attention away from her as she—did whatever it was that she did. Heal that sick calf? He saw the blinding beacon of the feather beneath her hand even through the wall of fire, but it was hard to appreciate its beauty when he was worried about the encroaching herd. But Faendal pulled her away in time and they were safely out on the water again as the newly restored female demonstrated her good health to her mother and aunts. It was surreal. “I’ll be damned,” Hera breathed, “I’ve never seen…”

“Anything like it,” Vilkas finished, nodding, “That’s the way with her. Like she doesn’t even know something might be impossible.”

Hera canted her head, shifting her gaze from her niece to Vilkas. “Must keep you on your toes, then,” she observed, eyes narrowing to examine his features through the dim light of the auroras.

He shrugged. “She’s worth the struggle,” he said, “She will be a fine warrior before she goes to High Hrothgar. I will make sure of it.”

Hera glanced in Farkas’ direction. The larger twin could never keep a secret except the one that mattered, but he looked equally amused and intrigued by his brother’s words like he was just figuring something out for himself that he had not seen before. The housecarl in the saddle with him, however, wore a faint smirk. Hera didn’t know her well enough to guess with any guaranteed accuracy, but she wagered that Lydia knew better than anyone if there was something between her thane and Jorrvaskr’s master trainer. Housecarls usually knew more than they should. Like Rengeir. Whom she told everything.

“She’s setting them free,” Lydia muttered, watching Sonja cool the distant fire and the hesitant mammoths make their way west. She extinguished the eastern wall, too, and then she and Faendal just stood out there on the open tundra for a moment, watching the herd disappear.

Vilkas wondered what they were talking about. They were too far out of earshot even for him to pick up any snippets of their conversation, but when they came riding back to join them, they both seemed lighter than before. Maybe Sonja had found a way to make things right with her friend merely by including him in her divine quest. “Things are never simple with you, are they?” Lydia asked, but there was a smile in her voice.

Sonja laughed. “It wouldn’t be any fun if it were.”

“Hey, Sonja, can I ask you a favor?” Farkas interrupted before Lydia could say anything further.

“Of course.”

He hesitated. “Can I ride your horse back? I think I’m about to break this one.”

Sonja squinted in the darkness and chuckled. “Aye,” she agreed, “Those calves up close are about the size of you. I’m surprised that poor beast hasn’t given up with the burden of an extra rider.”

As predicted, Farkas enjoyed the comparison. He laughed heartily and slid off the horse. “I’m as big as a mammoth! Wait ‘til Kodlak hears that!” The beast gave an appreciative snort in the absence of his weight and shifted as if to gently stretch its back. Sonja and Faendal hopped off their horse and allowed Farkas to mount alone. He really was too large to be sharing the saddle with anyone. Then Faendal immediately climbed on behind Lydia because he wasn’t fond of Vilkas and he wasn’t stupid enough to ask Hera to double up. Plus, the weight difference between him and Farkas was so great the horse didn’t even notice when he mounted it. There was one, brief awkward moment as Sonja realized her charitable gesture meant she either had to ride with Hera who she would be tempted to throw off the entire way or Vilkas whose close proximity sometimes made her uncomfortable—in different ways.

“I want to ride in front,” she said, approaching Vilkas.

He looked down at her. “Why?”

“You’re a bit wider than me,” she said reasonably, “I’ll have better control over the horse from the front.”

His brow furrowed. “You don’t trust my ability to handle a horse?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just better.”

He scoffed, but scooted back and held out a hand. She braced herself on the horn and Vilkas’ grip, swinging her leg over. Ultimately, she had to steady herself on his thigh and slide her rear over his lap in a far more awkward maneuver than she had intended. She felt Vilkas’ body tense behind her slightly, but then relax once she was settled. “Comfortable?” he prompted, annoyed, his voice right in her ear.

I did not think this through. “Aye,” was the tight response, “Let’s go.” And she urged the horse forward. Instantly, all space that Vilkas tried to keep between them melted as he was forced to hold onto her and sometimes the horn as the horse galloped back toward camp. His large hand clutched at her hip at times and splayed against the flat of her stomach at others which forced her to straighten her posture and lean into him. “Stop it,” she growled.

“What?” She turned her head to speak to him at the same time he was leaning forward to hear her and they bumped heads. They both snarled in pain. “You could go slower and I wouldn’t have to grope at you just to stay seated,” he muttered in her ear.

She laughed out loud at the consternation in his tone and slowed their pace slightly. “And here I thought it was an accident.”

“I am holding on for dear life,” he pointed out.

“Just try not to fondle me too hard and we’ll be fine,” she quipped.

He scoffed, the puff of his breath whispered over her neck. “Thought you’d be the type to like it rough.” She choked on her own spit from surprise, not prepared for the nature of his joke, especially coming from him. “You alright?”

“Aye,” she wheezed, “Just—swallowed—a—bug…”

He chuckled. “Try to keep that smart mouth of yours closed for once,” he snarked, “A challenge for you, I know.” I should have ridden with Hera…Sonja thought, now nursing a dark fantasy about throwing Vilkas from the horse.

Notes:

Not going to lie, I struggled with the mammoth death. Originally, I was so into the idea and wanted to give it this huge amazing death scene. And I think I still did that, but--I did shed a tear or two for that mammoth while writing it. Also, I may have pulled a dirty trick on all you lovely people reading it and changed the pronoun referring to the mammoth from 'it' to 'him' when I described his death. That was intentional. I wanted the feels. Sorry.

But, I also thought it was within the spirit of Kyne to not only be mindful of what you take, but to give back in some way as well. So, Sonja healed a baby mammoth forever named Stumpy in my heart. :) I thought it was also a better note to end on than the gruesome death of a majestic animal.

The best ending, of course, was Sonja choking on a "bug."

Hope you enjoyed it. There is more to immediately come.

Chapter 33: Back At Camp

Summary:

Sonja, Vilkas, and crew return to camp after freeing the captive mammoth herd. Sleeping arrangements are reordered as everyone has a bit of celebrating they'd like to do with their lovers. Sonja and Vilkas draw the short straw.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: graphic reference to animal death, reference to death of a family member, implication of violent death, and grieving.

More Sonja and Vilkas!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The celebration was just beginning when they arrived back at camp. It wasn’t as raucous as Sonja had expected it to be, but it was getting late into the night and they still had a long journey ahead of them in the morning. That besides, the watch was going to have their hands full with predators all night with the strong smell of fresh blood calling to them across the tundra. But they were Nords and they liked to party as much as they liked to fight, so there was a cask of mead and singing and even some dancing. They had much to celebrate. Of course, there was food. Sonja had been promised a meal, her first in two days aside from the bit of bread Vilkas had given her; she was very keen to eat whatever it was that Hulda was turning over the fires.

When they came into view of the hunting party, they were greeted with loud cheers and many questions about what had happened to send them all galloping into the night. Sonja didn’t even have to look at Faendal before he started spinning the tale for them all, sliding off the back of Lydia’s horse. Sonja smiled appreciatively, but she knew the Bosmer loved the chance to tell a good story—especially in front of Camilla. She chuckled quietly and shook her head, watching the enraptured look on the young Imperial’s face as she listened to Faendal weave a better tale than any of the inane crap Sven slung at the Sleeping Giant Inn. Hera bypassed them all and went straight for Hulda at the center of camp.

Vilkas tried to dismount with the same grace as the wood elf had, but he simply wasn’t built for it. Eventually, he had to brace himself against Sonja’s hips and he felt her still beneath his touch. He wanted to look at her to gage her reaction, but thought better of it. It was better not to go looking for trouble. Though, his hands did, perhaps, linger a moment longer than was necessary. She dismounted beside him and caught his eye unintentionally, but she didn’t look away right away and when she did, the corner of her mouth was curved in the slightest of smirks. That’s what trouble looks like…He very quickly moved off to join his brother. Sonja watched him go from the corner of her eye.

Eventually, Sonja made it back to her tent to go about her evening routine which she was speeding through in the hopes that she could get the first piece of mammoth that was nearing perfect doneness. Her bathing water in the bucket was poorly heated because of this, but it was hot enough to serve its purpose. She hurriedly removed the paint from her skin and used a small nugget of soap Lydia had stuffed into the bottom of her pack to wash the dried blood and sweat from the rest of her body. It would be glorious to be back in town again. The lure of a hot bath was so strong it was almost an ache.

Lydia appeared just as Sonja was trying to determine where to start unraveling her braids. The housecarl peered through the gloom from the nearby fires at her thane who was wearing only her breast band and unlaced grieves, and hovering over the wash bucket like she was thinking about getting water involved in the disentanglement of her hair. Her brow furrowed. “Do you need help?” she asked hesitantly.

Sonja looked up, her expression amused for having been caught plotting. “Perhaps more hot water—this is—murky,” she admitted.

The housecarl made a face. “Clean water,” she nodded, “I’ll be right back.” She took the bucket and disappeared.

Sonja attempted to remove as many beads and undo as many braids while she waited. She had a nice little pile of beads, feathers, and cords on her bedroll by the time Lydia returned. “That was quick,” she observed as her housecarl placed the steaming bucket near her knee.

“There’s a big pot on the fire they keep filling,” Lydia explained, “Nearly everyone’s got blood they have to wash from their hands today.”

“True,” Sonja agreed, trying to pull a comb through the tangles of her hair. Nearly everyone had helped butcher the mammoth carcass. “I’m impressed how quickly they butchered the beast.”

“We have about ten who know how to carve up an animal,” the housecarl replied reasonably, “Under Hulda’s guidance.”

Sonja hummed, knowingly. “There’s proper motivation right there,” she joked. She was now trying to use a combination of the water and the comb to untangle two days’ worth of windswept hair.

Lydia watched her struggle, thinking of offering help again but deciding that Sonja would ask for it if it was needed. “I had a request to make, my thane,” she said.

The Dragonborn stilled long enough to side eye her housecarl. She didn’t like being called thane, something of which she repeatedly reminded Lydia, so there had to be a particular reason she was using that title now. “Sounds official,” she observed, “What do you need?”

“Farkas is not on watch tonight,” she explained, “I would like…”

“Have at it,” Sonja waved her off, “You don’t need to ask. Anyone who has someone will be celebrating tonight. Best way to stay warm out here anyway.”

Lydia smiled appreciatively. “And you?” she probed, “Will you be visiting Hrongar’s tent tonight?”

Sonja snorted. “No,” she answered, managing to pull the comb through a section of her hair without catching, “I want to actually sleep tonight. It’s been a long day and I’m hungry.”

“Hulda will see your belly filled,” she assured, “Food’s almost ready. She has a special dish for you tonight.”

“Should I fear poison?”

“You and Hera have been civil lately. I think you’re safe.”

“For now.”

Lydia chuckled and went about rolling up her bedroll and furs to take with her to Farkas’ tent. “You sure you and the mer won’t freeze without me?” she asked, pausing before leaving.

“We’ll manage,” Sonja assured, having at another section of hair with a wet comb.

The housecarl hummed in disbelief. “Not with sopping hair, you won’t. Be sure to dry by the fire before you go to bed.”

“Aye, ma.” Lydia rolled her eyes and disappeared from the tent only to be replaced seconds later by an over excited Faendal.

“Hey—whoa, hey. Are you busy?” he asked, taking in the scene.

Sonja’s expression flattened. “Only trying not to smell like the inside of an animal,” she said, “What do you want?”

Faendal hesitated a beat, looking a bit revolted by the thought. “Two things,” he said, holding up two fingers to indicate his points, “One, I’ve brought your weapons. Since we left the killing ground in a bit of hurry, Ysa picked them up and cleaned them for you.”

“Good. And?”

“Two, where is the second tent?”

“In one of the supply carts. Why? One of those true Nords need it?”

There were a few heartbeats of silence that made Sonja cease combing her hair to turn her full attention over to Faendal. “I need it,” he said meekly.

Sonja canted her head, wondering why all her friends—and warmth—were abandoning her for the night. “Why?” she asked.

Faendal blushed all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. “I was—that is, Camilla thought—we wanted to…” he began, suddenly becoming aware of how hard it was going to be to explain to Sonja that he was hoping to get lucky.

Thankfully, she completely understood. She held up a hand to mercifully stop his rambling. “I will never stop you from getting laid unless you were so drunk you were trying to mount a sabercat, and even then—who am I to judge?”

He grimaced. “Don’t ever let me fuck a sabercat.”

“But it would make such a good story.”

“I wouldn’t be around to tell it.”

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another with you,” she sighed as if the Bosmer was so hard to please.

His expression shifted to glare at her in good fun, but couldn’t quite pull it off; he was smiling too broadly. So, he just zipped around her, instead, and hurriedly gathered his things while Sonja resumed attacking the rat’s nest atop her head. There were more than a few items dropped in his haste. His energy was nervous and excited and it reminded Sonja of the first time she had lain with Corvus. That hungry feeling for your first love. She felt like she should say something—or maybe not. Maybe he should feel it all out on his own? Oh, sweet fucking Dibella, he has actually been with a woman before, hasn’t he? she wondered with muted horror, Of course he has. No man or mer looks at Camilla the way he does without having some idea of what he wants to do to her.

“Hey Faendal?” she ventured, carefully.

“Yeah?”

“Are you—nervous?”

A pause. “Is it that obvious?”

“No.”

He groaned. “It is!”

“No!” she rushed, “Only because I know you. Otherwise you just seem excited. That’s a good thing!”

He looked at her with despair. “I really don’t want to mess this up with her.”

Sonja’s expression softened so much she looked almost unrecognizable to the huntsman. At that moment, he could believe that she was born under the sign of the Lady; she looked so compassionate. It made him more nervous. “You have nothing to worry about,” she assured, “If she truly wants you—a little nervousness won’t change that. Just…” she hesitated, “The attention to detail you give to your drawings?”

“Yeah…?” He wasn’t sure how that was going to apply to his situation.

“Give that to her as well,” she advised, “You have clever hands. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

That was actually helpful and made him feel better. At that moment, he was feeling grateful for his friend, but…“Sonja?”

“Yes, Faendal?”

“You look ridiculous. Just go outside and dump the bucket on your head.” He just had to ruin the moment.

“Fuck you, Faendal.” She glared at him as he hurried from the tent, laughing.

“Hey, Sōn,” he said, pausing just outside the flap.

“What?”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she growled affectionately, her face all hard angles again like he was used to, and he scampered off toward the supply carts.

It’s going to be a cold night, she thought as she looked around her mostly empty tent, Maybe I should switch Faendal for the smaller one…But that seemed like a lot of effort and she just wanted to finish scraping through the mess of her hair as quickly as possible so she could finally eat something. She was about halfway through the tangles when she received a third visitor. “Are you decent?” Vilkas called through the flap.

She frowned and looked down the length of her mostly naked torso. “Nothing you haven’t seen in the yard,” she replied. Her training leathers covered only slightly more flesh, but there was a long pause as the Companion outside debated whether or not that meant it was appropriate for him to enter. Sonja huffed and pulled on her coat. “Come in,” she said, “What do you need?”

He cautiously peeped his head in and, seeing she had covered herself, squatted in the entrance to speak with her. “You took out the battle-braids,” he observed.

Her brow twitched into a scowl and back again. “They made my skull ache.”

“They suited you.”

She blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Thanks.”

He nodded and then seemed to remember why he was there. “You have an extra tent?” he asked.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, chuckling. “I assumed you had other arrangements if your brother was taking my housecarl to bed,” she said.

“These are my other arrangements,” he said pointedly, “Lydia told me you have a spare.”

She sighed. “I had a spare,” she corrected, “But Faendal has claimed it for himself and—Dibella willing—Camilla. You’ve missed your chance.”

His expression flattened. “Perhaps I will take another watch shift tonight, then,” he said, “Or sleep by the fire.”

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a frown and she rethought her next words at least three times before she finally spoke them aloud. “You could stay with me,” she said, “I have plenty of extra room.” She waved around her mostly empty tent for emphasis.

Then they awkwardly stared at one another for several long moments. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said at length, but his tone sounded hollow like he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the invitation in the first place.

She shrugged. “It’s up to you,” she said, “But it’s not as if shield-siblings don’t share a tent now and again. Ria and Athis bunk together. Nila and Tor?”

“Aye. That’s not the problem,” he replied and cast a sideways glance back toward the fires where Ysolda was listening to one of Jon Battle-Born’s songs and happily singing along.

Admittedly, Sonja felt guilty for not considering Ysa’s feelings, but she thought that by that point, she had made the nature of her relationship with Vilkas clear enough and she didn’t have to keep justifying her reasons for being around him. It wasn’t as if there was anything of that nature between them, anyhow. Right? No, definitely not. “Do what you like,” she replied, unconcernedly, “But the offer stands.”

Other than Ysolda, he really didn’t have a good reason to refuse—at least none that he would admit to. She was right. It was only a sleeping arrangement. “You need help with your bandages again, I take it,” he stated quietly. She nodded. “I’ll bring my things.” And he stalked off to collect his gear.

Sonja watched him go for a moment, then hurriedly pulled on a clean tunic and her boots. She scrambled out of her tent and pulled on her coat again as she headed toward the center fires where the others were gathered, enjoying themselves. She’d leave Vilkas to make himself comfortable while she pursued some much needed food. “There she is! Hunt Master Ironheart!” Uthgerd declared as she approached Sonja and put a drink in her hands, “I’ve never seen a Hunt like this before. You certainly do nothing in half-measures!”

“I didn’t exactly plan for that—what happened—whatever it was,” she took a long pull from the tankard, “But it definitely was something.” She felt a little awestruck in hindsight and she realized how truly remarkable or bizarre or unearthly it must have looked to everyone else who had stood in silent witness as the event unfolded.

“It is your spirit, Lady Dragonborn!” Jon declared, obviously a couple of meads into his evening. His expression was pleasant and relaxed, and his complexion perhaps a touch ruddy. “With the very soul of a dragon, you can touch realms we have only heard tell of in our legends!”

“Hmmm, such wisdom, Jon,” Hulda interjected as she approached Sonja with the much coveted food: a bowl of roasted meat and vegetables with hearty, if a bit stale, bread. “Where does it come from I wonder? The bottom of one too many bottles of Honningbrew?”

“Honey is the essence of divinity,” Jon countered happily, “I’m only paying worship where it is due.”

Sonja snorted. “You should have been a bard,” she said, eagerly accepting the meal; her mouth watered at the fantastic aroma, “You have poetry in your heart.”

“More like pulling it out of his ass,” Idolaf snarked, “Don’t encourage him.” Jon looked a little put out by his brother’s words, but hid his expression, more or less, in his tankard. There was an old fight there, Sonja could tell.

“Well, I am glad someone has a knack for stories amongst us,” Hulda replied matter-of-factly, “Without the skalds, we wouldn’t know our tales of our ancient heroes.” Jon brightened a little and Sonja was pleasantly surprised to see the innkeeper stick up for the younger Battle-Born so unexpectedly. Idolaf opened his mouth as if to argue, but Hulda was not a woman with which to be trifled. She may not be a battle-hardened shield-maiden like her lover, but she was every inch a warrior in her own way with a tongue as sharp as any blade and a glare as hard as any shield. Even when she was in fine spirits, as she was then, Idolaf knew better and mumbled defensive nonsense into his cup.

Sonja chuckled, pleased to see the mirth and enthusiasm return to Jon’s face as he began to sing another song, inspired entirely by Hulda’s beauty. It made everyone laugh and cheer and catcall, and one or two of the hunters who knew the words joined in to serenade the innkeeper, much to her enjoyment. She was so happy. Happier than Sonja had ever seen her. Though, to be fair, since Sonja and Hera had not gotten off on the right foot, it had been difficult for Hulda not to defend her lover against what probably appeared to many as snide disrespect from a young, estranged niece. She was full of such warmth at that moment though and when she went back to work over the cooking fires, Sonja saw why.

Hera was particularly affectionate that night, pleased with the success of the Hunt—and probably eager to slip away for a bit of celebrating of their own. There was a love shining in her eyes, the old kind that endured, and she was never far from her woman’s side, always a hand on her or arms wrapped around her waist. It was a startlingly humanizing moment for Sonja to see her aunt in such a tender attitude. She looked away, feeling a little like a voyeur, and let the couple have their stolen moments of intimacy.

The Dragonborn happily sat in the dirt near the fire with her prized food. She stuffed her face and listened to the music which had changed into an enthusiastic version of the Age of Aggression, chasing the richness of the meat down with the sweetness of the mead. It was a good, restful moment after so much work and she did truly feel so very tired; she was looking forward to snuggling deep into her bedroll after Vilkas saw to her bandages. Eventually, Ysolda made her way over and daintily knelt down beside her, grinning with a tankard of mead in her small hand. Sonja looked sideways at her between bites. “You look more like the cat that swallowed the canary than the Little Bird, itself,” she observed.

Ysolda hummed, pleased. “You did it,” she said, sounding a touch unbelieving, “You actually did it.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not, it’s just…” she trailed off, shaking her head, her smile unwavering, “Less than two weeks ago, I didn’t have the slightest idea how I was going to get my hands on a mammoth tusk and now…” She beamed at her. “I can do what I always wanted.”

Sonja returned the smile, happy for her. “Setting up shop is really that important to you?”

“Why not? It’s an honorable profession,” Ysolda replied a touch defensively, but her mood was not spoiled.

“Oh, I have nothing against it,” Sonja assured, “Everyone has to put bread on the table somehow. You just seem passionate about it, is all.” She vaguely gestured to everyone boozing, laughing, and singing around the fire. “We’re all here because of you. Because you wanted something bad enough, you did what you had to for it to happen. It’s admirable.”

“We’re here because of you,” she corrected, “No one would have followed me out on a Hunt, but they’d follow the Dragonborn. They’d follow Sonja Ironheart.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed a little. “Maybe,” she allowed, hyperaware of the burden she was carrying in that ten-letter title, “But—I’m here because of you.”

It wasn’t strictly true. Sonja was out there because of Anja, but it didn’t matter. Ysolda appreciated the sentiment and was in no mood to argue the fine points of what landed her out in the middle of the tundra with all of her dreams within reach. The merchantwoman beamed and tapped her tankard against Sonja’s. “And for that, I’ll always be grateful,” she promised, “You really don’t know what you’ve done for me. Before they passed, I promised my ma and da I would become the best trader in all of Whiterun Hold and now, I finally have the chance to make that happen.”

Sonja’s expression tightened a little with sadness at the mention of Ysolda’s dead parents. That was a loss she knew well. “I’m sure they’re very proud of you,” she replied with a sincere smile.

Ysolda eyes glistened, but she did not shed a tear. “Thanks for saying that,” she muttered, “I like to think they are, too.” Sonja knew, too, how important it was to hear those words sometimes. Painfully, she thought of Anja. “Ysgramor’s beard, I’m putting you off your food,” she said, dismissing the intimate tone of their conversation with a nervous giggle, “Go on! Eat! You’ve been starving for days! And Hulda took great pains cooking that heart just right.”

It took all of Sonja’s self-control to keep from spitting her foot back into the bowl, half-chewed. “Heart—meat—you said?” she said, trying to sound interested or even intrigued, but she wasn’t sure Ysolda was buying it.

“Of course!” she replied as if it was obvious, “You’re Hunt Master. You have the honor of consuming the vitality of the beast.”

Sonja licked her lips and nodded. “Yep. Of course I do.” She took another long swig of mead. “I’m just surprised there’s no tongue, also.”

Ysolda canted her head. “You’ve been learning,” she observed.

“…about tongues…?”

“Yes and no. About Nordic tradition.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I’d make a poor Dragonborn if I didn’t know a little of my heritage.”

The smaller woman shrugged. “I’m not so well versed as others,” she admitted, “Many of our generation are not so invested as our parents were.”

“That’s the way of things.”

She nodded. “It’s good that you have Vilkas. He knows a lot.”

Sonja hesitated, deconstructing the wording of Ysolda’s statement. “Aye, I’ve noticed,” she said, “He knows everything about everything and he’s a harsh taskmaster if you’re slow in mind or body.” She groaned. “Especially body. I think he likes making me run until I lose my breakfast.”

Ysolda looked amused. “I noticed you running through town before we met,” she admitted, “You do seem to run more than the others.”

“I knew it.”

Her mouth twitched into a frown and she suddenly became very interested in the contents of her tankard. “He’s—I mean—we’re not—anymore, so…” she began, haltingly.

Sonja stopped her with a hand upon her knee. “Don’t care. Ain’t happening. I’ve been fucking somebody else, anyway,” she blurted indelicately and then stuffed a very large portion of heart and bread into her mouth as if it could stop up a sudden leak.

“Oh.” A pause. “Who?”

“Uh…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“I prefer to be discrete,” she said with a profound sense of irony. There was nothing discrete about the last few sentences she had spoken—besides they weren’t entirely true. She’d only spent the one night with Hrongar whilst very intoxicated; they were not engaged in some lurid affair.

“Of course. I understand.” She really did. Anyone Sonja publically paired with would undoubtedly be raised up with her to some degree and that was a lot of pressure to put on a person, one-time fling, long-term prospect, or otherwise.

Sonja pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, I’ve got to get some rest,” she sighed, “So, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ysolda nodded, aware that she may have overstepped and made the Dragonborn uncomfortable, but she couldn’t deny her sleep, either. “Rest well. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Don’t I know it.” Sonja stumbled to her feet and took her half-eaten meal back to her tent. Ysolda watched her go for a bit before she returned her attention to the lovely tone of Jon’s voice. She always had a thing for a man who could speak well and sing better. The younger Battle-Born’s heart already belonged to a certain Gray-Mane lass, but maybe Mikael could be a worthy distraction.

Once Sonja reached her tent, she had to do a bit of balancing to hold her meal and drink in one hand, and pull back the tent flap with the other. Vilkas was inside, his bedroll neatly rolled out a respectable distance from her own and his gear stacked at the back of the canvas. He was searching for something, though. Her brow furrowed. “Lose something?” she asked.

“Trying to find a lantern,” he grunted, “It’s dark.”

“That happens at night.”

He paused long enough to properly scowl at her. “You don’t want your bandages to be done up properly?” he asked pointedly.

“Alright, alright,” she sighed, thrusting her bowl and tankard into his grasp, “Hold this. I think I have one.”

She gracelessly lunged through the confined space of her tent to the back where her gear was also arranged far less neatly. Vilkas watched her dig through her things and wondered how she ever found anything in the disorganized nest she had at the bottom of her bedroll. He sniffed at her food while he waited. It smelled delicious. If he hadn’t already eaten, he might have been tempted to sneak a bite. The heart was always the best in his opinion, but he suspected that Sonja might be feeling a little different about consuming an animal she had—communed?—with. Whatever had taken place between her and her prey, it had surely felt private. How could it not? Life, death, body, and spirit had intersected at that killing ground and Sonja had been at the heart of it. She was always at the heart of it.

After several long moments of fruitless searching, Sonja plopped back on her bedroll and sat cross-legged. “It was Faendal’s and I think he took it with him,” she sighed, explaining her failure.

“You don’t own one yourself?” He handed her tankard back to her.

She took it. “Haven’t needed one.” She nodded to her bowl. “You can have some if you like.”

He blinked, thinking about her statement. “Because of that light that you—conjure,” he concluded and looked down at her bowl again. “Maybe just a bite.” It was more delicious than it smelled.

“I think I just saw your eyes roll into the back of your head.”

“Hulda is an excellent cook.”

“No argument. I was enjoying it.”

“Until you realized what it was?”

She smirked a little guiltily. “Aye.”

He took another bite and set it on the ground by her knee. “You have a soft spot for mammoths too?” he teased.

She pursed her lips and picked at her bread. “I’ve never been hunting before,” she admitted, “Not a good shot, not light on my feet.”

“I remember you telling Lydia.”

“But I’ve never shied away from killing an animal that wanted to make a meal of me,” she continued, “And I’ve certainly never hesitated to kill a person who wanted me dead.”

“So what’s the trouble?”

She didn’t answer right away. “I felt his heart beat against the spear,” she said, “He wasn’t trying to kill me or any of us, though he would have; he was just protecting himself. And though I have no doubt everyone is grateful for his bounty and we honor and celebrate it—it wasn’t really necessary, was it?”

He studied her face in the dim light. “It was for you,” he pointed out, “You needed a tusk for Ysa and Ysa needed it for her livelihood.”

“You’re right,” she agreed, but that didn’t unseat the displeased look on her face, “It’s good the rest of his body is not wasted. I’m just being soft.”

Vilkas hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps if every hunter was touched by the spirit of his prey, he would think twice about taking the life of the next one,” he mused, “I can’t say I blame you after what I saw, and if Kyne wanted you to replace that which you took, then—it is good your heart is reluctant. Maybe that’s what the Storm-Goddess wanted.”

Her expression became pensive. “I had not thought of that,” she admitted, “Thanks.”

He nodded and glanced down at her food again. “You should still eat up, though,” he advised, “Hulda will think you don’t like her cooking.”

Sonja made a face, but nodded agreeing. Besides, it had tasted really good and she was so hungry. “In a moment,” she sighed, and shrugged off her coat, revealing the tunic underneath, sleeveless, “Let me take care of my hand. It’s a bit sore after today.”

Vilkas watched her through the dim orange glow filtering through the canvas. He could make out the strong curve of her biceps, honeyed by firelight, and admired them. Admired her, momentarily. The motion of removing her coat in the enclosed space wafted her scent straight toward him. She smelled of sweet tundra, leather, and sweat. A little ripe, perhaps—they all were—and she had been denied soaps when others weren’t, though he thought he detected a little lavender and mint. Regardless, the scent of her was pleasant to him in a way that made his animal senses tingle. Briefly, he reconsidered the wisdom of staying.

Then his attention was drawn more toward her actions as Sonja pressed two fingers of her left hand into the back of her right; there was a spark of electricity and something small and silver formed into a ball about the size of a marble beneath her touch. She caught it between her fingers and set it in a whorl of fabric made by her bedroll. “That one of the contraptions Farengar made for you?” he asked, curious; the silver ball looked nothing like the bracelets she had mentioned before, but she hadn’t shown them to him when she brought them back from Dragonsreach and her hands were largely covered by her gloves whenever he saw her.

Stiffly, she flexed her right hand, testing the suppleness of each joint. “Aye,” she nodded, “Bit of a different take on the concept. I was expecting something far less practical like the traditional bracelet or a cuff, but these—Farengar is a godsdamned genius and I hate that he knows it.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand at him and he was able to catch a glint of sliver over her skin from the distant firelight.

“As long as they get the job done,” Vilkas grunted.

Sonja nodded. “Like a charm,” she said with an air of amusement at her own pun. He rolled his eyes at her, relatively certain the action was concealed by the darkness. She drew still and he sensed she was thinking of something, or hesitating. He was about to ask her what was on her mind when she spoke suddenly. “I have to cast a spell,” she said softly and Vilkas’ eyes shot from the movements of her hands to her face. She was looking at him, expression unreadable but intent.

He gave a curt nod. “See to it, then.”

Sonja started from her elbow and worked the healing magic down to her fingertips. The brilliant orange and white tendrils of light twined over and encircled her limb, caressing the ridges of her seared flesh and lighting up the interior of the tent with a glow that flickered like firelight—and, oddly, the tingle of her magic in the air did not feel as abrasive as it normally did against Vilkas’ senses. It wasn’t pleasant, but it didn’t make him nauseous, either, which was—good. It was progress. Sonja’s expression was pinched with concentration and maybe a touch of pain, but she was focused on her task, her eyes only briefly flitting toward him once to gage his reaction to her magic before she continued her work.

When she was done, darkness fell between them again. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the abrupt loss of bright light, but when Sonja was able to make out Vilkas’ shape sitting across from her again, she saw his hand extended toward her, elbow propped on his knee, palm up. She hesitated before placing her injured hand in his grasp. His fingers wrapped around her wrist; thumb shifting slightly, his fingertips caressed the scar tissue. She stilled again, but didn’t pull away or tell him to stop. Something about the darkness of the tent was insolating. Safe. “I need the salve,” he said pointedly and Sonja realized that must have been what he had been expecting her to place in his hand.

She huffed at her stupidity—of course, what was I thinking—and leaned over toward her gear, but Vilkas didn’t immediately release her and when he did, his fingers drifted across the expanse of her palm until his fingertips caught on the edge of hers. She didn’t lean far enough away to completely disengage and when she straightened, Vilkas took the salve and bandages from her with his free hand rather than move away from her. He cleared his throat. “I still need light,” he said, pulling at the laces of the pouch with one hand. He paused. “Can you conjure some?” he asked reluctantly.

She hesitated. “It won’t be a problem for you?” She was trying to avoid conflict with him as much as possible which was saying a lot for someone who tended to live for it.

“Is it going to set the tent on fire?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, entertaining the idea. “I’ve never tried, but I suppose nothing is impossible with enough willpower.” Vilkas looked vaguely sick. “I’m joking! No, it won’t set the tent on fire.”

“Well, go on then,” he prompted and after a moment, Sonja’s left hand made a subtle gesture in the darkness between them. A little ball of white light sprung to life in the palm of her hand and floated like a firefly into the ceiling of the tent where it hovered, swaying slightly as if caught in a gentle breeze. Vilkas exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath to begin with. At the birth of the light source, he had a better view of the silvered designs that encased Sonja’s hand. Quicksilver veins ran over the expanse of her palm and curled over her fingers. They stretched over the back of her hand, also, and looked more like outlandish silvery tattoos than strange jewelry. The liquid metal clung to and moved over her skin like it was part of it. Much more practical than a bracelet, indeed.

In the now bright light radiating through the tent, he squinted at her and she was staring back at him, expression tight and searching. She was waiting for him to react. Though the magic she had used was benign, she hadn’t used it in such close proximity to him before and she wondered if it made him nervous to be so close to the thrum of her magicka. He was still touching her hand, if that was an indicator. “We’re good?” she asked.

“We’re good,” he affirmed and finally engaged both hands in gathering salve upon his fingertips. He rubbed the medicine into her skin much the same way he had before, efficiently and starting at her elbow. He slowed when he reached her wrist, however, his gaze narrowing as he inspected her hand. “What’s this?” he asked, turning her hand toward the light to better illuminate what he was seeing.

Sonja looked at the raw red markings covering her hand that mirrored the silver ones on her left. She shrugged. “From the—restraints,” she said as if it weren’t the slightest bit odd, “It gets a little raw from wearing them all day.”

“Does it hurt?”

Another shrug. “A little. Mostly uncomfortable, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” It looked more than a little uncomfortable. One or two of the marks looked bruised or near bleeding.

“Is this common?”

“No,” she assured, “Masters wouldn’t put their apprentices through this. It’s just—a consequence—of Farengar making them strong enough. They’re not meant to correct something like—me.”

“Did you know this could happen?”

Yet another shrug, but accompanied with dodged eye contact. “I suspected,” she admitted, “But—I didn’t have a choice, did I? We all have our burdens and this is one of mine.”

He frowned but nodded, understanding and agreeing, and, suddenly, Vilkas had a much softer touch than he had claimed to possess as he spread the poultice over her hand. She fidgeted as she watched him, brow knit. “Eat your supper,” he commanded gently. She made a face at him in defiance, naturally bristling against even a well-meaning order; he saw it in his periphery, but she complied, propping the bowl on her knee and eating with her free hand.

She put the restraint back on before he bandaged her arm neatly. “You wear them through the night, too?” he asked, his expression obviously concerned.

“You never know,” she reasoned, “What if we’re attacked in the night like last time?”

He nodded in muted agreement. She was right, of course. That’s why they all slept in some combination of their armor, just in case. The less one had to put on, the better, but—he didn’t like the punishment the restraints imposed upon her or that she was so willing to accept it. On one hand, it felt just and honorable for her to control her power with such determination; on the other, it also felt like self-flagellation. Like she took her penance wherever she could find it. But, if she felt that was her burden to bear, who was he to argue? He had weight pressing down on his shoulders, too. If they were strong enough to carry it, then maybe they should.

She pulled on her long glovelette over her bandages rather than carry on the conversation, setting her empty bowl aside, before continuing to work on the other half of her tangled hair. Vilkas washed his face and made himself comfortable stretched out across his bedroll with a few pieces of his armor removed. His tunic was also sleeveless and Sonja slyly admired him from the corner of her eye until her curiosity got the better of her. “That tattoo on your arm,” she said, nodding to the marking on his upper bicep, “When did you get it?”

He glanced at the inked skin and frowned slightly. “A long time ago,” he dodged, “Why do you ask?”

“You’re my shield-brother. I’d like to know,” she said, reminding him of the night they had shared tea and stories during watch.

He looked at her then. It wasn’t a particularly private story, not really. But it danced along the edges of the Circle’s secret. Not directly associated, but close. He opened his mouth, searching for a diplomatic beginning when Sonja hissed in pain and cursed. Apparently, she had snagged a bead she had missed earlier. He sat up, a brow cocked. “Troubles?”

She pursed her lips and turned her head so he could get a better view of the offending adornment. It was the mother-of-pearl charm near her ear. It must have tangled in her hair earlier so she didn’t feel it, but it certainly was causing her trouble now. Her fingers were not dexterous enough—or perhaps, patient enough—to unravel the threads around it. “Hand me my dagger, would you?” she asked, “I’ll cut it out.”

Vilkas leaned forward to comply with her request, but then stopped and gave her a look that was caught somewhere between sympathy and amusement. He gestured to her. “Come here,” he beckoned, “Let me help.”

She looked like she was about to refuse, then thought better of it and scooted forward into the space between them. “Have a hidden talent for plaiting hair, do you?” she asked wryly.

He scoffed. “There’s a reason my hair is short,” he answered.

“Not stirring a lot of confidence.”

“There’s always the dagger if I can’t get it loose.”

She hummed in agreement, her eyes staring off into the corner of the tent as Vilkas carefully tried to remove the charm from her hair. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said after a few moments of silence.

“I’m concentrating.”

“Sorry I asked.”

He was quiet a little longer. “It was nothing,” he said at length, “Farkas and I got matching ones when we joined the Circle. We were young. It seemed a good idea.”

“Do you regret it now?” she asked, catching an odd tone to his voice.

Yes, but for reasons he couldn’t explain to her. “No,” he lied, “Why would I?”

She almost shrugged, but stopped, not wanting to knock Vilkas and cause him to pull her hair in a painful, unpleasant sort of way. “You sounded like you might,” she observed and she felt him still beside her.

“They’re wolves,” he said, turning his arm slightly so she could see it better from her position. Of course, she already knew what they were. She’d seen it many times before in the yard, but she liked the way the image rippled over the movement of the muscle beneath. “Two of them. One for Farkas and one for me. We liked the idea of having a family to fight with—a pack to hunt with. And if worse ever came to it, I would know it was my brother’s body if he was ruined beyond recognition and could give him proper rites. He as well. So, no. I don’t regret it—but maybe he and I should have chosen something better suited to us than animals.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed deeply as she listened, her mind drifting to her own siblings. “The bond between twins is strong,” she muttered and she almost reached out to touch him, but didn’t, “You’d know it was him regardless.”

“Is—Anja your twin?” he asked with interest.

“No,” she denied, “But she and—my brother, Thornir, are—were—and they had a similar marking on their wrists. Imperial dragons.”

He was quiet as he absorbed that information. “Were,” he repeated, “So, he is…”

“Dead, yes,” she interrupted.

It was one thing to lose your parents. That was a natural occurrence even if they did not die of natural causes, as Freydis had not. On some level, children always knew that they would one day have to light their parents’ pyres. It didn’t make it easy or painless, but it wasn’t unexpected. But a sibling? And a younger one? That was different. “What happened?” he breathed against her ear. He almost had the charm loose.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she fidgeted which caused him to tug on her hair a little more roughly than he intended and she inhaled sharply, blinking a tear out of one eye that had welled up involuntarily from the sharp pain in her scalp. “Pyromages,” she said at last, her hand rising between them to rub the tender spot beneath the charm. Their fingers brushed.

He slowly pulled away from her, the charm caught between his fingers. He might have been impressed by his handiwork if his mind wasn’t already preoccupied with the one-word answer she had just given him. She plucked the adornment from his grasp, her gaze evading his as she scooted back onto her bedroll and resumed brushing her hair. “And you…”

“Continue to practice magic anyway, yes,” she interrupted again as she aggressively pulled through the last of her knots.

“Why?”

She looked up at him briefly. “If a warrior had, gods forbid, murdered your brother, would you hate yourself being one?” she asked.

“I’d hate myself for not being there.” His answer tugged an unexpected response in her expression as she struggled to school herself. Belatedly, he realized that must have been what happened: she hadn’t been there. Of course. With the way she fought, Thornir would still be alive if she had been, there was no doubt in his mind.

“You know what I mean,” she croaked.

“I do. And I see your point.”

“It was a monster that killed Thornir. One that happened to know magic. If it had been a blade instead, it wouldn’t change the fact that he is gone. He’d still be dead and I…” she stopped abruptly, eyelids fluttering rapidly both in surprise at what she had been about to reveal to him and to stave off an embarrassing urge to cry. She huffed and looked away and started to belligerently plait her hair.

He watched her in silence for a few moments. “I’m sorry,” he said at length.

“It was a long time ago,” she said, dismissively, tying off the braid.

“Not for that,” he said, “Well, yes, for that, but also…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. Sonja finally looked up at him, her expression ready for battle. She was expecting something combative or ignorant or cruel. “You know better than most what magic can cost you,” he said, finally, “I won’t doubt you again.”

She let out a long, low breath that seemed to deflate her a little. Her shoulders sagged and she slouched, no longer combative. “The wind,” she said and Vilkas’ brow furrowed with confusion at her abrupt and seemingly unconnected response. “You and Farkas should have chosen the wind,” she clarified, “He for its power and you—for the power of words spoken.” It was ‘thanks’ and ‘please, stop’ all rolled into one with a set jaw and hard brow. That was how Sonja Ironheart silenced him with words commending his ability to speak. “Goodnight, Vilkas.” She waved her hand and the light died; they were plunged into darkness again and she burrowed herself into her bedroll. He sat there for a moment, thinking, before he did the same. He listened to her breathing as it eventually slowed and sleep overtook her. He listened until his vision darkened and he slept, too.


Lydia snuggled into Farkas’ bare chest with a satisfied smile on her face. His dark chest hair tickled her nose, but she didn’t care. She liked it. Liked him. Liked all the rough, gruff edges that made him equal parts cave bear and teddy bear. Even the scars. Perhaps especially the scars. All of them. Not just the ones earned in battle that any warrior would brag over, or the others that bespoke mistakes that he had made one too many times, but the ugly ones, too. The oldest ones that were lightened with age, but looked intentional. The carved ones. From—torture, if she had to guess. Foul magic of some kind. Though her understanding of the arcane was limited, what else could those symbols mean?

It made her sad to think of the pain he must have endured in receiving them so long ago, but he had survived it and it must have made him stronger because Farkas was not a weak man. He never shied away from her touch when she ran her fingers over them like she half-expected him to and when she had finally worked up the courage to ask what had happened, he had only said that he would tell her one day. Just not that day. And that it was a story not entirely his own. That was how she knew there must have been more to Vilkas’ anger than just fear. There was no way on Nirn anyone or anything could have marked up Farkas like that without answering to his brother in some way. Part of her wanted to tell Sonja, just so she would understand, but it wasn’t her place. If the secret things passed between her and Farkas in the tender moments of their sex were meant for anyone else, then the Companion would have told her without reservation.

She ran her fingers over his chest and looked up into his face. He was half asleep, or his eyes were half-lidded at least. His heartbeat was slow and calm and he smiled at her, relaxed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Who says I’m thinking anything?”

“You’re always thinking,” he pointed out, “You just don’t say anything about it.”

“I’m thinking about you.”

“Yeah? How Dibella blessed me in all the right places?”

She snorted with laughter. While true, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing. Not yet, anyway. “Braggart,” she teased.

He groaned. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You like it.”

“I do. I like you.”

She pressed a smoldering kiss against his pectoral, over his heart, wordlessly returning the sentiment. This had been a pleasant surprise for her. It hadn’t been long, but it had almost immediately become intimate. Farkas was not one for games, if he liked someone, he didn’t see the point in playing hard-to-get; there was no guile, no thrill of the chase, no deference to social conduct. He just wanted Lydia and it was refreshing to entertain a man who was so clear about what he wanted and how he felt. He was open with his affection if she wanted it, and kept it to himself if she was paying more mind to her duty. It was near impossible to insult or neglect him because his ego was not easily wounded. Falling into whatever it was they had was easy. Comfortable. Nice.

Lydia wriggled in his grasp to scoot up far enough to kiss him. He moaned against her lips as if he enjoyed the taste of them. “Wanna go again?” he growled, his hands already trailing over the naked slopes of her body.

She chuckled and kissed him. “So hungry,” she chastised, “You’ve already had two helpings.”

“Can’t help myself when you taste so damn good.” His voice rumbled in his chest as he rolled on top of her. He didn’t jump right in like she suspected he wanted to. Instead, he nuzzled her neck and nipped at all the little places he’d learned made her shiver. He was biding his time until she gave him clear and certain permission, though she could feel just how eager he was to get started. Always so considerate. She grinned and nuzzled him back. This was something she would never get tired of. This was something worth hanging onto.

“Maybe I’m a little hungry, too,” she admitted, breathing her answer onto the whorl of his ear. He growled his approval and wasted no time in satisfying her hunger.


Vilkas was awakened at some point in the night by the sound of Sonja shivering. She was trying not to and maybe he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t such a light sleeper, but he could practically hear her teeth chatter against each other. He rolled over and squinted through the darkness at her. The fires had burned low, so he could barely make out the dark shape of her on the other side of the tent. Her back was to him and she was curled into a ball for warmth. “Sonja?” he whispered.

“Go back to sleep,” she hissed back.

He rolled his eyes at her. “Can’t sleep with the sound of your teeth breaking over there.”

She stuffed something in her mouth. Maybe the edge of the bedroll. “Bedder?” she asked through the fluff.

His expression flattened. “You’re still shivering.”

“Well ish cowld ahnd…”

“I can’t understand you.”

“It’s cold and I don’t have the pelt and it’s just you and me and this tent is too big…” she snapped, cold, tired, and irritable. Vilkas shifted over his own bear skin until he was on the edge of it, ignoring her as she continued to gripe about the cold. He pulled it toward Sonja and then grabbed the edge of her bedroll. “What are you…?” she began, but her question was cut short when Vilkas unceremoniously pulled the entirety of her sleeping kit toward him, onto his bear skin. “You don’t have…”

“Shut up,” he pleaded and then reached for his cloak folded at his feet. He unfurled it over both of them, so some of his body heat would be trapped beneath it for her comfort. Then he settled back down and sighed heavily. She shivered in silence beside him a little while longer, but it gradually grew less violent until she was still again.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He looked at her. She was curled toward him and her eyes were squinting back at him. “I’ll hold Faendal down if you want to punch,” he offered.

She smirked. “No,” she sighed, “Right now, I hope he’s nice and warm with Camilla’s legs wrapped around his waist. I can suffer a little for that.”

“Aye, but I shouldn’t have to.”

She punched him through the layers of fabric and fur separating them. It still hurt a little but, her close proximity and the bedrolls took a lot of force out of it. “Cock,” she grumbled.

He chuckled. “Go to sleep, pup,” he growled. A few pleasantly warm moments later, they were both fast asleep.

Notes:

Thanks again for your patience and for reading my work when I finally post it. I hope all you lovely readers enjoy it!

Chapter 34: Loud and Clear

Summary:

Anja performs a dangerous job for the Guild at Goldenglow, but finds she may know more about the mysterious buyer than she should. Follows the quest Loud and Clear from the Thieves Guild questline with some additions.

Notes:

No relevant trigger warnings, I believe. Just general game appropriate violence (implied, not graphic) and thiefy shenanigans, but if I've missed something, apologies; please let me know and I'll update it.

Also, as always, all my Ta'agra translations come from The Ta'agra Project, a lovely fan-based construction of the language. And, speaking of translations, I have, yet again decided to change the way you, my lovely readers, can view them. It is still possible to mouse over the word and simply read the translation, but that is difficult to do on a touch screen phone which I discovered while I was away on a mini-vacation with my husband and I wanted to do some light editing. So, in addition to the normal mouse over, there are now footnotes. To view them, click on the little linked number beside the word and it will plummet you down to the end of the chapter to the word's translation. Click on the corresponding number beside the translation and it should shoot you back up where you were before...I think...let me know if it doesn't work...But, hopefully, this will make reading translations easier for those who want to read chapters on their phones. I'll retroactively provide the same for previous chapters when I get the chance.

Sorry, Sonja/Vilkas fans, this is all Anja. But don't worry, we'll get back to them soon. ;)

PoV Anja, a dash of Kharjo, and Brynjolf.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Khajiit caravan was back in Riften. This was good. Anja had a debt to pay and a favor to ask in the same breath. She hoped Kharjo was in a generous mood as she meandered from the city gates toward the caravan camp. It was nearing sundown. She had already brewed her potions, replenished her kit, purchased her scrolls, reconnoitered Goldenglow by boat and a charmingly harmless fishing trip with Sofie, secured the little brat a few of nights at the Bee & Barb, and then gave her an incredibly stern lecture about what their backup plan would be should Anja not make it back by sundown the next day. “But I don’t want to go with them!”

“It’s either that or the orphanage, little Kit, and I know you really don’t want to go there.” Sofie pouted. “Don’t be like that. It’s only if I don’t make it back and I’m going to make it back. I promise.”

“Pa made promises too.”

Anja sighed. “Point taken.”

“Is your sister like you?”

A long pause. “No. Sonja’s nothing like me.”

“I’m going to hate her, aren’t I?”

Anja laughed. “Probably not. People rarely do.”

“But you hate her.”

She didn’t answer her. “Just be good. I’ll be back by morning.” Only a few loose ends to tie up before the big heist. Then she’d have everything she needed.

Her meeting with Vex earlier that day had only been marginally less confrontation than average and slightly more than sorting things out with Sofie. The other blonde Imperial thief was practically back to normal by the time she had stopped by: tough and sharp and sassy. She just had to remind Anja that she, Vex, was the best infiltrator the Guild had, lest she forget. As if anyone could forget. Vex was fond of reminding everyone. Anja scoffed to herself at the mere memory of it as she passed the stables. The caravan camp was already neatly situated and their campfire roaring; her eyes scanned the occupants for one in particular. She had rolled her eyes at Vex at the time, but she let the guild officer have her say because she knew how important the act was. The façade. What it hid. What it protected. There were things Anja buried behind her own. Who was she to deny a fellow thief the armor of a good brag? In the end, Vex had told her what she knew which wasn’t much, but it was something: there was a secret sewer entrance into the house on the edge of the island, the place was absolutely crawling with mercs (at least a dozen and a half by her quick, if hurried, count), and they did not intend to take prisoners. The last was obvious, but worth repeating.

Her sharp blue eyes spotted Kharjo by the fire, speaking to his fellow warrior Dro’marash about the security of the caravan, probably. She approached noisily to draw his attention, pushing back her dark hood so he could better see her face through the twilight. Both Khajiiti enforcers’ ears perked in her direction, their attention quick to follow. Dro’marash subtly reached for his blade; they must have had a harried journey back to Riften to make the usually cool, smooth-talking Khajiit so jumpy, but his hand dropped when Kharjo purred out to her, “Vari[1]. This is one is pleased to see you again.”

Anja smiled. “Oh, kitten,” she sighed, “Kharjo valqahna nezalka.[2]

His tail flicked with pleasure as he stalked toward her, looking every inch the natural predator his species resembled. It made her feel vaguely like prey beneath such a fierce feline gaze which was equal parts unsettling and thrilling. “Sala kha’jay, ishana,[3]” he rumbled when he reached her and he bent low enough to nuzzle against her neck like the big kitty cat he was.

She chuckled and ran her fingers through his fur, luxuriating in the soft feel of it and the vibration of his purr. “My jashi trevan[4],” she hummed back into the scruff where his jaw met his face, “It is very good to see you again.”

“This one likes the way you speak Ta’agra[5],” he muttered, taking his time, dragging out the reunion. He sensed she was there for something other than the pleasure of his company, and he wanted to enjoy the feel of her in his paws before she disappeared again. Skyrim had been much colder without her to warm his bedroll. “You almost sound like Khajiit.”

She laughed openly then, her eyes filled with mirth as she pulled back far enough to look at him. “Your words are vari[6] like moon sugar,” she chastised, dropping kisses along his jawline, “But I didn’t come here to indulge in the varina[7] of your liskina[8].”

He made a sound of good-natured displeasure at her words even as he pulled her closer. “This one is no fool,” he informed her, “Serush kodesh kefa jer raj'kono naqith.[9]

“Well—that’s less sweet, darling,” she teased gently, unoffended.

“It is why this one—why I like you,” he replied, his voice obviously uncertain in his use of the unfamiliar pronoun.

Anja beamed so widely at him her face hurt. She knew how strange it must have been for him to even say the word, let alone to comprehend it. Khajiiti culture was often too inclusive to allow for such personal identification: all were Khajiit, littermates to the first Clan Mother. Not that personal identity never happened, especially amongst those like Kharjo traveling through foreign provinces. She just knew how much he missed Elsweyr, missed the heat, and the familiar angles of colorful cities. That he learned it for her was deeply touching. “Kharjo,” she breathed, “This one is pleased with you.”

He flit his tail back and forth and risked the gentlest of love bites upon her armored shoulder. She gasped, not from pain, but from the implication. He was declaring his clear interest in her—which had always been extremely obvious anyway, honestly, but she thought the Khajiit had enough sense to leave his desire unspoken. Or unbitten. “Kharjo kasasha afali jan ariit,[10]” he growled in a way that resonated in his chest.

She looked into his magnetic, reflective eyes. “I can’t,” she said softly, apologetically, “You know I can’t…” It wasn’t the difference in their anatomy or cultural rituals that gave her pause. Though the physicality of a relationship was somewhat daunting, it wouldn’t stop her if she truly wanted it, wanted him; it hadn’t stopped her before. She simply was not interested in giving over to any lover, man, woman, mer, beastfolk, or otherwise, at the moment. Business first. Pleasure after. And never the two shall meet. There were more important things that required her focus. Like Sofie and the heist and general survival in the deathtrap that was Skyrim. She was already sacrificing a lot of her freedom in anonymity by keeping Sofie and intending to purchase a home. Those were acceptable changes—but a lover? Eh.

Nevertheless, his fanged mouth drew back into a smirk. “This one is no fool,” he reminded her, “Kharjo could no sooner claim you than he could cage a shadow.”

She pursed her lips and glared at him. “You’re riling me up for your amusement, isozeva[11]!” she accused, playfully, but relieved.

Kharjo growled at the challenge, endlessly pleased with her capriciousness. “How would you know of this one’s zeva[12] if you have never enjoyed it for yourself?” he pointed out suggestively.

Anja quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re growing bold,” she stated, feeling a little foolish for using such a pointed insult without thinking. It had been a bit of a common turn-of-phrase tossed between her and her Khajiiti friends back home. She hadn’t fully considered its implications until now when she was wrapped up in the embrace of a very impressive male Khajiit specimen. Dro’kodesh would have swatted her upside the head for speaking so carelessly.

“Frustrated,” he corrected, “But this one never takes more than is offered. Not tasting you makes the chase sweeter. Jer vari zha'ja afa Kharjo.[13]

She appreciated that about him. “You like to torture yourself, do you?” And she scratched his chin. “Then we’re perfectly matched because this one likes to tease.”

He purred at her ministrations, tail flicking and ears twitching backward. “Mmm, tell this one why you’ve come,” he commanded, reluctantly ending their play; he’d stretched their pleasantries as far as they would go.

“To pay a debt. And ask a favor.”

He canted his head with interest. “Vari owes no debt.”

“You were generous, Kharjo,” she reminded him, “I survived this city because of you. I won’t soon forget that.” She produced a pouch from her belt and shook its contents at him. He heard the pleasant clink of large gemstones falling against each other. “With interest,” she added as he accepted the repayment and looked inside, stunned. His Vari had a most generous rate for interest. He hadn’t really expected to be paid back and wasn’t sure he wanted it now that it might mean there would be no other reason for her to see him again. “It should be enough to pay your debt and get you a decent way toward home,” she continued, gently, carefully watching the sharp expressions of his face, “If you want it.”

His predatory eyes searched her expression. “Does—does Vari wish Kharjo gone from her sight?” he asked, sounding a little hurt.

Anja boka jer vabali kara,[14]” she corrected, whispering so the others would not hear her, though they were largely concerned with their own affairs, content to allow Kharjo his privacy, “I know you miss your homeland. Take no insult for I make none. I always pay my debts. The extra is just to say thank you. I would be sad to see you go, but if your heart longs for Elsweyr—go where you are happiest.”

The Khajiit warrior looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, but his ears were erect and his tail swayed back and forth, thoughtfully. “Jer vara natari athra, kha'jay serushna,[15]” he said at length, “It has been good to know you. Perhaps Kharjo will go. Perhaps he will not, but he would see you again whatever he chooses.”

She smiled sadly at him. Kharjo had always been so kind to her. Protective and loving. He gave with an open paw and only wanted to see her again to indulge in the playfulness of her company. Her quirks he adored and her unpredictability he enjoyed like she was Khajiit born in the wrong skin. He was a kinder and better friend than she had had in a long time, her first in Skyrim, and she wished she could give him more than a handful of gems and a wish for his happiness. “Maybe you’ll see me, then,” she replied noncommittally, “Maybe you won’t. Eyes sharp and maybe you’ll catch sight of me next time you’re in Riften.”

“This one—I look forward to it.” She pecked a kiss against his cheek. The Khajiit were truly such a lovely people once one took the trouble to know them. “What favor do you ask of this one?” Anja hesitated, but then quickly told Kharjo of Sofie. He blinked at her in surprise. “Vari’s heart may be too big for her own good…”

Vari is starting to agree with you.”

“This one does not travel to Whiterun,” he continued, “This Khajiit follows another route.”

“I remember,” she assured, “But Sofie—she’s just a child. The carriage driver won’t take her anywhere without permission from her parents and if I’m dead, I can’t give that permission. Please, Kharjo. She needs to get to my sister should the worse come to pass. I trust only you and she would be safest amongst the caravan, anyway.”

His tail flit back and forth nervously. “Men will not be understanding of a girl traveling with Khajiit,” he pointed out, “This one must ask Ahkari.”

“Then ask,” she prompted, “If coin will help—she’s welcome to all that I have if I’m dead. Sofie will be cared for once she reaches Whiterun.”

Obvious concern flooded the Khajiit’s face. “This one does not like to hear you speak this way,” he muttered.

She stroked his face. “It’s only if I fail, kitten,” she reminded him, gently, “And I’m too good to fail. But…” She sighed. “I can’t gamble with her life.”

Kharjo nodded and then took her by the hand. “Then come with this one and speak with Ahkari,” he said, firmly, “You are friend to Khajiit. Ri’saad declared it so. You paid Kharjo’s debt. Ahkari grows richer. The moons sway the tides. Maybe it is enough to change the currents, too.” And he led her back to the campfire where the caravan was preparing their evening meal.


It was enough to change the currents, too. That and Anja’s silver tongue and Kharjo’s unswerving loyalty. Though she was quite fluent in Ta’agra she missed a phrase or two in the fast-paced argument the warrior had with his employer, but she was halfway certain Kharjo may have made a promise or two to the Khajiiti merchant to her benefit. She’d have to quiz him on it later when she wasn’t pressed for time, but she wasn’t about to let Kharjo suffer in Skyrim any longer than he wanted to. If he stayed, it was his choice and not because someone held a debt or a promise or a contract over his head. That was a matter for another night—if she survived to see another. In the meantime, she dined with them and shared a drink of koomurrka[16] wine to seal the deal. After another round of heated fondling and nuzzling—and perhaps another series of love bites—out in the shadows of the caravan camp perimeter, Anja bid farewell to Kharjo and disappeared into the night.

She followed the shoreline of the lake, moving silently and quickly, careful not to draw the attention of anyone or anything lurking through the night with her. She was but a shadow in the darkness, caressing the edge of the water as it rippled against the rocks. Her body was already violently thrumming with the electricity of anticipation. This was home to her. This was what she lived for: the thrill. The rush of a theft so deftly executed, the only evidence of her presence was the vague tickle on the back of the watch dog’s neck and the absence of valuable property. Art. Pure fucking poetry as Corvus used to put it, but he was always saying stuff like that. Full of expletives and clever metaphors, that had been a part of his charm—part of what made the monster in his smile, the fiend in his eyes so hard to spot. She’d learned a lot from him, if nothing else. More than Sonja knew, would like, or would forgive. He used to live for the thrill too—he used to live, period.

After some time slinking along the edge of the road running the edge of Lake Honrich, she reached her destination: a small, lonely pier jutting out from the shore near a ruined fort. The fort was overtaken by bandits now and had been for some time, but it hadn’t always. Perhaps its previous occupants had made use of the forgotten pier and the dinky little boat docked to it with a rotting rope. She walked to the end of the pier and ran a finger over the enchanted cuff on her ear as she went, triggering the enchantment within it and setting the dark night ablaze in tones of blue and white in her vision. Blinking several times to adjust the shock to her eyes, she removed one of the many vials on her belt and downed its contents in one gulp. She made a face at the unpleasant taste. It was a shame she had no talent for magic, herself. Some spells were quite useful in her line of work and more convenient than foul tasting potions. She’d have to find a way to make them taste better.

Now prepared, she squinted across the lake for the best angle of approach. Vex had pointed out to her where the sewer entrance was on her map, but it wasn’t precise. Anja had the best chance of locating it from her current position, so she eased onto the surface of the water, her weight magically supported. Like a night breeze, she swept across the ripples of Lake Honrich, little more than a suggestion of shape and mass.

Through her borrowed Khajiiti vision, she could make out the shapes of several mercenaries patrolling the cluster of islands that made up Goldenglow Estate. They seemed perfectly oblivious to her open approach across the water, more concerned with potential intruders using more practical or apparent means—like the lone bridge connecting the estate to the shore. Idiots, she thought, What thief worth her lockpicks would be so obvious? Obvious was easy. Obvious was dangerous and obvious would get you killed. Anja wasn’t stupid enough to do obvious.

She eased herself off the surface of the water, careful not splash water in the process as she hoisted herself onto the rock ledge where a bit of worn scaffolding was situated. It served the double purpose of both marking the general area for the secret entrance and providing the best cover from the nearby walkway where a mercenary strolled, swinging his mace at his side like it wasn’t a dangerous weapon and whistling a nonsense, discordant tune. Anja rolled her eyes at his complacency and scanned her immediate vicinity, searching for the manhole Vex had promised her. She spotted it, partially obscured by some nearby vegetation, and sneaked over the moment the mercenary turned his back on his way toward the house. Before the clueless security guard began his return beat, she had already eased the rough wooden covering back, creaking gently and bloated from exposure to water, and was down the rusted rungs of the ladder into the safety of darkness.

The gentle music of dripping water and the squeaks and scratches of skeevers greeted Anja’s ears at the bottom of the ladder. She glanced down the shadowy, narrow passageways, eyes searching for the repulsive vermin. Her expression twisted into one of disgust. She could certainly smell them, that was for sure. Time for target practice…she drew her bow and slinked down the dank, dripping sewer, eyes sharp and alert.

Someone had certainly made the effort to rig the place with traps in anticipation of intruders, much to her annoyance. Rudimentary stuff mostly, easily spotted and avoided or disarmed in between flurries of arrows against hordes of hungry, ferocious skeevers. She was surprised by how many there were if Vex had been through only days before. Surely, she culled enough to lessen their numbers even if they bred like—well, vermin. She shivered with revulsion. Aringoth needs to handle his skeever problem.

About halfway through, the white glare of light sliced through her vision from two lit torch brackets bolted to the wall on either side of an alcove from which radiated the warm glow of fire. Intrigued, as the sewer had thus far been cold and unlit, Anja ran a finger over her ear cuff again, ending the enchantment for the moment as she approached so she wouldn’t be blinded by the glare. She pressed herself flat against the wall and listened for any signs of life before peeking around the corner into the recess and finding a barred gate. Lovely, she frowned, A sewer and a dungeon. Through the bars, she spied an old, ragged bedroll and a scattering of humanoid bones picked clean by ravenous skeevers. Why on Nirn would a beekeeper need a prison cell? Between the traps and the cell, Anja was beginning to find it odd that the sewer wasn’t better guarded with at least one merc patrolling the passageway. She crept closer to the door just to have a better look before moving on.

Something shiny caught her eye.

She squinted at it, trying to determine if it was worth her time to investigate, but it was hard to tell. The itch of larceny in her fingers, she experimentally fiddled with the latch to check that it was locked. Of course it was; it would be a poor prison if it wasn’t locked. Deftly, she removed her lockpicks and fed them carefully into the keyhole, maneuvering them with ease until she heard the satisfying click of release that heralded her success. The gate swung back and she slid inside, carefully toeing bones aside with her boot as—respectfully?—as such a task could be done. Her prize glinted gently in the torchlight: a ring still loosely looped around the finger bone of the unfortunate former prisoner. Stooping to pick it up, she made a face as the bone slipped out of the precious metal, clattering to the stone floor; she froze, waiting to see if the sound alerted more skeevers of her presence. It did not. She inspected the jewelry.

The band appeared to be made of ebony or something like it: a good, strong metal and black as night. Brilliantly crafted by some talented jeweler somewhere undoubtedly lamenting the loss of such a treasure; the black curves of the band looked like feathers, the setting made a nest of them swirled around a precious stone. The stone, itself, was interesting. Not as black as ebony, but close. A deep, dark gray with no face or facet, just smooth surface, rounded but irregular like an oval—like an eye—polished and almost metallic in its shine. Haematite, if she wasn’t mistaken. Not an exorbitant choice as the material was certainly common enough wherever iron could be mined but certainly a pretty one. When she moved it to catch the firelight, it almost seemed to wink at her, slow like the strange second eyelid of a reptile or bird. Might be worth a nice bit of gold to the right buyer, she thought, for its aesthetic beauty if nothing else. Madesi might be persuaded with the right words and maybe a Velvet LeChance…She slipped the ring onto the middle finger of her left hand and wiggled her fingers to admire the shine—only for the world around her to suddenly and terrifyingly become dark.

It took all of Anja’s self-control not to panic because she needed a cool head if she was about to be ambushed. No room for mistakes and fear was a great mother of them. She swiped her ear again and glared around the space, drawing her ebony mace, ready for a fight. But there was no one. Not a soul. When she managed to calm her heartbeat enough so that it wasn’t pounding in her ears anymore, she listened for any hint of retreating footsteps. But there was nothing. Not a sound. It made her shiver and her brow furrowed. Something nagged at the back of her mind and she looked at her newly acquired ring. Briefly, she thought perhaps she was being foolish, but she had seen stranger things in her lifetime, surely. So, she wiggled her fingers again, hesitantly. Instantly, she was blinded by a sharp spike of light as flame burst to life on the previously extinguished torches. She almost cursed aloud and scrambled to relieve her eyes of their night-vision.

After she had blinked some of the bright spots out of her sight, she reconsidered her prize. Well, aren’t you more precious than you appear? That little lucky enchantment, though small and understated, would be far more useful in her work than hawked at Madesi’s stall. She snapped her fingers for dramatic flair and the light went out again. Oh, Sofie’s going to get a kick out of this, she thought, smiling to herself. She looked at the scattered bones around her feet; probably not the best omen to take something off a thief that obviously did him no good in the end—though how he managed to hide it from his jailors, she didn’t know. Must have had light enough fingers for that, at least. She tried not to think about it too much. Then she crept back out into the passageway and continued her course, rubbing that little sapphire on her ear along the way.

When she reached the end of the sewer, the obvious choice was to go up the ladder and back above ground. It was supposed open up near the house, Vex had said. Right there at the backdoor where all she had to do was pick a simple lock. Boom, she was in. But, Anja didn’t do obvious. So she glanced around, curious if there was any other outlet into the sewer. I mean—it’s a sewer—it’s supposed to be attached to the house at some point, yeah? Not just running beneath it…? The faintest glow of light caught her eye and she popped her head into the alcove directly across from the ladder that had previously appeared uninteresting. It was less an alcove and more a shaft that opened up onto a higher level. That was where the light was coming from. That was likely the access to the house for which she was looking. But it was a bit high up.

She huffed, removed her mace from her belt again, took a few steps back and then ran at the slick sewer wall. Traction was a bit of an issue, but with the reach of the mace, she managed to hook its curved edge onto the lip of the opening and pull herself up. Slime and stone were unforgiving; it could have been quieter, but she managed it. She waited a heartbeat to listen for anyone coming, but heard nothing. No alarms raised, no stomping, running feet, no rallying shouts. Swiftly, she rubbed the sapphire again and crept down the shorter, drier, and well-lit passageway to another ladder that was in far better shape than either of the ones in the lower level. She climbed it, light and quiet and patient. Her fingers splayed against the trapdoor when she reached the top and gently lifted it a crack to see where she had come out.

It was dim, but not unlit and it was silent. There was light coming in from another room. She risked a few more inches and then a few more until the trapdoor was fully open and she climbed the rest of the way through. The cellar, if she was not mistaken, which was very good because the cellar was precisely where the safe was supposed to be. Oh good, this might be easier than I thought it’d be. She went to the barred gate and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. Her expression flattened and she pulled it open, almost disappointed at how much easier her job was becoming. Damn thing did squeak like a skeever in heat, though.

She stilled and strained her ears, but apparently the squealing hinges had only sounded horrifyingly loud to her sensitized hearing because no one else seemed aware of them. She breathed a sigh of relief and made a mental note to find some oil along the way, any oil, even if it was from another sleazy sex dungeon like the one in Haelga’s Bunkhouse, so long as it eased the grind of metal against metal. I should have brought some myself, godsdamnit, she cursed, Stupid, petty theft cat burglar mistake. Dro’kodesh would turn in his grave, Rajhin keep him. She squeezed through the gate rather than risk opening it any farther.

The room she entered was small, well-lit, and contained the object of her desire: Aringoth’s safe. There was a slight spring to her silent step as she padded over to the large iron box and inspected the lock. That took the glee right out of her in an instant. That lock was impossible to pick. Too many tumblers wedged at too many angles. The key was likely cylindrical and covered with an odd number of teeth. Well, not impossible, she tried to reason, but she didn’t have the tools or the time to take it apart, and it had been a long time since she ever had to deal with something so complex. Undoubtedly, it would be well into daylight by the time she got anywhere with it and that wouldn’t do. She needed the darkness of the night to safely escape.

Thoughtfully, she tapped her index finger against her chin. There was nothing for it. She would just have to retrieve the key from its owner. It was late, so Aringoth was likely in his room, sleeping. She sighed, made comically rude gestures toward the heavens, and then stalked up the stairs to the basement.


Nocturnal’s dusky tits, what in Oblivion is up Aringoth’s ass? Anja was developing a very dark fantasy about different ways to prey upon the wood elf’s obvious paranoia. She knew that the interior of the house proper was crawling with mercenaries. Vex had said as much, but there were at least six patrolling the basement alone. She had had to get creative to get passed some of them, particularly the first she encountered right outside the cellar door!

On the first floor, the voices of another three or four carried down the hall from the kitchen where it sounded like they were playing a spirited game of dice while another two patrolled the hallway she needed to cross to get upstairs. Nocturnal’s tits, no wonder Vex was caught. This is a fucking nightmare! The only way she managed to get through was due to luck. A small fight broke out amongst the players in the kitchen and it drew one of the patrolling mercs off his beat long enough to create a badly needed window. Anja didn’t hesitate and slipped through and up the stairs before anyone was the wiser.

On the second level, things were much calmer. No patrol. Just a few posted enforcers every so often meant to keep an eye on the exits and windows. She slipped through the adjoining rooms to avoid them—and found where the mercenaries slept when they weren’t on duty. Luckily, none of them stirred with her entrance or appeared to be near to waking. Unluckily, however, one of the hirelings from outside—the tone-deaf whistler—had just been relieved from his shift and was eagerly seeking the bliss of a good night’s sleep. Anja had to hold her breath and hide behind the door for several moments that felt like eternities while the warrior divested himself of his armor, farted, and then faceplanted into the nearest empty bed. She didn’t move until his breathing became slow and steady. He wasn’t fully asleep when she crept by him and stirred dangerously when a floorboard groaned beneath her foot, but his heavy-lidded eyes did not catch sight of her as she wove through the odd arrangement of beds obviously shoved into the space on short notice to accommodate such a large security force.

Then it was back out into the hallway and into the next room were a lone man sat a table beneath a large window overlooking the lake. Surely, he was supposed to be alert outside the master bedroom, but he was face down in his arms, breathing slowly, obviously asleep. She slipped by him easily and tried the door to what she suspected was the master bedroom. It was locked. She rolled her eyes, went back to the slumbering man, and gave him a thorough once over with her gaze. The key dangling from a loop on his belt immediately caught her attention and she deftly lifted it from his belt. Child’s play.

The hinges of the bedroom door did not squeak, thankfully. They were well oiled and swung silent and smooth. Anja snuck in without the slightest sound, easing the door closed behind her. She locked it again. Just in case, but she doubted anyone had taken even the slightest note of her presence. The bedroom was dimly lit. Finally, a break! She hated sneaking through brightly lit hallways; it was unnerving, naked. She much preferred to clothe herself in shadows and Aringoth’s room was filled with them.

The space was large with a high ceiling and divided diagonally into two by a rise in the floor. That’s where the bed, wardrobe, and dresser were arranged, and the lone light source, a low burning lantern, sat upon the bedside table. The lower section was filled with bookcases, shelves, and a desk tucked into the corner. The wall opposite the door was lined with large windows that overlooked the estate islands and beyond. It was a nice, pleasant sort of room that was likely warm and inviting in the during the day with the sun pouring through the windows, or it would be if there wasn’t a very agitated Bosmer pacing back and forth at the foot of his bed, head in his hands and muttering to himself. He was also heavily armed with an elven bow and quiver of arrows to match.

Anja frowned. Poor darling really needs to relax, she decided, You’d think he expected the Dark Brotherhood to come for him. She waited a few heartbeats until she got the rhythm of his pacing and then held her breath as she approached him, fast and noiseless. Bosmer were notoriously difficult to sneak up on. Those sharp little ears were nearly as keen as a Khajiit’s. So she didn’t plan on giving him time to hear her and as soon as she thought she was close enough, she discretely waved her left hand, using her newly acquired little trinket to put out the light of the lantern on the bedside table. Aringoth came to an abrupt halt, his attention drawn away as his mind momentarily fumbled to recalculate how much oil he had put in the thing before lighting it. In that brief moment, Anja closed the gap between them and thrust a sweet-smelling vial beneath his nose. He inhaled sharply at the sudden change in scent, unaware of the hand holding it beneath his nose or even of her presence inches from him; he swayed and took a stumbling step toward the bed, feeling intensely sleepy.

Anja withdrew to the darkest corner of the room, capping the vial, and watched as he staggered onto his bed, still fully dressed and armed, but incoherent. She approached him when he started snoring. Carefully, she relieved him of his weapon and ammunition, setting them neatly upon the dresser. It was a fine weapon and ammunition of that kind usually fetched a decent amount of coin at the blacksmith’s, but Anja refrained from wrapping the bow and arrows in a pillowcase and pilfering it. She had an agenda and extra weight that risked extra sound or the possibility of hindering a narrow escape was not apart of it. Not that night, anyway.

So, she sighed wistfully to herself and thoroughly patted Aringoth down for other goods. His coin, keys, and jewelry went into the large pouch attached to the back of her belt. She checked his boots, too. It was amazing the kinds of treasures she had found stashed in the folds of socks or the toes of shoes. Unfortunately, Aringoth hid nothing there beyond a pair of very holey stockings. Then she took a quick scan of the room, eying anything potentially precious and portable. Her gaze caught on a large solid gold statue of a honey bee. That’ll do. Into the pouch it went.

She nearly turned to leave after that, but remembered her need for oil, so she doubled back for the lantern. Empty skooma bottles littered the tabletop beside the lamp. Gods, this shit is everywhere around here. Poor Aringoth needed something to take the edge off, he was under so much stress. She frowned. By no means perfect, she enjoyed a little skooma now and then, too. Often she partook in the company of her Khajiiti acquaintances, but there were cultural rules and limits restricting their intake and she preferred it that way. She’d seen many a poor soul shake themselves to death a tragic mess in some gutter on the Waterfront, half blind, and aching for a high that would never be as good as the very first one. Sugar-Tooth sounded too benign for that kind of pain. She used a few of Aringoth’s spent bottles to take some of the lantern oil, then she tucked the Bosmer into bed for her own amusement and left as quietly as she had arrived.


Anja had to gas one of the mercs in the cellar in order to make it back to the safe. She may have been able to sneak passed him if she had tried; perhaps she was losing her patience, but it had already been a long night and she still had to light some bees on fire before making her daring escape. So, she hurriedly emptied the safe of its contents: gold bars, a silver bar, gems, odd jewelry, and a few bottles of skooma. Wisely, she double checked for false bottoms and secret compartments and her inquisitive fingers caught on the fine edge of a hidden latch. She pried at it with the help of her lockpick wrench, and it popped open. Several documents and a small ledger were stuffed inside the narrow space. There wasn’t time to inspect any of them, so she quickly stuffed them into her loot pouch, dramatically arranged the door of the safe to be picturesquely open for the benefit of whoever discovered it had been robbed, and slipped back into the sewer (after oiling up those horrible, horrible hinges.)

She immediately went up the ladder and back out into the pleasant chill of the night. The outlet had come up near the back door, just as Vex had said it would and there were no roving patrols along the narrow ledge of rock that separated the foundations of the house from the dark waters of the lake. She slinked over to the corner of the house and peeked around its edge to get a quick assessment of the passing mercenaries. Eight, by her count, before she had to duck back into the shadows. Well beyond the dozen and a half Vex had reported. Though the guild officer hadn’t gotten as far as Anja had—and Aringoth could have called for reinforcements. Poor mer was certainly paranoid enough to pay for overkill. She’d have to be silent and quick and probably invisible to successfully navigate the holes of their security grid. Better safe than dead.

After downing an invisibility potion, she crept out from behind the house and silently padded along the walkway in the wake of one of the patrolling mercenaries. She took a sharp left when he turned to make his way back and followed another merc over a small bridge to the island where the large apiaries were arranged in a neat row on the far ridge. She sidestepped the oblivious guard and darted passed him, up the ramp to the hives. For this part of the job, she had worked out a bit of alchemy. A twist on the Poor Man’s Firewall. Smaller and designed to just burn long; more firesalts than anything else stuffed into a little scrap of cloth the size of a gold coin. She tucked each precious, volatile bundle into the flammable straw exterior of the last three apiaries and lit the long fuses. Another waterwalking potion and she lowered herself onto the lake’s surface from the nearest ridge.

She paused about halfway back toward the shore to watch the hives go up in flames, to be sure none of her fuses went out unexpectedly. Luckily, all had gone according to plan and the large skeps roared into the night with the muted voice of fire, scratching at the sky with hungry fingers of light. It was actually kind of beautiful, if destructive. The aura of light it produced nearly reached her where she stood, watching, but not quite. She was still safe in the darkness, though she took a couple of steps backward just to be sure. The panicked shouts of hired muscle scrambling to contain the situation and find those responsible echoed through the air and drowned out the song of the inferno. There was no more to see. Her job was done. The message had been sent and was received. Loud and clear.

As she turned to continue to shore, however, she heard a loud crack issue from the islands. Sharply, she turned to see if something had gone wrong. Maybe the blaze had been too much and taken more than just the three hives she had intended. But no. Everything was as she had intended, but one thing: the fire was blazing purple now. Anja’s brow furrowed. There was absolutely nothing contained in her little firebombs that would have colored fire in such a way or so vibrantly. The stubborn orange hue of the firesalts wouldn’t allow for it, in the first place, anyway. And the voidsalts? Only a few grains and they usually burned a bright white. What in Oblivion are those idiots trying to use to put the blaze out? she wondered, but she doubted there was anything mundane a bunch of mercenaries could get their hands on in the home of a beekeeper.

Then the fire seemed to take the shape of something else. A bird. A raven. Briefly. The sweltering flames curved into a head, hooked into a beak, and fanned out into the span of fiery feathered wings. She blinked and it was gone as if it had never been. She wondered if she was seeing things. The flames were still a violent hue of violet, though. I need a drink, she decided. Maybe she had accidently caught a whiff of the potion she used to knock out Aringoth. No. She wasn’t so careless. This is something else…


Anja sorted through her score on the floor of Khargo’s tent by lantern light. The Khajiit, himself was stretched out across his bedroll behind her, on his side with his tail flitting back and forth lazily. He was clothed but free of his armor and a bit tired. He hadn’t been able to get proper sleep after they parted ways, he was so worried. And then she slipped into his tent hours later without a sound. Only the soft flutter of the tent flap alerted him of someone’s presence within his space, but before he could react, she was on top of him, draping her body over him like a shadow and whispered in his ear. “Told you I’m too good to fail, kitten.” He’d never been so glad to be ambushed in his life.

Now, he was looking over the curve of her leather-bound thigh with interest as she combed through her bag. He took no issue with her chosen profession and, in fact, admired her skill in the shadows. That besides, he was curious what his little Vari had been up to. It was a vulnerable moment for a thief to reveal spoils to another. Even though Kharjo had no expectation or desire for a cut, it was still evidence of a crime committed. A wordless gesture of faith as Anja technically placed her freedom in his paws, trusting that he would not turn her in (not that he wanted to or could, really—why would the guard listen to a Khajiit?) or demand, blackmail, or leverage payment from her for his silence. Not her first demonstration of trust in him. He knew her name; her real name and that was something even more precious, a secret he gladly protected even from the others in the caravan. It pleased him greatly she felt so comfortable in his presence.

Anja had only initially returned to him as a curtesy, to assure her friend that she had not died on the job, but then decided to take advantage of the caravan’s ban from the city. Brynjolf or Mercer or both likely had lookouts waiting to report any sign that she had successfully completed her job and was on her way back. It’s what she would have done with a contract so important to the Guild. Just a little insurance. She didn’t take it personally. And a giant, raging violet fire was certainly confirmation enough that she had gotten the job done. From there, she had a little wiggle room with how long she could take getting back to the Guild. Maybe she had to lose some persistent mercenaries. Maybe she ran into a different kind of trouble out in the forest. Animals? A passing guard? Bandits? Who knew? So long as she didn’t show her face within the city, the Guild definitely wouldn’t know and lucky for her, she had a cozy, safe space just outside its limits.

 She only wanted to get a look at the spoils before she had to hand them over—and maybe skim a little off the top. And skim she did. There was enough to make it credible if a few items went missing. Mostly gold and gems that she stuffed into another pouch and set aside. She’d have to find a good place to ditch it long enough to report in. Maybe Kharjo would be willing to hang onto it for her for the night. “Want these?” she asked the Khajiit as she gestured to the handful of skooma bottles she had taken from the safe.

His eyes flit to the drug with mild interest. He sat up and plucked one from the cluster on the ground. “Perhaps,” he purred, “Skooma always fetches a good price to the right buyers. Are you sure you do not want it for yourself?”

“I’m not a skooma dealer.”

“Mmmm. How is the quality?”

Anja shrugged. “I haven’t tested it,” she admitted, “But it’s popular around the city. I’ve heard rumors of a few addicts—know a few more.”

“Poor indicator. Sugar-Tooth are not picky,” Kharjo pointed out as he pulled the stopper free of the small bottle.

“True,” Anja agreed and watched as the Khajiit sniffed the substance deeply and made a face, huffing to clear his senses of the odor. “It bad?” she asked, concerned she had inadvertently handed poison over to her friend.

“It does not smell pure,” he growled, then pressed a clawed finger against the mouth of the bottle and tipped it upside down to wet his pad. He set the bottle down and licked the small dose from his finger. He grimaced again. “It does not taste pure,” he confirmed, “Either a fool has fouled what his teacher has taught him, or a fiend cares more for gold than selling gurosh[17].”

Anja frowned. “What’s it cut with? Can you tell?”

“Kharjo cannot tell. Perhaps a zalrishajiit[18] could tell you, but this one is not so talented.” He watched as her face hardened. “Vari is disturbed by this,” he observed.

Her eyes looked almost black in the dim light. “I don’t like dirty skooma dealers,” she admitted, “There’s a difference between pleasure and—vice. Vice is dangerous and ruthless and kills indiscriminately. I don’t like it in my city.”

Kharjo’s ears flit curiously and he canted his head. “What will you do?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She took a deep breath. “Destroy these, first,” she answered, “Can you get rid of them for me?”

“This one can. Kharjo has no wish to poison people, either.”

“And then—just stay clear of it, I guess,” she shrugged again, “Protect what’s mine. I can’t conquer a skooma ring alone and why should I?”

His tail flit back and forth and he smiled gently at her. “Vari can do as she pleases,” he insisted, “If she wants a skooma ring to fall, it would fall.”

She scoffed at him. “Flatterer,” she accused, “I’m just one small sneak-thief. Not a warrior or a hero—or a battlemage. I stay cloaked in shadows and pick your pockets and that’s a life good enough for the likes of me. The guard should be protecting the city.”

“The guard is too busy protecting Riften from Khajiit merchant caravans,” he pointed out, chuckling.

It was hard to argue with that observation. “Well—if I come across anything in my work—I could anonymously pass it along to the bunch of clueless idiots,” she relented, “And maybe they’ll be able to get their shit together long enough for a skooma ring to fall.”

“See? If Vari wishes it, it will be so.”

Anja glared at him playfully and nuzzled affectionately against him. “You think too highly of me, ishana[19],” she insisted, “Careful you don’t place me too high up. It’s a long fall.”

Kharjo returned the affectionate gesture, sliding his paw around her middle and pulling her backwards into him so she was flush against his chest. He nibbled on her shoulder, but didn’t bite her fully. “Too late. You are the kha’jay[20] to Kharjo,” he purred.

He didn’t see it, but her expression was pained. “I have to go, soon.”

Kha’jay often does,” he said, knowingly.

She sighed, but let him hold her as she turned her attention to the last items in her score: the documents and ledger. The juicy stuff…Information always had the potential to be more valuable than any shiny knick-knacks lying around a poorly secured residence. And more dangerous. Corvus enjoyed information brokering; he had been good at it and it was a practice that had gotten him—gotten them all in trouble. But it was information that she had been sent to retrieve, first and foremost. The Guild wanted to know what in Oblivion their ‘sweetest deal’ had gotten up to without their knowledge, and if it was important to the Guild, Anja definitely wanted to be in the know. Another opportunity could arise and she wanted to be ready for it.

She leafed through the loose papers first and set the ledger aside. The first she examined was a piece of correspondence: 

Aringoth,

This document acknowledges the sale of Goldenglow Estate and all property, assets and materials contained within. Payment of the property has been made in full by Gajul-Lei as an agent on behalf of the buyer. All dealings with the Thieves Guild in Riften are to cease immediately. To deter any possible retribution for this act, you are to take immediate steps to protect our assets in any way you see fit. I think you’ll find that the Thieves Guild is far more bark than bite and will likely avoid Goldenglow Estate rather than thin their already dwindling numbers.

Good luck and may this be the start of a long and lucrative partnership.

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Oh, you stupid, desperate fucker,” she breathed, “You are lucky I came for you instead of the Dark Brotherhood.” Quickly, she looked through the other pages. The original offer made by Gajul-Lei on behalf of his or her client—though the name was obviously Argonian and sounded male to her. She could be wrong, though. Some of those names were tricky. There was also a transaction record for the terms of the purchase and an official deed transferring complete ownership of the estate to that anonymous client. It was all there: the evidence of Aringoth’s desperation.

And the mark that stood in place of Aringoth’s unknown business partner—Anja knew what it was, what it meant even if she didn’t know who it represented, and that made her nervous. The tone of the letter, itself, had implied someone had a personal bone to pick with the Thieves Guild and even seemed to possess a little familiarity with the way the organization worked, but that little symbol of a dagger in the darkness confirmed it. That dagger meant revenge. Someone was coming for the Guild. She’d have to tell Brynjolf somehow without implicating herself. He needed to know.

“Is this bad?” Kharjo asked. He had been reading over her shoulder.

“Aye,” she answered absently as she reached for the ledger and flipped through the pages, following the flow of money through the columns as it ebbed out of Aringoth’s business, drained steadily into the pockets of the Thieves Guild. He’d been clever enough to skim a little away which was most of what she’d cleaned out of the safe. The hefty sum he’d sold Goldenglow for was marked down, but she hadn’t found it down there in the cellar. It was possible she had simply missed it in her haste to get in, get the job done, and get out. Or the money was somewhere else—waiting for him if he managed to hold out against the Guild. Her fingers twitched; she wanted that payout. She continued to sort through the pages again until something came loose from the back cover of the ledger. It was an envelope from the treasure house in Markarth.

“Oh, Noctural, you beautiful Mistress of the Night…!” she breathed and opened the correspondence. It contained details concerning the large amount of money Aringoth, alias Emilien, had secured in the Silver-Blood vaults, and a small silver coin pressed with the ram of Markarth on one side and Aringoth’s credentials on the other. That was enough gold to solve all her troubles if she could get her hands on it and not cross anyone in the process. She stuffed the envelope and coin down into her boot for better safekeeping and tossed all of her things back into her pouch.

Vari is very pleased,” Kharjo purred, “Will she be taking a trip to Markarth, soon?”

She tensed slightly and looked at him sideways. “It’s a lot of coin, Kharjo,” she pointed out, “Are you hungry for a piece?”

“Only of you,” he replied, running his other paw down her thigh, “But Kharjo will not say no if you wish to shower him with gifts.”

Anja snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she assured and then kissed him, “I have to go. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

He nodded. “Tread carefully, kha’jay,” he rumbled and lightly licked her neck near her ear.

“Can I leave this with you?” she asked, pointing to her stash, “I’ll come for it sometime in the afternoon.”

“It would please Kharjo to do so,” he answered, and he let his paws fall slowly from her body as she slid away from him and out into the night again.


Brynjolf was leaning over the Guild Master’s desk when Tyv entered the Cistern from the graveyard entrance. He had been doing a bit of bookkeeping and it was giving him a headache because the coin seemed to be disappearing faster than the Guild could steal it. They needed more jobs, more recruits to complete those jobs, and more influence to make those clients pay them worth a damn. He hated—hated—accounting, but Mercer would trust no one else with it. So, he was stuck. At least it had given him something to do while he waited anxiously for word that Goldenglow was smoldering (within reason) on the lake. Rune had practically bounced into the Cistern to let him know. Then it was the wait for Tyv to show up still breathing that cut another year or so off his life expectancy. But there she was, as Cynric had reported, alive and well and strutting towards him all smug confidence. He grinned.

“Well, don’t you look pleased to see me, dear,” she purred when she was close enough to speak without her voice echoing off the walls of the Cistern.

“Word on the street is Goldenglow’s been hit,” he said slyly, “Good job, lass.”

She took a deep breath and glanced around the slumbering Cistern. Those who weren’t out on a job were asleep—or, more likely, pretending to be asleep. Thieves were nosey by nature and it hadn’t been long enough for Cynric and Rune to have truly drifted off after reporting back. They just wanted to overhear what the deal was with the job that nearly killed Vex. “It was a piece of cake,” Tyv bragged, perching on the corner of the desk to emphasize her small, but shapely rump; she smiled back at Brynjolf over her shoulder. She was putting on a show for an audience she knew she had. “Don’t know what all the fuss was about.”

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble from Vex talking like that,” he pointed out.

“You going to tell on me?”

“I won’t have to.” His eyes flit to the ‘sleeping’ Guild members.

She hummed appreciatively. At least they were on the same page. “I could use a drink,” she said pointedly, “Know where a girl can get one at this hour?”

“The Flagon is closed for the night. I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“What a shame.”

He hesitated. “Unless you’d prefer something more—intimate? I know a place.”

She was looking away from him when he made the invitation, but he sensed rather than observed her tension. She shrugged, playing it cool as always. “As long as the liquor’s good, you can take me anywhere.”

He smirked and walked toward the Guild Masters’ hallway, beckoning to her with a casual flick of his hand. She followed, hips swaying maddeningly, but she stayed a step or two away from him, keen to keep some space between them in the darkness. He had noticed she preferred distance. All pretty, inviting smiles when it suited her, but she liked to be admired from afar which suited him fine. She was less distracting farther away.

He made straight for the liquor cabinet once they reached his room, without so much as a glance in her direction, but he could feel her expectant eyes on him. He poured the same vintage they had enjoyed last time and handed the silver goblet to her. “I hope it’s to your liking,” he said, smiling at her over the rim of his own goblet as he took a seat at the table in the corner.

“Aren’t you eager to please?” she quipped, leaning against the wall beside his open door. She always looked a breath away from bolting; perpetually on the verge of escaping, vanishing into the night.

He laughed. “I’m in a good mood,” he declared, “You’ve done well. Sent our message clear as day. Or fire. Purple fire, at that. Stroke of genius there, lass! Nothing says ‘intentional’ like shadow colored fire. I didn’t know you had a knack for magic.”

She hesitated and he noted it. “I’m just full of surprises that way,” she said, sounding a little perplexed, “I like to keep you all guessing.”

He hummed his disbelief and traced circles on the table with his index finger. “Makes it hard to plan heists for you if I don’t know what all your strengths are,” he said, taunting. The day before, while Tyv was running errands, Rune had let him know she’d been asking about him while they were in Windhelm, trying to find a way onto his shortlist.

That caught her attention; her gaze flit to him sharp and hungry. “You planning something special for me, Bryn?” she asked, her voice low and hopeful.

He shrugged. “Not yet, but—you pulled this off, I might be inclined to think of you next time I have need of proper talent.”

“You know how to make a girl blush, darling. I’m all aquiver with anticipation.”

“You taken such a fancy to me that a little professional curtesy makes your skirts flutter?” he teased.

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about what makes my skirts flutter,” she replied, looking at him over the rim of her wineglass.

“You’d be surprised.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re not the only one with great hands.”

“You are in a good mood.”

“I’m glad to play your little games as much as the next man, I suspect.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m a little disappointed,” she pouted, “I thought you liked to play, too.”

“Never said I didn’t,” he pointed out, “It’s always a pleasure. A perk of our business relationship.”

“Like this fine wine?”

“Amongst other things.”

“Oh? You have my attention.”

“I have a bonus for you. A little something between friends if I like what you have to say about Goldenglow.”

She smirked. “Business before pleasure it is, then.” She dumped the contents of a large pouch on her belt out on his table and observed with smug delight that he was impressed with her score. “It was a lucrative venture as you can see, but I think what your little covetous heart really desires is contained in these,” she said, picking up the documents and handing them to him.

“You’ve read them already, I take it,” he said, taking them from her, his fingers intentionally grazing over hers just to see, just to test the limit, but she didn’t flinch or blush or shudder. Only the slight flutter of her eyelids gave any indication that she noticed his touch at all.

“Wouldn’t you?” she countered, “I had to make sure they were useful, after all. You wouldn’t be happy with me if I brought back Aringoth’s letters from his mother.”

Brynjolf couldn’t argue with that and he wasn’t upset. She had a right know what she had been sent in to ferret out. She’d be stupid not to peek. “And you really didn’t have any trouble with the hired help?” he asked, curious to see if her answer changed now that they were alone.

She pursed her lips but gave one curt nod. “They didn’t even know I was there,” she assured, but with considerably less bravado than usual, “It might have—taken all of my considerable skill to keep it that way, but—job’s done and done clean.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, genuinely pleased with her honest assessment, “The elf lives, then.” It was hardly a question. Tyv had said she would spare him; things would have to have gone very wrong very quickly to force her hand otherwise.

“He does.”

“Maven will be pleased.”

Her expression grew doubtful. “That remains to be seen.”

Brynjolf frowned. “Don’t tell me it’s worse than we thought.”

“Depends on how bad you thought it was to begin with,” she gestured to the documents in his hand, “Go ahead. It’s a great read. Riveting.”

“Alright, let me take a look at what you’ve found…” Tyv watched him as his eyes flit over the contents of the pages in his hands. She saw the moment he read the bad news, his brow furrowed. “Aringoth’s sold Goldenglow?” he exclaimed, “What’s that idiot thinking?”

“That he could finally get out from under Maven’s thumb, if I had to guess,” she replied, offhandedly, “I mean, what did he have to lose?”

“His life,” Brynjolf countered as if it were obvious.

“He was losing that already, though, wasn’t he?” she pointed out, “Coin by coin, a prisoner of his own estate. Didn’t even have the freedom to choose his own clients. Couldn’t make enough gold to escape, either.”

He could hardly believe his ears. “Are you saying that you sympathize with that fool?” Sympathy was bad. Sympathy was dangerous. Sympathy rendered perfectly talented thieves impotent.

She shook her head slightly. “No, he gambled and lost and now he has to pay up. Even I pay my debts…”

“After you’ve failed to flirt and flatter your way out of them first,” he pointed out, interrupting.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying, Bryn. Besides, if you recall, I still had to earn my coin back. All my charm was wasted on you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Tell that to my coin purse.”

“So, you feel for the elf because he couldn’t weasel his way out of his deal with us, lass? Feel a little kindred spirit with him?”

She glared but shrugged “All I’m saying is I can understand why he did what he did.” She paused. “There was a smarter way to play him, is all. It can’t always be ‘Give me what I want or I’ll hurt you.’ That’s a thug’s line and we’re better than that. And sometimes threatening someone’s life isn’t enough because there are some things worth dying for.”

“Like?”

“Freedom.”

He looked her over thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say my bleeding heart wouldn’t get you paid?”

She smirked, chuckling. “Yes. I did,” she admitted, “But look at where this has left the Guild: with no coin and a pissed off patron when you give her the bad news. Maybe Aringoth would have been less eager to make a deal with a shady stranger if his situation had been a touch more tolerable.”

Brynjolf didn’t completely disagree with her. She had a point, but people were also often unpredictable. Maybe Aringoth would have been reluctant to engage a new, unknown threat to his life if the Guild hadn’t been leaning so hard on him. And maybe that deal would have sounded just as sweet, regardless. Nevertheless, that just wasn’t the way things were run in Riften—at least, not anymore. Not since Mercer took over things…Though it was true he and the Guild Master tended to butt heads over certain matters, Brynjolf had a grudging respect for the man. They had known each other for a very long time and Mercer tended to rely on him for the day-to-day upkeep of things more than anyone else.

But the master thief still remembered what things had been like before. With Gallus. Like night and day, that Imperial ran things with a clever application of skill rather than force. ‘That’s what got him killed, in the end,’ Mercer had said once, in the midst of their grief, ‘Too soft for his own good. We have to be stronger. For him.’ It had sounded reasonable at the time. They had all lost a friend—two, counting Karliah, his murderer—and grief had a way of reframing even the shittiest outlooks as something akin to truth. So, they all toughened up. Mercer most of all, though he had never been anything less than gruff and greedy, and they never looked back. Brynjolf had never looked back.

Hindsight was not a skill contained in the average thief’s repertoire, generally speaking. It was dangerous to look over your shoulder during a chase; it would only trip you up, slow you down, or let something very bad, indeed, catch up to you. So, eyes forward; eyes sharp; always look ahead for the next golden opportunity before you miss it. That’s what kept someone in his line of work alive. That’s what Brynjolf told himself, anyway. Until now. Now that Tyv had strolled—no, sauntered—no, strutted into his life with that same spark of mischief that was part cleverness, part arrogance, and part—heart—that Gallus had with all the enviable skill to back it up. The departed Guild Master would have liked her, Brynjolf decided, if he was still living. It had been a long time since he had met a thief with a proper sense of honor. “Well, he’s hanged himself, now,” he said, changing the subject, “He has no idea the extent of Maven’s fury when she’s been cut out of a deal.”

“I’m sure he’ll find out soon enough.”

“In the meantime, we’re stuck with this. If only the parchment had given us the buyer’s name instead of that odd symbol,” he continued, “Find anything else that might give us a clue as to what that means?”

When Tyv didn’t immediately answer him, he looked up at her to see that her expression had become hard and dark which was incredibly unusual for the normally flippant and grinning thief. “No, I didn’t find anything in the house,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him, “But—I may happen to know something about the mark that might help…or it might not. Sort of depends on you, really.”

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow. “Not gonna lie, lass, that sounds a bit dodgy, even for me.” He didn’t think she had anything to do with the anonymous buyer of Goldenglow, but others might not be so generous to someone suspiciously new to the Guild and in possession of convenient knowledge.

Tyv smiled brilliantly to put him at ease, but it didn’t really have the same effect as it usually dd. “I assure you, darling, this is quite tame compared to the many other, fine criminal talents I possess.”

“And what is that?”

“History.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught that.”

“I don’t know who the symbol represents. That’s something only this Gajul-Lei knows, but I know what it represents—or did once…” she clarified.

“Oh, this I have to hear,” Brynjolf crossed his arms over his chest, intrigued. “Go on, I’m listening.”

Tyv hesitated. “It’s a vengeance mark,” she explained, “An old, old Shadowmark that isn’t used anymore—at least, that I’ve seen. Revenge is not good business, as I’m sure you know, and sister Guilds finally learned how to have better working relationships, so—it took a special kind of betrayal to warrant the brand and that didn’t happen often. It faded from use. Until now.”

“A—vengeance mark…” he repeated, his good mood practically souring before her eyes.

“Aye.” She grimaced.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It’s not good, no.”

He was silent for a moment. “A Shadowmark,” he repeated and then let out a heavy sigh that came out more like a growl, “Between that and the sass in that letter—our hidden enemy can’t be a stranger.”

Tyv shook her head. “I don’t know what kind of shit you got up to before I got here, but—if you have some jilted members or patrons hiding in Guild closets, you might want to take a look at them first.”

Brynjolf frowned. “Aye, we have a few. Impossible not to in this line of work. Someone always gets screwed somewhere. Hopefully most of them are dead or moved on.”

“So cynical, Bryn.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Not disagreeing. It’s just—you’re so cute when you’re brooding.”

His expression flattened. “I’ll check my sources and speak to Mercer about your hunch.”

“I don’t need credit for knowing a bit of history, darling. Feel free to leave my name out of it. I just want my bonus.”

The master thief gave her a thorough once over with his lovely emerald eyes that would have made a more modest girl blush. He was intrigued why she wanted no recognition in this small matter, but was willing to be the first to volunteer for what had, at the time, seemed a suicide mission. “Tell you what,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I’ll let you keep everything on this table if you just answer a few questions for me. Honestly.”

Tyv cocked an eyebrow at him and her gaze shifted to the riches spread across the tabletop. He could practically see the sums she was performing behind those sparkling blue eyes. “Honesty is rather pricey, Bryn,” she said after a moment, “Especially from me.”

“That’s why I’m paying so well.”

She licked her lips as if the very presence of wealth was enough to whet her appetite. “Ask your questions and I’ll decide whether or not I want to answer them.”

“I already know you ran with a Guild before,” he said, “Were you a master?”

She smirked. “Yes.”

He smiled at her. “I thought so,” he admitted, “Too good to be a novice. That why you knew that little tidbit of Guild history?”

“Oh, yes. I taught a class in it right after techniques in lockpicking,” she snarked, “Old Guild Master had a thing for history. Liked to spout it off sometimes. I must have been listening more than I thought because I picked up a thing or two, didn’t I?”

“That you did, lass. Like how to heal more than a little flesh wound. Between that and the fire, I am curious what sort of tricks they taught you at your old Guild.”

“That a problem for you?”

“On the contrary, it could be very useful, was very useful to Vex already.”

She hummed knowingly. “You want me to share,” she stated.

“If you’re so inclined, yes,” he leaned forward, sliding the goblet in his hand across the table as he did so, bringing it closer to hers, “Couldn’t hurt to help your thieving brothers and sisters, could it?”

“I’ll teach anyone who asks, but not for free.”

“Of course, this isn’t a charity.”

“And I’m not a mage, so don’t advertise me as such. I just—know a thing or two about the arcane and can write poetry in alchemical form.”

“I might be your first student. I’m a quick study.”

“I doubt there’s anything more I could teach you.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I feel like I’ve learned so much already.”

“That all you want to know?”

“Not quite. I’m paying quite a lot to for your time, so please, indulge me a little,” he replied smoothly, “How’d you end up here where you had to start at the bottom? Why not stay a master back home?”

She shrugged. “Everyone has their reasons.”

“And yours?”

She inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. “You could offer me everything in the vault and I still wouldn’t answer that question, dear,” she chastised, “Some things a girl likes to keep to herself.”

That didn’t surprise Brynjolf; he would have been shocked if she had said anything else. But—he did have one card he wanted to play that he was certain she wasn’t expecting. “You came from the Guild in the Imperial City, didn’t you?”

The question didn’t have quite the effect for which he was hoping. Her eye twitched, but that was about all the reaction he got out of her. Otherwise, she was very still—which was perhaps telling, in and of itself—and said nothing as she seemed to mull over the question like it was more difficult than a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ could answer. “Yes,” she said at length and Brynjolf realized that she had been calculating how much of a danger answering could be to her. “I imagine I looked very Imperial to you when we first met,” she said softly, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up then.”

Tyv was very different when she felt threatened, he realized. No smiling, no jokes, no twinkling eyes, and it wasn’t the same as her ‘all business’ attitude, either. This was a cat cornered, ready to claw. This was calculation at its coldest because she didn’t know what he was thinking, what he wanted, what his motivations were. It was rather simple to Brynjolf, however. He was just curious. “Didn’t want to spoil the mood at the time,” he replied, “It was our first time together.”

She hummed, the sound dangerous and low. “Courtship can be so difficult, especially in our line of work,” she observed, her jest had a very different effect when she wasn’t smiling.

“Take it easy, lass,” he soothed, “I’m only a little curious.”

“Any other questions? Or can I take my coin and go?”

“Is what your running from dangerous to the Guild? Or just you?”

Her brow openly furrowed. “Just me,” she muttered, “If you’re worried about my previous associates, you don’t have to be. I left on good terms—though I may still owe the quartermaster a few gold for a wager I lost ages ago.”

“Couldn’t charm your way out of that one either, could you?”

“You know Tonilia. All quartermasters are cut from the same cloth. I swear.”

Brynjolf chuckled to himself. “True,” he allowed and then he grew pensive for a moment. “I believe our time is up,” he said, “You’ve earned your bonus and your pay. Mercer only wanted the documents, so the rest is yours to keep minus the Guild fee.” He fetched a small pouch from his belt and handed it to her. “Your payment.” It contained several gems of varying quality, but an overall generous compensation complete with hazard pay. “And—I may have more work for you in the coming weeks,” he continued, “I know Delvin has a few things brewing, too, that he’ll need talent for. Speak to him. He might make you an offer for that statue, too.”

Tyv almost anxiously sprung to her feet and started scooping everything back into her pouch. Brynjolf quickly snatched a couple of gold bars for the Guild fee before they disappeared into her bag as well. That’s when he noticed she was shaking—or trying not to. It wasn’t overt. Just a gentle tremor in those steady hands of hers. It was impulse, pure, stupid, unsolicited impulse, but he grabbed her hand as she reached for a necklace closer to him. She froze and looked up at him, her other hand gently setting the bag down on the table to free it up—just in case. He’d underestimated how unsettled she’d be if he started poking around her past. “You’re just Tyv, here, lass,” he assured gently, “No one has to know more. I don’t have to know more.”

She glared at him, but didn’t pull away as she aggressively searched his face for honesty. Then she did something unexpected. She grabbed him, her hands reaching out like lightning to grab the front of his armor and pull him toward her, hard. There was, perhaps, a brief second afterward when he could have reacted, could have pushed her away, could have fought what had seemed like a violent action, but he didn’t because his face was hurtling down toward hers and that sweet, sarcastic mouth of hers was puckering to meet him.

She kissed him with a wildness that was entirely representative of her alluring confidence, that frustrating tease, and delicious, capricious wit. He kissed her back before he knew what he was doing, his mind blank from surprise both in her suddenness and in how much he actually wanted to kiss her in return. He placed his hands on her hips to anchor her there, to keep her from running, because he could feel an air of escape loom over them both. When he lost his breath upon her tongue, she pulled away, taking it with her, and looked up at him, not demure through her lashes, but full gaze, eye to eye. “W-what was that for, lass?” he asked, breathless and confused.

She moistened her lips. “Because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” she answered, “I had to be sure.”

Brynjolf blinked several times and then nodded. “You have my word,” he assured because he didn’t really know what else to say. For the moment, nothing witty sprung to mind and that was unusual, to say the least—troubling at most. Women didn’t often tongue-tie Brynjolf. In fact, they never did.

Tyv smirked at him. “The word of a thief,” she muttered with some irony, but she accepted his commitment and stepped away from him, collected her earnings, and left. Brynjolf let her, watching in stunned silence, still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened because it didn’t seem to him that the woman who had just kissed him was the same as the one walking out the door.


Anja waited until she made it to the marketplace before she freaked out. “What the fuck was I thinking?!?” she demanded of herself as she covered her face and growled into her hands. “Godsdamnit, godsdamnit, godsdamnit!” Her and her poor impulse control. Whatever happened to 'A lover? Eh.'!?!?! She was supposed to have more focus than this. Not that kissing Brynjolf had been planned nor did she intend for there to be a repeat performance, and she especially had no desire for there to be more than just an ill-considered kiss. Well—maybe not a solid 'no,' but 'no desire' adjacent.

A passing guard paused to glare at her. “Trouble?”

She straightened. “No, just headed to the inn,” she assured.

“Better move along, then. It’s late. People are trying to sleep. Don’t need you shouting in the street.”

Her eye twitched violently and she briefly considered being rude. Can he not see that I just need a fucking moment? But mouthing off to a guard in the middle of the night was even stupider than kissing a guild master. Have I learned nothing from the last time? Business and pleasure did not mix. “On my way,” she grumbled and went straight to the Bee & Barb. The door was locked; Keerava and Talen-Jei had likely already gone to bed. In other circumstances, a traveler would have to pound on the door until the innkeeper was roused to grant them entrance, but—Anja had nicked a key and so let herself in without disturbing anyone. She locked the door behind her.

The tavern was cold and dark as the guests slumbered upstairs and its proprietors rested downstairs. Anja padded through the darkness without a creak or groan of floorboards to the stairs which she bounded up with quiet ease. She went to the room she had rented for Sofie and stepped inside. A fat, lone candle burned low on the bedside table, casting the faintest light to illuminate the room. Curled up in a precious ball on the edge of the double mattress with her pillow clutched in her arms, Sofie slept, breath heavy and soft. Anja smiled, secret in the darkness, feeling better now that she was there where it was calm and uncomplicated. The kid was cute; she’d give her that.

Exhaustion finally taking over her senses after such a long day, Anja undressed and laid out her gear and riches carefully in the chest at the bottom of the bed where Keerava apparently kept spare blankets. She poured a bit of water into the wash basin and cleaned her face, trying to push from her mind thoughts of Brynjolf or how good his wine tasted straight from his lips. When she was finished, she slipped into bed beside Sofie. She hadn’t made a sound and had been careful shifting her weight across the mattress, and yet Sofie stirred and rolled over to look at her in the gloom. “You’re back,” she muttered groggily.

“Course I’m back,” Anja whispered, “I promised, didn’t I?”

Sofie smiled and blinked slow, already falling back asleep now that she knew Anja was safe. “I’m glad you’re back.” She curled against Anja a little and the older woman let her.

“Yeah, me too.” Absently, she ran her fingers through Sofie’s hair, soothing the way her own mother had when she was a girl until she fell asleep also.

Sometime in the night, Anja kicked off her stockings as she had a habit of doing in her sleep, and her foot popped out of the blankets covering the bed. It was a good thing a thief had not followed her back to her private, if temporary, sanctuary. If one had, then he would have seen something rather peculiar about Anja’s, the Master Thief of the Imperial City, uncovered limb: seared into the ball of her right foot, right where she put the most pressure while sneaking, was an ugly brand of a dagger against the dark space of a circle. It’s impossible to say what such a thief would think if he saw that damning mark upon her otherwise unblemished body. How did she get it? Why did she get it? Did she have anything to do with the mess at Goldenglow? So many questions would be raised with answers not easily believed. So, it was a good thing a thief didn’t follow her when she left the Cistern, though one had sorely wanted to.


[1] Lit. Sweet; intended here as an endearment.

[2] Lit. Kharjo’s absence was felt; intended as ‘Your absence was felt.’

[3] Radiant moons, love.

[4] charming friend

[5] Native language of the Khajiit.

[6] sweet

[7] sweetness

[8] kiss

[9] A beautiful shadow like you always plots.

[10] Kharjo wishes to please his lover.

[11] Lit. short-tail; a Khajiiti insult alluding to poor endowment; intended playfully—and perhaps incorrectly.

[12] Lit. tail; intended here as a euphemism for penis.

[13] Your sweet dance is pleasing to Kharjo.

[14] Anja wants you happy.

[15] You are a rare soul, moon beauty.

[16] sweetened

[17] poison

[18] healer

[19] love

[20] moon

Notes:

Heist! Freaking finally! And there's more for her to do on the horizon, not all of it filled with straight thievery because shit changes when you have a kid in your life.

Also, Kharjo! I'm not gonna lie, I super adore that Khajiit, for some reason. I think I just transfer all my love for Razum'dar from ESO onto him, justified or not. He'll be around, passing in and out of Anja's story because he's great. And, with Anja, I take a different approach to relationships than I do with Sonja. Sonja and Vilkas are pretty much that 'destined for each other' trope that we all know and love, but things are not as simple for Anja. That's never been her way, her walk of life. Sometimes she has relationships that don't work. Like Kharjo who is sweet and kind and has no desire to change her which is deeply important to her and what she's been through in the past; he's purrfect for her in a lot of ways, but he's just not what she wants right now. She does care about him and they are comfortable, for the moment, in this more-than-friends-less-than-lovers limbo that suits them both. That and she has poor impulse control sometimes. I mean, she had a hundred reasons not to kiss Brynjolf and she does it anyway just because she's attracted to him. That's it. Not really more complicated than that; she'd probably be happier with Kharjo, but that's just too damn safe, apparently.

I curse her out like I didn't write for her to do what she did. :D

Oh, and a word on Ta'agra...

Or many words, in fact. If you have no interest in reading my rant on language, feel free to ignore this and go about your day. You've been warned.

So, I have done a bit of reading all over the place in order to get a proper feel for Khajiiti culture and stuff is pretty inconsistent. Stuff from ESO is probably the best what with the Elsweyr expansion, but specifics and nuance are hard to find even still. So, I filled in some gaps, made some assumptions, and hopefully it doesn't ruin expectations of our lovely cat people.

Specifically, I refer to the first vs. third person pronouns, the reason behind why Khajiit tend to speak the way they do, and how that reflects in both their culture and interactions with other races. Further still, the Ta'agra translator I use is great because there are so many words to play with and I recommend it to anyone looking to spice up some Khajitt dialogue, but it's creation doesn't quite reflect Khajiiti culture so much as it catalogues Ta'agra translations of English words. For instance, The Ta'agra Project includes translations for the first person pronoun 'I' which is an important concept reflected in the English language (just think about the very concept of self for a minute if you wanna bug your brain out for a bit, or read Ayn Rand's Anthem; it's short, don't worry, it's no Atlas Shrugged; I wouldn't inflict that upon you when I'm already long winded enough), but Khajiit seem to struggle with knowing when it is appropriate to use the pronoun. Misunderstanding the use of the concept of 'I' implies that the concept, itself, is foreign, not just memorizing the word translation. It's not like they're confusing tenses or verb conjugations which is a common mistake for non-native speakers to make because the concept of time is a freaking shifty one that can alter a word altogether, i.e. verb: to be, I am, I was, I will be, I have been, blah, blah, blah. No, it's 'I' they struggle with, a word that is relatively easy to learn to speak (at least mechanically); it's short and it's pronunciation is common in other word sounds. It's not like you're learning to say the word 'arbitrary.'

But, I digress. All that information implies to me that there is no Ta'agra equivalent for the word 'I' because 'I' or personal identity does not exist for the Khajiit in the way that we understand it. That does not mean that Khajiit have no sense of personal identity at all; it just means their concept is likely so foreign to us that it would be difficult to understand and use the proper Ta'agra translations appropriately. Just as Khajiit struggle with the use of 'I.' Hence, why I wrote Kharjo's dialogue the way I did and why him using the first person pronoun for Anja is so fucking sweet. *sigh* Sorry, that was a really long explanation for something very small, but...rant over...

Chapter 35: A Request

Summary:

The hunting party returns to Whiterun. Vilkas has a favor to ask of Sonja and the Dragonborn does what she can to help.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Light sexual content and depiction of terminal illness.

All real-world language translations come from the ever confuzzled Google Translate. There's a lot of Atmoran or Norwegian in this chapter and the translation tool tries so hard, it really does.

All Dovahzhul translations come from Thuum.org! As always!

Sonja/Vilkas chapter!

PoV Sonja, Vilkas, Faendal, and Kodlak.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

It was late into the night when the hunting party returned to Whiterun. Everyone was tired and eager for their beds, but the journey had been good. Ever since they felled the mammoth, not a single creature disturbed their camp or caravan. No scavenger nor hungry predator. It was as if Kyne, herself, was watching over them. Maybe she was. They were harassed by bandits once, though; the Storm-Goddess did nothing to prevent that, but the confrontation was quickly handled by the Companions who eagerly demonstrated why they were considered some of the best warriors in all of Skyrim. Thus, everyone returned to Whiterun relatively unscathed. Any minor injuries, Sonja was able to take care of herself and she took great pride in having kept her promise to the priestess of Kyne. A truly successful Great Hunt.

“Bathhouse?” Faendal asked as they filed through the city gates. Camilla clung to his side, looking tired from the journey, but happy in that new-lovers sort of way. She, Sigrid, and Hod would leave in the morning to return to Riverwood, but they would room at the inn for the night.

Sonja smirked and gave a little nod, too tired to give a proper answer. “I could do with a soak, too!” Camilla groaned.

Faendal chuckled and glanced nervously at the Dragonborn. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get to bed?” he reminded her, hoping to avoid an uncomfortable situation between his lover and draconic bestfriend.

She smiled at him prettily and chewed on her bottom lip. “Only if you’re coming with me…” she muttered suggestively.

The Bosmer hunter couldn’t stop the stupid grin spreading over his face. Guess things went really well last night…Sonja clapped him on the shoulder, drawing his attention away. “I’ll see you in the morning, friend,” she said pointedly, making the most obnoxious set of eyes she could at him purely for revenge.

He gave her a good-natured scowl, still smiling. “It appears so.”

Sonja fell out of step with them partly to allow the lovebirds some privacy to whisper heated promises to one another and partly because she genuinely didn’t want to hear any of it. She dropped back in line beside Lydia and Farkas. “Just me and you?” she asked her housecarl. Lydia nodded.

“And me,” Farkas added, eagerly.

Lydia pursed her lips, affection in her eyes. “We’re going to get clean, puppy,” she said matter-of-factly, “How can we do that if you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

He chuckled guiltily. “Oh, alright, I know when I’m not wanted,” he grumbled, feigning hurt, but he was smiling too broadly for anyone to take him seriously, “You go on and brag to your thane about how impressive I am.”

Sonja snorted as Lydia blushed slightly and pushed her lover away playfully. “I’m sorry, my thane,” the housecarl grumbled, apologetically.

“I’m not. That was hilarious. I didn’t know you could turn that shade of red.”

Lydia opened her mouth to retort, but quickly shut it as her attention shifted over Sonja’s shoulder. Before Sonja could turn to see who had joined them, he had touched her arm and spoken her name, “Sonja?” It was Vilkas. “A word?” He looked a little more serious than usual. “Alone?” Which was saying a lot.

Sonja nodded, her brow furrowing with slight concern that he was about to tell her something worrisome. “Meet you at the bathhouse,” she said to Lydia and the housecarl nodded, face unusually stoic. Farkas, on the other hand, was beaming like a fool at both the Dragonborn and his brother. Sonja cast him a suspicious look before allowing Vilkas to guide her off Whiterun’s main drag.

He didn’t know it, but the space he had chosen to pull her aside was right beside Sonja’s recently inherited property: Breezehome. She’d yet to step foot inside and felt a little guilty being so near and not having even the slightest impulse to examine the house. “There a problem?” she asked, casting a casual glance at passersby as they made their way to their homes.

“No,” he assured and then removed something from his pocket, holding it out to her. It was that blasted mother-of-pearl charm that had been nothing but trouble since the moment Hera hung it in her hair.

She looked at it, caught there between his fingertips and tried not to laugh at how ludicrous the whole situation was becoming. “Did I leave that…” she began, plucking it from his grasp.

“In my bedroll,” he finished, and she could see he was trying not to chuckle also, “Aye.”

Sonja was not naturally a restless sleeper unless plagued by a nightmare. Light? Yes. It was typically easy enough to rouse her unless she was well and truly exhausted. On those occasions, once out, she never moved. Slept like the dead, her father often said—though, as Sonja had fairly recently discovered, outside the practice of necromancy, sometimes the dead weren’t so restful. So, it was understandable why she was completely dumbfounded to wake so far from where she had fallen asleep. Especially since she had managed to crawl halfway into someone else’s bedroll. To be fair, that someone else seemed to be receptive of it, because he’d wrapped one arm around her middle, holding her closer.

She stirred, squinting at Vilkas’ face in the dim dawn light and tried not to laugh at the pure absurdity of the moment. There had to be a point in the middle of the night when Sonja, half asleep, had thought cuddling up to Vilkas was a good idea. It must have been for warmth, she reasoned, but it was still ridiculous to her because fully awake, it was a glaringly terrible idea. Even if it was practical; she’d rather freeze than willingly face the very moment when he’d wake and see her there in his arms. It would either go very well or very poorly and Sonja wasn’t entirely sure which avenue was which. As if on cue, he felt her movement and opened his eyes, blinking awake, and then the pair of them laid there for a moment, not moving and trying to decide how to react to the situation. “I guess I was colder than I thought,” she observed, simply.

“I guess so,” was his sleepy answer, but still they did not move away from each other.

Eventually, Vilkas seemed to realize that he was still holding her and hastily retracted his arm, causing all manner of upset to Sonja’s comfort in the process. Instantly, she withdrew to the warmth and safety of her own bedroll. “Calm yourself. It’s not as if you woke with a skeever in your smalls,” she muttered, indignantly.

“You’re a snuggler,” he accused like it was something horrible she should have disclosed to him before he agreed to share a tent with her.

She made a face. “Not usually. But it’s cold! What’s your excuse? You’re a snuggler, too!” Briefly, she wondered if ‘snuggler’ was a word.

Vilkas looked scandalized. “I was probably only trying to keep you still as you clawed your way through two bedrolls!”

“Ugh,” she made a sound of disgust and rolled her eyes, “Don’t be a child! What does it matter? I was cold. And it was nice—the warmth, I mean, not...Oh, balls…” She sensed his chuckle develop in his chest before she heard it. “I’m not going to live this down, am I?”

“Not likely, no.” She groaned and rolled over, burying her face into her bedroll and out of sight of his laughing eyes.

“Thanks,” she said, clearing her throat, “That all?”

The smile faded from his face a little in favor of seriousness again. “Aye. And your training starts tomorrow,” he reminded her, “First thing in the morning. Meet me—at our usual place. There is something I must discuss with you before we begin.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. She sensed there was something more he wanted. He sounded so grave, it worried her. “Is something wrong?” she half demanded, dropping her voice low so others would not hear as they walked passed.

He gave a short nod as if it was enough to reassure her. “Tomorrow,” he insisted, “Nothing is amiss.”

She pursed her lips; she wasn’t so sure but nodded anyway. “As you wish,” she relented, “First thing in the morning.”

“Until then” And he stalked off up the street, headed for Jorrvaskr. Sonja watched him go for a moment before following, wondering what it was that he needed from her. It wasn’t until she reached the bathhouse that she realized he had asked her to meet him at their place and that she knew precisely where that was.


Vilkas stalked through the halls of Jorrvaskr headed for his room, winding through his shield-siblings who loitered outside the barracks swapping stories about the Hunt, what they had seen, and what they thought about the Hunt Master, herself. It was mostly proud nonsense since none of them had struck the killing blow. Sonja had. All any of them had done was taunt and jab and pray for a lucky strike. None of them received Kyne’s boon. Sonja had. As they all stood slack-jawed in wonder and disbelief. None of them carried out a dying mammoth’s last wish and Kyne’s will. Sonja had. While they stayed behind and butchered that noble creature, she saved its kin. What did they know, really? Of the wonders out on the tundra? And none of them had shared a tent with her that night. He had. He paused at that last snippet of errant gossip, his head turning slightly to catch sight of the shield-siblings muttering to each other in conspiratorial whispers.

It wasn’t as if either he or Sonja had been discreet about his staying the night with her. There was absolutely no reason to be as nothing had or would have happened between them. It was just a sleeping arrangement and he had expected better out of his shield-siblings than imagining he was bedding a fellow Companion. A Newblood, untested to boot. And the Dragonborn, he added mentally; the list of reasons why he would never, could never find himself any closer to her than he had been that morning was long and he knew each of them well. He detoured from his path to confront the little rumormongers: a couple of Newbloods themselves. “I hear my name in your mouths again, you will regret it,” he growled.

Nila and Tor looked up at him with wide eyes. “We weren’t…” Nila began.

“We didn’t mean…” Tor attempted.

“You want to become Companions, act like it,” he snapped, “Leave gossip for the fishwives.”

The Newbloods exchanged guilty looks. “Aye, Master Trainer,” they agreed in chastised unison.

“Sorry,” Tor mumbled.

“It won’t happen again,” Nila assured.

“I know.” And he continued down the hallway to his room.

Once inside, he dumped his things onto his bed and undressed, stripping his armor off unceremoniously and tossing it haphazardly alongside his gear. He aggressively washed himself in the basin in the corner, his mind drifting back through the hallways to the din of settling shield-siblings and then beyond, back into the moments that led him there from that morning when he woke with an unexpected visitor pressed against his body. He was unavoidably a light sleeper. The Beast did not allow for restful sleep, but he didn’t remember how or when she must have crawled in with him—not really. Maybe…maybe if he thought about it long enough, he could almost conjure a sleep-soaked vision of her, shrouded in shadow, her hair loose and haloed and her face lax with dreams. Yes, he could almost see her that way, but maybe he was fooling himself, too. Maybe it was just a dream.

Vilkas heard the heavy footsteps of his brother outside his door. “Come in,” he called before Farkas had the chance to knock on the door.

The larger twin chuckled and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and leaning against the frame. “Sleep well last night?” he asked, grinning.

“Not you, too,” Vilkas groaned into the rag he was using to dry his face.

Farkas chuckled. “I didn’t smell you on her—not that way, anyway,” he replied.

Vilkas cut a glance at him and tossed the rag onto the edge of the washbasin. “She was cold,” he muttered.

“Nothing warmer than sleeping next to a Wolf.”

“She didn’t inherit Freydis’ resistance to the chill,” he sniffed, “It was nothing.”

“Enough to get a little closer.”

Vilkas rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t intentional.”

Farkas looked his brother over with a narrow, suspicious gaze. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“Or maybe you do and that’s why you ignore it.”

“Speak plain.”

“You’ve met your match, brother,” Farkas said simply.

“She’s the Dragonborn. She outmatches everyone.”

“But not you. That’s what I’m saying.”

Vilkas frowned. “Don’t get excited, brother,” he warned, “There’s nothing between us. You just focus on your housecarl and don’t worry about me or her thane.”

Farkas did not look convinced. “Lydia sees it too,” he revealed.

“Did she say that?” Vilkas asked, skeptically.

“She didn’t have to.”

Vilkas made a sound of disgust. “Let it lie, Farkas. I don’t know why you’re bothering me with this.”

The larger twin pursed his lips. His brother’s life was his own. He’d never interfered or pushed where he wasn’t supposed to. They were both grown men capable of making their own decisions, and, as brothers, they supported those choices regardless of their own opinions on the matter. The only reason Farkas had nosed further when it came to Saadia had less to do with convincing Vilkas that he should bed her and more to do with trying to understand why he wouldn’t. But with Sonja—the others might tease Farkas for being the slowest of them all. Icebrain. All muscle and no mind. But he wasn’t stupid. He could see that the Dragonborn brought something out of Vilkas that the dour twin usually kept locked away. And he didn’t want his brother to miss out on something worthwhile just because he was too stubborn to see it for himself.

Farkas shrugged. “I like giving you trouble,” he said lamely, “Somebody has to.”

Vilkas chuckled, less defensive than before. “You’re as bad as…” he hesitated and then finished hesitantly, “The Newbloods.” Sonja’s name hung undeclared in the air between them. Farkas grinned broadly. He wasn’t stupid. He could read subtext sometimes. Especially when it came from Vilkas.


It was sweet. She was sweet. Not that Faendal had expected anything different, but she loved his body with a gentleness the wild spark he loved most about her did not convey. Camilla was honey, golden sunlight caught in a jar. She smelled of flowered fields and pine forests, open air, and free, teasing winds. And her touch was feather light that still burned into him somehow. Smoldered like coals upon the hearth, hot and welcoming him home. She could undo him with a sigh and put him back together again with her laughter that infected his soul with starlight. And he liked her best with her hair loose about her shoulders.

Knowing her skin the way his hands did, lit such fire in his chest; it ignited unknown dark corners of his brain and filled his eyes with art. Line and curve, light and shading, form and mass. His fingers were the pen upon the canvas of her body, inking a thousand undeclared sweet nothings into her pores where she could keep them in her skin forever. The illusion of the horizon made real in the unguarded gentleness of a woman who wanted him in a way she had not previously thought possible. There was hunger there, needy and urgent and cloying in the pit of them both where they joined and were made one. The Bosmer hunter hadn’t thought it possible to feel, to exist, in such a way.

Holding her naked body in the safety of a rented room at the Bannered Mare, he wondered how he ever spent a moment before it without her like that. He regretted every second spent fighting Sven for the right to her because he understood then, better than he ever had before, that she was not a prize, but a gift and one only she was allowed to bestow. She had given herself to him in the dim light of his borrowed tent, steady where he was shaking, and plucked apart his fear with the curve of her lovely lips until it was made ridiculous in his eyes. Of course she wanted him; how could he not have seen it before? It was plain as mountains, as ocean, as sky, and earth. It was elemental, primal, and pure. That was far more precious than the act of winning anything could ever be. He had erred before in the fight because she was a creature of peace that melted all thought of conflict out of his bones. For eternity of that kind of bliss, it was hard not to want to follow her wherever she wanted to lead him. Even if it was back to the home he had left to find the worthier mer hidden within him.

“Faendal?” she breathed against the blade of his ear.

“Yes, honeydrop?”

“I don’t want to leave come morning.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Think maybe I could stay in Whiterun for a while?”

“Mmmm, and what would your brother think of that?”

“I don’t care.”

He chuckled deep in his chest and she listened to the echo of his joy bounce off his ribcage. “Lucan loves you. He just wants what’s best for you.”

“You’re what’s best for me.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

They were quiet for a long moment. “You’ll come visit me more often, won’t you?” she nearly whispered.

He smiled, perhaps a touch sadly. For all the love in his heart and the strong urge to go back with her to Riverwood, he couldn’t bring himself to follow her and she knew. It wasn’t even a question. She knew where his place was, and it wasn’t in that small town working at that small saw mill. It was somewhere tangled in the destiny of a Dragonborn battlemage, a sibling born in different skin who woke a mote of adventure in him he thought had died years ago. He turned to look at her and held her gaze for a moment, drinking in her presence, slaking his thirst for her. “Of course,” he assured, smiling and kissing her nose, the corner of her mouth, her chin, and finally those beautiful, honied lips, “How could I ever stay away?”


Sonja woke earlier than she wanted to, but Vilkas wanted to meet with her ‘first thing’ and she was keen to speak with him and finally discover what it was that had drawn such grim lines across his face the night before. She tried to reason that whatever was on Vilkas’ mind must not be overly dire since he was insisting on waiting until morning to discuss it with her. Still, the tone of his voice, the crease to his brow, and the tense energy of his demeanor all announced that he was—nervous about something and that made her nervous in return.

She dressed in the darkness of the barracks, taking care not to wake any of her sleeping shield-siblings, but everyone was dead asleep after the long, trying day before. So, no one stirred even slightly as she rustled through the chest at the base of her bed to find her training leathers. Lydia was with Farkas and Faendal with Camilla, so there was no one there to note her early absence and try to tagalong which she suspected was what Vilkas wanted, anyway: the chance to speak with her alone. She brushed and braided her hair into a version of the battle-braids she had sported for the last few days, but just two instead of multitude and wider and thinker so they didn’t make her scalp ache. Then she donned her mother’s coat and slipped out into the hallway and upstairs.

Tilma was awake, of course. As usual, she was puttering around the meadhall, preparing breakfast for those soon to rise. She caught sight of Sonja and smiled. “I’ll have your breakfast ready when you come back,” she said kindly, “Vilkas said there was something you had to take care of first?”

Sonja shrugged. “I guess so,” she answered, but then she glanced around the meadhall, “Is there anything you need taken care of?”

“Oh, no,” Jorrvaskr’s matriarch assured, “Vilkas already took care of my morning chores. Thank you, though, dearie.”

The Dragonborn nodded in acknowledgement and then slipped out the back doors. Vilkas was nowhere to be seen which was odd. She half expected him to be waiting for her, but she went to the table where they always sat to play tafl and waited. Absently, she ran her fingers over the grain of the wood and gazed off toward the eastern horizon where the sun had not yet risen but was announcing its impending arrival with hues of gold and pink. It wasn’t long before she heard heavy footsteps approaching from around the side of the building. She glanced in that direction and saw Vilkas moving toward her, apparently fresh from the bathhouse as his hair was damp and his face free of eye-black. “Good morning,” she greeted when he was near enough.

“Good morning,” but his tone was distant.

She hesitated. “Well, should we get started, or was there something you wanted to tell me first?”

Oddly, Vilkas glanced around as if suspicious and then jerked his head back the way he came. “Not here,” he said, “Come with me, pup.”

Her brow openly furrowed, but she followed him as he walked back around Jorrvaskr and down the stairs, away from his precious meadhall and home. Now, she was well and truly concerned. Whatever he wanted to discuss with her was important or private or dire enough that he didn’t think it prudent to speak with her anywhere near even trusted spaces, and she hadn’t the slightest idea what she could have to do with such a secret. He led her down the walkway, passed the Gildergreene, passed the Temple of Kyne, and up the stairs toward the Hall of the Dead which was troubling, but he took a sharp left before reaching the hall, followed the path around the small graveyard, and up a slight rise beneath which water rush out, noisily through a grate, filling one of the many waterways flowing through Whiterun. There he stopped, near one of the turrets protruding from the city walls. They were behind the Battle-Born family home; Hera’s house not far from it. Briefly, Sonja wondered if her aunt didn’t have something to do with the Companion’s aloofness, but she doubted it. If Hera had wanted to see her, the old biddy would have just said so, not send Vilkas to lure her away. No, Vilkas had brought her there because it was secluded and the sound of the water was noisy enough to make eavesdropping difficult. Sonja’s concern intensified.

“You’re worrying me,” she informed him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t mean to.”

“What’s this all about?’ she demanded, “Are you alright? Is everything alright?”

A slight smile flit over his face. “I’m fine, pup,” he assured, “But—there is something I must ask of you.”

Sonja stilled, her eyes narrowing, vaguely suspicious. “I’m listening.” It wasn’t as if she distrusted Vilkas, but he was behaving as if he was about to ask something monumental of her; it was unsettling.

“It’s a—personal matter,” he continued, sounding unsure of himself, “And I am uncertain whether or not you will be able to help…”

A personal matter? She hadn’t known the Companion long, but she felt she knew him well enough to be reasonably certain that asking for help concerning any personal matter from anyone would be quite the challenge for a man as proud as Vilkas. Her demeanor eased considerably. “If I can help, I will,” she offered, “Though I am confused as to why you’re asking me and not someone else. Someone you trust.”

He stared at her intently. “I—do trust you.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “Really?”

“Mostly.”

She scoffed, somewhat amused. “Spit it out then. The faster you tell me what you need, the faster I can get it done, yeah?”

“You don’t even know what it is I’m about to ask.”

“Should I be worried?” she asked, pointedly, “You wouldn’t ask anything dishonest of me. If it’s my blade you need, you always have it. I am your shield-sister. If it’s counsel—well, I’ll give it, but I can’t guarantee that it will be any good.”

Another faint smile. “No, it’s not for a job or advice that I have need of you.”

She searched his face for a moment and then took another step closer, entering his space. “Vilkas, I want to help you,” she said, her voice low, “But you have to speak plain. I cannot read your mind.”

He just looked at her again, something unreadable dancing behind his eyes. He was guarded. There was something deeply personal he needed to communicate, but he was having trouble. “This isn’t easy for me.”

“I can tell.”

“You know I am not fond of magic…”

Her features softened with surprise and she took a half step back. Of all her many abilities, her magical talent had been the last of which she thought he would require. At least that explained why he was being so dodgy and reluctant. “I do,” she acknowledged. He had flat out said as much, often, and demonstrated his disdain clearly. No room to misinterpret that.

“And you are a powerful mage…”

She was growing nervous again, anticipating another argument. Another half step back. “I am,” she allowed, forgoing any denial of the fact in favor of modesty as she had done for Ralof. Vilkas had witnessed too much of her power recently for her to claim otherwise.

“I don’t know what is required of a wizard during training,” he stated, “But, I’ve seen what you can do and you said that your power is growing…”

“If this is about the fireball, again, I have better control, now,” she interrupted, defensively, “You saw the restraints and they work. I tested them…”

“It’s not about the fireball,” he assured.

She blinked. “Then—what is this about…?”

“Your healing magic,” he answered.

“Is someone hurt? Are you hurt?” she demanded, looking him over as if she would suddenly find a horrifying and bloody gash somewhere on his body, “You should have told me last night…”

He swatted her hands away as she approached him, prepared to check for broken bones. “Stop it,” he growled, “No one is hurt.”

“Sick, then?”

He hesitated. “Are you as capable with illnesses as you are with injury?” he asked.

“Depends on the illness.”

“A—disease?”

“I need more to go on than that…”

“This requires discretion…”

“Oh. Oh?” she said, confused, but then realization dawned on her in the next moment, “Oh!

“Stop saying that.”

Her brow puckered with something close to pity. “A Cure of Disease potion will clear most of those kinds of illnesses right up if you catch them in time. You should also talk to Ysolda and Saadia about it too, so they can get potions for themselves. Or I can brew you one…”

“What?” Now he was confused.

Sonja put up her hands. “No judgement here,” she assured, but she was biting back a knowing smirk, “These things happen. Your secret’s safe with me.”

He finally caught her meaning. “No. Nothing like that,” he insisted, irritated and mildly insulted, and rubbed his face. He was beginning to reconsider asking for her help. Even if she was his only option.

“Then what?” She could understand his reluctance when she thought it was a private matter—pun intended—but it wasn’t. What injury or malady could possibly be so embarrassing or intimate that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her about it? “Spit it out.”

“Kodlak’s sick,” he blurted out with a little more urgency than he had intended, “Has been for a while and he won’t see Danica. He doesn’t want the others to know.”

Her lips parted in surprise as she put it all together: why Vilkas wanted to know her skill as a healer, why he was so reluctant, and why he had gone to her instead of the priestess. “Take me to him,” she said. Relief flooded his expression and they hurried back toward Jorrvaskr.


Sonja yawned and stretched as she walked beside Vilkas toward Kodlak’s quarters; she ran her fingers through her dark hair and shook the unbraided sections loose around her shoulders, filling the air with the scent of lavender and mint. Vilkas glanced at her sideways and huffed as the scent invaded his senses. He found it incredibly distracting. That and the thick battle-braids she had plaited into either side of her head were very fetching. He’d told her that they suited her, but didn’t think he’d have the privilege of seeing her sport them again after she had complained of discomfort. Perhaps they had grown on her after all and that’s why she wore them again—not because she knew he liked them. Frustratingly, Farkas’ words floated through his mind unbidden: ‘You’ve met your match, brother.’

When they reached the end of the hall, Vilkas did not knock before opening the door for Sonja to enter. Hesitantly, she stepped inside and he followed her, closing and locking it behind them. Then he moved swiftly to the double doors opposite them and set into the north wall between the table and the desk. Here he paused, the flat of his hand pressed against the carved wood and his head tilted slightly as if listening. Sonja strained her ears to pick up whatever minute sounds Vilkas could hear, but before she could catch anything, the Companion opened the door quietly and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit with only a few candles flickering in the stands on the far side of the room. In the gloom, Sonja could make out the dark shapes of many more candelabra lining the walls amongst hanging banners of Jorrvaskr, but they were cold and unlit. Seated at the center of the room, on a thick rug was the white-maned Harbinger. He knelt on his knees, his head bowed, and an open book resting against his palms. He was not clad in armor, but in a simple trouser and tunic with a warm woolen robe hanging loose and open, and his feet bare.

It was a little bizarre for Sonja to see Kodlak in such a relaxed pose; she’d only ever seen him in armor, looking every inch the hardened and noble warrior that he was. But that was not what captured her interest at that moment. It was the heat shimmer in the air around him, the tingle of electricity on her skin when she entered the room. Magic. Or something similar. “The battle meditations,” Vilkas muttered when he saw the look of intrigue on her face, “He trains those with the discipline and heart to control their passions to become stronger.”

“Combat magic,” she breathed, “I trained in it—or something like it—at University.”

Vilkas scoffed. “This is not one of your little spells. This is hard work and dedication. A true warrior’s art.”

“Discipline of the spirit,” she muttered dryly, “Yes. How could a mage possibly understand that?”

“It’s not magic,” he insisted.

“Oh, no, of course not. Not if Kodlak does it,” she mocked.

“Is that two children who interrupt my meditations or two Companions?” Kodlak asked loudly, silencing their argument.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Harbinger, but it is a matter of importance,” Vilkas said.

Kodlak sighed heavily and turned to look at the warriors darkening his door. He smiled slightly when his gaze alighted on Sonja. “What can I do for you this morning, Dragonborn?”

“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, Harbinger,” she replied, glancing at Vilkas for support.

Kodlak’s eyes flit between the two of them, vaguely suspicious. “Ah,” he said, catching the slightly guilty look in Vilkas’ eyes. “I hadn’t realized that when you said you would find me aid that you had the Dragonborn in mind.”

“She is powerful,” Vilkas responded, his expression tight, “She can help.”

“I can try,” Sonja corrected, “But I have to know what I’m dealing with first.”

Kodlak turned from them, then and considered the still open book in his hands. “Very well,” he said abruptly, “But before you prod at me with healing spells, join me in this morning ritual. You said you were trained in these meditations back in Cyrodiil?”

Sonja nodded. “Aye,” she confirmed, though she suspected the University’s focus had been different with an emphasis on the improvement of spellcasting. From what she could sense, Kodlak had about as underdeveloped a magicka reserve as she expected from someone who never cast a single spell. As she had once told Vilkas, magicka was like any other muscle and Kodlak’s had atrophied with disuse. Only the dregs of it lingered as any trace of that unrealized potential.

“Guess you really did learn more than a few useful things at that college,” Kodlak observed.

Sonja fidgeted. “It would appear so.” She shifted, uncomfortably. “But the Dragon has made it difficult to concentrate. Too—hungry. I haven’t been able to meditate properly for weeks.” She glanced at Vilkas who looked concerned by her admission.

“You seemed in better control since…” he began.

“Beating the Oblivion out of Hera?” she finished and then gave a curt nod, “Aye, that was a victory the beast was hungry for. And our ventures out on the tundra have helped immensely. Bloodshed keeps it happy.” She frowned. “The breathing exercises you taught me in preparation of the Great Hunt helped, also,” she added, “I continue to practice them.”

“Then this will be good for you,” Kodlak stated, “Humor me.” He nodded to the empty space beside him. “You, too, Vilkas,” he added, “It’s been too long.” Vilkas exchanged glances with Sonja who looked extremely reluctant, and the pair of them moved further into the room, each taking a seat on their knees on either side of Kodlak.

The close proximity enabled Sonja to better see what book it was that lie in the Harbinger’s lap, but she didn’t understand a word of it. She hadn’t the gift for languages that Anja did. Though uncertain, she did recognize a word here and there that led her to believe that the text was written in Atmoran—maybe. Kodlak glanced sideways at her prying gaze. “I don’t know what you used as a focus at that mage school of yours, but here, we follow the wisdom and strength of Ysgramor,” he said, raising the book slightly, “Mitt våpen er min vilje.[1] Jeg er ubøyelig.[2] Jeg skal finne seier.[3] Mitt skjold er mitt hjerte.[4] Jeg er urokkelig.[5] Jeg skal ikke svikte.[6]

“My weapon is my will. I am unbending,” Vilkas translated without hesitation, “I shall find victory. My shield is my heart. I am unwavering. I shall not fail.” He leaned forward slightly so he could look around Kodlak to address Sonja. “It is from Songs of the Return,” he explained, “From the legend of Ysgramor’s life with the original five hundred Companions. Min bror vokter ryggen min.[7] Årvåken og sterk.[8] Jeg vokter sitt liv med livet mitt han beskytter.[9] Sammen er vi sterkere enn hver enkelt av oss alene.[10] Hvis du holder din bror trygg, vil han holde deg trygg.[11] Verden kan ikke innhente oss hvis vi står sammen.[12]

“At my back stands my brother. Vigilant and strong,” Kodlak translated in turn, “With the life he protects, I safeguard him. We are stronger together than each of us alone. Keep your brother and he’ll keep you. Together, the world cannot overtake us. Shor lede meg.[13] Heder i kamp.[14] Ære i livet.[15] Sovngarde i døden.[16]

“Shor guide me…” Vilkas began.

“Glory in battle. Honor in life. Sovngarde in death,” Sonja concluded, recognizing the phrases from things she had overheard from her mother over the years.

Kodlak nodded approvingly. “Think on their meaning as I chant the verses aloud,” he instructed. Sonja nodded, knowing what she was in for, and as the Harbinger began speaking in Atmoran, her eyes slid shut.

Usually, Sonja took to meditation. By nature, she was introspective and her will was far too indomitable to give way once she set her mind to something. She’d found strength in that contemplative silence, discovered the multitude of ways her magicka rippled through her body, learned to channel it for more than just the purpose of spellcasting. That had been the aim of combat magic: to fortify and enliven tissue with the power it lacked from an incomplete warrior’s training. The battlemages’ shortcut to excelling in both magic and swordplay. The Dragon rendered such a practice unnecessary since it made her body stronger than ever before.

Kodlak’s mantras shared much the same goal, searching for a pool of strength hidden deep within the body, the mind, or the soul. However far one dared to delve. And that was the problem. Every time Sonja closed her eyes and cleared her mind, she saw the cruel, golden flash of the Dragon’s eye staring back at her, domineering and demanding. Hungry for supplication. And its appetite knew no bounds. It wasn’t a matter of ignoring it or thinking through it as she had done before in preparation for the Great Hunt. Kodlak was asking her to confront the beast, to know it. Sonja was faced with limitlessness and, instead of being comforted by the clarity of introspection as she was once, she was overwhelmed by it. It was like looking into the face of Mirmulnir again: the only thing she could think to do was throw up her hands and hope that it was enough to stop the fire. Look out instead of in. There was no way around it now. Kodlak had invited her to join him. The only thing she had to hold onto was knowing that she had tamed the beast before; she could do it again.

Mitt våpen er min vilje.[1]

Jeg er ubøyelig. [2]

Jeg skal finne seier.[3]

And the Dragon reared its ugly head, practically licking its chops it was so hungry. It had been born for greater things than kneeling on an old man’s floor. Why hadn’t the puny mortal seized its birthright? Why hadn’t it shown the world the might of its thu’um? There was much power to be purchased in fear, much strength in domination.

Mitt skjold er mitt hjerte.[4]

Jeg er urokkelig. [5]

Jeg skal ikke svikte.[6]

On the other side of Kodlak, Vilkas fought with his own tormented thoughts. He knew the words to the chant as if Atmoran had been his first language, but their meaning took on a decidedly different slant now that he no longer took the Transformation. The Blood was louder and sang of all his weaknesses. Every day, he felt his control fray just a little more; the cord of it slowly coming undone, ready to snap. And when it did, he had the unsettling notion that it might feel as though the noose around his neck had finally slipped, allowing him to breathe once again.

Min bror vokter ryggen min.[7]

Årvåken og sterk. [8]

Jeg vokter sitt liv med livet mitt han beskytter.[9]

Dovah los ni hin zeymah, joor[17], the jagged voice inside her head whispered through the stillness of her meditation, Gro Dovah Joor. Hin sil los dii. Mu nis kos vaaz. Qiilan ahrk Zu’u fen meyz hi aan jud do joorre.[18] She didn’t understand the words, but she felt their meaning. How close she was to slipping, to toppling forward into the abyss. What reason had there been for this? Did every Dragonborn struggle with the same monster she did? And if they had, why were their no stories of those struggles? Had they not slipped and tasted the sweetness of domination? Sure, they had built Empires fueled only by the heat of the blood in their veins, but what stopped them from going any further? What stayed their hand from total tyranny? What held the Dragon back?

Sammen er vi sterkere enn hver enkelt av oss alene.[10]

Hvis du holder din bror trygg, vil han holde deg trygg.[11]

Verden kan ikke innhente oss hvis vi står sammen.[12]

Keep your brother and he’ll keep you…Death snatches away the good and leaves the wicked…‘I’m your big sister; I’ll always protect you’…Keep your brother…THORNIR!...Death snatches away the good…And he’ll keep you…Dovah los ni hin zeymah, joor[17]…And leaves the wicked…Together, the world cannot overtake us…Qiilan ahrk Zu’u fen meyz hi aan jud do joorre.[18]…Submit, submit, submit…DOVAHKIIN! The memory of the call of the Greybeards filled her head until it was the only thing she could hear. It drowned everything else out as if its volume and persistence was more than a mere declaration that she was Dragonborn. There was more folded into the vibration of the word as it roared through her mind and she was missing it. She could feel the shape of it grate against her brain but couldn’t quite touch it. Couldn’t quite grasp it. But it whispered promises in her ear, reassuring her there was a reason she was called the Dragonborn and not simply a dragon.

All of those men, the line of kings that came before her, were not eternal. Their legacy was built of flesh and bone. They were not immune to the flow of time. Perhaps it had not been the Dragonblood that was Akatosh’s greatest gift to them, but the passage of time, itself, His greatest boon to their Dragonsouls. As it was in the yard, the very concept of mortality was the leash needed to bind the Dragon. NIID! the Dragon roared through her skull. Sonja inhaled sharply, jerking sideways as if she had been struck, and her eyes snapped open. Kodlak was chanting the last verse, his concentration absorbed by the book in his hands. On the other side, Vilkas sat, eyes focused dead ahead, with a determined scowl etched into his features.

Shor lede meg.[13]

Heder i kamp. [14]

Ære i livet.[15]

Sovngarde i døden.[16]

For Farkas. For Kodlak. For himself. Vilkas must try. Must bear the burden against his humanity and move forward. There were secrets yet to be uncovered. A cure yet to be discovered. He needed to look beyond himself, beyond his own troubles. Whatever battles he had yet to fight still lie on the horizon. If a cure was not found, he would be sure to go out fighting the Beast until the day he died. But should Kodlak find a way to free them all, Vilkas will have lived a life and died a death worthy of Sovngarde.

“You alright, girl?” Kodlak asked when he finished, taking in the distressed look on Sonja’s face, the fading golden glint in her gaze.

She nodded curtly. “Demons getting the better of me,” she replied simply.

“Everyone has at least one,” Vilkas added, but he was concerned.

Kodlak nodded, agreeing, carefully closed the ancient tome in his hands, and rose from the floor. His old joints creaked, but he was not unsteady. Sonja and Vilkas rose also and followed him to a small table near the door where he set the book down and collected a wooden taper from the clay mug filled with them. Then he went to the nearest lit candle and set the little wooden stick ablaze. Methodically, he went around the room lighting each dark candelabrum. “So, tell me what it is you think you can do for me?” he asked dryly as he went about his task.

“Whatever I can.”

“There are no spells to cure what ails me.”

“I make no such promises.”

The Harbinger chuckled, “No honeyed words with you, is there?”

The corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. “If that’s what you want, I can always fetch Danica,” she offered.

“Her words are not much sweeter. No. This is better. Do as you will, then,” he allowed, “I will not stop you.”

She reached out and grabbed his elbow, her fingers gently alighting on the fabric of his robe, and his aches and pains seemed to unfurl beneath her touch. Kodlak continued to move, going about his painstaking business of lighting every candle until he felt the pressure on his arm increase. “Stop,” she breathed and he paused, glancing over his shoulder at her to see the deep furrow of her brow. She suddenly stepped into his space, plucking the taper from his fingers and blowing it out in a fluid, purposeful motion. Turning to face her fully, he allowed her to place her hands on either side of his head. Her grip was firm and commanding; he felt the chill of her magic throb against his temple as her brilliant blue eyes bored intently into his Wolfish ones. For a moment, he feared she could somehow feel what other healers had been ignorant of for hundreds of years. That she could sense the Beast, feel the taint in his blood. He almost took a step away from her, but then she spoke. “You’re dying,” she said so simply and with such sympathy that Kodlak almost didn’t feel the weight of her words. At least not immediately. And then they struck him like a blow to the gut. He had to catch his breath.

“We are all dying,” Vilkas said irritably; he was lashing out, not yet ready to process what Sonja had said.

“Be still, Vilkas,” Kodlak soothed, “She’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know.”

“But Kodlak…” he began. The fear and pain singing in his tone was—suffocating—the Harbinger at that moment.

“That’s enough, son,” he said sternly as he placed his hands on Sonja’s wrists and gently pushed her away. “What is it that’s killing me, then?” he asked, gently.

“The Rot.” Another simple answer. Two words, small, and innocuous enough separately. But together, they were sobering. That was no real way for a warrior to go.

And still, Kodlak was not afraid. Pained and regretful, but not afraid.

He nodded, pursed lips and furrowed brow, pensive. His arms swung behind him to clasp neatly in the small of his back and he walked away from her, slowly strolling the length of the room, his bare feet whispering over the stone floor. Sonja watched him, her gaze soft and round and compassionate as she waited for him to say more, ask other questions, shout at her or the world or the disease riddling his body, ask her to leave, tell her to leave, deny her diagnosis—anything. “Can he be cured?” Vilkas asked, softly.

Sonja’s eyes fluttered at the vastness of the question. Vilkas did not know. How could he know? That what plagued his Harbinger—his father—was not easily dissolved in a potion vial. Her expression answered his question before she could speak the words aloud. “Cure Disease potions are only effective within the first few days of contracting an illness,” she explained, “After that, the disease is too strong. Already gained a foothold in the body that it will not give up. No healer—priest, mage, or Dragonborn—can change that.”

“And I am well beyond those early days,” Kodlak stated dryly, his back turned to them as he inspected the western wall with great interest.

Sonja’s lips pressed in a thin line. “I confess that I am impressed how well you’ve held out so far,” she admitted, “This kind of Rot is—hungry—and you are in the late stages. Many only last a few months at the most.”

“Resilient for an old man, am I?” Kodlak joked darkly and he touched the wall in front of him, gently caressing the stone as if it were suddenly very precious to him.

“For anyone,” Sonja corrected, but she nodded.

“How long?”

She hesitated. “You should have died months ago,” she said, “But your body is putting up a good fight…”

“You don’t know.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Vilkas demanded, striding toward her until they were feet apart, but he wasn’t trying to intimidate a better answer from her. His face was already so grief stricken, that the look and sound of him was a plea. He was searching for hope amongst her features and she had none to offer him.

“I’m sorry, Vilkas,” she muttered, “There’s no better way of telling…”

“Is there nothing you can do for him?” he asked, sounding hopeless, sounding unprepared.

“Maybe,” she replied, “Potions to manage the pain and fight the disease. There might be a few spells—but I’d have to read up on them, first. Maybe give him more time before…”

“I can’t even remember my own name, let alone lift a sword,” Kodlak finished.

“It’s the best I can do.”

“And it is more than I expected.”

Sonja frowned slightly and walked to the other side of the room to stand beside him. “What I know—what I was taught at University is not…” she huffed, frustrated, “I was trained as a soldier, Kodlak. The medicine I practice is meant for the field. I can do these things for you, but it would be better if you went Danica. She is more skilled than I…”

“What difference would it make in going to her?” the Harbinger interrupted, “A few more days? Hours? Mere moments? You’ve been studying our ways, girl. Haven’t you learned yet that it is not how long a warrior walks upon Nirn, but in how he leaves it?”

“And those he leaves behind?” she countered, “Wouldn’t mere moments be worth it if spent with them?”

Involuntarily, Kodlak’s eyes flit to Vilkas and back again. “I am old, child,” he said, sagely, “I have fought many glorious battles, lived an honorable life, loved well, and raised my children. I will not cling to life like a child to the skirts of his mother, hoarding minutes like gems. I will face it as a true Nord, as a Companion of Ysgramor, as Harbinger of Jorrvaskr. I am not afraid.” He gestured to the walls of the room. “They would expect no less of me.”

Sonja turned her gaze to the wall, confused. There were names carved into it. She hadn’t noticed it before in the gloom. Once Kodlak had lit a few candles, the markings were much easier to read. Names and dates of centuries and eras long passed. She followed the line of succession back toward the north wall, her eye catching some the names as she went along. Kymil Long-Nose. Macke of the Piercing Eyes. Henantier the Outsider. Cirroc the Lofty. Mryfwiil the Withdrawn. Jeek of the River. Until it came to an end dead center of the north wall. Ysgramor of Atmora. “What is this?” she asked, touching the stone with the mighty warrior’s name inscribed on it.

“The line of Harbingers all the way back to the beginning,” Vilkas answered, his voice hollow.

“Where is your name?” She turned to look at Kodlak, but already sensed his answer.

“Only in death is a Harbinger honored by carving his name into the very foundation of Jorrvaskr,” he explained, “This is where my successor will cut my name into the stone.” He touched the blank brick he had been examining. Though the Harbinger had sensed his illness was fatal before Sonja had told him so, it was still heavy news to hear it confirmed by another—and in the halls of the legacy he bore, surrounded by the memory of passed Harbingers. How could Kodlak not think of the day his name would join the others?

“Skjor,” Sonja muttered, “Your Second.” She had trouble picturing the one-eyed Nord as Harbinger of the Companions after Kodlak’s passing. It didn’t seem right; it didn’t seem fitting and not just because she was growing fond of old man Whitemane. There was something bloodthirsty about him that felt too sharp a change from the path Kodlak had maintained for the Companions.

“He’s a good man,” Kodlak said as if he had read Sonja’s thoughts, “He would lead the Companions well.” Behind him, Vilkas looked less convinced.

“As you say, Harbinger,” Sonja said, curtly, “I will do what I can.”

“What happens next?” Vilkas asked, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice closer to normal. He had to face this challenge head on. They both had to.

Sonja retracted her hand from the wall and looked between the two men. “I have a lot to prepare,” she said, “Research and brewing. It will take time.”

“What do you need from us?”

“Nothing,” she grimaced, aware that her answer would not be enough for Vilkas who wanted something he could do, something he could fight and conquer. “Just a few answers from Kodlak.”

“What do you need to know?” he pressed, eager to involve himself in one way or another.

“Find Tilma, son,” Kodlak instructed suddenly, “The morning meal approaches and I will take it in my chambers this morning.”

The younger Companion hesitated, unused to being dismissed so abruptly, but nodded. “Yes, Harbinger,” he said; then he stiffly left the room.

“Excuse Vilkas, Dragonborn,” Kodlak said once he was certain he was out of earshot, “He has a fire in his heart and is unused to…”

“Feeling helpless,” Sonja finished, “I cannot blame him.”

“He forgets himself.”

“He cares about you,” she stated, sternly, “My da was killed a few years back. It makes no difference to have him snatched away, walk away, or to watch him slowly disappear. Losing a father is never easy.”

Kodlak looked her over, intently. “Told you about Jergen, did he?” he asked, curious.

Sonja gave a curt nod. “He did.”

“Aye, the boys were very young when they came to us. Tilma and I did our best to raise them right…” he trailed off, his vision shifting into distant memory.

Sonja watched his face, the way his expression unfolded in a dozen small movements so easy to miss. He was pained by the memory of raising the twins because of the happiness attached to it. Family life had been impossible for many a career Companion, either because they died too young or were too hardened by the warrior’s life to consider settling down. But Kodlak had been blessed, in a way. The greatest tragedy that brought the twins to the doorstep of Jorrvaskr also led to the greatest joy the Harbinger had ever known—and he would undo it all in a heartbeat if it meant he could give Vilkas and Farkas back what they had lost.

“I don’t need to tell you that there will be trying times ahead,” she said, bringing him back from the dregs of distant memory, “Such things don’t give a man like you pause, but—there’s no reason to do it alone—or to force those who love you to watch in silence.”

Kodlak looked at her with something like a twinkle in his eye and could see she was speaking from experience. “You see so clearly to the heart of every matter?” he asked.

Her mouth twitched into a frown. “It is your talent to see into the hearts of men and mer,” she said, “Not mine.”

“I think you might have a knack for it,” he replied approvingly, but then he nodded for her to follow him as he left the room. “Come,” he said, “Ask me what questions you must before Vilkas returns.”

Sonja nodded, frowning, and followed him back into the main room, taking a seat at the table in the corner as was customary for visitors to the Harbiner’s chambers. When Kodlak was comfortably seated across from her, she began. “You’re a man who appreciates frankness, so I won’t waste your time.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Do you know where, when, and how you contracted the Rot?” she asked, “You have been infected for some time now.”

The short answer to that question was ‘no.’ Vilkas had been right, the Wolf largely protected him from most diseases. From what he had been able to glean from some of the journals of his predecessors, werewolves were still susceptible to natural born diseases, those that the body formed all its own. Just like any mortal creature, these weaknesses increased with age and Kodlak had just survived his seventieth year. “It’s simple, isn’t it? I’m getting old,” he grunted.

“Possibly,” she allowed, “For the unlucky, it’s a part of aging. Just another way mortality takes its toll.”

“But you don’t think I’m unlucky?”

“Unlucky enough to contract the disease from elsewhere, yes,” she admitted, “Naturally occurring Rot is milder. Subtle, almost. Takes longer to dig in and take root—and even longer to kill.”

“Not likely I contracted it performing my duties in Jorrvaskr.”

“No. It lives in dark places, in death and decay, in the creatures that wallow in filth,” she explained, “It must be introduced directly to the blood. In a cut or a scratch. Anything that breaks the skin. When’s the last time you went out on a job? You could have contracted it clearing out a mine or a cave—or fighting a hagraven…”

Kodlak’s shoulders suddenly tensed and he leaned forward slightly. “A hagraven?” he repeated, “Those foul witches?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “I’m not as familiar with them as I’d like to be, I’m only now getting through the bestiary Vilkas leant me,” she admitted.

“It’s not the same as confronting the wretches for yourself, but it will give you some idea,” Kodlak grumbled, his expression distracted.

“You have fought one before,” she stated.

“Aye. Disgusting creatures.”

“Recently?”

“The last job I took. Nearly a year ago.”

Her brow furrowed. “The onset of Brain Rot is fever, severe head pain, and hallucinations,” she informed him, “Not something easily overlooked.”

There was a frustratingly simple answer for that observation too, but he couldn’t tell her, not yet. On the bright side, his illness had given him another lead. The hagraven he had tangled with—and that had, apparently, infected him with a fatal disease—had been part of the reason he began to question the Blood. Her dying words still haunted the silent moments of his day. Perhaps investigating her hovel bore consideration. Perhaps the contraction of the Rot had not been so accidental after all. Who knew what foul magicks those witches were capable of? It made his skin crawl to think of it.

“Harbinger?”

He looked up, realizing he must have been silent for too long. “I don’t recall feeling poorly at all,” he answered truthfully, “Perhaps slight head pain, but nothing serious.” Nothing a Hunt with the Circle didn’t fix.

She hummed, thoughtful. “Strange,” she said, “But stranger things have happened.”

“Is there anything else you require of me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “If I have any more questions, I’ll ask,” she assured, “We’ll speak again soon.”

He nodded and tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the grain of the wood. “Thank you, child,” he said, “Even though I did not seek out your help, I am glad you offer it so freely.”

“How could I call myself a Companion if I did not offer help when my shield-brother asked it of me?” she pointed out, “Ma would turn in her grave if she had one had I offered any less.”

Kodlak chuckled, fondly. “Aye. That is true.”

“Besides—I had a friend back in Cyrodiil,” she said after a moment’s pause, “The best damn healer I’ve ever had the pleasure of learning from.” She smiled slightly at the thought of Falare. “I didn’t have to take the Restorations courses. I’m a Battlemage. Our specialty is Destruction magic. But she convinced me otherwise.”

“Must have been some argument.”

“One I’ll never forget.” She hesitated. “With all the pain and death I had learned to inflict upon my enemies, was I not obligated to learn how to heal it away within my friends?”

“You keep wise company.”

“Only for lack of personal wisdom,” she replied, amused, “Does one need to be wise if one has wise friends?”

“There are some lessons that must be learned firsthand,” Kodlak replied.

“Some pain that can only be felt for yourself…” she sighed and passed her fingers over the scar on her neck: one of the most painful of lessons she had to learn. Then she cleared her throat and dismissed her own dark thoughts. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Harbinger,” she said, “There’s a lot of work to be done. Got to get to it.”

“Until we speak again,” Kodlak nodded in farewell and watched her leave, passing through the doors just as Vilkas returned with Tilma. She lingered long enough to exchange a meaningful look with her shield-brother and something wordless passed between them, but she did not stay longer.

Kodlak thought of the dream he had long before Sonja’s arrival. The one he kept a dark secret in his heart, safe from the counsel of others. The one that gave him hope, if not in this life, then the next. He had not breathed a word of it to anyone—save Tilma, for it was impossible to keep a secret from that woman; she was his dearest confidant. When he had first laid eyes on Sonja as she stepped into his room to be judged, it was as if all of Nirn had shifted beneath his feet. The features of a stranger had never looked so shockingly familiar as they had that day, in her face, stern and determined. Ready for the challenge. An expression he had often seen in Freydis’ face, true, but the Dragonborn bore no great resemblance to her mother beyond the brilliance of her blue eyes. No, Kodlak had seen Sonja’s visage elsewhere.

He had felt it in his very bones that she was the one of whom he had dreamt. Even when Vilkas had revealed her to be a mage, he was not so easily shaken—though, he was a little, if he was being honest. He was only a man after all, capable of mistakes despite the persistent gnawing in the pit of his stomach that told him otherwise. But those reservations were quickly dismissed with the passing of her trial. He had seen her heart true. She demonstrated great strength and skill for a warrior, let alone a mage. Besides, with the troubles he was now facing, perhaps a little friendly magic was exactly what the Companions needed—especially with the Circle crossed up with darker powers. Then there was the revelation of her being Dragonborn. If anyone could save Jorrvaskr from the pitfalls of the Blood, it was a hero of legend.

But she wasn’t a legend. Not yet. She bled and ached like the rest of them, and he had worried she was too hotheaded like the rest of his unruly shield-siblings to be the leader he needed her to be. Especially with the Dragonblood heating every conversation she had with Vilkas to a boiling point. That was a combination that troubled him early on. Two fiery hearts with egos the size of mammoths? It was a wonder they hadn’t already killed each other, but that was half the reason he encouraged Vilkas to train her. She needed the best instruction and he needed a dose of his own medicine. Through the adversity naturally sparked between their similar personalities, Kodlak could see the beginnings of change for the better in them both—and the start of a friendship he had not anticipated. It was not often Vilkas told anyone about Jergen.

Then she forgave Hera, or at least laid to rest the ugliness between them. He had half-expected her to ignore his advice, but she didn’t. It was a good omen that she was capable of swallowing her pride and anger, and doing what needed to be done. And Hera deserved some peace after so long. He briefly closed his eyes as if pained by the thought of his blood-sister. Hera deserved far more than she had ever been given. Especially from him. That was a wrong he’d have to set right eventually now that he finally saw things from her point of view. Perhaps soon. He was running out of time, after all. It would not be an easy conversation to have. Indeed, she might not listen to him at all. Still, he had to try. That was not a burden he should carry to his grave, Hunting Grounds or Sovngarde.

To my grave…Could the Rot take him in his sleep? Should he worry that any time he closed his eyes for the night it could be the last? He didn’t think so—at least not yet—he was still in charge of his faculties. Still sensible. But he should have asked before Sonja left. Just in case. That kind of death did not sit well with his warrior’s heart. He was still strong enough to lift a sword, wasn’t he? There was still the possibility that he could take a job and go out to die with a sword in his hand. To what end? He was only destined for the Hunting Grounds until a cure could be found. Whatever time he had left, it was better spent in that search than any other. That’s what he told himself, anyway; what he had to believe.

“Where’s she off to?” Vilkas asked, taking Sonja’s vacated seat.

“I don’t know,” Kodlak said, distractedly, “To brew potions and study spells.” His expression was twisted with a myriad of thoughts. “Why don’t you take breakfast with me this morning, son?” he continued, “Tell me about the Great Hunt.”

Vilkas brooded because that’s what he was best at. He didn’t want to talk about other things as if it was normal for Kodlak to receive a death sentence. He wanted to discuss why he had been dismissed. What had Kodlak told Sonja that he could not say in from of him? But Kodlak continued to look at him expectantly, waiting for a good story.


[1] GT (Norwegian): My weapon is my will.

[2] GT (Norwegian): I am unbending.

[3] GT (Norwegian): I shall find victory.

[4] GT (Norwegian): My shield is my heart.

[5] GT (Norwegian): I am unwavering.

[6] GT (Norwegian): I shall not fail.

[7] GT (Norwegian): Literally, ‘My brother guards my back.’ Intended, ‘At my back stands my brother.’

[8] GT (Norwegian): Vigilant and strong.

[9] GT (Norwegian): Literally, ‘I guard his life with my life he protects.’ Intended, ‘With the life he protects, I safeguard him.’

[10] GT (Norwegian): We are stronger together than each of us alone.

[11] GT (Norwegian): Literally, ‘If you keep your brother safe, he’ll keep you safe.’ Intended, ‘Keep your brother and he’ll keep you.’ Effing Google Translate does not understand nuance.

[12] Literally, ‘The world cannot overtake us if we stand together.’ Intended, ‘Together, the world cannot overtake us.’

[13] GT (Norwegian with the addition of Nordic words): Shore guide me.

[14] GT (Norwegian): Glory in battle.

[15] GT (Norwegian): Honor in life.

[16] GT (Norwegian with the addition of Nordic words): Sovngarde in death.

[17] I am not your brother, mortal.

[18] Bound Dragon Mortal. Your life is mine. We cannot be separated. Submit and I will make you a queen of mortals.

Notes:

So, this was a suuuuuuuper long chapter that I hacked in half because holy crap, I just kept going. There's a lot going on. We get a little fluff from the morning after Sonja and Vilkas shared a tent which is cute and which I totally dedicate to Lenchen94. I wrote it just for you because that scene did not previously exist. I was going to be a raging asshole and deny you all cute snuggles! *insert evil laugh here* But then I thought better of it and the result was adorableness for two overly serious warrior dorks. I hope you like it. After that, of course, we get a dash of Lydia/Farkas nonsense and a very nice peek in on Faendal/Camilla because, even though I hate Camilla, Faendal is hopelessly in love with her, so...ugh. And I had just had to confirm that he did, in fact, get lucky that night he borrowed the tent from Sonja, lol. And continues to get lucky! Faendal got game!

And--Brain Rot, the Alzheimer's of Skyrim. My grandpa was a WWII vet who had Alzheimer's before he passed away a few years ago and, no, that's no real way for a warrior to go. I put a lot of love into Kodlak because of Gramps and a lot of Vilkas' reactions are based off of my own experiences with my family. I hope I did it all justice in a way that makes sense for someone like Vilkas. You'll get more from him moving forward.

Lastly, there's some more mystery shrouding what the hell the actual deal is with the Blood. Wonder what's up with that? *shifty eyes*

Chapter 36: Specters In Sunbeams

Summary:

Everyone takes a walk down memory lane. Family is always there for you and Ulfric offers a broken-hearted man a job.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: depictions of terminal illness, references to the death of loved ones, grieving, assisted suicide, depictions of death, gore, violence, depictions of war.

Not gonna lie, this was--draining--for me to write. It's pretty sad. Maybe I'm over emotional, but--it got me in the feels. It might get you in the feels too.

PoV Vilkas, Sonja, Kodlak, Farkas, Ulfric, and a new character.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The Rot. Try as he might, Vilkas couldn’t shake Sonja’s diagnosis from his mind as he sat across from Kodlak, sharing breakfast with him and relating every detail of the Great Hunt. It circled like a vulture overhead. An omen of death. He did his best to keep his worry and his sadness from creeping into his tone as he spoke, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was in that. The old man knew him well; he was hardest to guard his mind from. Even if Vilkas managed to be completely impassable, Kodlak would still know, would still be able to tell. And yet, the Harbinger said nothing about it, nothing about what had transpired in Vilkas’ absence when he went to fetch Tilma and went about his morning as if Sonja had not just told him he was going to die.

It made Vilkas sick. It made him angry. How could Kodlak sit there and act as if nothing had changed? For his part, Vilkas’ heart nearly stopped when he heard Sonja speak those words aloud, ‘You’re dying.’ Mara’s bleeding heart, even her voice sounded like it was on the verge of breaking. Her face an arrangement of pain and sympathy—and Kodlak had been stoic, distant. Aloof. And that was fine, then. The old man had to take it in for himself. Vilkas hadn’t expected him to be any other way in Sonja’s presence. He was the Harbinger of the Companions, her Harbinger; he did not show weakness. But now that they were alone? What reason did Kodlak have to keep his own counsel? Had he not agreed that they would be united in this? Could Vilkas not share in this burden, too? Was Kodlak not more to him than just his Harbinger?

It is a rainy summer afternoon and I climb onto the roof of Jorrvaskr in the slick, heedless of the danger—or indifferent to it because I am hurt and filled with such pain and anger that I cannot breathe or school my young mind to think of anything beyond the letter I received the week before: We regret to inform you of the death of…died in honorable combat in defense…our deepest sympathies and sincerest condolences…he was a true hero…I could barely read it for myself. Some of the words beyond the reach of my small but growing understanding. Kodlak had to take it from me. Had to make me understand.

And the rain, it soothes in ways I cannot explain, but the ice waters feel like a balm against my tiny soul. Or maybe I just need it to hide my tears. Below, I hear Tilma calling for me, stern one moment and pleading the next. Like a mother, she dotes and she worries and she soothes and comforts, but it’s not her that I long to have sing me to sleep before bed. So I stay hidden, high on the keel of Jorrvaskr in the pouring, freezing rain, curling into myself in the hope that I might become small enough to disappear.

That’s when I hear it: the creaking of aged wood as Kodlak, mighty Harbinger of the Companions, Slayer of a Hundred and One Orc Berserkers, climbs the worn planks of the hull to find me. His shocking white hair comes into view first and then those sharp white-blue eyes. His face is stern, but he doesn’t look angry or even vaguely displeased when he spots me at the top. He doesn’t shout at me for worrying Tilma; he doesn’t beat me for misbehaving, or drag me back down where I belong, where it’s safer. There isn’t even a lecture. Instead, the white-maned warrior awkwardly sits next to me, his adult size making it difficult for him to find balance on the keel, but he manages it and we sit here in silence as the rain overtakes us, soaking us to our bones, plastering our hair against our necks. “It is said the tears of Kyne can heal a great many ailments,” Kodlak says suddenly, sage then even thirty years younger.

“Yeah?”

“Aye. All but one.”

“Which is that?”

“Heartache, son. That one carves something out of you, but you don’t have to leave it empty.”

“He’s never coming back.”

“No, but there are others who will never leave.”

I am quiet for a while, hiding my tears in the rain. “Like you?”

“Aye, son,” he says without hesitation, “Like me.”

Yes, Kodlak was more than just his Harbinger, but Vilkas couldn’t bring himself to speak any of his fears aloud if the old man would not share in them, so he left when he was done telling his stories, and went out into the yard intending to thrash something to pieces until Sonja returned. Maybe then he could get more answers from her if Kodlak would not be open with him. Maybe she could ease his troubled mind. But he didn’t make it as far as the training dummies when his body, seemingly of its own accord—or perhaps under the silent direction of his heart—altered his course and he found himself climbing onto the roof of Jorrvaskr like the child he had been so long ago, looking for solace in high places and solitude. Trying to get closer to the sky.


Breezehome was stone cold and dark, covered in dust, and empty of most furniture. There were a few items that looked to be from the same craftsman that built the pieces in the Ironheart family home, proper: a large, heavy bed in the master bedroom, two carved high-back chairs beside the fireplace, a sturdy dining table with benches and chairs for seating six in the den/dining area, an aged sideboard thrust against the distant wall beside the hallway entrance, and a thick woven tapestry of the Ironheart family tree hung above it. Pieces gathered over the long years of Freydis’ absence since she wasn’t there to fill the home herself.

And the place had so much space to fill; it was big. Much larger than the small dwelling squeezed between the older stone edifices of the Elven Gardens District in the Imperial City where Sonja and her family had lived since before she was old enough to remember differently. Anja and Thornir had had to share a room growing up in that house until Thornir joined the Legion and moved into the barracks. “Ma! Anja locked me out of the room again!”

“Anj! Let your brother in! You can’t lock him out when it suits you!”

“I’m busy!”

“What on Nirn could a girl your age be busy with now? You’ve barely got tits to temp a lad!”

“Ma!”

“Anji likes girls anyway.”

“Or a lass.”

“Thor! You prick!”

“I don’t care what you play about with, that room’s both of yours ‘til you make your own living elsewhere!”

“FINE!”

There had only been one hearth and it was used for warmth and cooking meals. “Pick up your books, Sonja! Before I tip headfirst into the fire trying to stir the stew!”

“But ma, I have exams tomorrow!”

“Then study outside.”

“It’s raining.”

“Magic up something to help with that if you’re so smart.”

“You want me to conjure an umbrella from Oblivion?”

“Why not? I’m about to conjure an ass whooping from Oblivion.”

“I’ll be outside.”

There was no room to entertain guests, so they ventured out to meet them at the local tavern. “It’s nearly dawn, Remus.”

“I have eyes, woman. I can see that.”

“You stink of ale—and possibly inflated ego.”

“Oh, don’t get on at me for staying out late. It’s not often I see my brother!”

“He lives two streets over.”

“And I never see him!”

“Go to bed, Remus.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?”

“Get into bed with me. That’s something else entirely different.”

“Freya…”

“Go to bed, Remus. In the den.”

“I’m going. I’m going.”

In Breezehome, there would have been enough room for them all and a housecarl, too. No need to share a room. There was a kitchen separate from the den with countertops and cabinets, a rack to dry herbs, and a cooking hearth with a spit for roasting and a swivel for stews. No need to study in the rain to avoid setting one’s mother on fire. The den was large enough to fill with more furniture and rugs to make the space downright cozy and welcoming for any friends and visitors—for family. No need to come staggering home after one too many, upsetting one’s wife and children.

It was a surreal experience to stand in that house which was filled with so many ghosts of best intentions and unfulfilled potential, and Sonja couldn’t help but wonder what Owain must have felt on his deathbed, knowing the home he had purchased for his estranged daughter remained unoccupied. Regret? Shame? Anger? And would any of it—the furniture, the dwelling, the gesture, itself—have granted her mother any measure of peace were she yet living? Would Freydis have been able to see the house as the apology it was, or would even that be as empty as Breezehome’s walls? Sonja didn’t know for sure, but…You would have liked the place, ma, she decided as she let her bag slide off her shoulders and onto the ground. Freydis would have liked any home as long as there was room enough for them all to fill it.

Morosely, Sonja thought of how hard the three of them had worked to pay for that stupid little house in Elven Gardens after her father died. Fighter’s Guild contracts, smith work when Freydis could get it, and Anja freelanced her trade when things were really tight. “Swear you won’t tell mom?”

“I’m you’re older sister, Anj. I’ll always protect you.”

“You said that to Thornir, too.”

Pain, sharp and stabbing. Shame. “Anj…I…” I know I failed him. Failed you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” That was a long time ago. And she had stopped making promises to Anja. Until now. Now she’d make things right.

They never did tell their mother that sometimes the bread on their table had been paid for with stolen goods, or Freydis would have clobbered them both. It all seemed a silly, vain struggle in hindsight when there was so much waiting for them in Skyrim. For the hundredth time, Sonja wondered what really kept her mother from returning to her home in the Frozen North for so many long years.

Sighing heavily, she went about opening the shuttered windows to let light in and scare away all the specters of the past and the past-that-might-have-been. They dissolved in the glare of sunbeams, the ache in her heart the only evidence that they had ever been. To work, then, she thought, determined. Breezehome was perfect for her purposes, now. Even empty. Especially empty. It was privacy that Sonja needed. Privacy to study, take notes, experiment, and brew potions away from the prying eyes that Kodlak and Vilkas feared.

Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted the responsibility of a household all her own, let alone setting one up from nothing. She had no talent for such things and though she suspected the gold that came along with the house was more than enough to furnish the place, she hadn’t the intention of using it for that purpose. Not when Anja still had to be found. But she had accepted the responsibility of being an Ironheart in Skyrim. She had promised that to Hera. And she was a thane. Though she still didn’t fully grasp what that meant, she had been able to grant Ysolda her living simply by strolling into Dragonsreach, unaccompanied and unbothered, and signing a few documents. With that kind of weight to throw around, proper residence in the city seemed practically mandatory. What she wanted might not matter in the face of such obligations. And didn’t she owe Lydia better than Jorrvaskr’s barracks?

But first things first: a functioning fireplace would be nice. Not to overstate it, but she hated the cold. She knelt before the hearth and leaned forward, examining the chimney and smiled faintly. Clean as a whistle. Looks like the place wasn’t so abandoned after all. Hera must have had it seen to over the years, even vacated. Had Freydis suddenly appeared to take residence in that house, the first and most important thing she would have ever wanted to do, long before she packed the place full of furniture and knickknacks, was light a fire in the heart of that home. That was Hera’s small, enduring welcome: the kind that hid in hard to see places and proved that no matter how angry family made you—even if they drove you away to begin with—they were always there, waiting for you to come back home again.


A thick, black column of smoke billows into the sky just above the ridge, but I know what place it marks and the weight of that knowledge presses heavily on my heart until it snaps clean from my chest and drops into my gut like a stone. It is my home that burns. All I can do is hope my family is not there also, consumed in the flames, suffocated by smoke. But a piece of me knows. I can feel the truth of it rattle through my bones. They are dead. And I am alone.

When I reach our family home, it is a ruined, smoldering heap of wood and thatch. The smell—the stench of burnt human flesh is unlike anything else; it is unforgettable and confirms my worst fears long before I ever see the scorch of their agonized bodies. And it was no accident. Tracks of a dozen men scar the land around the house, their spent ammunition still protruding, sizzling and at odd angles, from the blackened exterior. Bandits. Pa had feared they would move in from the south ridges, hungry for food and plunder, but we had always been too small a settlement to merit notice, having nothing worth coveting—until the barn and the milk cow. Gods, was my family slaughtered for grain and milk? The sound of a soul breaking is audible and it tears from my mouth in a strangled cry of anguish as I crumple to my knees. I am only a boy, a lad not yet six and ten, too young to be robbed of so much.

“Little Warrior?” croaks a familiar voice from the barn.

My eyes snap open and the barest hint of hope, the merest suggestion of relief claws at my heart as I scramble to my feet and sprint toward my grandfather who claws his way through some of the ruined planks of the barn we had raised months before. He is a man of years, but still strong, towering, still battle-worthy enough to give most men pause and yet he looks shrunken amongst the heap. Soot and sear cling to his skin, his white hair scorched, and brilliant blue eyes blurry and raw and red. “You’re alive…!” he sounds as though he can hardly believe what his stinging eyes are telling him, “They didn’t—they—didn’t—get to…you…” And his head collapses against his arm and the jamb of what once was the entrance. He’s quiet now and still, but I can see his labored breaths. Each a small victory won against an unseen battle with death. He is fading right before my eyes.

I dig him out of the debris, heedless of the heat melting the palms of my hands as I heft still smoldering beams out of the way, off his burned limbs. I find strength somewhere in the trembling, inexperienced muscles of my young body to pull the mountain of my grandfather from a burning grave. He stirs like a draugr in my grasp, gasping like it’s his first and last breath of clean air. It is desperate and vital and sings through the air of something both finite and eternal. His eyes flutter and wander a desperate pattern though the sky until he finally catches the familiar features of my face as I sink down onto the earth beside him.

“Pup,” he wheezes, and I take him into my arms, cradling him the way I imagine he held me when I was but a babe—the way he must have held my father when he was only moments old. I can hardly manage it as I am not yet grown, the full strength and girth of a man not yet realized in my adolescent limbs. It is a desperate grapple around his frame, his skin hot and boiling and soft, wanting to come away against the firm grip of my narrow hands. “You—have to—leave,” he insists, “Before they come…back…”

“I won’t leave you,” I object. Not now. Not now that I am here and holding all the family I have left in the world like a ship’s mast in a storm. I will not be tossed from this moment. I will not abandon this vessel of love and pain and grief.

“You have to…”

“No.”

“Keep living…”

“Grand-da, I—I can’t!” He and ma and pa are all that I had. The entirety of my short life lay in the confines of their love and tutelage: mother’s worries, father’s challenges, grandfather’s stories. The path I walked, they kept me to, helped me see the way of it, guided me to brighter, worthier versions of myself. Until now. Burned to ashes and the last farewell I had given them before riding into town earlier today was not wide enough to contain the ocean of my love and gratitude. This cannot be the end. I am not ready for it.

“Kodlak,” my grandfather grunts, his eyes sharpening with focus as he weakly grips at my arm, “You cannot avenge this. Your blood will bring us no solace.” His face twitches with agony at every word, but he forces each out with iron determination. They are amongst his last words; I can feel it. He wants them to matter. He wants them to save me.

But all I can feel is rage. It seethes in my gut as I struggle to swallow the truth: that I am too small, too weak to avenge my loved ones. That my boy’s body is yet growing and incomplete. That the vigor of my soul eclipses that of the vessel born to carry it. That I am helpless. “I will make this right one day,” I vow because I need to believe it, “I will see our family avenged.”

His expression is pained. Perhaps at that moment, he cannot see a future with a victory for me in it. Perhaps his pain makes it impossible to see hope, but he clings tighter to me. When his hand finally manages to wrap around my own, his grip is much stronger that I expect or it should be as if he’s put the force of all his existence in that desperate gesture. “It will not bring us back,” he nearly whispers, “Blood will not bring us back.” And I feel him press something hard into my scorched palm: a dagger.

I know what he wants. “No,” I almost plead, “I can’t. Let me go for help! Let me find help!”

His face says it all. I know his pain; it is plainly etched there in the familiar lines of his face, marring them. But I cannot do what he wishes. I cannot lift a blade against my own flesh and blood. I am not strong enough for that. I press my forehead against his and I can almost hear his words before he speaks them aloud. “Send me to Sovngarde, pup.”

My hand tightens against the hilt and I lift my head both defeated and determined. I draw my sword from the sheath on my back and put it in his hand. Loosely, his fingers clutch the weapon, pulling it towards his chest as tightly as he is able. I take his blade to the place he taught me. Holding his head in my hand, I slip the point between my fingers where the column of his back meets his head. “Go to Imari. Let her guide your path as she once guided mine,” he says, his voice pitched with effort and the point of his dagger balanced against his skin.

“I will.”

“Honor in life. Glory in battle.”

“Sovngarde in death.” I slice my hand open as I push the blade through. His end is quick and painless and there is peace I have never witnessed before in his eyes the moment he is gone. I howl and wail and scream into the sky, wretched and shattered. Heart shredded asunder. In that moment I understand what it would be to Shout like the Tongues in the histories my grandfather taught me, for my whole body is wracked with a thu’um of sorrow. The extension of my soul is only pain. But I cannot Shout. I know no Words for the agony that consumes me as I lay my grandfather, the once mighty Ulvgar, flat against the earth, praying it would open wide to swallow me whole.

“Kodlak?”

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his painful memories, absently staring at the scars burned into his hands lightened now by decades—except the red ropey one between his ring and middle finger of his left hand where the dagger passed through. That one never faded. It never would. He cleared his throat, brow tangling as he looked up to see who had called for him. It was Tilma coming down the ladder into the archives beneath his bedchamber. She was awkwardly maneuvering down the wooden rungs with one hand, the other grasping two steaming mugs of hot cider by the thick handles. He could smell the sweet spice dance through the air. “Sorry, elskling[1],” he apologized and rushed to take the drinks from her hand, “I was lost in memory.” He helped her small, frail frame the rest of the way down the ladder with his free hand.

Elskling?” she repeated, straightening her skirts and reclaiming one of the mugs, “You must have been very lost, indeed. You haven’t called me such in—decades, at least.”

He hadn’t realized the endearment slipped out, but it didn’t change anything. He’d meant it as he’d always meant it. Still, a touch of guilt colored his expression. “You’ve always been my darling, Tilma,” he insisted, “That’s never changed.”

She looked at him with narrowed amber eyes that knew him better than he knew himself and a faint smile on her thin lips. “Flatterer,” she accused affectionately and cupped his cheek, the coarseness of his beard catching in the cracks of her calloused palm and fingers.

He covered her small, gnarled hand with his own larger, stronger one and held it there, taking comfort in the simple loving gesture. “I have done wrong, elskling,” he grumbled.

“We all have at one time or another,” she replied, making no attempt to retract her hand from his grasp and rubbing the blade of her thumb over his skin, instead, “The Blood, though your burden, is not your doing.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Vilkas.”

Tilma hummed knowingly. “You have done wrong,” she agreed.

He sighed heavily and released her, their hands dropping away from each other. “I was thinking of Ulvgar,” he informed her and swirled the cider in his mug, staring into its depths as if it contained a portal to that earlier time, “At the farm.”

Jorrvaskr’s matriarch stilled, her brow furrowed as she carefully examined her Harbinger’s expression. “Heavy thoughts,” she observed gently, not prompting or pressing or provoking. Kodlak’s counsel always unfurled of its own accord when he was ready; she knew better than to pry it from him before then.

“Aye,” he agreed and thumbed the scar between his fingers, “Sonja drew the memories out. She didn’t approve of me sending Vilkas away.”

Tilma quirked an eyebrow at him. “Give you a piece of her mind, did she?”

Kodlak huffed out a humorless laugh. “No,” he denied, “She’s much like Freydis in many ways—but not in that one. She simply told me it was not wise to make those I love suffer in silence.”

“She chastised you.”

“More or less.”

“How does it feel to be on the receiving end for once?”

It was Kodlak’s turn to glare affectionately at his oldest, most beloved friend. “I don’t chastise,” he objected, “The Companions are not children. I guide our honored warriors…”

Tilma hummed her disbelief. “Depends on the point of view, dear,” she pointed out, “But she’s right all the same.”

“I know it.”

“And yet you sent our boy away.”

Kodlak pursed his lips. “I was protecting him.”

“You were protecting yourself.”

“Perhaps.” Vilkas’ pain made his own worse.

“You are not Ulvgar,” Tilma pointed out kindly, her voice careful of the old warrior’s name like it was a Word of Power, “Vilkas is not you.”

The Harbinger took a deep breath and nodded. “He would do it, though,” he said softly, “If I asked it of him. He is stronger than I was.”

“You were a boy, then. Our son is a man. A good man because of you. Both he and Farkas. It would break him. And that’s not what you want.”

“No,” he hastily agreed, “No, of course not. I am not so far gone as Ulvgar was. I need no mercy, yet. There is much work for me to do.” And he’d rather die a thousand painful deaths than task either Vilkas or Farkas with such burden.

“Then why is Ulvgar’s ghost haunting you now? After so many long years?”

Kodlak turned away from her for a moment, turning his attention to the rows of books and scrolls stacked upon the shelves. He reached out to touch one at random, longing for the feel of the old leather beneath his fingertips just to ground him, just to tether him to a moment that felt balanced on the edge of his own mortality. “Because I was helpless to save him,” he answered, “I couldn’t protect my mother. I couldn’t fight beside my father. I couldn’t even avenge them until many years later.”

“And Vilkas—and Farkas, when you finally tell him, and you should tell him, eventually—face the same challenge,” she observed.

“Aye. Only there is no enemy to hate. Nothing to avenge. No solace. I will die and there is nothing either of them can do about it.”

Tilma placed her mug upon the desk and approached him. Her knotted hand reached out and gripped his shoulder, turning him with loving but firm pressure until he was facing her again. “That was always going to happen, love,” she reminded him, “We are old and not much longer for the world. Whether you died with a sword in your hand or in the night with the passing of time, death is not something either of us can escape or conquer. You know this.”

“I do and I am not afraid, but…”

“Leaving them is hardest.”

“It is. Especially when my soul is only destined for the Hunting Grounds. It feels as though there is a noose around my neck. I am running out of time before I am made prey for Hircine’s amusement. That is not a proper warrior’s afterlife.”

“And what of Sonja? Of your dream? Have you lost faith in your vision?”

“No,” he assured, “But I know not when or how any of it will come to pass.” He reached out and warmed her arms with his hands, fondly, wanting to hold her. “I must endure,” he reminded himself, “I am not dead, yet.”

She sensed his desires and stepped into his embrace, resting her check against his chest. “You are only a man, Kodlak,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his middle and let him engulf her slight frame, “You don’t have to endure always. Men were not made to.”

He pressed a kiss into her hairline. “That’s why Shor made women,” he stated, smiling, “Someone has to keep us from coming apart at the seams.”

Tilma laughed into the soft fabric of his tunic, rolling her eyes. “Seventy winters and you’re as silver-tongued as the day I met you.”

Kodlak actually chuckled, the rumble of his laughter humming pleasantly against Tilma’s face. “I hope I’ve improved a little at least. If I remember correctly, I just stammered like the idiot boy I was when I entered the halls of Jorrvaskr and saw, for the first time, its dark-haired beauty of a caretaker.”

She swatted at the space between his shoulder blades. “Don’t fib,” she chastised.

“Not to you, elskling,” he assured, “Never to you.”


War is chaos. It is raw and roiling and vital. Strength of a sword arm, of an army, of a nation stacked against the frailty of a body easily cut down, a life easily stolen, a breath easily smothered. It is ugly even in its glorious moments when good men die and are carried away to Sovngarde. So much blood. So much waste. So much death. And for what? In the heat of the filth, it’s hard to remember, sometimes, and youth has so much yet to live for that it’s difficult not to wonder, not to lose faith in blinking moments of uncertainty. When the whole of your life was bent around the shape of peace, war remakes you, as it did to me. In an instant that passed like the strike of lightning, but which I replay in the dark spaces of my mind thirty years later.

A boy, hardly a man. Hroar. Like the rumble of a great bear. He likes his mead and stammers in the presence of pretty women. His father taught him to hold a sword and his mother taught him who to protect with it. A good lad, eager and keen and full of hope and pride. The great, dark possibility of death is a distant one to him, even in the midst of such a bloody war. “Talos walks with us,” he always says, “How can we lose?” So much innocence and faith and fire.

The first time he takes a life, the light in him dims a little. He doesn’t know the feel of blood, the way it sprays from an open body. The taste and smell of it. It sparks something animal in the pit of him that he doesn’t know he had. The act of killing is both natural and profane all at once; both sin and blessing to have taken what is not yours and that it has not been taken from you. “Talos walks with us,” he says now, “How can we be wrong?”

It is a long day, the day of his death. The air is filled with the music of combat, the battle-songs and shouts of brothers, of sisters, of fathers, and of mothers. The clash of swords like waves upon shores of a home I barely remember. Kyne’s wind blows through the battlefield, reaping, ushering worthy souls into the golden fields of Sovngarde. I was taught great respect for Her kind breezes, for Her natural place amongst the order of things. She is mother and wife and widow. She is strife upon the seas and calm upon the water. But I have trouble seeing Her beauty amongst the writhing sea of bodies fighting and dying, warring in a violent tangle of fire and coal: red and black.

Hroar is fearless because he’s never known fear in the wake of his god. He charges and hurls himself into the throng of flashing swords. I follow as I have always followed since my first uncertain steps distancing me from a holy mountaintop. But I know. I feel it nag at me at the back of my skull. This is not what I was raised to take part in, but I made my choice and turned my back on a more peaceful existence. Half my heart is torn between a mountaintop and the old stories my father told me when I was a young boy before the monks and their Way. The pull is sharp and painful and middles out in a matter that is less what it is I choose to kill and more what it is I must protect. So I step into the heart of it, let the battle-rush overtake me in the eddies of desperate combat, but I do not give it everything. There is something I hold back. One piece of myself that I left back at the monastery. My Voice is my soul and it is powerful. I cannot stain it with the blood of others. Even if they are my enemy. They do not know themselves as I have learned to know myself. What honor is there in wielding such a weapon against the mute? This one lesson I take with me and hold it close to my heart. I raise my sword for my brothers and sisters, but I will not raise my Voice…

In the moment the Altmer’s blade swings, I know it will meet its mark. I cry out to Hroar, but it is too late. He is run through and the chaos that surrounds us seems to fade away. I do not kill the elf to protect my nation. I kill him to avenge my friend and kick his body off my sword as if I had merely slain a pig. “I-is it—bad?” the boy, hardly a man dying in my arms stammers. Blood is filling his mouth; he is choking on it and yet he finds some ray of hope that the chill that is overcoming his body is not final. That it does not herald the beginning of his journey to Sovngarde.

I cannot lie to him and so I say nothing as stunned tears gather in my eyes. Hroar knows. He understands and looks beyond me into the skies above, searching for the embrace of the Storm-Goddess to take him home. “T-talo-s walks w-with me-e,” he says, bravely, “How can I die?” Because I failed to protect him. Because I was too selfish to give everything that even foolish, faithful Hroar gave over. Had my cry been a Shout instead, he would not be slipping from the world. They are wrong. The monks are wrong. The Way has no place amongst a world awash in so much blood.

“Kyne guide you.” And I pray over his body as his last breath leaves him, the name of his god on his lips.

“On your order, Ulfric,” Galmar said, “Our men are in position. We can take Falkreath.” Ulfric almost started, surprised to be pulled from his thoughts, but managed to catch himself. He was standing in the war room with his faithful housecarl and Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced finally discussing battle plans to take Falkreath, a map of Skyrim spread across the table between them. The holds depicted in careful, steady ink were marked with red or blue flags. A small, poor declaration of allegiance when the reasons behind it were so much grander than either color could represent. The steel tokens pressed with bear paws weighed the parchment down over encampments his Stormcloaks occupied both in and outside of enemy territory, yet the metal was still too light to denote the gravity, the weight those souls placed upon their Jarl. Ulfric always carried one of them in his pocket and thumbed it at moments like that one when he was thinking of Hroar and when he had to be mindful of the power he had over the lives of the soldiers who followed him, who would die at his command.

“How many men?” he asked.

“Sixty,” Yrsarald supplied. And they had barely scraped together that number.

“Bit light to take an Imperial fort.”

“Its prisons hold another twenty of our men,” Galmar continued, “If they could join the fight from the inside and catch their jailors by surprise…”

“The Imperial’s greater numbers might count for less,” Ulfric finished, nodding, “Yes, I see what you mean, old friend, but how long have our soldiers been held prisoner? They might not be in fighting condition.”

“A man is always ready to fight for his freedom.”

“True enough.” Ulfric stared at the map again, thoughtfully. His hand wandered to his pocket and began worrying the bear paw token inside. It was a dicey decision to make. The civil war in general had worn their numbers thin and they were not so well funded, equipped, or supplied as their enemy. Their victories were largely won with clever wit and staunch heart. Guerilla warfare. And the attack on Helgen spent no small number of their forces in the chaos the dragon wrought that coincided their attempt to rescue their captured jarl. It made attacking fortified positions like Fort Neugrad difficult. Simply put, the Imperials could outlast them. If they were going to have a real chance at victory, Galmar’s suggestion was likely the best. “Can we spare another squad?” he asked at last.

“If we pull men from Whiterun hold, aye,” Yrsarald answered, “I don’t feel comfortable sparing anyone else.”

“We are still unsure of Balgruuf’s intentions…” Galmar began to object.

Ulfric waved him off. “His mind will not be made any time soon. A dozen men won’t change that,” he grumbled, “And if we take Falkreath, we’ll be in a better position to persuade him that he should stand with the True Sons and Daughters of Skyrim.”

“So, we move on Falkreath, then?”

“This requires finesse,” Ulfric pointed out, not confirming the order one way or the other just yet, “Which of my captains will have the honor?”

“Kjal is a capable warrior,” Yrsarald offered.

“Don’t use a war hammer to do what a dagger can,” Ulfric dismissed, “His heart is in the right place, but not his brains.”

“Haskar?”

“Injured in the last skirmish along the borders of the Pale,” Galmar informed him.

“Ralof,” Ulfric stated. It was not a suggestion.

Housecarl and advisor both shifted uncertainly. “He’s green,” Yrsarald pointed out.

“Most of our men and women are. Armies are built on the young. Besides, he proved his worth at Helgen.”

“Aye. He’s a good lad, but to hang Neugrad upon him? He’s never commanded men before,” Galmar contended.

“He’ll only need to command twenty directly,” Ulfric mused, “He made it out with Ironheart. Just the two of them. If anyone can find a way to get into Neugrad and free its prisoners without alerting the Imperials, I think he could do it.”

Galmar pursed his lips, wanting to argue, but Ulfric was right. Their captains were not a good fit. “He’s only Ice-Veins,” he reminded his Jarl.

“So make him Bone-Breaker. He’s earned it,” Ulfric replied impatiently, “Place Thorygg over the larger force to coordinate the offensive. Harry fortifications with the archers—one catapult. We don’t want to kill our men on the inside, but we don’t want the Imperials paying any attention to their prisons while Ralof is liberating our brothers and sisters.” He paused. “He shouldn’t go alone, but too many and we lose the advantage. Two others. No more.”

Yrsarald brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I have a couple capable scouts should do nicely,” he informed his jarl, “Light step. Good, sharp eyes.”

“Good.” Ulfric nodded, “Then make the preparations. We move on…”

“My Jarl!” a courier burst into the war room, practically waving the missive clutched in his grasp. Ulfric’s expression visibly darkened to be interrupted, but he turned to fully face the courier who belatedly reconsidered barging in on the war council uninvited. “Y-you said you wanted this delivered straight to your hand only…” he said meekly, uncertainly, as he held out the letter.

Ulfric sighed and took the document. Immediately, his eyes lit up as he recognized the seal. His long awaited answer had finally arrived. Carelessly, he waved his hand to dismiss the messenger. “Take food and rest,” he instructed as he popped the seal, “You’ve earned it.” Satisfied that he had not upset his jarl, the exhausted courier eagerly took his leave.

“Good news, Ulfric?” Galmar asked as his old friend stared at the newly arrived parchment clutched in his hand with an odd expression that vaguely resembled disbelief.

“Aye,” Ulfric confirmed, “Where is Ralof currently stationed?”

Yrsarald hesitated, thinking. “In the Pale,” he answered at length.

“He’ll need to report here, to me, before Falkreath,” Ulfric ordered, “I have a special task for him.”

Galmar wordlessly held his hand out for the message Ulfric had just received. With a tinge of amusement, the jarl handed it over for his housecarl to read the lone two words of text scratched across its surface: Sonja Ironheart. “It is a good omen that you have already crossed paths with the Dragonborn,” he said, shaking his head with wonder, “That you saved her life…”

“Ralof saved her life,” Ulfric corrected, but he was pensive. It surely felt like providence that she had been so close within his grasp. That she had saved his life out on the pass. He tried to remember what he had heard in her voice that day. It hadn’t been anything remarkable or he would have remembered. Her tone was deep. He remembered that. Still feminine, but lower pitched than any other woman he’d ever heard before, and there was a harshness too in the growl of some of her words. It sounded to him as though she had sustained some serious damage to her throat at one time or another. More rumble and rasp than hum and song.

None of it had hummed with obvious power, however. At least, not then and she hadn’t spoken to him directly. They had all been more concerned with survival than anything else. Ralof had piqued her interest somehow. Maybe it had been their conversation in the cart on the way into town, or maybe it had been his honest attempts to shield her from harm, but she had chosen an ally in him and by the boy’s account, she was a fierce and capable warrior. That she was a woman and a mage flew in the face of the traditionally accepted representation of the Dragonborn hero, but such things were often wrong. The interpretation of the Divine by man was often flawed. Besides, according to Ralof, she could handle a sword as well as she could throw spells. After Helgen, they had parted on good terms. Ralof had even confessed to writing to her to assure his safety. Very good terms indeed. Something Galmar had initially wanted to reprimand him for, but Ulfric decided was harmless enough. After all, who was Sonja Ironheart to anyone at that time? No one. Their enemies would have little interest in her mail.

So, it seemed logical to send Ralof back to her, now. A friendly face to extend a friendly invitation to Windhelm. It was possibly more dangerous sending the lad to Whiterun, Balgruuf’s steadfastly neutral city, than it was sending him into the belly of Fort Neugrad, but something told him Ralof would be keen to see the beautiful and fierce Dragonborn again. He’d find a way in. Of that Ulfric had no doubt.

And once she was in his city? Ulfric intended to demonstrate the merits of his cause to her, convince her of what was right for the people of Skyrim. Ralof could help on that point, perhaps. Sway her with Nordic hospitality. Even charm her a little if it suited and she was receptive. Whatever made her more amiable, more convinced of his intentions and dedication to his Stormcloaks. He didn’t imagine it would be difficult. Even with Imperial blood coursing through her veins she was an Ironheart and chose to take that name; she impressed Ralof; and she had been prepared to face her death without fear—a death that would have come at the hands of the very people her own father had once served. Who better to understand the plight of those tossed aside by a distant and ignorant Emperor? Most importantly, she was Dovahkiin. How could she take any other side but his? She was meant to be the embodiment of Nordic heroism, after all. Her legend had yet to be written, but it would always be in service to the people of Skyrim.

And he knew her for what she was; knew the path she had yet to walk; knew every inch of the Seven Thousand Steps she had yet to climb. If she wanted real answers before that undertaking, he could provide them. In that, he would always give to her with an open hand. It was his duty as a Nord—as a former Greybeard and man of the Way. Anything she wanted of him in that regard was hers, unreservedly. He could offer what the Greybeards could not: true understanding without judgement. He would never try to curb her power as he knew the monks would; he’d relish it, nurture it, admire it—and, yes, use it if she let him. And surely she’d let him. She had to. If he was going to win Skyrim her independence for the men and women like Hroar who only wanted to die with their god’s name upon their lips, he’d need Sonja Ironheart at his side.

“Prepare to move on Falkreath,” Ulfric ordered, distractedly, “And send for Ralof. I have another letter to write.” He swiftly left the war room, leaving Galmar and Yrsarald to carry out his will.


Farkas went out into the yard to find his brother because Tilma said she was worried about him. And when he went out there, expecting to find Vilkas shattering yet another training dummy only to find him nowhere in sight—on the ground, anyway—he completely understood Jorrvaskr’s matriarch’s concerns. It worried him too. Vilkas hadn’t climbed to the roof like that in years. Not since they were children, at least. He frowned, staring up the slope of the roof at his brother, and caught his eye. Vilkas pursed his lips and looked away, silently declaring that he was fine and wanted to be left alone, but Farkas wasn’t stupid. Vilkas was not fine. He probably did want to be left alone, though, but that was less important.

Sighing, fists propped against his hips, he looked around the yard at his shield-siblings who were training as usual, paying no mind to Vilkas’ position atop the roof of Jorrvaskr like it was completely normal. It wasn’t normal, but none of them were going to say anything about it. If their Master Trainer decided to climb the walls, that was his business; they weren’t stupid enough to contradict him but Farkas sort of wished they were. More voices made a message louder. Sometimes, he wondered if half the things he had to say to Vilkas would actually make it through or stick if they were said in the many voices of his shield-siblings, of all those who depended on and cared about him. Probably not, Vilkas was smart, but he was stubborn, too, and could easily play deaf and ignorant when it suited him.

Farkas rubbed his hands together in preparation and then took a running leap at the ledge of the roof where the ground rose up high enough to make the jump possible. The Companions in the yard were a little more invested in what was happening now that Farkas arrived and his intention to speak with Vilkas was obvious. Torvar’s movements noticeably slowed as his attention flit to the roof, allowing Athis to get an opening at his ribs. Their spar devolved into a brawl after that with Torvar accusing Athis of having tried to stab him on purpose. That drew some of the attention away from Farkas as his strong hands latched onto the eaves and he pulled himself up onto the steep slant of the roof over the porch.

He looked up the slope of the hull to his brother sitting against the keel. Vilkas looked back at him unhappily, shaking his head with annoyance. “Not now, Farkas,” he growled, “Get down before your hurt yourself.”

The larger twin glared at him meaningfully. “Come down with me and I’ll go,” he retorted.

Vilkas’ expression soured further. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.”

His brother’s expression fell. “No. You’re not.”

Farkas took advantage of Vilkas’ moment of guilt to advance up the roof with a series of short, awkward, shuffling steps across the shingles. Vilkas edged forward, worried that his much heavier brother would lose his footing and fall—or the shingles would give way beneath him. Farkas sensed more than observed his brother’s encroaching proximity as his focus was far too consumed in finding safe footfalls, but he knew he was there, as always, ready to catch him if he fell. And he did slip. He really had no business being up on that roof; thoroughly a creature of solid, flat earth, he was not as sure footed as Vilkas on rocky or steep heights and that blasted roof was steep. Vilkas was instantly at his side, one hand a fistful of the leather straps holding Farkas’ steel plate armor to his body and the other grasping at the peak of the porch roof for stability.

“Ysgramor’s beard,” he snarled at the larger twin, “You’re going to crack your skull open if you’re not careful.”

Farkas smirked, stabilized himself and then charged up the roof in two powerful steps, dragging his brother with him. It was graceless and dangerous and terrifying, but the roof didn’t collapse in the process, so—there’s that. The two men sat there balanced uncomfortably at the top, Vilkas glaring at his smug twin. “What’s wrong?” Farkas asked bluntly.

Vilkas huffed and looked around the yard as if searching for someone. “Nothing.”

The larger twin assumed he must have been looking for Sonja. “Lydia said Sonja has been missing all morning,” he said, “You worried about her?”

Vilkas rolled his eyes. “No,” he grumbled, “She’s—I know what she’s up to. Your woman needn’t worry after her.”

Farkas’ brow furrowed. “What’s wrong then?”

The smaller twin fidgeted. “You remember when Kodlak taught us how to swing a sword?” he asked, his tone distant.

“Aye.” He grinned. “He said we were natural warriors.”

“We were idiot children swinging sticks,” Vilkas corrected, “He was just being kind.”

“Wasn’t a lie, though, Master Trainer.”

Vilkas scoffed. “No, I guess not.” He was quiet for a moment. “Where are Skjor and Aela?”

“Aela had a job. Skjor went with.”

“He’s sick, brother. The old man is dying.”

Farkas stilled. Death was an inevitability. As Nords they had been raised to welcome it for it led to Sovngarde—only they wouldn’t be granted the same peace. Kodlak wouldn’t be granted the same peace. And if he was sick—that wasn’t a quick death forged in the heat of battle, instant and glorious. That was—that was…He understood why Vilkas climbed the walls. “How long?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know.” Vilkas propped his elbows against his knees and rested his head against his tented fingers. “A long time. Sonja said he’s been sick for a while. Makes it hard for her to figure out how much longer he has left. I haven’t known for very long, myself.”

That information perplexed him. “Why Sonja and not Danica?” he asked.

“He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

Farkas nodded, unsurprised. “Skjor and Aela, you mean.”

“Aye.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“Because you should know and I don’t know if he would tell you until it was too late.” He frowned. “He wouldn’t have told me if I hadn’t walked in on him in the middle of an attack.”

“What is it?”

“The Rot.”

Farkas was silent for a while as he processed what Vilkas had just told him. It made his heart ache and he wanted nothing more than to just sit up there with his brother and brood into the blue sky, but—he looked at Vilkas—he had not climbed up for nothing. His brother was in pain. He placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s spar.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“That’s sorta the point.”

Vilkas shot him an annoyed look. “Farkas…” he warned.

“I don’t want to, either,” he admitted, “But do it because I’m asking. Because I need it too.”

Vilkas huffed and nodded, covering the larger twin’s hand with his own in brotherly affection. “Alright,” he agreed, “Let’s spar.” Farkas almost fell off the roof again with his descent but Vilkas caught him once more and together they made it back safely into the yard where Athis and Torvar were glaring at each other with split lips and black eyes.


“You sent for me, my Jarl?” Captain Lonely-Gale asked as he entered the solarium of the Palace of Kings. Though he visited the keep many a time over the years, he had never been invited further into its depths than the main hall, like anyone else. And why would he have been? He was no one special. Not really. Just an old sailor—alright, perhaps not that old, but he certainly felt that way after…He pursed his lips and furtively glanced around the large room in search of Ulfric, pushing his thoughts aside.

The Jarl was standing out on the wide balcony, staring off across the Sea of Ghosts, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He was so far away that the captain was certain he had not heard him and opened his mouth to speak again, but Ulfric suddenly spoke, his voice ringing loud and clear through the vaulting space. “Sorry to disturb your morning, Llyr,” he said cordially, “I thank you for coming so quickly, friend.”

The captain cocked an eyebrow as he moved through the rows of planters. No one called him by his first name. He was Captain Lonely-Gale to everyone. Not even the Jarl made it a habit of calling him anything else. Nor was he Ulfric’s ‘friend.’ Not really, though he suspected that the only true friend a man like the Great Bear of Eastmarch had was likely his own housecarl, the Stone-Fist. Men of power were often solitary. He supposed they were on friendly enough terms, though; largely respectful of each other, but Llyr had travelled too far and wide to be easily taken in by Ulfric’s rhetoric. A fact of which the Jarl was keenly aware—and with which he was a touch impressed.

“A man always comes when his Jarl calls,” he observed reasonably as he reached the balcony, “So, how can this humble sailor serve you?”

Ulfric turned his head just enough to acknowledge him, but his eyes remained on the waves of the sea. “Humble sailor?” he repeated, obviously amused, “You were the scourge of every brigand, pirate, and bandit along the shores of the Sea of Ghosts. They still sing your praises in Morrowind and High Rock.”

“I was a trader.”

“In your younger years. I’m referring to something more recent.”

“That was still years ago.”

“Not so many as to easily be forgotten.”

“Though I try.”

Ulfric hummed knowingly. “As many winters since the passing of Yiri,” he observed, “I had forgotten, Llyr. My apologies. She was a good woman.”

Llyr looked away, out across the sea. Memories of his late wife swimming amongst the mists. “The best,” he agreed and then cleared his throat, “Forgive me, my Jarl, but surely you didn’t summon me here to reminisce about things better left in the past.”

“No, of course not, Llyr.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Straight to the point then?”

“I thought a man like you would appreciate it, sir.”

A little seriousness returned to Ulfric’s expression. “I know you consider yourself retired…” he began.

“I am retired,” he automatically corrected and then cleared his throat, “Forgive me. Please continue, my Jarl.”

Ulfric seemed vaguely irritated to be interrupted, but made no comment on it and continued anyway, “I have a task that requires craft, intelligence—and no small amount of fortitude.” He paused and finally gave his full attention over to the captain. “I need a man of honor, Llyr, and you are not a part of my armies.”

Storm clouds gathered over Lonely-Gale’s face. “Are you drafting me?” he asked incredulously.

“Much as I’d like to, no. Though you would be a great asset to my Stormcloaks and that offer will remain open to you should you reconsider, but this is a job. Not a mission.”

The captain’s expression relaxed somewhat, but he was still uneasy. “A job?” he repeated.

“I know you made your fortune on the seas, but you will be generously compensated for your efforts.”

“Is this for the war?” He had no interest in taking part in the war.

Ulfric seemed to mull the question over, thoughtfully. “Indirectly, it could be,” he allowed, “But it is more a matter of safety for the Hold—and…” He paused again and Llyr had the distinct feeling it was for effect. “Are you familiar with the rumors circulating about the Dragonborn?” he asked at length.

That was certainly not the sentence he had expected to come out of Ulfric’s mouth. “N-no,” he stammered, taken aback, and then cleared his throat and composed himself, “Not more so than anyone else, anyway. Just what goes around the tavern and the guardhouses. Some of it—most of it garbage.”

Ulfric nodded, his expression unsurprised. “The Dragonborn has awakened, though she has not yet journeyed to High Hrothgar,” he revealed.

Llyr’s eyes widened slightly. “How could you…?” he began and then stopped short, remembering who he was speaking with: Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, former Greybeard. “And a she, you said? A woman?”

Amusement found its way back into the Jarl’s face. “Aye, a woman,” he confirmed, “I had the good fortune of meeting her on an unfortunate day.” When Lonely-Gale’s brow furrowed with a silent prompt, he continued. “She was at Helgen,” he clarified.

“You know who she is then?”

“Aye.”

The captain shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncertainly. Ulfric’s juicy bit of gossip, while interesting, was also somewhat confusing. “What does this have to do with me, my Jarl?” he asked, “What task did you have in mind, exactly?”

“The Dragonborn is searching for her sister,” he explained, his hands unclasping from behind his back and swinging to his sides as he turned to fully face Llyr; he rested his right hand against the hit of his sword out of habit. “She was here, but she slipped through our fingers—through my fingers.”

Every muscle in the captain’s body tensed. “You want me to find her,” he stated.

“I do.”

“And once I’ve found her? What do you intend to do with her?” his tone was a hair’s breadth away from challenging, “Hold her hostage until the Dragonborn joins your cause?” That last bit might have been outright accusatory.

Ulfric’s chin raised slightly at the insult, but he did not lose his temper. “What kind of a man do you take me for, Lonely-Gale?” he growled, “If you truly think I possess so little honor, at least don’t think me stupid. My thu’um is no match for that of a Dovahkiin. It would be foolhardy, indeed, to tempt her wrath by endangering a loved one.”

Instantly, Llyr regretted his words. “Apologies, my Jarl,” he said, “I did not mean to offend, but I have no wish to be caught up in—politics concerning the Dragonborn…”

“And you won’t be,” Ulfric assured, “I’m not asking you to take the girl against her will. I just want you to find her, learn everything you can about her—be careful of her—and extend an invitation for her to return to Windhelm.”

“She is dangerous?”

“She has the blood of the Dragon flowing through her veins like her sister, Llyr. I made the mistake of underestimating her.”

“And you know who she is as well?”

“She calls herself Tyv, but I do not believe that is her true name.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.”

“You will take the job, then?”

“Can I refuse?”

“You can, but I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

The captain glanced away and out over the sea again. “Why me, my Jarl? Surely you have plenty of men…”

“I do, but they are fighting a war,” he reminded him, “And I’ve known you long enough to know you are a good man of no small skill with a blade. I know you are capable of what I ask of you. Most importantly—you do not agree with me blindly.”

Llyr stilled. He was glad Ulfric chose to see that as a positive trait rather than insubordination. “Thank you, my Jarl,” he said gently, “But I haven’t done this kind of work in some time…”

“The commotion that thief stirred up in the city over a week ago…”

“With the light and smoke?”

“Aye.”

“I remember.” He had been trying to help the guards maintain order in the market square with marginal success.

“That was Tyv.”

Llyr pursed his lips and nodded, understanding. “I see,” he stated, “She’s put you in a difficult position.”

Ulfric chuckled. “Something like that,” he acknowledged, “I won’t lie to you, Llyr. It would be a great boon to be able to hand the Dragonborn’s sister over to her, but I’m not certain that’s what either of them wants. There’s something raw there that I have no wish to make worse. As for Tyv, herself—I have no intention of jailing her—for now—but I cannot allow her to pillage my city in the cover of night, either.”

The captain thumbed his wedding ring as he considered the Jarl’s request. “I’ll need to know more about her than just a name she calls herself,” he said at length.

“You’ll do it, then?”

Llyr considered himself to be the type of man capable of saying ‘no’ to a jarl, but he didn’t want to. Not for the money; he was wealthy enough. Not for the war effort or fear of the Dragonborn; he had no taste for politics, and it seemed to him the best way to avoid displeasing a she-dragon was to simply avoid her entirely. He certainly wasn’t about to accept simply because Ulfric was asking, either. Though he respected the man—he was a war hero, after all—and genuinely thought him an honorable man—being honorable does not make you right, however—he had no desire to get tangled in the web of Ulfric’s conflict. He had already spent a long time fighting. Too long. By the time he was finished, he only had precious few months with Yiri, his loving, spitfire, beautiful wife, before she died in childbirth, taking their son with her. No, he was going to accept because he did actually care if the Hold was menaced by a master thief. That and he sorely needed the distraction, needed to do something again before the ale and aimless wandering through town swallowed him whole. Before Viola Giordano swallows me whole. That last thought made him shudder with displeasure. That woman was relentless, hungry for a husband, and undeterred by his obvious lack of interest.

He just needed to get away from Windhelm for a while. Needed to remind himself that he was capable of other things than just drowning his sorrows in booze at Candlehearth Inn, too despondent to even flirt with the lovely Susana who brought him his drinks. Sorrow was a strong swimmer anyway. It was time for a change. “Aye. I’ll find your girl.”

Ulfric almost grinned and gestured for Llyr to take a seat at the nearby table. “Good,” he approved, and they seated themselves. Weighed down by a leather-bound journal at the center of the table was a drawing: a masterful sketch of the likeness of a beautiful, young woman. Tyv, Llyr assumed. She didn’t look young enough to him to refer to as a ‘girl’ but Ulfric was more than ten years his senior, so perhaps he, himself, looked only fresh out of boyhood to the elder man. “For you,” Ulfric said, sliding both the journal and the picture toward him, “It’s a decent likeness, but it fails to capture the mischief in her eyes.”

“You had a good look, then.”

“I did.”

“Tell me about her.”

Ulfric leaned back in his chair and rested heavily against the armrest of one side. He told Llyr of his experience with Tyv in great detail, leaving nothing out but one unnecessary little fact. There was no reason for the former sailor to know about the kiss. When Llyr had learned everything he could and taken notes of anything in particular he didn’t want to forget, he left and Ulfric lingered on the balcony a while longer, eyes upon the sea again.

He didn’t think he was making a mistake in tasking Llyr. The matter was not directly tied to his war effort and with the impending attack on Falkreath, he had no one else to spare. He needed outside help and Llyr had much to recommend him over the average mercenary one could pick up at any inn. The captain was well liked around the city, had helped many of its citizens over the years, and had even made it possible for the Shatter-Shield’s shipping business to stay in competition with the East Empire Company. He was one of Windhelm’s most prominent citizens. Certainly more honorable than a sellsword and he’d known the man a number of years to make him more comfortable in the asking, but he could see he was still broken after the loss of his wife. Sadly, that had been part of why Ulfric had chosen him. He needed someone who could resist Tyv’s charms because he was sure a lesser man would easily succumb to them, and a man still in love with his dead wife was surely cursed with the necessary fortitude to avoid such temptation. Llyr’s broken heart would protect him in that, at least. He could wear it like armor and put it to good use, for once.


[1] Google Translate (Norwegian): darling

Notes:

So...a lot of things...

I wanted to expand on Kodlak, who he is, what his past was, what makes him the old badass that he is, and just flesh him out. I want him to be a full, wonderful, flawed, but wise person. A man who has lived. But I didn't want there to just be pain in his past. I wanted there to be love too. Not just Vilkas and Farkas, but romantic love. Tilma made sense since she was always there, always so supportive and caring, and she's basically mom to the twins. She's his closest friend and confidant. There will be more on their relationship because it's not a typical one, not one that was out in the open (Vilkas and Farkas have no it was even a thing) or even fully realized because life got in the way, being a Companion got in the way, but it was always there and easily slipped back into. Also, sorry if the assisted suicide bit was rough on anyone. It was hard to write, but such a powerful, defining moment for young Kodlak.

I also wanted to have a few little windows into Sonja's family life to kind of show that they had been a family like any other once before everything fell apart. I wanted to give you all a sense of what Freydis was as a mother. She was so sassy, but full of so much love. Even after the death of her son and later her husband, she held that family together. Without her, it didn't take terribly long for Anja and Sonja to split.

Oh, and I made Breezehome huge, lol. There are lots of mods that change the look and utility of Breezehome because it just doesn't stack up to some of the other homes you can own in the game, but I rearranged its architecture in my noodle. ⌣ Because I'm breaking up a lot of the storylines in the world and assigning them to other characters that it makes more sense for them to have, Sonja will not own a home in every city like you can in the game. That's not a practical thing for a person to do in reality. Especially if you have a housecarl living in each of them. That's a lot of upkeep that requires a steady and large income which adventuring does usually provide in the game mechanics because it has to, but from a realistic standpoint, all of that takes time and effort and there's a constant threat of death and you have to do it consistently to keep the gold coming in. If Sonja has to spend an extended amount of time focusing on her Dragonborn duties, then she won't have the gold to pay for her like, what, seven houses? It's silly. So, I made Breezehome more worthwhile because it will be one of the few homes she owns.

And Ulfric! Yurp...I love him...and, keeping in theme with the first part of the chapter, he was remembering stuff too. One of the things that always stuck out to me in the timeline of his life is that he is renown for using his thu'um when he retook Markarth from the Forsworn, but that was especially notable because he did not use it during the Great War and he didn't use it to free himself from captivity when he was a POW to the Thalmor. I want to explore those moments and why he didn't Shout his way to glory or freedom sooner. What made him change his mind later at Markarth? Or against Torygg? Also, since I have a different timeline worked out for Sonja and when she does certain things, the rest of the world still has to move around her. It makes no sense for the Civil War to stand still until she finally gets involved, so he will progress his campaign. Anytime a fort is taken or a battle fought, depending on which side is instigating it, either Hadvar or Ralof will be the tip of the spear since they're there anyway when you do the quests in game. So, you'll be seeing more of the both of them in the future. Especially Ralof. Because I love him.

And, lastly, Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale. Hehe, so idk, I just always liked him and it bums me out that he as so much broken code and incomplete story surrounding his character. There's a lot of unused dialogue that implies he was supposed to be a lot more important than he ended up being. So, I though I'd make him more interesting and important here. I try to make sense of what is hinted at in the game and make it better. I have a little storyline worked out for him that just happened to be close to another plot point that I decided to meld them together. Less mess and I don't have to make up a brand new character for the other thing, so...you guys will just have to wait and see how that one unravels. But I thought it would be good for there to be someone who didn't immediately bend to Ulfric's will just because he's a charismatic leader. Also, Anja's going to have fun trying to evade everyone here pretty soon.

And sorry for the feels. I think it might have been brutal in spots, but I hope you enjoyed it.

Chapter 37: Questions

Summary:

Sonja finally meets with Ri'saad to get some answers concerning Anja's whereabouts. Vilkas has some questions about Kodlak's illness he'd like answered.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: depiction of terminal illness, grief, death of family members, reference to alcoholism (Remus), and implied suicide.

As always, my Ta'agra translations come from The Ta'agra Project.

Sonja/Vilkas PoV; Anja soon to come.

Also, I am so sorry I haven't posted in so long. Life has had its way with me recently and I am in the midst of some major life changes. I barely managed to focus on this long enough to edit it, so, unfortunately, there will not be consistent posting for some time, but I will try to do it when I can.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja had spent the bulk of the day settling into her research for Kodlak and consulting Arcadia on the different flora native to Skyrim. The Imperial alchemist was only too happy to oblige in a few private lessons and lend the Dragonborn a couple of tomes to consult in her own endeavors. It was obvious that the woman was curious about the nature of those experiments, but she was ever the professional and did not pry into what was not volunteered which Sonja deeply appreciated. Saved her the trouble of having to tell her to mind her own business.

She even managed to carve out a bit of time to peruse Belethor’s catalogues at some point and spent a modest amount of coin—though still more than she wanted to—on a few items to make Breezehome more hospitable for those soon to inhabit it. The skeazy little Breton man even had the odd number of pieces on hand which his shop boy, Sigurd, helped carry back and arrange around the dwelling. She was glad when that bit of business was concluded, though. Belethor had a way of making even the fairest deals somehow feel dirty. It was unnerving.

It was later in the afternoon when Ysolda finally made her way to Breezehome in search of the Dragonborn. She’d caught wind from those in the marketplace that Sonja and Sigurd had been carrying furniture through the square, but it still felt odd to stop by uninvited. Particularly since Sonja was in the midst of arranging her new household, though the house was sparse. “Sonja?” she called through the musty, empty den from the front door, “Are you—home?”

Sonja’s head poked back into the main room through the kitchen doorway. “More or less,” she replied wryly, “Have need of me?”

“More a matter of what you need of me,” Ysolda corrected, “You wanted to meet with Ri’saad.”

“Still do.”

“I spoke with him after we worked out some of the details of our future business together,” she explained, “I told him that my—investor—was keen to meet with him.”

“He think for business?”

“I told him it was for something more personal. I hope that was alright?”

Sonja gave a little nod that was half a shrug. “I have no intention of deceiving him,” she replied, though she was aware that holding a few things back and playing up others might serve her better in getting the information that she wanted. Which to keep quiet and which to put forward escaped her, though. That had always been more Anja’s cup of tea than her own. Sonja favored a more straightforward approach. “I want his trust, his cooperation—if possible.”

Ysolda nodded and awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the other out on the stoop. “Ri’saad’s very reasonable,” she said, “Been in business for a long time so he’s easy to talk to. Agreeable.”

“Ysa?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you standing outside?”

“…I didn’t want to assume—it’s your home…I…”

Sonja smirked. “Come in.”

Ysolda entered and more obviously looked around. “It’s nice.”

“It’s vacant.”

“When did you take the residence?”

“Hera—gave it to me. It was left to my mother.”

“Oh, I didn’t know Owain had bought the place after all. I remember his wife pestering him about it once, but I didn’t think anything had ever come of it.”

Sonja gave a little half shrug and glanced around the room. “Nothing much did come of it,” she pointed out, “But, it’s mine now, so…” Ysolda nodded as if understanding the words Sonja had not spoken and the Dragonborn cleared her throat a touch uncomfortably. “When can I meet Ri’saad?”

“Tonight,” Ysolda replied, “For supper. I thought you’d prefer not being interrupted by customers all day.

“Good.”

“You should bring a gift, too. Something to show him that you don’t expect something for nothing.”

“Suggestions?”

“Traditionally, back in Elsweyr it was usually moonsugar, but the only place you could maybe get something like that around here is the caravan,” Ysolda explained, “Something useful for their journey would be good—or something sweet.”

A small smile flit across Sonja’s face as she thought of Anja and her Khajiiti friends. With the amount of pastries the lot of them ate on a regular basis, Sonja was sure they were single-handedly keeping the bakeries of the Imperial City in business. “I’ll think of something,” she assured.

“Good.”

“Did you tell him about my sister?”

Ysolda shook her head. “Didn’t know enough to tell him more. He was curious, though. I could go back, tell him more? If that’s what you want? Is there anything you don’t want him to know?”

That was a very good question. Sonja hadn’t told Ysolda that she and Anja didn’t get on, and she hadn’t quite explained just how broken their relationship was to anyone—except maybe Vilkas who probably knew more than most. It seemed very likely to her that Anja might even actively try to avoid being found if she even suspected that Sonja was in pursuit. But, was it a good idea to tell the Khajiit that she was just some stranger searching for someone of whom they had likely become fond? Because everyone grew fond of Anja, eventually. She just had that spark that made people like her. That easy way about her that drew people in without effort. She made people feel safe, lulled them into it because they thought she was being vulnerable with them—and sometimes she was actually vulnerable, unguarded, and generous with herself, but in a way that never felt like weakness or compromise. It was harder for Sonja to imagine the Khajiit not taking a shine to Anja. Truthfully, she envied that about her little sister. She didn’t have that kind of strength. People had always wanted to fight her, or follow her around, or take something from her because it was a challenge to pry at something so ironclad. Even before she discovered she was Dragonborn.

Or should she tell them the truth? That she was just a woman looking for her sister. That she was worried about her. That she didn’t want things to be broken between them always. It was harder to say, harder to admit, and if that’s what Anja wanted to run from—even a heartfelt plea wouldn’t be enough to loose the lips of those sly merchants. Anja knew how to find safety in people. She hid behind fake names and the generosity she coaxed out of others. If Sonja approached them incorrectly, that shield of silence could keep her from her first real lead for who knew how long. She shook her head. “No, if you were to go back to him now, I might as well come along and speak with him myself. I can wait until tonight when I can ply him with gifts and good drink.”

Ysolda’s expression grew a touch concerned at Sonja’s heavy tone. “If Ri’saad knows where your sister’s gone, I doubt he’d keep it from you,” she said, “He’d do well to get on the good side of a thane.”

That was true, and Sonja considered it one of her few bargaining chips. “You’ve not met Anja,” she said gently, “She could sell ice to a Nord.”

“Gold speaks louder than a silver tongue.”

Sonja was halfway certain Anja’s tongue was made of something more precious than gold, but she refrained from saying so. “We will see.”

“I’ll come by later, then?”

Sonja nodded. “I’ll be here.”

“Until then.” Ysolda passed the Dragonborn a reassuring smile before gliding out the door and back into the afternoon sunlight. She paused on the stoop again and looked over her shoulder. “Welcome home, by the way,” she said, “I hope you like it here as much as you did back home in Cyrodiil.”

Sonja blinked and a slow, appreciative smile spread over her face. “Thanks. I think I will.” And then the merchantwoman went about her day.


The sun was nearly down when Sonja, Lydia, and Ysolda walked the path from the city gates to the Khajiit camp. Rays of golden orange licked the underbellies of pale clouds hung in the sky like pearls. It looked to Sonja like it would snow flurry in the night, and she critically eyed the Khajiit tents and bedding. They looked well enough prepared for the unforgiving environment, but she knew Elsweyr was a warm land of sands and jungles. It couldn’t have been easy for them to leave such greenery and heat behind even for the wild, untamed beauty and bounty of Skyrim. At least these Khajiit seemed of a sturdier stock of the species than some of the more petite kind Sonja had encountered in Cyrodiil. They were sturdier, meatier, with thicker coats and features similar to mountain cats. Perhaps the cold was not so harsh to them as it was to other of their brethren. Still, sympathy and indignant rage flared in her gut on behalf of the travelers’ unwelcoming reception to the Frozen North; it bubbled beneath the surface, galled by the Jarl’s asinine reasoning summed up in the seemingly harmless, yet dangerous phrase ‘A few bad apples spoil the bunch.’

The Khajiit, themselves, milled about their camp, performing little daily necessaries in preparation of the possibility of snow. The eldest Khajiit, the one Sonja had assumed was Ri’saad the morning she left for the Great Hunt, sat by the fire on a round woven grass mat, dressed in fine clothes, his legs neatly folded beneath him as he sipped hot tea from a finely decorated ceramic bowl. The teapot steamed beside him with a second setting wanting for a visitor. His ears perked in their direction when they passed through the lower gate and his attention shifted from the flames to fall upon the approaching women. He smiled, a menacing expression upon the feline features of a Khajiit to those not accustomed to the predatory angles of their faces, but it was meant in welcome and Sonja knew it. She smiled in return and bowed her head without breaking eye contact. His tail flicked in approval.

“Radiant moons, friends,” he greeted when they were close enough, “How can I help you this evening?” His command of the common tongue was masterful. Perhaps better than even a native speaker. He was a skilled and well-travelled merchant, indeed.

“Radiant moons, Ri’saad,” Ysolda responded brightly, “Allow me to introduce my investor, Thane Sonja of the Ironheart Clan, and her housecarl, Lydia Stormshield.”

“Ah, yes,” he purred, his attention fully on Sonja, “The Hunt Master. I am not fully versed in such traditions, but it was plain you hold a great deal of respect inside the city.”

“I am not so well versed in such things, myself,” Sonja admitted, “But it was an honor to lead the Hunt, nevertheless.”

He smirked, blinking slow and catlike; the implication that she, too, was an outsider was not lost on him, but he did not immediately comment on it. Instead, he gestured to the grass mat opposite him. “Please,” he offered, “Take a seat. I apologize that I do not have something more befitting someone of your station.”

Sonja quirked an eyebrow. She was halfway certain that low sitting furniture or mats such as the one he was offering were common in Elsewyr. For him, the mat was more than enough and had possibly been expensive as it was very well made of fine materials, but he was mindful of how unremarkable it would seem to someone born into a culture fond of grand, overcompensating throne rooms. Still, Sonja had always preferred to sit on the floor, so it made no difference to her. Ysolda took a seat on another mat as well. Lydia remained standing. “Thank you,” Sonja said and concentrated very hard on sitting with ease while still holding the items she had brought with her, “I’ve brought a few things that I hope might ease your way through Skyrim whether in trade or in comfort.”

She first laid the folded pelts on the ground before him. They were the finest she could get on short notice. Whatever Belethor had in stock that was any good, really. The merchant ran a clawed hand through them, feeling the soft texture with the pads of his paws. He purred in appreciation. Apparently they were good enough, at least. “A kind gesture,” he said graciously.

Sonja smiled. It wasn’t really so generous; she was intending to take her recompense in information. She gestured to Lydia who set a small keg down near the pelts before resuming her position to stand stoically behind her thane. “The sweetest mead Honningbrew has to offer,” she explained. Sonja practically had to fight Hulda for it.

“Ah, very good, very good.” It genuinely pleased him greatly. The Khajiit loved all things sweet. He waved to one of his number: a female, dark and sandy colored like the mountain lions in the hilly, golden grasslands near Anvil back in Cyrodiil, but she was spotted like a jungle cat. Her build was thicker than the rest; she wore decent steel plate armor and moved with powerful grace. Somehow, it was easier for Sonja to pick out the warrior types amongst the Khajiit. They always seemed to move with an obvious confidence that clearly declared just how lethal they could be. “Khayla, take these into the tent and prepare the keg,” he instructed, “We will have some with supper.”

Khayla seemed almost bored with his command, but did as she was told. Many golden hoops glittered in her pointed ears as she stooped to collect the cask somewhat gingerly. Not from the weight of it, however; no, once she had a handle on the keg, she hefted it with ease, but she was careful of her claws which were long and razor sharp. She wore no other weapon across her back or on her hip; she didn’t need one. Sonja guessed she must be the hired muscle in charge of the safety of the caravan. Khayla ordered someone else to pick up the furs.

Sonja set a small box before Ri’saad, the last of her offerings. “And a selection of the best tea blends from our alchemist,” she concluded, “I hope you enjoy them.”

“Just when I think you could not have brought anything better, you surprise me with such a treat,” he purred and made a big show out of opening the box and inhaling the aromas contained within. “I shall enjoy them immeasurably,” he assured, “But, for now, will you enjoy something from my homeland.”

“Nothing would please me more.”

He poured tea into the empty bowl and offered it to Sonja. “From the shoba[1] of Elsweyr.”

Sonja’s first impulse was to hide her confusion over the foreign word out of a mere desire to maintain a façade not easily swindled, but thought better of it. Better honest and unknowing than stupid and arrogant. “Sh-shoba,” she repeated uncertainly as she took the steaming drink, “Is a type of plant?”

Ri’saad smiled and took up his own tea again. “Fruit,” he corrected, “Do you know a little Ta’agra?” He sipped.

“All the swears, mostly,” she joked, “But not really. I haven’t a gift for tongues. Not like my sister.” She took her cue to taste the tea for herself. It was fruity, exotic, and extremely delicious.

His ears perked slightly, curiously. “Does she speak my native tongue?”

“Fluently. And Dunmeris. A bit of Jel, too, if memory serves.”

“A gift for tongues indeed,” Ri’saad agreed, “Forgive me, but from where did you hail before? Your manner of speaking is not native to these lands and there are few here who would trouble themselves to learn another’s language.”

“The Imperial City.”

“So my kind is not so strange to your eyes, then?”

“No. In fact, my sister was great friends with a Khajiit and his family,” she explained, “They were like kin to her. Taught her—many, many things. The language not least of them.”

“But not you?”

Sonja’s mouth twitched into a slight smile and back again. The old Khajiit was testing her, she could tell. “We were friendly with each other, but I walked a different path,” she admitted, “Such is the way of things.”

Ri’saad hummed in agreement. “Life often leads to unexpected places,” he said, “Your sister—I’m sorry, I did not catch her name…?”

“Anja.”

“Anja is more than welcome to join us, also, if she would like,” he continued, unabashed by the name Sonja had provided, “There is plenty of food to share and you have been more than generous with what you have brought to us in welcome. Supping with you and your kin would be a great honor.”

“She would like nothing more, I’m sure, but I’m afraid that it’s not possible,” Sonja paused, “Anja is no longer here in Whiterun.”

“Has she gone visiting relatives?”

“No.”

Ri’saad sensed the tension in Sonja’s posture and guessed that her sister must be a sore spot for the thane. He decided it was none of his business. “May the moons light her path and grant her swift hunting. How unfortunate that she could not join us tonight.”

Sonja fidgeted; her mouth nearly parted to discuss her sister further, but a pointed glance from Ysolda suggested it was not yet time to discuss business. They had to sup first. So Sonja bit her tongue and sipped her tea again. “You have any siblings yourself?” she asked instead.

“I have many littermates,” he acknowledged, “But I am closest with one of my brothers who is two minutes my elder.” And he launched into a longwinded story about his brother who was very different from himself. “But Kalim-ja always preferred to find his adventure as a sellclaw,” he concluded in time for the mammoth stew to be served by another female Khajiit similarly marked to Khayla, but much more petite, “I hear from him sometimes. He always has exciting tales to share.”

Sonja accepted the food with a gracious smile to hide her impatience. Ysolda also took supper, but Lydia politely declined. “Not until my thane finishes. Thank you.”

The Dragonborn considered on insisting Lydia join them, but thought better of it. She was only doing what Sonja had brought her along for: to stand silent sword and shield, a demonstration and reminder of status. Not something Sonja typically liked to flaunt—or ever had in the first place to flaunt before—but she wanted to be in a position to lean on Ri’saad if he proved difficult to convince any other way. She hoped that wouldn’t be the case. That route was distasteful to her. “We all have our duties to perform,” she said instead, excusing Lydia’s refusal, “You understand.”

Ri’saad nodded and gestured to the serving Khajiit. “Put it back in the pot to keep warm, Atahbah,” he ordered, “Housecarl Stormshield can enjoy it later.”

Atahbah looked a little put out. “Think we’re going to attack your thane while she sups with us?” she grumbled.

“Atahbah!” Ri’saad hissed, “Apologies, housecarl. She spoke out of turn.”

Lydia merely looked amused. “I’m more worried about a dragon dropping out of the sky,” she replied, “Don’t want to be caught with only a hot bowl of stew in my hands against one of those monsters.”

“Yes, the dragons are a menace,” Khayla agreed as she not so gently pushed Atahbah along, “Every day Khajiit hear of another attack on a homestead or small village.”

Sonja stilled, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” she admitted. Aside from Helgen and the watchtower, she had only heard of one other attack near the mountains, but even then, there had been some dispute about whether or not it had actually been carried out by bandits.

“No one sees them,” Ri’saad explained, shooting Khayla and Atahbah both meaningful looks, “Just the damage they leave in their wake, but we’ve heard them, roaring from their roosts somewhere in the mountains.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed. “They sound—skittish…” she observed pensively. Attacking small settlements and fast to avoid attracting too much attention, hiding in the mountains…why? If there’s more than one…what are they waiting for?

“Like the one at the watchtower?” Lydia asked. She had heard Faendal tell the story often enough it almost felt like she had been there herself.

“This one wouldn’t call razing a homestead skittish,” Khayla pointed out.

“For a dragon, it is,” Sonja countered, “You’ve heard what happened at Helgen?”

All four Khajiit nodded. “None of our number dares to travel to Falkreath,” Ri’saad stated.

“That forest is nothing but trouble, anyway,” Khayla added, “If it’s not dragons, it’s necromancers.”

“Not enough profit to tempt Khajiit down there, either,” Atahbah added under her breath.

Ri’saad didn’t hiss at her that time, but his expression was clearly annoyed. “Rumor has it that the Dragonborn has awakened, right here in Whiterun, to fight the dragons,” he said, his voice taking on a jovial hum as he attempted to turn the conversation toward something more optimistic than draconic destruction. “Is there any truth to the stories, Thane Ironheart?”

Sonja’s mouth twitched into an awkward smile. “Aye. There is.” Behind her, Lydia stilled, removing herself from the conversation and awaiting Sonja’s next words. Ysolda looked a touch nervous, unsure if she was going to be caught for not telling the Khajiit Sonja’s full identity.

“Ah, know anything worth sharing, friend?”

“Not much more than anyone else. I was there at the watchtower when it was attacked.”

“So you saw the Dragonborn, then?”

“No one’s been named Ysmir, yet.”

Ri’saad chuckled. “A doubter like most Nords. Even in Whiterun,” he observed.

“Do you believe otherwise?”

“No. It is much the same way throughout the Holds. Many want to believe, but find it difficult to trust unless it is declared from the mountaintop.”

“These are uncertain times. People should doubt everything.”

“Except the excellent deals I have to offer,” the Khajiit merchant pointed out, smiling.

“Of course,” Sonja barked out a laugh and they lapsed into pleasant small talk while they ate and drank. Ri’saad had many an interesting story to tell from his long years on the road and Khayla had one or two good jokes she’d heard in taverns during her career as a sellclaw. Atahbah and the fourth Khajiit, a light colored male called Ma’randru-jo, mostly kept to themselves, sometimes tossing in a detail that Ri’saad had forgotten or laughing at Khayla’s jokes.

After the meal, they drank tea again and Ri’saad examined Sonja’s expression over the rim of his cup. “Your company has been most gratifying, Thane Ironheart,” he said, “The moons surely smiled upon Ysolda to meet one such as you.”

“Thank you, Ri’saad. I’ve enjoyed myself as well,” Sonja replied, “But I didn’t come down here just to break bread.”

“Yes, Ysolda said you had some business you wanted to discuss with me.”

“I do.”

“I always strike a fair deal, my thane. What do you require of me?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

A knowing flick of the tail revealed Ri’saad’s quick understanding. “Your sister?”

“Aye.”

“She is in danger, then?”

Sonja shrugged. “Probably. She usually is.”

“The Jarl or even the guard cannot help you?”

“No. It’s not—she hasn’t done…she’s not missing, exactly.”

Ri’saad cocked his head to one side. “She left freely.”

“Aye.”

“How long as she been—gone?”

“Months,” was the reluctant reply.

The Khajiit merchant blinked. He suspected that things were not good between the thane and her sister, but that really wasn’t his concern or even relevant to the task for which he assumed she wanted to hire him. “I may be able to gather information from a few contacts and hearsay, but we are not allowed inside the walls of any city in Skyrim,” he pointed out, “There is very little…”

“I know,” Sonja interrupted, “That’s not what I want from you.”

“Oh?”

“Anja—or Kit, as you might know her—I just want to know for how long and how far she traveled with your caravan.”

The whole camp stilled. “I don’t follow,” Ri’saad said slowly, “You think we took her...?”

“No!” Ysolda interrupted, “That’s not what she means at all! Right Sonja?”

“If I thought you had taken her against her will or harmed her in any way, we would be having a very different conversation,” Sonja replied, “And I certainly wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of hunting that mammoth down in the first place.”

Ri’saad sipped his tea contemplatively. “A lot can happen on the road,” he said, his tone unreadable, “I appreciate your concern for your sister, but we cannot take responsibility for the disappearance of a stranger.”

She was not easily deterred. “I’m not looking for someone to blame if that’s what you’re worried about,” she assured, “Anja had her reasons for leaving as surely as I have mine for following. I don’t think you would have hurt her unless she gave you good reason and I don’t think she’s stupid enough to give you a reason.”

Ri’saad seemed amused by her words. “It is true that such a concern would be great for us—had we the honor of meeting her—not many nobles have been gracious enough to sit with us as you have.”

Sonja didn’t doubt that had any other thane sat in her position, the whole lot of Khajiit would have been rounded up for questioning after the disappearance of a family member and thrown into the dungeons indefinitely. The default response would be to think the worst of the traveling merchants. But she was in no mood for their caution; it irked her because it stood between her and what she wanted. “More likely to banish you from the Hold than listen in the best case,” she acknowledged, trying to keep the frustration building in her chest out of her tone, “I understand.”

“Sadly, it does not change the fact that we do not know your sister.”

Her eye twitched. “She may have gone by other names,” Sonja offered, “Kit was what she used around town as far as I can tell. Tyv? That was a favorite of hers. Raef, Shadelle—that one always made me laugh; too obvious.” Kitti, Anjari, Ravyn, Nix, Arah, Starling, Keaira, Yasrae, Vixen, Lejla, Rowan, Vos…and another six more she probably doesn’t use anymore…Those were just the ones Sonja knew of.

“I’m sorry. Nothing sounds familiar.”

“She’s petite, about a head shorter than I, blonde, blue eyes, fair skin,” Sonja continued, her irritation now plainly evident in her voice, “Doesn’t look much like me, really. Looks more the Nord. Wouldn’t know we’re sisters until you put us both together and listened to us bicker.”

“We see many faces in our travels, meet many people...”

“She sings like a nightingale,” she interrupted, “Beautiful. She might have sung for your entertainment. She always loved an audience.”

“Apologies, my thane. We’ve met no one like her.”

Sonja took a deep breath and glanced briefly at Ysolda in silent apology before speaking again. “Anja is all the family that I have left in the world,” she said gently, “I don’t want to hurt her or even drag her back to Whiterun if she doesn’t want to come. I just want to know she’s safe. Then I’ll go. I’ll leave her be for the rest of her days if she wishes it, but—in the meantime, I will pursue her relentlessly until she’s found, through all of Skyrim if I have to. Whatever the cost. Whoever I have to deal with.”

Her thinly veiled threat was not lost on the merchant. “I see.” He sipped his tea, tail flicking as he considered her words.

“What Sonja means is surely there must be some sort of deal that can be worked out to benefit everyone,” Ysolda cut in anxiously.

“I do not know what deal could be made for information we do not have…” Ri’saad began.

“Gold?” Ysolda suggested, “Everyone has a price.”

“I cannot take something for nothing. I do not make bad deals even when they benefit me. I have a reputation!” The Khajiit merchant seemed genuinely offended.

“Rare stock?” Lydia proposed out of nowhere, “We’re skilled warriors. Capable of bringing back rare things like mammoth’s tusks.”

“I cannot afford you and I do not have the payment with which you would prefer to be paid…”

Don’t test me, Ri’saad,” Sonja said sharply, “You stand between me and my kin. Last man to do that ended up dead.” Her tone was grave, her expression graver, and though she was not aware of it, a decidedly draconic air was beginning to creep into the features of her face. And the firelight was not entirely responsible for the golden glint bleeding through the azure color of her eyes. The Dragon did not appreciate the Khajiit’s insolence.

Ri’saad canted his head, his sharp green eyes darting over Sonja’s face. He did not know what he was seeing or if he was imagining it, but he had a very strong feeling that he was perhaps trifling with someone he shouldn’t when it came to the somewhat enigmatic Thane Ironheart. Kit—or Anja, as her real name turned out to be—had mentioned her sister was a mage, but what he was observing now didn’t seem like common magic to him. Briefly, he wondered if perhaps Sonja was not really who she claimed to be, but it seemed more likely to him that Anja did not know everything about her own sister. Still, he was reluctant to betray someone he considered a friend and who had proved skillful enough to turn a nice profit in Markarth and Solitude. She had helped them when hardly anyone else would even deign to do business with them. Ysolda excluded, but she wasn’t nearly as charming or knowledgeable of Khajiit ways as Anja had been. He weighed his options upon a scale in his mind.

“Maybe—maybe your sister really didn’t go with them,” Ysolda said, hesitantly, wanting nothing more than to defuse a situation she felt was already going to have a profound effect on her future business dealings.

Sonja turned her sharp gaze to the Nord woman. “I know my sister,” she insisted, “She didn’t just disappear out of Whiterun without anyone noticing. Not without a plan. Not without protection.” Not when she had such a good business opportunity in befriending the Khajiit.

“But—why would Ri’saad lie?” Ysolda pointed out, “You’ve brought gifts and made generous offers…”

The Dragonborn didn’t care to hear the rest of Ysolda’s sentence. She was growing increasingly frustrated with the situation, not only for Ysa’s sudden lack of help when it was most needed, but also because it was beginning to feel like she might be wrong about questioning the Khajiit in the first place despite her persistent gut feeling. Instead, she returned her attention back to Ri’saad. “Anja proved herself valuable to you, didn’t she?” she guessed, “Her skills more valuable than a thane?”

Jaadi vara aalitera, Ri’saad,[2]” Khayla growled in the space of his hesitation, “Ike dat vaber Kalim-ja, koh jer boka tatami?[3]” Sonja’s eyes danced between the two of them, uncomprehending of Khayla’s words but for one: aalitera, littermates. That word had been tossed around Dro’kodesh’s home often enough for even her passing interest to latch onto.

Ri’saad’s ears flicked with irritation in Khayla’s direction. Despite the comparison, their situations had nothing in common, in his opinion. Kalim-ja was a fool who needed looking after. Of course, he’d want to check in on his big brother, but Kit—Anja, whatever her name was—needed no such treatment and she’d made it very clear how she felt about her older sister. Though, it seemed that she had not expected Sonja to follow her to Skyrim. He frowned, sipped his tea, growled to himself, and then answered, “Dariit vaba saa'do shabajana.[4]Dariit, thief.

Kaaka eja oriit?[5]” Khayla asked, referring to Ysolda.

Roj vaba hadi’i bo dariit vaba saa’do.[6]

Sonja frowned. “That’s a lot of chatter for someone who claims to know nothing.”

Saj ba jer kasash,[7]” Khayla sighed, “Bo dan roj egasatil yo roj varazerise musha.[8]Musha, trouble.

Musha vaba kaaka ahziss bavto jer dorr.[9]Bavto, pay.

Jer sajoh bavto shesko dorr roj darr di musha.[10]

“Ri’saad…” Sonja growled.

“Kit is a friend to the Khajiit,” Ri’saad admitted, reluctantly, “She is one of the few to have treated us with respect in this land.”

Some of the tension in Sonja’s expression eased with relief. “How long did she travel with you?” she asked, “How far?”

He hesitated. “A few weeks. She was looking for someone in Markarth.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t say.”

“And you didn’t ask?”

“The less I knew, the better,” he reasoned.

“Not this time.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Besides—whoever it was—she didn’t get what she wanted from them.”

Sonja was pensive for a moment. She didn’t have any friends in Skyrim before heading north, but that didn’t mean Anja didn’t. But Markarth? She didn’t know enough about the city or its Hold to guess what might be worthwhile in the area. She’d have to ask someone better traveled. “Is she there now?” she asked, her brow still set into a solid scowl, her expression unfriendly.

He shrugged. “She might be. I do not know. We are not the only ones who travel through Skyrim.”

“But she didn’t go any farther with you?”

“No.”

Sonja was a little disappointed Ri’saad didn’t have more information, and searching his face intently, she thought there was a decent chance he was not telling her everything, but she couldn’t be sure that wasn’t her own ambition to find her sister coloring her perception of him. He could have given her Anja’s exact location and state of health and she would still wonder if there wasn’t something he was holding back until she laid eyes upon her for herself. “Thank you, Ri’saad,” she said, “This means a great deal to me. I won’t forget it.”

Briefly, something like guilt—maybe even concern—crossed the Khajiit merchant’s face, but whether it was for having betrayed whatever trust Anja had placed upon his silence or because he truly was holding something back, Sonja could not tell. She had a lead now; that’s what was important. “May the moons light your path, Thane Ironheart,” he said, “It has been a pleasure. I hope to enjoy your company again in the future.”

“You can count on it.” One way or another, Sonja would be back. Either to thank him or strangle him with his own tail for having lied to her. Time would tell.


At Jorrvaskr, everyone had already eaten the evening meal and was going about their usual after supper rituals. Some of the whelps were having a game of dice down the barracks which Torvar and Athis were devising ways to hijack. Ria and Njada were seeing to some minor armor repairs by the fire; Njada was going on about ways to correct Ria’s grip on her shield which the younger woman was grateful for, though she was less pleased with the tone in which she dispensed such advice. Farkas was helping Tilma and Brill clean up and prepare a few things for the morning. Vignar was sleepily dozing in his favorite chair with a tankard of mead in his hand, his mind awash with golden memories of glory days few but Kodlak and Tilma could remember. Skjor and Aela were biding their time until it was late enough for them to slip away for a hunt unnoticed.

And out in the yard, Faendal shot at three separate targets he had arranged at various heights and distances, one of them atop the wall. It was too dim for anyone to expect any kind of accuracy, but mer eyes were sharper than the average man’s and it was not yet dark enough to discourage him. So he took his target practice in peace. From the porch, Vilkas watched him, half-interested in the Bosmer’s skill. He knew that Faendal was talented; the mer had demonstrated it well enough during his trial and every day in training since. Out on the tundra, he was a true huntsman, but it seemed to Vilkas that Faendal was somehow getting better. Perhaps traveling alongside the Dragonborn required more of him than he had ever expected of himself and the mer was rising to the challenge rather than withering beneath it. Good, Vilkas thought. Sonja needed the best.

Eventually, the light grew too faint even for Faendal’s elven eyes and he packed up his targets and retired inside. “Companion,” he greeted and bid farewell in one breath as he passed Vilkas on his way back into Jorrvaskr, bow slung across his body. Vilkas wasn’t blind; he knew the mer did not like him much and that was fine. Faendal didn’t need to like him, just respect him or he’d be forced to put him in his place—but the Bosmer knew that well enough; he wasn’t stupid.

“Huntsman,” Vilkas replied in kind and then he was alone on the back porch, drinking mead and thumbing a black game piece absently as he remembered the day Kodlak had taught him how to play.

Just when Vilkas was beginning to wonder when Sonja would return from her little meeting with the Khajiit he had overheard Lydia tell Farkas about, he smelled the perfume of her soap upon the evening air. He straightened in his chair and swirled the contents of his tankard wistfully, staring into its depths. Moments later she was there, coming around the side of the building with Lydia at her side. She was wearing a fine set of clothing fit for a jarl let alone the thane she was. It was quite lovely on her however odd it was to see her wear anything that wasn’t her common clothes or her armor.

As she neared, she didn’t greet him, wordlessly or otherwise, and instead snatched the tankard out of his hand before he could think. He stared up at her in muted surprise for a few blank moments as she drank deeply from his cup. “What in Oblivion do you think you’re doing?” he demanded when he regained the use of his mouth and snatched at his tankard.

She danced out of his reach, tilting her head further back and finishing the last of it. “Cooling off,” she growled, allowing him to take the tankard from her now that it was empty.

Her features looked a little sharp to him, but not outright draconic. Annoyed but concerned, Vilkas glanced at Lydia. “Things not go well?” he asked.

“You know I met with Ri’saad tonight?” Sonja asked sharply, but her tone seemed more a side effect of her persistent anger than any real frustration with him.

“Farkas mentioned it.”

“It didn’t go poorly,” Lydia answered, her expression guarded, “But…”

“I got a little heated’s all,” Sonja interjected, “Frustrated.”

“The Khajiit still living?” Vilkas asked wryly.

Sonja glowered at him, but Lydia answered for her. “They’re fine. Nice people. Until…”

“Until I asked about Anj,” Sonja growled.

Lydia frowned and looked to Vilkas. “Ri’saad was not forthcoming.”

“I didn’t expect him to be,” Sonja reminded her, “It’s this damn fire in my veins. Makes my skin itch.” Her frustration had been like a smoldering fire pit she couldn’t quite put out. It felt wrong to her. She had an Ironheart temper like anyone else in her family, but she was used to having better control of it. The Dragon made such a task tiring. She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to stave off a headache and Vilkas watched as the last of her edge seemed to melt out of her. “It’s getting easier,” she muttered to herself more than anyone else.

“Better?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

“What did the Khajiit have to say?”

“If he’s to be believed, Markarth. Anj went to Markarth.”

Lydia glanced between the two of them, her expression thoughtful. It occurred to the housecarl that Sonja had told Vilkas everything. He knew who 'Anj' was and why Ri'saad was important. It wouldn't have struck her as odd if Sonja wasn't annoyingly stingy with details. Generally speaking, Sonja didn't like advertising her weak spots, and a missing sister was a huge, painful weak spot for the Dragonborn, to be sure. Only people who really needed to know about Anja knew and only because they were somehow useful one way or another in finding her like Faendal acting as a guide or Ysolda's connection to the Khajiit, or telling them was unavoidable like Hera who had already had a confrontation with the younger woman and Lydia, herself, who was now bound to Sonja's service. If the Dragonborn had told Vilkas, it wasn't because she thought he might accomplish something the others couldn't. If she wanted his help finding Anja, she'd have to pay for it like anyone else, Shield-Sibling or not. And being forced to tell him because he'd find out anyway wasn't really a concern either because he had no stake in the missing Draconis girl's recovery. No, Sonja had told him because she wanted to and possibly because she needed something else from him. Comfort? Understanding? Something she felt only Vilkas could give. “I’ll be inside if you need me, Sonja,” she said somewhat abruptly. Sonja nodded mutely and watched her housecarl enter Jorrvaskr.

When they were alone, Vilkas turned to Sonja, his empty tankard caught between both hands. "It was a long day."

"It was," Sonja agreed.

"I have questions."

"I know. I'm sorry I was not back sooner."

"You've done too much to earn that meeting with the Khajiit. You needed to see it through." Truth be told, it was probably better that she did not return to Jorrvaskr sooner. His mind had not been in a good place to ask proper questions let alone comprehend her answers. "I told Farkas."

Her brow furrowed tightly with concern. "How'd he take it?"

"Better than I expected."

"Good. He needed to know—and you need someone to lean on when...things get worse."

Vilkas scowled and his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "I will be fine."

"I didn't say otherwise," she pointed out and watched as Vilkas flexed his fingers against the tankard before setting it down on the table with a loud, metallic thump. "Come," she beckoned, jerking her head in the general direction of the Plains District, "I owe you another drink."

He hesitated and just managed to stop himself from blurting out that there were already rumors swirling around their relationship. “I'm in no mood for the Bannered Mare," he objected.

"We're not going to the Mare," she corrected as she started to walk away.

"Where, then?"

She glanced over her shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at him. “My kitchen.”

He canted his head in confusion, but before he could ask her to clarify, she impatiently gestured for him to follow her as she started to walk away. It was probably better just to follow along, anyway. No point in provoking the Dragon again so soon. So, he did and uneasily fell into step beside her as they walked toward the Plains District, pocketing the black game piece. She groaned and rubbed her face, looking tired. “Markarth,” he said at length. “When will you go?” He hoped it wasn’t soon. There was work yet to do between them.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, “There’s—our business from this morning. My training, the Greybeards, the Companions. All of it. And I’m not certain she’s still in Markarth.”

“Why not?”

“Ri’saad said she was looking for somebody and she didn’t get what she wanted from them,” she explained, “I doubt Anja would stick around. No point in it and it could be dangerous depending on what she was after, but—maybe that someone knows where she went next.”

“You have family in Markarth,” he pointed out, “That will help.”

Sonja’s brow furrowed as she looked at him with obvious confusion. “What?”

He blinked. “Hera not tell you?” She shook her head mutely. “Your aunt Rota is married to the Jarl of Markarth.”

Somehow, Sonja’s frown deepened. “No, she did not tell me,” she said, “But I did not ask, either.” She and Hera had been more concerned about the bad blood between them the night of the prøve than anything else, though Sonja did remember her mentioning that one of her sisters had married a jarl. Truth be told, Sonja was somewhat under the impression that Hera was her only living relative on her mother’s side; it didn’t occur to her that the aunt who had married well was yet living—and that she had children. Hera had mentioned that, too. “I will speak with her tomorrow. Perhaps—perhaps she can help me find Anja.”

Vilkas didn’t say it, but he was impressed with—and perhaps a little proud of—both women for setting aside their differences. He knew Hera better than he did Sonja, so he knew just how difficult it had been for her to swallow so much pride. “It’s a start,” he said.

“Aye,” she agreed and then she cleared her throat and hardened her expression, “But now I owe you a drink—and some answers.” A few moments longer brought them to the front steps of Breezehome, much to Vilkas’ surprise.

He watched her fish for a key from the pockets of her robe. “This is—you moved out of the barracks?” he asked, confused.

“Not yet,” she denied as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, “It was part of my mother’s inheritance from Owain. Hera granted it to me in her stead. Place is mostly empty.” The fire was dying on the hearth so she went to stoke it and throw another couple logs onto the waning flames. The way the fire licked up the wood, Vilkas could have sworn she had used some sort of magic, but he didn’t feel it shimmer through the air. He stepped inside and looked around as the fire lit up the barren space, illuminating the odd piece of furniture including the dinner table which was scattered with notes, books, and a few spell tomes. It appeared that Sonja had already gotten a good start on her promise to help Kodlak.

"Want the grand tour?" Sonja asked as she rose from relighting the fire.

Vilkas closed the door behind him and glanced around again, tempted. "Another time," he replied. Her expression was somewhat unhappy as she looked around the den. “Are you displeased with it?” he asked though he couldn’t imagine what fault she could find with such a generous inheritance. He might live in the sprawling space of Jorrvaskr, but his own private room was quite small. Breezehome was practically a palace in comparison.

“It’s too big,” she muttered. Vilkas cocked an eyebrow at her. “We lived in a very small home back in the Imperial City,” she explained, “This is…” she trailed off.

“Too much?”

She blinked and then nodded. “Aye. Something like that.”

“Even with your housecarl and huntsman?”

Sonja shrugged. “I haven’t told them about it yet,” she replied as she strode across the stretch of the den. “Still want that drink?” she asked without looking at him.

“Aye.”

“Mead or whiskey?” And she disappeared into the next room.

“Whiskey.” It had not been a good day. Something stronger than mead was necessary. He  followed her into the kitchen. That time the certain and unique pulse of her magic did ripple through the air as she conjured a fire to life on the cooking hearth with an almost casual, careless wave of her hand. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. He blinked, taken aback, and involuntarily flinched.

She glanced at him sideways over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she breathed, her hand almost withering in the air as she brought it back to her side, “Should have warned you.”

He shrugged. “It’s your house. Do what you like.”

She didn’t respond, instead she turned her attention to the many dishes stacked on the center island that had not yet been put away in any of the many cabinets lining the walls. Selecting two fine tumblers, she went to a nearby counter and fetched a bottle sitting there. “Don’t have a crumb of food in the place,” she said over her shoulder as she poured the amber liquor, “Figure Faendal will get the most use out of the kitchen, so he can stock it.” She huffed out a laugh. “At least he knows what’s good.” And she turned to hand him his drink. The quicksilver of the magical restraints on her hand glistened in the firelight as he took the cup from her.

That glistening metal unexpectedly sparked a small realization that tugged on the fringes of his mind as it suddenly occurred to him that Sonja tended to use magic as often as possible when she wasn’t at Jorrvaskr. That perhaps she was more comfortable with it flowing through her than not, and its absence was—maybe even difficult for her. It was no wonder she bore the burden of the restraints so readily. Not just for the safety of others, though that was certainly a large part of it. Especially for her. He could tell. The memory of her pulling him to safety off the hilltop on the tundra against the mages rose to his mind unbidden. But she was willing to accept the pain as a small price to pay for her continued use of an art that had very much become a part of her. He wondered if abstaining from spellcasting had felt like the loss of a limb.

He took a sip of the alcohol instead of thinking about it further. It was strong, tasted pleasantly of the earth, and burned just right. “I didn’t thank you for coming to see Kodlak this morning,” he said.

“I don’t need thanks.”

“All the more reason to do it.”

She sipped her drink, the barest of appreciative hums purred at the back of her throat from the quality of the whiskey. “Just wish I could have done more.”

“No, Kodlak was right. You are doing more than we expected.” His gaze wondered back through the door to fall upon the covered dining table.

She studied his face for a moment. “How long have you known that he was ill?”

“Not much longer than you,” he admitted.

She nodded. “I thought so. Kodlak is a proud man.”

“He should not have kept it from me.”

“No. He shouldn’t have,” she agreed, “But—fathers always protect their children. Whether they’re pups or Master Trainers of Jorrvaskr.”

He couldn’t disagree with that, but it still irked him; he was not a child. “Things could have been different had I known sooner,” he insisted.

“Only if you had known within days of him fighting that hagraven,” she countered, “And even he does not remember feeling unwell.”

“It was a hagraven, then?” he asked, his eyes narrowed as he processed the implications of that nugget of information.

“Kodlak was taken by the news, also,” she observed, “Is there something missing from the bestiary?”

Vilkas shook his head, distracted. “No,” he assured, “They are a menace and we’ve tangled with them many times in the past.”

“You’re worried that you might’ve upset a coven during your exploits?”

“Aye.” More or less.

She chewed on the tip of her tongue. “You would know if you had earned the ire of an entire coven of powerful witches,” she said, “All of Jorrvaskr would be hexed into the next era.”

Vilkas looked deeply disturbed by the prospect. “If—we were suffering the deceit of a coven, would you…”

“Be able to tell?” Sonja finished, “Aye. But so would we all. That kind of magic isn’t subtle.” He wasn’t sure if that was more comforting or distressing. “Is it common for that sort of thing to happen here? Are there a lot of covens in these parts? The Khajiit made mention of necromancers in the south.”

“Are there none in Cyrodiil?”

“There are, but colleges keep a better eye on that sort of thing,” she explained.

His mouth twitched into a frown. “The forests of Falkreath Hold in the south are infested with necromancers like they say,” he confirmed, “The cliffs of the Reach in the west are also haunted by the foul casters of the Forsworn. Mancers of all sort can be found anywhere else.”

“So, yes, then.”

“Aye.”

She sighed. “I sensed no dark magic on him today, at least,” she assured, “It would have to be very subtle to escape my notice.”

“Good.”

“Unless a daedra was somehow involved,” she added as an afterthought.

It took all of Vilkas’ self-control not to react to her last statement. He didn’t know how invested Hircine, Daedric Lord of the Hunt, was in keeping the Circle a part of his collection of souls, but he would wager that He was very keen to keep them. Still, Vilkas doubted such a creature that lusted for the thrill of the chase and desired the pure potency of physical prowess would ever concern itself with something as unsporting as weakening its prey with disease. Whatever Hircine was, he was not a poor sport. “What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

Sonja tapped her fingers against her glass thoughtfully. “I don’t know specifics,” she said, “But I’ve read about daedra created illnesses. Brain Rot is not one of them, but Hircine and lycanthropy or Peryrite and his foul infections. If a healer could tell that a body was stricken with any of those diseases and treat them before they took hold, werewolves and Afflicted would be almost unheard of. But they can’t sense them. The daedra that created them won’t allow it. So they slip by unnoticed.”

“And you don’t think that’s what happened to Kodlak…”

She canted her head and examined his expression. “I have no reason to,” she said, “Do you?”

“No.”

“Kodlak been making deals with daedra he’s neglected to mention?”

“Of course not!”

“Then, no. There’s no reason to suspect a daedra is involved unless that hagraven had been granted a powerful boon from one, but even then—it didn’t save her from Kodlak’s wrath, did it? I assume he killed her.”

“Aye. He did.”

She shrugged. “There you have it.”

Vilkas grunted in acknowledgement, finished off the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, hissed at the burn, and set the drained tumbler on the island. Sonja took that as a cue to do the same and refilled their glasses. He watched her play host and though it was somewhat strange to think that she had a home in Whiterun—a real one and not just a bed in the barracks where Newbloods came and went, one that she would have to always return to no matter where she went—Vilkas was very glad she had inherited the place and had welcomed him into it. Even empty, dusty, and without a crumb of food. He loved Jorrvaskr and generally preferred to spend his time there amongst the stones and splintering wood, but not that day. Every splinter in the hull of that boat, every stone in the foundation of that meadhall bore a memory of his childhood, both painful and nostalgic, and Jorrvaskr was bleeding those visions everywhere he looked. For once, his home was less a refuge and more a prison, trapping him in his own head where he didn’t want to face what he was feeling. It was good to get away, if only for a short time.

“What—what can I expect when it—when he gets worse?” he asked after another long pull from his tumbler.

Sonja was silent a moment as she mulled his question over. “I think you know some of the worse symptoms,” she said, “He’s already growing weaker. And he experiences some pain. The headaches are infrequent, though. Physically—it’s almost as if his body will forget how to move properly. Even simple things. Holding a quill will become difficult. Lifting a fork to his mouth. He—he will need help bathing and dressing himself…” She paused as Vilkas drained his glass again. She did the same and poured them another. “The headaches will get worse, become more regular. And his mind—that is the hardest part…”

“He will forget everything,” Vilkas said solemnly.

“He won’t forget you and Farkas.”

“The Rot takes everything.”

"Not—everything..." Sonja chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Whenever they were shorthanded, I helped at a healing home a friend of mine ran for the poor folk at the Waterfront,” she informed him, “There was a woman there, Joanna. Good woman, bright as the sun and sharp as a whip her family said, but they caught the Rot too late and she was…” She leaned heavily against the counter, wondering if she should continue her story. She didn’t want to upset Vilkas, but he’d asked. He needed to know and the way he was looking at her, his white-blue eyes almost—vulnerable—tied a knot in her gut and untied the one in her resolve.

“She forgot things,” she continued, “New things. Things that happened months, days, sometimes moments before, but the old memories were still there. They just didn’t stay where they belonged. It was like they wandered through her and sometimes she was reliving a twenty-year-old memory like it was happening all over again. Sometimes they’d get crossed up with each other, a dream, or even a moment or two of reality, and she’d live those memories differently than before. Sometimes she thought I was one of her daughters—though I look nothing like her—but she wasn’t really seeing me. I was just a body to put a face on.’

‘She had really lucid days, too,” she added, “Ones where she was very aware of who and where she was. Knew I wasn’t her daughter and wanted for her. Even knew the general year, though maybe not the exact date like she had been sleeping for a while and had just lost track.” She paused to take another drink. “On those days, she knew what was happening to her. ‘Hollowing out,’ she called it because her body was still there, but she was slipping away inside it.”

“Fuck,” Vilkas growled, downed the last of his drink again and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

Sonja finished hers and poured them both yet another drink. They were unwisely barreling through the bottle. By now they were feeling the tingle of a buzz at the back of their skulls. “But Kodlak is a long way from that,” she consoled, “Joanna passed within the month by the time I’d met her. Kodlak has survived a year and his symptoms are still mild.”

Vilkas nodded mutely, his brow furrowed as he turned Sonja’s story over in his mind. He had asked and she had answered, but a part of him wished he hadn’t pursued it. That had been hard to hear, though he was glad she hadn’t shied away, hadn’t softened the details to spare him. That she had been strong enough to cut through him even though she knew it would hurt. “And your—research? How’s that going?” he asked, “Do you need anything?”

“I got a lot done this morning,” she reported, “Still working out some details, but I’m ready to brew the first potion tomorrow. See if it works out. And I’ve started in on some tomes I borrowed from Danica. Told her I’m just continuing my studies from before.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Not unless you want to learn potioncraft,” she said dryly.

“I could.”

She blinked. “Not really your sort…”

“It’s not magic.”

“No, but…”

“Someone will have to brew the potions when you’re gone.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “If that’s what you want,” she relented, “I will teach you.”

He didn’t agree right away. Vilkas had never had a particular desire to learn anything even remotely related to magical arts. The furthest his alchemical knowledge extended was identifying the difference between different kinds of tea, knowing which plants made what shade of face paint, brewing a tonic for head colds, and which kinds of mushrooms were edible and which would make him cramp up and die. Useful survival skills, basically. There was nothing inherently magical about the practice of alchemy. Not really. Any non-mage could study and perform it. Arcadia was a perfect example. And this is for Kodlak… “Aye. That’s what I want,” he said at length.

“Then we’ll split our days,” she proposed, “Potions in the morning. Training in the afternoon.”

He nodded, agreeing, and then cleared his throat. “What else did you talk about while I was gone looking for Tilma?” he asked after another large swig.

Sonja mirrored his lengthy sip as she pondered her morning. “That’s about all of it,” she admitted, “I didn’t go over his symptoms with him. He didn’t ask. I don’t think he’s ready to know—but when he is…” She caught Vilkas’ gaze and held it. “He will push you away because he will be afraid and warriors know only one way to deal with fear: carry it alone. Don’t let him. Be stronger for him.”

She was so sharp and sure and knowing that it screamed personal experience. “Disease take someone from you?” he asked and though he did not wish that kind of pain upon anyone, he wanted for the commonality. The connection. Even with her—perhaps especially with her, if he was being honest with himself which he wasn’t.

She glanced away and fiddled with the lone piece of jewelry he had ever seen her wear: a signet ring. He’d never gotten a good look at it before and that moment was no different, especially as she swirled it around her forefinger. The fit looked a little loose like it had been meant for a larger hand. “Not exactly,” she admitted after a few moments of hesitation and he could tell she was fighting with herself over something, "But—da—da had contracted ataxia not long before he died. He didn’t tell any of us and maybe he didn’t know for sure. He’d always liked more than his fair share of drink, so we didn’t—I didn’t notice.”

She finished her drink with an air of irony before pouring herself another. Vilkas was on her heels this time and fixed his next one. “He must have known, though,” she continued, arguing with herself a little, “All of a sudden he became reckless.” Well, more reckless. Remus had been very careless with his well-being after Thornir died. He had wanted vengeance and had spent a great deal of his time hunting the remnants of the people responsible for his son’s demise. “He was killed in service, doing his duty before he got too sloppy to be discharged.”

“At least he died on his feet, with honor,” Vilkas pointed out which, for a Nord, was all that was important—but Sonja’s father wasn’t a Nord and she was not raised amongst them. There was no promise of Sovngarde and what did such a promise mean to either of them that were not raised to long for it? Indeed, what was it to him now that he was denied it?

“Aye, but he didn’t have to die at all if he had just—if I had just…” she huffed, scowled, and looked away.

Vilkas didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault. She would not hear it and perhaps never would. But the small revelation of her pain had clarified his own. As surely as Sonja’s father’s death was not her doing, Kodlak’s was not his. Where she could not be there for her father because he had not let her, had not let anyone help him, Vilkas could be there for Kodlak. Even if he had to force his way through. That was something. That was more than he had that morning. “That his?” he asked, gesturing to the ring with which she was still playing.

She stilled and looked down at her hands. “Aye,” she replied and thumbed the gem set into it, “Our family signet.” She held up her hand to offer him a better view. “The Draconis dragon.”

He held out his hand, expecting her to remove the ring and place it in his palm, but instead felt the callous of her unscarred hand as it alighted in his own. He chose not to say anything about it and instead examined the ring. “The Dragonborn is a Draconis,” he observed, “Subtle.”

Sonja actually chuckled. “Aye. There’s nothing subtle about me. That’s for sure. Not even my name.” She retracted her hand from his grasp and he rubbed his fingers together to heat the skin cooled by her absence. “That’s all we talked about while you were gone,” she concluded, returning to the matter at hand, her expression set against the memory of the ghosts she had just resurrected, “Took us some time to figure he had contracted the Rot from a hagraven. Him being sick for that long is very strange, but Kodlak is a tough old wolf. He’s been lucky.”

Vilkas felt a muscle in his jaw twitch at her use of the phrase ‘tough old wolf’ and tried to hide his discomfort in another sip of whiskey. “Hopefully, fortune will continue to smile upon him,” he said. Sonja nodded, agreeing. Strangely, however, in the next moment, he started chuckling a deep, dark sort of growl that sounded more cynical than jovial. "No such thing as luck, son," he said, his voice taking on an cadence that was not natural to his tone, "Just choices, good and bad, and hard work." He was imitating Kodlak—and doing an eerily good job of it.

Sonja's brow furrowed and she didn't quite know how to respond. "If your Skjor is just as good, that might be an impressive party trick." The words sort of tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, but they had the desired effect and Vilkas cracked a small smile.

"My Farkas is better."

"That's cheating."

"A little."

Sonja smirked and set her glass down for a moment, steadying herself now that she was thoroughly feeling the effects of drinking too much alcohol in such a short amount of time. "Da used to say something similar," she sighed, "Fat good it did him in the end, but, I think—once in a while—even Kodlak can be wrong." Vilkas wondered if she was aware how intense her gaze could be when on the receiving end of it. "It's alright to hope there's something more watching out for him."

"Like the Dragonborn?"

Maybe it was the whiskey—it was definitely the whiskey—but Vilkas saw Sonja's discomfort plainly dance across her face for the first time without filter, snarky comment, or quick-cover mask. It was such an oddly vulnerable moment that he just stared at her, unsure of what to say. "I'm not—I can't...Don't..." she looked vaguely panicked which was an even stranger expression for her, "I'm only a woman."

Not only, he thought. That was selling herself short, but he hadn't meant it the way it had come out. He didn't think that she alone could save Kodlak from disease. Surely that was beyond even the realm of the Dragonborn. "I know." She hid her relief poorly in another long sip of whiskey. “I should go,” he said abruptly.

The Dragonborn’s gaze shot up to his, obviously surprised by his abrupt desire for a sudden departure, but she gave a little awkward shrug. “You know the way out,” she replied, dumbly.

He did. So, he drained his tumbler, felt the earth shift beneath his feet a little, took a step forward to steady himself, realized the bottle was nearly gone, and placed his glass neatly upon the island, near Sonja’s. “See you in the morning,” he said, unaware of how close he was actually standing to her, “Thanks for the drink.” She raised her chin a little like she was matching a challenge, he thought. “Pup,” he added and then left. He heard her exhale as he passed through the kitchen door into the den. He hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath.


[1] fruits

[2] They are littermates, Ri’saad.

[3] If it was Kalim-ja, would you not want the same?

[4] The thief is a better investment.

[5] What about the woman?

[6] She is useful but the thief is better.

[7] Do as you wish

[8] But give her something or she will become trouble.

[9] Trouble is what I pay you for.

[10] You don’t pay enough for her kind of trouble.

Notes:

There are a lot of people who are going to be on the look out for a certain Draconis sister...wonder how that's going to work out for her...

Also, alcohol has a fun way of making one dump out their purse on the kitchen table without a second thought, amiright?

Chapter 38: Unexpected Consequences

Summary:

Anja and Sofie have a shopping day planned after the big successful heist when Anja suddenly has to face the consequences of a kiss...

Notes:

Trigger Warning: depictions of malnutrition in children, depictions of drug use and overdose.

What?!? Another chapter?!? It must be Christmas in July! I unexpectedly came across a chunk of time over the last few days when I strained my back right in the midst of packing. So, while inconvenient for trying to move the hell out of my house, it proved incredibly convenient to do some editing and post this chapter. Silver lining. Hope you enjoy.

Anja, Kharjo, and Bersi POV.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Sofie, stop jumping on the bed,” Anja growled into the pillow as she melded it around her face and rolled over, away from the hyperactive child trying to rouse her from sleep, “I’m up! I’m up! I’m getting up!”

“I want breakfast!” Sofie declared.

“You know where Keerava is.”

“But I want you to come with me.”

“She’s more likely to eat me than she is you and only because she hates me. Don’t be an ass,” Anja’s voice was muffled by the pillow which lessened the sternness of her tone somewhat, “Argonians are no different than you or me—except for all the scales which is really better than all this soft skin, anyway.”

Sofie stopped bouncing. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” Anja finally rolled out of the pillow and looked up at the little girl, “Like personal armor. And it’s kinda pretty, don’t you think? I’ve seen some paint themselves up like gems.”

Sofie smiled a little bashfully. “I like Talen-Jei’s feathers,” she admitted.

Anja snorted. “They are a lovely green.”

The little girl gently bounced indecisively for a moment, but did not fully jump. “I’ll go get breakfast,” she stated, determined.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Anja approved, “I’ll be down in a bit after I get dressed and then we’ll go to the bathhouse and buy you some more clothes—maybe a doll if you’re good.”

Sofie scrunched up her nose. “I don’t want a doll,” she said disgusted, “Dolls are for babies!”

Anja couldn’t argue with the young girl’s assessment. It wasn’t really her field of expertise. “What do you want then?”

“A sword!”

“Uh—we’ll—we’ll see about that. Let me think about it.”

The little girl gave her a very stern look that clearly declared that she was going to get her hands on a blade one way or another before hopping off the mattress and skipping out of the room. Anja sighed heavily and plopped back on the pillow, trying to remember how old she was when Freydis gave her the first dagger of many. She covered her face with her hands; she was halfway certain she was younger than Sofie was and Thornir might have received one even earlier. Sonja had practically been born with a sword in her hand, so…and it made a certain kind of sense. They were in Skyrim, after all. Children had to grow up fast in that dangerous, cold climate, and if Anja couldn’t always be around to protect the little orphan, she should at least have fangs to bite for herself. “Balls, I’m getting the little brat a blade,” she growled into the empty room before flinging herself out of the folds of the bed. She dressed quickly, gathered her loot from the trunk and swiftly left the room.

Sofie was downstairs charming Talen-Jei with her cuteness which made Anja chuckle somewhat nervously, and she wondered if that’s how Freydis and Remus felt the first time they realized Anja had a knack for wrapping people around her little finger. She could see the girl was nervous, though, and she imagined it was probably pretty obvious to Talen-Jei too, but this was her version of being brave: figuring the man out like he didn’t look like the summation of all the nightmares Windhelm and put into her little head. She looked a touch relieved when she saw Anja, however, even as the kindness melted out of Talen-Jei’s expression. “When did you get back?” he asked, “I locked the place up tight last night.”

Anja shrugged. “You must have just missed me, dear,” she replied innocently.

Talen-Jei frowned. Her gold spent just as good as anyone else’s and that was the only reason that she was allowed inside their establishment. He hadn’t seen her together with Sofie yet, though. As far as he knew, she was just some random patron’s daughter. “Still don’t know why you’re staying here instead of down in the Ratway where you belong,” he grumbled.

“Because they’re assholes,” Sofie supplied matter-of-factly.

Anja laughed out loud and the Argonian male turned abruptly, surprised by the little girl’s outburst. “Maybe you should go find your parents…” he began.

Sofie’s eyes flit to Anja who smirked. “Little Kit’s with me,” she informed him, “And she’d like breakfast.”

Talen-Jei straightened and looked briefly back and forth between Anja and the girl, his horned brow ridge furrowing. He was possibly trying to spot out a family resemblance, but there was none to be found. Anja and Sofie were like night and day so one couldn’t even be misconstrued. “Is that true, hatchling?” he asked Sofie after a few moments’ hesitation.

Sofie nodded. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“What happened to your parents?”

The girl’s expression darkened. “Go up to the bar and order from Keerava,” Anja interrupted, “I’ll be there in a moment.” Sofie nodded and skipped—somewhat less enthusiastically—toward the bar for breakfast.

“What are you doing with a child?” Talen-Jei demanded.

“It’s not really any of your business, now is it?” Anja replied sharply.

“Where are her parents? What happened to them? What did you do?”

Anja did her best Sonja impression in the hopes of intimidating the self-righteous barkeep. “Let’s get one thing straight: just because you don’t like a little Ratway trash sullying up your inn, doesn’t mean you can demand answers from me like you have any right to know,” she snapped, “My business is my own and if you want to meddle in it, I’ll meddle with your strongbox. Clear?”

“But she’s a child!” he hissed, “I’ll go to the guard! You think your Guild will protect a kidnapper? You took a little girl from her parents!”

“They’re dead, Talen-Jei,” she revealed, struggling to keep her voice even, “This war has made a lot of orphans. I didn’t do anything but find her freezing on the streets up north.”

Her answer gave him pause. “She belongs in the orphanage.”

“Who are you to decide where she should go?”

“She certainly can’t live with the scum in the Ratway.”

“Hence why we’re staying in your fine establishment instead.”

“For how long? You can’t stay here forever.”

Anja rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m well aware,” she replied, “I’m working out the details, so you needn’t worry. I’ll be out of your plumage soon enough.”

The Argonian shifted, his expression uncertain. “Why?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Why what?” she asked, deliberately being obtuse, “I thought you’d be glad to see the back of me.”

“Why care about some orphan?” he clarified.

“Could ask the same of you,” she challenged.

“What’s in it for you?”

“What’s in it for anyone?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t really care what you can manage to comprehend. Not my problem.”

But Talen-Jei was not so easily deterred. He and Keerava had liked Anja when she first arrived. There was something about her, something clever and kind, that made them think differently of her than all the other travelers who passed through. She had a maddening swagger that seemed to openly declare that she was the kind of person who made things happen, who changed things, and for one naïve moment, the Argonian couple had dared to do something neither of them had done in a long time: hope. Hope that their luck was going to change, that their struggle was nearing its end. That’s why it had been so jarring when she came around for Brynjolf’s payment the next day and they had felt so stupid and ashamed for thinking anything else had been even remotely possible. “The first thing you did when you came to this town was help Shadr and piss off the Guild. And then you joined them! Went around doing their dirty work, leaning on us all for coin. Threatening us and now—her?”

Anja quirked an eyebrow at the barkeep. “Is there a particular answer your fishing for, dear?” she asked, “Do you want me to tell you that I’m not all bad. That everything has been a misunderstanding and I’m truly a good person? Do you want me to lie to you?” Talen-Jei glared at her. “I do what I have to and I don’t have to justify it to anyone. Let alone you.”

“You’ll have to justify it to her someday or another.”

Anja’s eyes flit to Sofie at the bar. “Not really your concern,” she repeated, “Now, if you excuse me, I’m rather hungry, too.” She glided passed him without another word and joined Sofie at the bar. Keerava didn’t set in on Anja the way Talen-Jei had when she realized the little girl was with Anja, but her confusion and mistrust were obvious. She had harder heartstrings to pluck, so she merely served the pair of them their breakfast with cool indifference toward Anja and a gentle sweetness for Sofie.


After breakfast, the pair of them angered the entire bathhouse with a water fight, but it was too hilarious a situation for Anja to act the adult for even a moment, so the owner didn’t get very far in reprimanding either of them. She did finally offer an insincere promise that it would never happen again to make the man leave them in peace, though—and then promptly dunked Sofie under the water when she wasn’t expecting it. “Cheater!” the girl sputtered when she popped back above the surface.

“I thought you needed to wash your hair!” Anja looked so innocently abashed it momentarily confused the ten-year-old girl who just stared at her, mouth agape, until she finally detected an impish smile plucking at the corners of Anja’s mouth.

Another wave of water accompanied by a hurled insult of “Skeever brain!” hurtled toward Anja, dowsing her anew. She hardly had time to turn her face. Sofie could generate waves like Thornir was famous for splashing when they were kids playing at the Waterfront.

“Alright! Alright!” Anja said, coughing and laughing, “You win! Now finish cleaning up before we’re kicked out!”

“You started it!” Sofie pointed out, with a smaller, much more playful splash for emphasis.

“Careful, or I’ll finish it, too!” Sofie only stuck her tongue out in response and the rest of their time at the bathhouse devolved into a silent funny-faces war while they finished bathing.

“What next?” Sofie asked as they left the building. She shook her head aggressively to one side trying to dislodge the water still sloshing around in her ears.

“Well, I’ve got some business to attend to today,” Anja sighed, “See if we can find a better place to stay.”

“I like the inn.”

“We need something more permanent.”

Sofie was still for a moment. “Like a house?”

Anja glanced sideways at the girl. “I was thinking more along the lines of a bigger boat,” she teased, “But I guess a house would be better.”

“Can I help pick it out?” She was doing her best not to appear excited.

Anja snorted and ruffled Sofie’s damp hair. “It’s not like they’ve got a bunch of them to choose from, Kit,” she pointed out, “We have to see what’s available. We might not get much of a choice.”

Sofie swatted Anja’s hand away. “If we do, can I pick it?” she persisted.

“Sure, but why don’t you pick out some new clothes first?”

“And a sword?”

“You can’t even lift a sword, let alone use one.” Anja gently squeezed the young girl’s thin arm for emphasis. Living on the street for so long had taken a toll on young Sofie’s growth. She was small for her age and thin. A lot of sass, but physically she was a little underdeveloped, and Anja had gotten a good look at the sallow, sunken spaces of her small body during their horseplay in the bathhouse. Eating regular meals and getting out of the cold certainly helped, but it would take time to undo all the damage that starvation had already done.

“I’m getting stronger!”

Not strong enough, Anja thought, In fact—it wouldn’t hurt to see a priest just to be sure…“Let’s start with a dagger,” she coaxed, abruptly steering Sofie toward the Temple of Mara instead of The Scorched Hammer where they had been heading. “I’m better with a dagger anyway. I could teach you to use one proper.”

Sofie glanced over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“Temple first then Balimund’s.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been living out on your own for a long time. Thought maybe a priest should have a look at you.”

“I don’t feel sick.”

“They never do the first day.”

Sofie frowned and nodded. “Fine, but I get to pick my dagger!”

Anja chuckled. “Everything with you is a negotiation,” she sighed, “Alright, kid. What did you have in mind?”

“Orcish!”

Anja blinked. Of course the little brat had to pick the most dangerous and jagged hunk of metal to ever pose as a dagger. “Have you ever seen an orcish blade?”

“My da had one. Said he got it from a orc smith in the Reach.”

Anja silently pleaded with Mara for patience as they ascended the steps of Her temple. “Let’s see what Balimund has in stock first.”


“Greetings, my daughters,” Maramal declared, his smooth voice ringing through the mostly empty Temple of Mara as Anja and Sofie edged down the aisle, “How can I help you on this blessed day?”

“Nope.” Sofie spun on her heel and tried to dart back toward the door, but Anja caught her by the shoulder. She very much shared her sentiments, though.

“Morning, Maramal,” Anja returned the greeting politely, “The wee one is feeling a little poorly…”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter, Tyv,” the Redguard priest pushed back his hood, pleasant surprise plastered across his face.

Anja was at least somewhat relieved the priest managed to keep condescension out of his tone. He often proselytized at the Bee & Barb to the unruly, drunken patrons and Anja was often one of them—and possibly the loudest to contest his sermons. “She’s my baby sister,” she ruffled Sofie’s hair again just to annoy her, “Can’t you see the stunning family resemblance?”

“My parents are dead,” Sofie blurted, much to both adults’ surprise, “Tyv saved me.” The girl’s expression was plainly upset. “She—she didn’t take me if that’s what you’re thinking,” she added.

Maramal raised an eyebrow, but did not immediately respond. “I had a bit of a disagreement with Talen-Jei this morning,” Anja explained, “His concern for the young was admirable, but unwarranted.”

“Talen-Jei is a good man—despite his profession,” Maramal said, reasonably, “I think the same could be said for you if your interest in this girl is genuine.”

Anja did her best not to roll her eyes. Not only was the Thieves Guild the worst kept secret of Riften, the nature of her initiation into that organization outed her to the entire town. “I just want the little nugget looked after, not salvation. Perhaps we can skip the sermon today? Hmm?”

The priest’s expression flattened but he did not argue with her. Instead, he gestured for both of them to follow him. “My dearest Dinya can help you when she finishes her morning prayers,” he said and motioned to an empty bench at the back of the temple beside a set of double doors.

Both Anja and Sofie took a seat, Anja neat and cross-legged while Sofie swung her skinny legs back and forth anxiously. “What’s the matter, Kit?” Anja breathed, “Not a fan of the priesthood?”

Sofie shrugged and avoided eye contact, trying to keep her legs from fidgeting, but she worried her bottom lip. “Only priests in Windhelm are for Talos and Arkay,” she said.

“Not much help, were they?”

The girl hesitated. “No,” she agreed, “One just liked to talk about glory and the other only cared if you were dead.”

And little Kit’s wasn’t old enough to worry about honor, or dead enough to merit notice. Just half-dead and starving. Anja pursed her lips. “Well, hopefully these ones are better.”

“Doubt it.”

The double doors swung open before Anja could respond and a kind-faced—or as kindly as the typically stern, angled features of a Dunmer could be—woman greeted them. “May Mara’s grace shine upon you both,” she beamed, “I am Dinya. How can I help you this blessed day?”

“Just a look over,” Anja said, hopping to her feet, “For the kid.”

“Come with me, child,” Dinya bid and held out her hand, but Sofie pointedly did not take it.

So, Anja did and beamed. “Please, lead the way.” Sofie giggled.

Dinya did not quite know how to react. “A-alright,” she stammered and awkwardly guided them into the back room, hand-in-hand with Anja.

The small space was mostly unremarkable without decoration. Only a cot made up with a worn green blanket in the corner, a tall cabinet, and square table with two chairs beneath a single shelf affixed to the wall and bearing a shrine to Mara filled the space. Dinya beckoned for Anja to take a seat before turning her attention to Sofie. “Hop up on the table so I can have a better look at you,” she said. Sofie begrudgingly obeyed. “Now, how have you been feeling that brought you to me?”

“Fine,” Sofie sniffed.

“She’s been…” Anja hesitated, “She’s been out in the cold for a long time with little food.”

Comprehension registered in Dinya’s face just as discomfort and fear played across Sofie’s. “I see,” the Dunmer breathed, “How long did you live on the streets?”

Sofie shrugged and stared at the nearest corner very intently. “A while.”

“Just answer the question, Kit.”

“Two winters.”

There was stunned silence for a few moments. “And no one looked after you?” Dinya ventured kindly, “At all?”

“I looked after myself,” Sofie sniffed, but then she looked less certain, “There was a nice lady who fed me sometimes. Got me warm boots, too, but—she died.”

“Another war casualty,” Anja sighed, frowning.

“She wasn’t a soldier,” Sofie corrected, “She was killed in the street on her way home.” She said it with such a disconnected, matter-of-fact tone, it was disconcerting.

“Mara have mercy!” Dinya exclaimed, horrified, “You poor thing!”

Sofie flinched as if the Dunmer’s sympathy was painful to her. “I took care of myself,” she insisted again and glanced in Anja’s direction.

“Let’s get on with it, if you don’t mind, priestess,” Anja urged, “Little Kit’s got a busy day today. Isn’t that right?”

Sofie nodded, confidence restored. “I’m getting new clothes and a dagger today!” she stated firmly, “An orcish dagger.”

Dinya looked scandalized. “But—you’re so young!” she sputtered, “Surely too young for something like that!”

“Focus on her health. I’ll worry about her safety.” Anja shot Sofie a very irritated look, but the ten-year-old looked nothing but pleased with herself.

Despite her reservations, the priestess did as she was told and began examining Sofie. With the aid of a few spells, her work was quickly finished. “Well, you’re right to be concerned,” she said to Anja, “Kit is a little on the small side, but you’re feeding her well now, right?”

Sofie nodded enthusiastically. “I get sweetrolls all the time!” Dinya raised an eyebrow.

“Real food, too,” Anja assured, “First couple of meals were—a bit rough going down but she’s been doing better ever since.”

“Good to hear,” Dinya paused, “And, child, were you ever sick when you were out on your own?”

Sofie got fidgety and nervous again. “Once,” she admitted.

“Did a priest or a healer treat you?” The girl looked away and gave one curt shake of her head. “A fever? Did you feel achy? Sleepy?” Three curt nods. “It is as I thought, then,” Dinya sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Anja asked sharply.

“I believe Kit came down with a severe case of Bone Break Fever some time ago.” She paused long enough to pass a reassuring smile toward Sofie. “She survived, obviously. She’s a tough little girl, but it went untreated.”

“What’s that mean now?”

“The fever has weakened her body, but not permanently. It will be a little harder to put meat on her bones so a little extra curative with her meals would do her good.”

“Easy enough. I’ll see to it.” Anja was relieved, “Anything else?”

Dinya shook her head. “It seems she is in good hands. Mara’s greatest gift to any of us is love, and the purest kind is that between a mother and her children—even if that bond is sometimes found instead of born.”

Anja cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Right, well, thanks—I guess. I’ll leave a healthy donation in the box on the way out…”

“It would be greatly appreciated.”

“Come on, Kit. Let’s go.”

Sofie hopped off the table quick as lightning and made straight for the door. Anja smirked and followed her, but Dinya spoke again before they were completely free of the room. “Though she’s yours in the eyes of Mara, the eyes of the law are less—understanding…” Anja halted her step and looked at the priestess sideways over her shoulder. “You saved that girl and she wants to stay with you. If you’re accepting that responsibility, you should make sure the Hold knows it too. Just in case.”

Anja frowned. That was precisely one of the things she wanted to avoid: paperwork. Paper trails were a dream to the right sort of thief or bounty hunter on the lookout for persons-in-particular, and Anja didn’t like trails or strings or signposts pointed in her direction. It was bad enough she had to secure a proper home for them both, but legal adoption, too? She didn’t even know what that entailed. What proof of—anything—would be required? All her life Anja strove to leave proof of nothing behind. Fuck, fuck, fuck! This was going to be harder than she thought.

As far as Eastmarch was concerned, Sofie was a nonperson. No one cared what happened to her after her parents died or someone would have tried harder to care for her or send her to the orphanage at the very least. In Riften, Anja had hoped it would be much the same—and it likely would have been but for one thing: Honorhall Orphanage made its home in that city. It was harder to ignore abandoned or orphaned children when there was a place to care for them right there beside the keep. There was no use hoping they could both remain invisible. In fact, Anja felt she was becoming more and more visible by the day. She’d have to think of something truly creative to protect them both.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Anja replied, darkly. Then she and Sofie left, dropping a generous tithe in the carved wooden box on the way out the door.


“I wanted a orcish dagger,” Sofie whined as she and Anja left The Scorched Hammer and headed for The Pawned Prawn general store.

“He didn’t have any,” Anja reminded her. Balimund had looked endlessly amused when the young Nord brazenly made her request, but he caught the strained look in Anja’s eye and mercifully showed only his stock of iron and steel daggers to the ten-year-old instead.

Sofie did not look convinced. “He could have made one,” she insisted, “He had a orcish hammer on display.”

“He charges extra for commissioned work, you know that.”

“But it’s not even sharp!” Sofie waved her new steel dagger around with dismay.

“Hey! Careful with that! You can still poke an eye out with it!” Anja exclaimed.

“Have to work real hard at it if you wanted to…” Sofie grumbled.

“A deal’s a deal, Kit-Cat,” Anja reminded her, “You get better with that thing and Balimund will sharpen it for you.”

Sofie glanced sideways at her. “I think he likes you.”

“Oh?”

“He blushed at everything you said.”

“I should hope so. I was trying to get a discount.” And she had. Sofie’s dagger at cost and her weapons sharpened free of charge. The kind-hearted blacksmith was a bit of pushover. It was kind of sweet.

“Then you could have gotten a discount on a orcish dagger, too!”

Anja groaned and glared up into the sky. “Honey, you tire me,” she sighed, “Get inside and let’s see about getting you some new clothes.”

The small silver bell rang above their heads as Anja pushed open the door to The Pawned Prawn and they stepped inside. The tinkling music announced their arrival to—no one. Strangely, Bersi was not at his usual place behind the counter, and the doors leading into the private spaces of his home were closed. It was almost eerily silent and even Sofie’s steps slowed as she looked around, suspicious of the quiet. “Bersi?” Anja called, her voice playful and light even as her brow furrowed at his unusual absence, “Bersi, are you in? You’ve got paying customers! Honest trade this time!” She waited for a response, but nothing came. “Bersi?”

“Maybe they’re closed and forgot to lock the door?” Sofie suggested.

Not in this town. That was practically inviting the Thieves Guild in to rob you blind. “Maybe,” she allowed, plainly not convinced, “Go ahead and have a look around. I’m just going to pop downstairs and see if anyone’s home.”

The doors deeper into the home unexpectedly banged open before she took two steps toward them, and a very harried Bersi stumbled through. “Welcome to The Pawned Prawn,” he grumbled, not yet looking up to see who he was addressing as he tried to smooth the wrinkles of his disheveled clothing. He looked an absolute mess: the halo of his dark hair was cow-licked at odd angles, dark circles hung heavy beneath his eyes, and exhaustion clung to every part of him like a suit of ill-fitting iron armor: too heavy and weighing him down.

When his eyes finally alighted on Anja, his expression fell even further. “Oh,” he grunted, “It’s you.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but what in Oblivion’s wrong with you?”

“We already paid this month. What do you want?”

Anja jerked her head in Sofie’s direction. “Just shopping for the kid,” she said, “Looking for some clothes. A new cloak.”

Bersi turned his weary eyes on the girl, but he didn’t really look at her or fully absorb what it was that Anja had said. “Clothing’s in the wardrobe,” he said, “What you see is what you get.”

Clearly, there was something very wrong with Bersi Honey-Hand, and it was more than just Anja’s presence that was making him edgy. Anja frowned and nodded for Sofie to go ahead and start rifling through the wardrobe for something she liked. “Everything alright, Bersi?” she asked, hesitantly.

The shopkeep scoffed. “What do you care?” he snarled, “You only come to do Brynjolf’s bidding.”

“Your store hasn’t been hit since you paid up. Something tells me that’s the least of your worries.”

“It’s none of your concern!”

“Where’s your wife, Bersi?”

“GET. OUT. OF. MY SHOP!” Hs eyes bulged from his skull and spittle few from his red face.

“An—Tyv?” Sofie squeaked.

A loud clatter and a cry of pain issued through the floorboards beneath their feet, and caught Anja’s response in her throat, startled Sofie, and sent Bersi bolting back through the double doors and downstairs to his bedroom. Anja blinked. “Lock the door, Kit,” she ordered.

“B-but…”

“Do it!” And then Anja darted down the stairs after the obviously distraught shopkeep. A dozen instincts churned in Anja’s gut and told her to leave, not to follow Bersi into the depths of his home, to get Sofie somewhere where she wasn’t trapped in an enclosed space with an unstable man. But there was something else gnawing at her, too—at her heart—and it made her extremely anxious.

When she reached the bottom step and looked through the open door into Bersi and Drifa’s bedroom, she instantly saw the cause of the ruckus that drew the shopkeep hurtling back down the stairs. It was, indeed, Drifa and she was in a poor state. She was pale and shaking, dressed in her nightgown which was soiled with vomit, and had fallen out of bed. The clatter they had heard came from an upturned bucket of sick and empty healing potion vials littering the floor. “Bersi,” she groaned as she violently shook against the floorboards.

“I’m here, my love, I’m here,” Bersi soothed as he rushed to her side, heedless of the mess as glass crunched beneath his boots. He cradled her like babe in his arms, his expression beaten and desperate.

Anja’s pace slowed to a standstill just outside the door. She knew what this was. She’d seen it before. On the Waterfront. In dark alleyways where people disappeared into the depths of a small, purple bottle. And it might not be her fault that Drifa was descending into the Oblivion of her addiction, but outing the woman to her husband certainly hadn’t helped. “Fuck,” she breathed. No, no, no, no…

“GO!” Bersi shouted, “Can’t you leave us in peace? Please? Just LEAVE!!!”

Anja almost did as the shopkeep so desperately wanted. She even took several steps backward toward the stairs when Sofie’s small voice asked, “What’s wrong with her?” The little girl was clinging to the railing, staring through the balusters at the heaving woman and her weeping husband.

“Look away, Kit,” Anja commanded, “This doesn’t concern us.”

“Can’t we help her?”

Four little words cut through her like shards of broken glass. You have to do better for Kit. You’ll have to justify this to her one day. Why you sat by and did nothing while a woman died in her own filth, screaming. Anja spun around, expression stricken, and went straight into the bedroom. “How long has she been like this?” she demanded.

“JUST GO! Please!”

“HOW LONG, BERSI?!?”

Honey-Hand’s eyes darted over the floor as he mentally reeled, his thoughts too scattered to immediately respond. “S-since last night,” he croaked, “After dinner.” He’d stayed up with her all night. At her side.

“The priests?”

“They say they can’t help!” he wailed, “It must go through her first.” He looked at his wife again and ran his palm over her cheek. “IT WILL KILL HER FIRST!” he shouted suddenly, turning his large, wet eyes up to Anja again. A painful plea of desperation and fear shone in every facet of his expression. “I don’t know what to do…!”

Anja clenched her teeth so tightly it burned the muscles in her jaw. “I do,” she nearly whispered, “I do.”

Bersi didn’t know if he should dare to hope. “Whatever your price, I’ll pay it. Anything! Everything! Just save my wife, please!”

Anja could only nod her head aggressively. “Do you have any more healing potions?” she asked.

“I gave her all we had. The priests said it would help, but…”

“She couldn’t keep any of them down?”

Bersi mutely shook his head.

“Alright, I need two things from you, Bersi,” she said as calmly as she was able, “First, I need a key to the shop…”

There was the briefest of seconds when it looked as if Bersi was about to question her need but he’d meant it when he said he’d pay any price. “Here.” He fished the key from his pocket and tossed it at her feet. “What else?”

“Clean her up as best you can and get her back into bed.” Anja stooped for the key. “I’ll be right back.”

“You’re leaving?!?”

“I need supplies. I won’t be long.” The man obviously wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. He had no choice but to trust her. She was the only one who was willing to help him, after all. He nodded, jaw tight and mouth pressed to a thin line. “Come Kit,” Anja barked as she rushed back up the stairs, “I need your help.” Sofie hurried along after her.


“Kharjo is unsure this is wise,” the Khajiit warrior muttered as Anja’s little boat bumped against the tiny, personal dock behind The Pawned Prawn. “Not in broad daylight, anyway.”

Anja secured the boat and glanced sharply around for the guard, but they were largely unobservant. “Just keep your ears down and your tail tucked under that cloak and no one will be able to tell the difference from that far away,” she hissed and hopped onto the dock. She held out her hand to help him. “Hurry.”

Kharjo took her offered hand and gracefully leapt onto the dock. “This woman is that bad, is she?” he asked as they strode up to the backdoor.

“I don’t know if there’s much we can do, but…” Anja sighed and rubbed her face before trying the latch, “Doing nothing at all is—worse.” The door swung open, unlocked as she had instructed Sofie to do when the young girl returned from her errand to the potions shop.

The moment she was through the door, the ten-year-old rushed her, nearly knocking them both over. “She’s heaving again,” Sofie informed them and they all hurried to the bedroom.

Bersi nearly fainted to see a Khajiit in his home, let alone such a large specimen. He vaguely pointed at Kharjo, but his words failed him and he merely turned to Anja, stuttering like a fool. “Kharjo this is Bersi,” Anja rushed through introductions, “Bersi this is Kharjo and he’s going to help me save your wife.”

“If this one can,” Kharjo added and then his sharp eyes darted over Drifa’s writhing body as she hurled into a bucket at the side of the bed, “She is far gone already.”

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Anja insisted, “She’s been kicking around since last night.”

Kharjo actually looked impressed. “If her spirit is strong, then there is a chance, but Khajiit must find her stash.”

“I’ve already searched for it,” Bersi insisted, “I don’t think she keeps it in the house.”

“Did she go anywhere else between dinner and when she fell ill?” Anja probed.

“No…”

“She wanted to enjoy the var[1] in the privacy of her own home,” Kharjo speculated.

“But I found nothing!”

“Kit!” Anja called and the child came running, “I need you to turn this place upside down for little bottles about this big.” She demonstrated with her fingers. “Bring all you find to me.” Sofie nodded and scampered off to start upstairs.

“Kharjo can stop the shaking in the meantime,” he said, “Perhaps slow the vomiting, but no ordinary Skooma did this…”

“You don’t think it’s that same poison I found on the job?”

“It would not surprise this one. Vari said it was popular, yes?”

“Did you destroy them like I asked?”

“This one always does as you wish, my kha’jay[2].”

“Better hope we find her stash, then.” Anja pursed her lips. “If this is the same shite, she might not have taken too much…”

“Just enough to be poisoned.”

“Or they changed their recipe recently. More death, less moon sugar.”

“A possibility.”

“W-what?” Bersi whimpered.

Anja winced. “I don’t mean to worry you, Bersi, but you should know. The stuff Drifa’s been taking isn’t pure,” she explained, “It’s tainted. Cheaper to make that way, fatter profits. Which benefits a bunch of sleazy Skooma dealers, but it’s their customers who suffer. She’s been poisoned.”

The color drained from Bersi’s face. “Can you still help her?” his voice was hoarse and strained.

Anja hesitated. “If we figure out what they cut the moon sugar with—maybe? I might be able to brew an antidote.”

Bersi covered his mouth with his hand as if trying to hold back a cry of despair, but his fingers were knocking against his face as he shook with unadulterated fear for the loss of his wife. He was on the brink of breaking down entirely. “What can I do?” he sobbed, “What can I do?”

Kharjo’s tail flicked out from beneath the cloak. “Hold her hand,” he said, “Tell her she is your moon and stars. Her spirit is strong but will grow weary. Sustain it.”

Honey-Hand looked as though he was ready to cry and cling to Kharjo in equal measure, but he restrained himself (from embracing the Khajiit warrior, at least) and staggered around the bed to hold his wife’s hand as Kharjo had suggested. “I’m going to help Kit find that fucking stash,” Anja growled as Kharjo set to work easing Drifa’s suffering, “Kha’jay siirithse jer draqo.[3]” Kharjo prayed they would.


Kha’jay Var. Or Moon Sugar, as the jetwijijri[4] called it. Crystallized moonlight. Legend held that it contained the essence of the moons Jode and Jone. That the light-touched water soaked deep into the reeds of the sugarcane and made visions of divinity dance behind the eyes of those who took it into themselves. It was worshiped. A holy relationship, an exchange between the Khajiit and that which shaped them. It was distilled into bottles of moonlight. Droplets of lunar nectar. Sweet and sacred and beautiful. Vials of dreamscape corked by reverent paws.

But, like all things Divine, it too easily corrupted the weak-willed, the lost, and the ambitious. What once was a holy communion with Ja-Kha’jay[5], became cheap and prostitute. Common coin passed between paws for fleeting moments amongst the stars unearned and unappreciated. Wise Khajiit, holy men who took care in the creation of Skuma[6], were replaced by common sojiit[7] who did not love the moonlight with the same passion. They did not commune with the moon, they only took their tears and sold them to common addicts on the street.

Older, more traditional Khajiit called such disrespect a tragedy. A part of Kharjo agreed with the sentiment if a bit dramatic. He fancied himself more practical, however. In his mind, it was inevitable, from the moment of Kha’jay Var[8] creation, that mortalkind, Khajiit and jetwijijri[9] alike, would soil it in some way because that’s what mortals always did. They were but children, kittens in a great litter mewing for mother and suckling at stars, hoping for milk. To him, Moon Sugar was a reminder of one’s place in the world, in relation to his loved ones and his gods. A mercy and a blessing, a silent, shining answer to the eternal question: why? Take a god into one’s soul and see how far away the stars twinkle, feel the power of the Twin Tides, and know that you belong.

He kept that in mind as he scooped a perfect flake of moon sugar out of a pouch and laid it upon the Drifa-woman’s quivering tongue. It was a pure, unfiltered dose, but small. Enough to jolt her hungering body from the violence of its trembling. Jetwijijri[10] needed so little. The var[11] melted on her tongue almost the instant it touched the warm, wet plane of muscle, and he gently pressed her jaw upward, closing her mouth. “That’s the stuff that got her into this mess in the first place,” Bersi pointed out, uneasily.

“It is her salvation for now,” Kharjo replied, “Her body yearns for it like she would air, and just as she would surely die if denied breath, she will die if denied the var.”

“But aren’t you meant to fix that?”

“In time.” It would not take long for her bana[12] to cease and seeing her calm would ease her husband’s fears; Kharjo prepared the alkalai[13] in the meantime. Thick, fatty crème and mint with a drop of good Skuma[14], the kind made with a careful hand. If he could coax her into choking down enough, the mixture would coat her stomach and quiet the bile scorching her gut and throat.

“She’s—getting better…!” Bersi exclaimed in disbelief, “She’s calming.”

Kharjo’s ears perked with pleasure. “Sit her up. This one will try to calm her belly next.”


Sofie had a knack for finding secret places. Living on the streets made it a useful skill to both hide her few belongings and ferret out the hidden treasures of others. Finding Drifa’s Skooma stash was easier than the adults made it out to be. It took some time, but she found it beneath a false bottom of the very wardrobe Bersi had told them to rummage through to view their stock of clothing. The hollow contained just three bottles, two of them spent, and a bag of coin. She took everything to Anja who had been searching places too high for Sofie to reach. “I found it! I found it!”

Anja hopped off the display case she had precariously perched herself upon. “Give it here.” She examined the bottles in her hand, turning them over between her fingers carefully. “Same shite, alright,” she growled with disgust, “Fucking scum! Poisoning people!”

“Is she—is she going to die?” Sofie asked softly.

The Master Thief stilled and looked the orphan in the eye. “She might,” she admitted.

Sofie nodded. She was no stranger to death. Not even violent death. But it disturbed her, disquieted her little soul despite all the pain she’d seen and endured for one so young. “What else can I do?”

“Give back the key to the shop and lock the door behind me. I’ve got to sweet talk Elgrim into a favor. Hopefully I won’t be long. Dirty old man loves me. Tell Kharjo where I went.” Anja gave Sofie back the coin purse in exchange for the iron key. “Give Bersi his money back, too, and help Kharjo if he needs it.” She paused. “I’m sorry you got tangled up in this, kid, but you’re doing good.”

“It’s better than Windhelm,” Sofie assured with a weak smile.

For the briefest of moments, Anja just stared at the young girl who seemed twenty times stronger and wiser than she had been at her age and wondered if the girl would understand if she told her that the only reason they stayed to help Drifa was because of her. That Anja was used to running from her mistakes and was quite good at it. That Drifa’s death would have haunted her, undoubtedly, but that wouldn’t have stopped her from running out the door. That her sense of morality was a weak muscle she was learning to use because she wanted a better life and a better heart for a little orphan she found on the street and with whom she inexplicably fell in love. But Anja didn’t say a word. That’s too much for a kid. Even one like her. She hugged the little brat instead and then disappeared out the front door.


“Elgrim, Elgrim, Elgrim,” Anja purred as she sauntered through the door of the dark, dingy potion shop, “The master himself.”

“Tyv, my favorite customer,” the aging alchemist growled through the natural gravel of his tone. He was possibly the only one in all of Riften who was happy to see her walk through his door. The amount of gold she dropped on alchemical ingredients on any given day more than made up for what he had to pay the Guild for protection. “Need more salts? Or do you have something more exotic in mind?”

His wife visibly rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Stop flirting with the girl and take her order, husband,” she reprimanded with a sharper edge to her tone than usual which was a touch surprising. Hafjorg was not typically a jealous woman, especially when it came to a regular like Anja who she considered too young and beautiful to be a real threat. She did tire of their antics from time to time, however.

Elgrim grumbled something incoherent under his breath. “What can I do for you today?”

Anja approached the counter with the usual sway to her hips and leaned against it, elbow on the countertop and chin resting in the palm of her hand. “I have a bit of a complicated request to make of you today, darling,” she said, arranging the features of her face into something that was caught between playful and apologetic, “But I’m sure it won’t be a problem for an alchemist as talented and artful as you.”

“I’m listening.”

“What I’m about to tell you requires the utmost discretion, but I’m sure a man—a professional—like you is more than capable of holding your tongue.”

Elgrim quirked an eyebrow, intrigued, even as his wife’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Go on.”

“Do I have your word?”

“You have my word as a Master Alchemist.”

Anja delicately placed the Skooma bottle on the counter. Elgrim inhaled sharply and glanced nervously toward the door. “Do you know what this is?”

“I do.” His mouth barely opened to emit sound.

“You’re trouble. I knew it!” Hafjorg hissed.

“I’ve been trouble since the day I was born, dear, but I promise you this: this time, it’s worth it.” Anja turned her attention back to Elgrim, expectantly. He was nervously wetting his lips and swallowing, trying to moisten a mouth and throat suddenly gone dry. She worried she had not suitably warmed the old man up before dropping an extremely illegal substance onto his countertop.

“I won’t make more…” he blurted, “I won’t be part of this! The Guild has gone too far…”

“Relax. I’m not asking you to,” she soothed, placing a delicate hand on his forearm to reassure him, “And the Guild is not involved. I have no interest in becoming a Skooma dealer and I wouldn’t dream of wasting your talents making cheap thrills.”

“What do you want, then?” Hafjorg asked before her husband had the chance.

Anja straightened slightly. “You’re a smart man, Elgrim. I know you’ve heard like everyone else there’s a ring got its claws in this town.” She folded her arms neatly under her breasts so she looked more enticing than withdrawn. The alchemist gave a tight-lipped nod of confirmation. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m the last girl in all of Nirn to stick my nose in others’ dirty business, but…” She paused for dramatic effect. “They’re killing people.” She gestured toward the bottle between them with a pointed look. “It’s poison.”

“Killing addicts,” Elgrim pointed out.

She shrugged. “I don’t judge, love,” she sighed, “You’d be surprised who takes a little now and then.” She thought of the day she met Drifa, happy and eager and kind. “Better people than the likes of me.”

Husband and wife exchanged glances. “Who?”

Anja tsked at them both. “Look at the two of you! Such gossips!” she chastised playfully, “I don’t kiss and tell. That would be rude. I just need your considerable skill to tell me what’s nasty so I can maybe keep someone who very much deserves to live, alive.”

Elgrim sighed heavily, his wrinkled features shifting with the sway of his inner struggle as he considered the risk against himself and his shop. “What’s in it for me?” he asked at length.

Anja didn’t bat an eyelash. “What do you want?”

The master alchemist hesitated as if he had not expected her to entertain the notion of payment. “Next month’s payment to the Guild cleared.”

“Done. That all?”

The elderly couple blinked and exchanged looks again, and Hafjorg gave a small, uncertain nod. “That’s all.” They didn’t want to push their luck. Too bad, Anja thought, Bersi promised to pay any price.

Anja smirked and pushed the bottle closer to Elgrim across the counter with her fingertips. “Faster the better, darling. Time’s running short.”


Bersi remembered the day he first laid eyes on his wife. It was some twenty or twenty-five years ago on an early spring day. Unseasonably warm weather sent torrents of rain pouring from the sky in heavy sheets. He was a young man then. Still had all his hair and his back didn’t ache. He was a sailor on the real Prawn. Gods, he loved that boat. He loved the sea and the freedom of the salty air, and he had just made one of dozens of runs from Dawnstar to Solitude he would make that season.

He’d slugged through the rain and the mud from the docks up the path to the city proper and made a beeline to the Winking Skeever for a hot meal and cool drink. Walking through the door lifted the weight of the rain from his shoulders, but he was soaked to the bone so he took a seat by the fire and waited for the serving lad to make his way to him. He’d just gotten his ale when the door banged open again and the loveliest, sodden woman he had ever laid eyes on stumbled through.

She held her shawl tented over her head, but it had done nothing to protect her. Her dark hair was plastered to her skull and neck. Chuckling, she wrung the fabric out onto the floor in front of her, and that’s what stuck Bersi about her most: her joy. Even dripping and shivering, she was smiling, her beautiful green eyes twinkling in the candlelight as she scanned the room in search of a suitable place to sit. He’d almost knocked his chair to the ground in his haste to offer it to her.

That night, he learned her name was Drifa and that she had also just arrived in Solitude to care for an ailing relative, but her home was in Riften. And she missed it even though she hadn’t been gone for very long, her heart ached for the orange and golden forests of aspens that surrounded the city. He loved listening to her talk about it. He loved the way her eyes lit up when she described her home with such poetry. She made him love Riften, too.

By the end of the night, he was convinced he’d met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his days with, but he didn’t have the money to give her the life he thought she deserved. He was just a young fisherman with only a shack of a home and a boat to his name. Besides, she was committed to the care of her aunt until the old woman passed on or miraculously recovered. So, when it was time to go back to Dawnstar two days later, Bersi went but he left a promise and his heart with Drifa that he would always come back to her.

And he did.

For months, he found even the barest excuse to sail back to Solitude, scrounging up all his coin and stashing it away. He planned to save a hoard and buy her a golden ring with a fat emerald set into it the color of her eyes because she was everything to him. She deserved everything. Anything. He just needed to be the one to give it to her. The best part was she seemed to love him, too, just as intensely. She never wanted him to leave as much as he never wanted to go.

Then, one week, a storm struck Dawnstar and Bersi was not able to sail back to Solitude. Difa’s aunt passed away, the funeral held, and the dead laid to rest. Still, Bersi couldn’t sail. His ship was damaged, and he had to spend every last coil of his savings to repair what was broken. By the time he finally set foot on Solitude’s docks, Drifa had long since gone back to Riften, no longer able to wait for him and her coin purse dangerously light. So, Bersi went back to Dawnstar brokenhearted without his love or the means with which to marry her.

He really only bore the pain for a week before he sold the Brawny Prawn, bought a silver ring without a gem, and took the first carriage from Dawnstar to Riften. Best decision he’d ever made, as far as he was concerned, even when he was huddled at the edge of their bed, holding her frail hand, and whispering how much he loved her into the whorl of her ear. At least she had calmed, and the Cat had eased the vomiting, but she would not wake.

He told her their story from start to finish as he choked on his tears and rubbed her silver wedding ring. He reminded her how happy they were in the beginning, before Riften changed them. Before something went sour in the city she loved so much. Before lack of coin and pressure from the Thieves Guild dulled their light and rearranged their priorities. Before Drifa felt so lost and alone, so adrift in their life together that she sought safe harbor in the oblivion of a small, lavender bottle.

“Come back to me,” he pleaded with her, “Please, my love, I’ll do better. I’ll make it better. Just don’t leave me. I can’t follow you this time.” But, he would be tempted to if she did.

“She looks better,” Tyv’s voice said from the doorway.

Bersi’s gaze snapped up to meet her. “Was Elgrim able to help?” he demanded. She had been gone so long, the sun had set. It was dark and cold outside.

She nodded and numbly held out a potion bottle to Kharjo who had gone to her side. The large Khajiit stroked her cheek with something like concern, but Bersi didn’t have much experience with his kind. His feline features were hard to decipher. “Powdered Imp Stool and Mora Tapinella,” she explained as Kharjo returned to Drifa’s side, “It’s deadly and lingering and causes paralysis. Cut Moon Sugar with it and you’ll hallucinate vividly, but…”

“It’s poisonous.”

“Very.”

Bersi watched Kharjo carefully pour the antidote down Drifa’s throat. “Will it—work?” he nearly whispered, “Will she be alright?”

“I think so,” she replied unreassuringly, “All we can do is sit and wait.”

He’d wait an eternity if it meant she’d wake up, but that didn’t make it less of an agony. “What do I owe Elgrim?” he asked as he pushed Drifa’s hair from her face, “I assume you told him what happened.”

Tyv didn’t immediately answer. “Nothing,” she said, “He and I came to an arrangement. And I told him nothing. He doesn’t know about Drifa. No one does.”

Bersi looked back at her in disbelief. “What do I owe you, then?”

She pursed her lips and removed something from her pocket. Carelessly, she tossed it on the bed beside him with a flick of her wrist. It was his shop key. “Just some clothes for the kid,” she said.

The shopkeep’s brow furrowed. “That’s all?”

“Aye,” she said, “That’s all.”


Sometime near dawn, Drifa stirred with her husband’s name upon her lips. “Bersi,” she groaned, “Bersi…” Her throat was sore and scorched from bile.

“I’m here, my love,” Bersi wept, “I’m always here.”

“I had—a dream…” she muttered, still delirious, “When we were young…when we met…Remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I miss those days…”

“You’ll have them again. I swear it.”

The sound of his joyful cries as he covered his wife’s face in dozens of relieved kisses roused Kharjo and Anja who had fallen asleep in the next room, propped against the wall with Anja tucked under his heavy arm. Sofie slept undisturbed with her head in Anja’s lap. “The woman will live, after all,” Kharjo observed, yawing and stretching carefully so as not to wake Sofie.

“Looks like,” Anja breathed, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Thanks to Vari.”

“Thanks to you,” she corrected, “I only smuggled you in.”

“That’s more than Vari gives credit.”

“No, it’s not.”

Kharjo paused. “Kha’jay can do anything she likes. She can be kind when it suits her, and steal when it does not. This does not change what Kha’jay is.”

“And what is that?” Anja snorted.

“Powerful. She wished to save a life and so she did.”

Anja’s brow bunched sharply, not in a scowl, but an expression of pain. “I’m not a good person, Kharjo,” she warned.

“Kharjo didn’t say you were, but perhaps Kha’jay is not bad, either? She cannot be chained by such words. Kha’jay can only be what she is: both a tear of love and of sorrow.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Kharjo slipped away from her to administer another healing potion to Drifa and she watched him go, wondering if he was right. If there was more to what she was and what she could do than she ever gave herself permission to experience. She looked down at Sofie’s sleeping frame. Maybe it was less a matter of just doing better for the girl than it was of being better for them both. Her way. As only she could.


[1] sugar

[2] moon

[3] Moons light your path.

[4] shaveskins

[5] The Lunar Lattice, made up of the moons Jode (Masser or Mara’s Tear) and Jone (Secunda or Stendarr’s Sorrow). Considered a god entity in the Khajiit pantheon because of the huge impact the phases of the moons have on the development of newborn Khajiit kittens.

[6] Khajiit spelling of the word ‘skooma.’ Pronounced the same.

[7] brewers

[8] Moon Sugar

[9] shaveskins

[10] shaveskins

[11] sugar

[12] shakes

[13] medicine

[14] Khajiit spelling of the word ‘skooma.’ Pronounced the same.

Notes:

I don't know that I have a lot to say about this chapter, other than one of the things I tried to show is how different Anja can be based on who's around her and how much she trusts those people or wants something from them. She can be snappy and demanding and generally almost Sonja-like in a serious situation, honest with the people she loves like Sofie, and sickly sweet when she needs a favor. So many masks already, how will she change her face when it comes time? Especially when she banks on her good looks to get what she wants?

Also, she doesn't have a destiny like Sonja does. Anja's life is 100% her own. She gets to decide what to make of it...if anything. Is stealing from the shadows enough for her and Sofie? Or is there something more she can pursue instead?

Chapter 39: First Outings

Summary:

A certain lonely sailor sets out on his first adventure in years, and Hadvar's daring escape from Windhelm has drawn some unwanted attention.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: grief, loss of a family member, thoughts of suicide, implied physical abuse, and depictions of psychological torture.

PoV: Lonely-Gale, Hadvar, Elenwen, Maelys

Also, the lament that appears in the first part of this chapter is a reworked version of Blizzard Entertainment's Daughter of the Sea because I wanted a suitably haunting tune. I basically rewrote most of the lyrics to fit Nordic culture and added a third verse before the bridge. Otherwise, same sound, same vibe. Click here for original lyrics.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The sea is as beautiful and treacherous as the Mistress that rules her. The dawn brings clear skies and steady winds. Kyne is a balm of freedom in the salty sting of sea spray. Her Voice carries in the breeze, gentle whispers of horizons yet explored and…something else? “My love, my love, a sailor on the sea. My love has gone away…” Yiri. I’d know her sweet singing anywhere. “His farewell carried on the ocean breeze, as his ship sailed from the bay.”

Always a lament, always a ballad of sadness that I could not give up my first love to be with her always. But it’s not like that. I go to sea for her. For our family. The son growing in her belly. “How long, how long shall my love be away? How long shall the seas keep him?” I pause, my eyes sliding closed, to listen to her song and relish in her siren’s call from a distant shore—from home. “‘Not long, my dear,’ I last heard him say. ‘Not long.’ But his voice be grim.’” I can see her face as clearly as if she is here before me. Her hazel eyes shine with sunlight, her smile sad and small and distant. The dark silk of her hair whips around her as if caught in a strong breeze and the round of her belly slopes through her blue dress.  Mara help me, I love this woman. How do I suffer being parted from her for so long? Why do I make her suffer, too?

Yiri blinks away a tear as if she hears my thoughts and she must. Only she has ever known my heart so completely. She reaches for me, her warm hands cupping my face in a gesture so full of love my heart leaps as if trying to free itself from my chest to be with her, its rightful owner. Her lament continues.

“I heard, I heard, across the moonlit sea,

My love’s voice warning me,

‘Beware, Beware the Widow of the Seas,’

‘Beware, Kyne’s taken me!’”

The world spins beyond my closed eyes and I feel an unfamiliar bout of seasickness well up in my gut. I bend and heave onto the deck. The sick is quickly washed away by a wave of cold, salty water and fierce rain. I right myself to look around and find that I have somehow tumbled into a different day on a different, churning sea.

Now, in the dying light of the sun, Kyne has grown cold and angry. She spins thick, dark clouds in Her skies and icy rain plummets into the sea. It batters the deck of my ship. The wood slicks. The men slide. Orders worn into my memory from years long past ring from my mouth on instinct. I haven’t lost a man to a storm yet and I refuse to today. The crew moves with purpose, spurred by my commands, but the waves are brutal and for every action or step taken, the water pushes back, unties knots not yet secured, loosens pullies, and tears at fluttering sails men are trying to trim.

Waves crash like thunder through the sea spray and still I hear Yiri singing through the raging gale, clear and haunting and beautiful.

“Why this? Why this, oh Widow of the Seas?

Why this? Did your heart ache for your love, gone?

My heart you broke when my love you seized

In a storm before the dawn.”

The mast snaps clean in half like a twig in the grasp of a child. No, no, no. I must survive this. I must find my way back to Yiri. But the sea is merciless. Kyne’s great limbs stir the waters into churning maelstroms. Her breath whips the winds into gales. She is an angry Mistress not easily replaced and She knows my heart wanes for Her. That I would turn from Her grace to stay with Yiri. She punishes me and my vessel cracks in Her grip, splintering beneath her fierceness.

“No more, no more shall my love I embrace,

No more will he step ashore.

For Shor’s Widow took him into Her grace,

On Her breath to Sovngarde he’s borne.”

Yiri, Yiri, Yiri…thoughts of her fill my mind as water fills my lungs…her sharp, clever tongue as keen in conversation as it is soothing in a kiss…the smell of juniper in her hair…the beauty of birdsong in her laughter…the way her tender heart loves so fiercely…I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long…I shouldn’t have left in the first place…

“My love, my love, a sailor on the sea,

My love has gone away.

His farewell carried on the ocean breeze,

As his soul drifted away.”

“Yiri.” Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale started awake, heart racing and chest heaving. He lay alone in his bed in the silence of his empty home. For several moments, he stared uncomprehending through the darkness of the early morning until he felt something wet nuzzle his hand. It was Rahna, a great big bear of a dog and his only companion in his now very lonely life. “Just a dream, girl,” he whispered, his voice ragged as if he really had been yelling through the din of a storm, “Nothing more.” He was consoling himself more than the dog.

Rahna nuzzled his hand again, forcing the entirety of her massive head beneath his hand. He smiled, in spite of himself, and scratched her ears the way he knew she liked. When his heartbeat and breathing calmed, Llyr rolled out of bed and padded, naked, to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. He struck his knee on the edge of the bed along the way and cursed mightily as he hopped the last few steps. Impatiently, he cast a globe of candlelight to hover over his head and rubbed his eyes against the sudden glare of it. He was not a practiced wizard, by any means, but he’d learned a useful thing or two over the years. Magical light, for instance, can’t be doused by the toss of roiling seas and had saved his life many a time in the midst of a storm. In his opinion, magic had been the only reason he ever made it back alive to Yiri every time. A pity none of his small number of spells were useful when it came to saving her life in the end.

Still half-blinded from the candlelight, he selected his clothing, warm and durable, dressed hastily, and donned his leather armor. The kit was little more than a cuirass, bracers, half-gloves, and tassets. He was used to wearing so little protection. A sailor in anything heavier than leather sank straight to the bottom if he went overboard in a skirmish, and too many extra pieces like pauldrons and armguards only got in the way while maneuvering through and across a ship. He was comfortable in the lightness of the leather and his swordsmanship more than made up for the lack of defense. And his sword, itself, was a carefully kept Nordic blade: good, strong steel tempered with quicksilver and ebony so it didn’t rust away in the salt-heavy air. He had two daggers to match and kept one in his boot, the other on his hip. He took his blades down to the kitchen with the little ball of candlelight illuminating the way and Rahna on his heels.

In the kitchen, he stoked a fire to life and unwrapped an entire leg of lamb he bought from the butcher the night before. Rahna eagerly wagged her tail at the bloody scent of the meat but waited patiently for her master to toss the carnage her way. He did once it was free of the paper and set to fixing himself breakfast as she noisily tore at the carcass. It was an exorbitant treat, even by his standards and he had a habit of spoiling the dog. Usually, it was more cost effective to let her out beyond the city walls now and again to hunt her fill, but they were about to embark on a journey that day and he wanted his Rahna at her best.

Llyr ate in silence, his mind caught up in moments from his dream. He missed Yiri always, every moment of every day, and he often dreamed of her. Sometimes she appeared to him in sweet dreams of their love filled with the scent of her skin and the sounds of her sighs. Sometimes he replayed memories from their life together: how they met, their tender and hilarious moments together, their fights, their wedding day, the day she told him she was with child—and the day of her death. Nightmares were unusual, but they did happen on nights when his guilt consumed him. He hummed a few bars of the lament from his dream before he realized he was doing it and wished with all his heart that it had been he who died at sea instead of his wife in the throes of childbirth. If he could strike a deal with a Divine or Daedra for that, he’d do it without a second thought.

As if sensing his melancholy, Rahna lumbered to him, licking her chops clean, and rested her huge fluffy head on his knee. She looked up at him, one white-blue eye and one honey-brown, her expression both asking for affection and offering comfort. He sighed, swallowed the last of his breakfast which had gone cold during his musings, and scratched her ears again. “Shall we?” he asked and Rahna’s tail wagged an affirmative.

He stood from his chair and secured his weapons to his hip as he strolled through the door. He donned his cloak, shouldered his pack, and stepped out into the cold, still city street, Rahna at his side. His home was situated near the Gray Quarter, the largest in that part of the city; he’d bought it for its close proximity to the docks so he’d always have the shortest path from his ship to the waiting arms of Yiri, but he hadn’t walked down those icy steps in years. Turning his attention from it, he made his way down the stone streets. The sound of his footsteps as his boots struck the cobblestones echoed off the walls and the faces of dark and silent homes. He had a wordless, polite greeting with the guards at the gate, but moved beyond them and continued down the long bridge to the stables where his gray stallion, Blue, pawed at the frozen ground.

Rahna paced around the stable while Llyr saddled Blue, already on alert for any danger, prepared to protect her master, her pack, her family. Llyr checked his mount over, pleased with the shine of his coat and eyes; the stablemaster had taken very good care of the beast, not that he had expected any different, but he wasn’t in the habit of taking Blue out for a ride as often as he should. It was rare that Llyr went anywhere beyond Windhelm’s walls anymore. He patted the horse and slipped him an apple before walking him out of his stall.

There, at the intersection in the road where the path behind him led back to Windhelm and the one beyond led to Riften, Llyr removed the glove from his left hand and reached into his pocket. He removed a fingerbone, its surface smooth and brilliant white but for the bloodred rune carved into it. It looked an evil, vile thing and maybe it had come from such a being once. Llyr didn’t know. It was a gift that had served him well over the years. Quietly, he cast his spell and the bone spun in the palm of his hand, generating a small swirl of air that grew larger until it was an amorphous limb of air and snow.

To his dismay though not necessarily his surprise, the limb pointed back toward Windhelm. He didn’t have to follow it to its end to know it was trying to lead him to the Hall of the Dead where his wife and son rested. The magic he was using was old and entreated spirits of the air for guidance, and Llyr always wanted Yiri. Always. So, he frowned, closed his eyes and concentrated on not what his heart always desired, but the task he was appointed and wanted to accomplish. It took a long moment and Llyr began to wonder if he was successful, but he felt the breeze shift and when he opened his eyes, the spirits were pointing him toward Riften.


Hadvar did his best not to appear nervous as he stared out the window and into the busy, stone-paved courtyard of Castle Dour. New recruits were training in the yard under the experienced instruction of Captain Aldis. That man was a soldier through and through, and had he not had such a staunch reputation as Captain of the Guard in Solitude, Tullius might have found better placement for him in the Imperial Army. As it was, though, it might have caused a small riot, and High Queen Elisif, herself, had made her opinion well known that Solitude needed its protectors both outside and within its walls. But Hadvar didn’t feel particularly safe inside the city at that moment. There was nothing that would protect him from what was coming. Not even his allegiance. Perhaps especially not his allegiance.

He’d made it safely to Solitude days before. Tyv’s plan worked better than any rescue mission his superiors could have launched, and they wouldn’t have wasted the resources to recover a mere auxiliary like him. So, he thanked his lucky stars that she had a soft spot for Legionnaires, even if she didn’t want to pick a side in the war. She’d saved his life and he’d always be grateful for that. True to his word, he’d left her out of his report to General Tullius. He claimed to have escaped the dungeon when a couple of thieves made a ruckus in the Palace of Kings. The general didn’t care much for the specifics of his daring escape from Windhelm; he figured Hadvar had merely done what he needed to get out and complete his mission which was to deliver ‘valuable’ intel, though Tullius barely considered the identity of the Dragonborn to be important. It was at Legate Rikke’s insistence that they contacted the Battle-Borns in Whiterun in the first place.

Tullius was far more interested in “all this Nordic nonsense” when he read Sonja’s name on the page, however. Apparently, she had sent a hefty bag of Imperial crests from the fallen soldiers at Helgen which allowed for a full count of their losses from the dragon attack, for them to properly honor the dead, and compensate their families. A very honorable and kind thing to do, not least because she had almost been executed before fire started raining from the sky—and retrieving the crests meant she had to go back to Helgen afterward at some point.

“What reason would she have to do that?” Hadvar asked.

“She comes from Legionnaire stock,” Tullius replied, “The best I ever had the privilege of serving with.” He seemed troubled by the prospect that she had anything to do with the rise of a supposed Dragonborn because emperors of that bloodline had ruled over Cyrodiil for ages. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s pardoned for that incident at the border. I don’t care what the Thalmor have to say about any of this. Sonja Draconis has nothing to fear from the Empire.”

“What about her identity as Dragonborn?” Rikke pressed.

“Must be a mistake,” he insisted, “This is all hearsay and superstition. There’s no evidence to suggest that anyone of the Septim line survived the Oblivion Crisis and suggesting otherwise is not only dangerous, it’s treasonous…”

“She doesn’t have to be a Septim,” Rikke pointed out, “Though Tal—Tiber Septim built the Empire, he wasn’t the first Dragonborn. And he wasn’t descended from Dragonblood…”

“Be that as it may, there are those who would jump at the chance to have a Dragonborn back on the throne.”

“Which is precisely why Ulfric will want to get to her first, sir. Even if you don’t believe she is who the Battle-Borns say, we have to assume Ulfric does. And if the rest of Skyrim believes it…”

“But the people don’t believe it, do they? You said it yourself: until the Graybeards name her Ysmir, there is no Dragonborn. Just rumor.”

Rikke frowned. “Sir, I don’t think we can afford to ignore this.”

“I’m not ignoring it, but we won’t act upon little more than gossip. This stays between us until we learn more or it’s disproven. You’re both sworn to secrecy until I have hard proof to report to the Emperor. In the meantime, I’m not going to throw a deceased brother-in-arms’ daughter to the wolves on a rumor that she may be something she likely isn’t. I owe Remus more than that.”

Rikke’s expression tightened further, but she was a strong woman, a good soldier. She pursed her lips and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Hadvar felt woefully out of place amongst his superiors as they made such decisions. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Not a word,” he said.

And that had been the end of it. Hadvar had been happy to put the whole thing behind him. Despite his frustration with General Tullius seemingly dismissing the identity of the Dragonborn, he had been content to let it be Rikke’s problem. If anyone could convince the General of anything, it was her. Like a good, proper soldier, focused on his objective, his only concern had been his new posting. Or so he thought.

Days later, Hadvar received his orders and was preparing to head out with his new regiment when he was notified that his redeployment was indefinitely postponed pending clearance from the Thalmor. That was not standard practice, and the look on Legate Rikke’s face had not been comforting. She looked equal parts concerned and outraged by the words coming out of her own mouth. So, there he was: standing in a small room, an office though he didn’t know whose, overlooking the courtyard and waiting for his Thalmor interview.

Hadvar felt cagey from head to toe like his body was stuck in a perpetual moment of that unpleasant instant when one loses their balance and has not yet caught themselves. He didn’t know what to expect, but he’d heard stories of the cruelty of the Thalmor. They had their ways of prying all manner of information from an unwilling subject. Torture, magic, mind tricks. Pure horror stories from the Great War, from before he was even born, but—there was a reason Ulfric Stormcloak raged against the Aldmeri Dominion, wasn’t there? Hadvar didn’t have to agree with the man or his reasons for starting a rebellion, but the Jarl was a war hero, a former prisoner of war. If there was one man who knew of what the Thalmor were capable, it was he, and Ulfric Stormcloak hated those Altmer with a vehemence. If their methods could shake a man like that, what hope did Hadvar have?

He was nowhere near an unwilling subject, though, unless—unless they somehow knew about Tyv. Maybe they knew he was leaving something out of his report to Tullius. Maybe they intended to extract it from him now, before he could escape back out into the field. He didn’t know, and not knowing was maddening, worse than fighting Stormcloaks with familiar faces. At least he could see them coming.

A sudden, brief knock on the door behind him jolted him from his thoughts, and he abruptly spun on his heel to face whomever was about to enter the room. It was General Tullius, much to his surprise and relief, followed by Legate Rikke—and a Thalmor Justiciar, Thalmor Enforcer, and—a very pretty woman with red hair and mismatched eyes? She wasn’t a mer or at least not fully, which confused him, because she was dressed in very elegant Altmer attire with fine jewelry: solid silver bracelets and a matching collar that couldn’t have been cheap. That besides, the Justiciar and Enforcer were clearly her escort, but he knew the Aldmeri Dominion was not fond enough of humans to invite them into roles of power within their government and this woman, the half-mer, seemed to command quite a lot of—maybe not respect, if the sneer on the Justiciar’s face was anything to go by, but authority? Her presence was odd, to say the least. “This isn’t what I meant when I requested somewhere more private, General Tullius,” the Justiciar sniffed with clear irritation as the large group squeezed into the small office.

The half-mer Thalmor woman glared sideways at him and snarked before Tullius could speak, “What did you expect, Numithir? The dungeon? The lad hasn’t done anything wrong. You can’t really expect the general to treat his own men as prisoners for your convenience.” Tullius actually looked like he was on the verge of laughing and Hadvar wondered what else the woman must have said before they even reached the office to tempt his stern superior toward anything resembling a smile.

“May I remind you, Madame Joliame, that you are my guest while inside the city?” the Justiciar called Numithir snarled impatiently. The way he pronounced the woman’s name suggested she might be Breton which made more sense to Hadvar. Some Breton bloodlines contained more mer blood than others. Maybe her family tree was thick with it. But it still didn’t explain what she was doing here. White-Gold Concordant or not, the Empire was not the Admeri Dominion and High Rock was still a province of the Empire. Why was she working with them? What authority did they have over her, an Imperial citizen? Hadvar wasn’t a learned man, but he wasn’t stupid. The complexities of politics might escape him, but he knew where the lines were drawn in the sand and Madame Joliame’s mere existence seemed to dance all along the biggest, most important one.

Madame Joliame did not appear the least bit threatened by the Justiciar’s menace, however. “Oh, I’m a guest?” she said, dryly, “I wasn’t informed. In that case, I’ll gladly wait downstairs while you conclude your business. I don’t need to be here, after all, or…wait—no, I do believe that without me, there is no reason for you to be here today. Without me, you can explain to your superior why you don’t have answers to any of her questions.”

Numithir looked as though he had swallowed something very bitter. “Please wait outside, Tarwenwe,” he huffed, trying to regain his composure as if he had not just been openly threatened in public by a woman—a half-mer, to boot!—without an ounce of fear in her face or disposition. The Enforcer didn’t hesitate at the command she was given and swiftly stepped out into the hallway to take up a position just beside the door. “Good,” Numithir cleared his throat and smoothed his robes pompously, “Perhaps you could dispense with your legate, General? No need to make this more uncomfortable than it already is.”

General Tullius looked as if he was about to flat out refuse, but he glanced at the half-mer woman and decided that he had enough of an ally in her that sending Rikke away to do something more useful wasn’t such a bad idea. “Dismissed, Legate,” he said curtly, “There’s always work to be done. Get to it.”

“Yes, sir,” Legate Rikke nodded, glanced at Hadvar with a reassuring expression, and then left as she was ordered.

“Let’s begin, then. Shall we?”

“Please, Madam Joliame,” Tullius said, his tone polite as he gallantly pulled back the chair at the desk for her to perch herself upon, “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, General Tullius,” she said as she settled into the unupholstered chair. She moved with such grace, she appeared to float onto the surface of the offered seat. It was somewhat unsettling.

Numithir elected to stand behind her, hovering like an angry bee, while Tullius positioned himself closer to Hadvar. It suddenly became clear to the soldier that his superior was there to support him, perhaps even protect him, from inappropriate Thalmor interrogation. “Auxiliary,” Tullius addressed, “This is Madam Maelys Joliame, a special investigator from the Thalmor Embassy.”

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” Hadvar asked, hesitantly.

“That remains to be seen,” Numithir hissed.

“No,” Maelys said at the same time, “Of course not.” She visibly rolled her eyes at her associate’s response; the Justiciar did not see her, thankfully, as he stood behind her. “Elenwen,” she looked as though she would be sick when she said the First Emissary’s name, “Found your report interesting and wanted a few things clarified.”

“I don’t know what the First Emissary thinks she’ll get out of my soldier that I did not,” Tullius pointed out, “Hadvar is a good man. A loyal soldier. He’s not withholding anything.”

Maelys shrugged serenely and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “I don’t doubt it and I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, so let’s not waste anymore time and get this over as quickly as possible, hm?” her tone was slightly exasperated as if she truly had no interest in interrogating Hadvar but had no choice.

Tullius looked vaguely intrigued. “Let’s get on with it then,” he relented.

She flashed a smile before turning her attention to Hadvar. “Care to take a seat, lad?” she asked kindly. Hadvar wanted to balk at her use of the diminutive but managed to show none of it in his face, or so he thought. “Looks can be deceiving,” she added, smiling, “I’m old enough to be your mother. Please. Sit. I prefer you to be comfortable.”

Hadvar uncomfortably took the seat opposite her across the desk. “What would you like to know, madam?” he asked politely.

Her mismatched eyes danced over his face for a long moment. “Where did you grow up, Hadvar?”

He hesitated. That was likely on record somewhere. “Riverwood, madam.”

“You were raised by your uncle, yes?”

“Aye.” If she knew, then why did she ask? Hadvar grew increasingly uneasy.

“Your parents were killed in the Great War.”

“Pa was. Ma survived, but she was killed by bandits when I was young.”

“Right, I remember reading that.” She nodded. So there was a dossier. “You ever lie to your uncle when you were a kid?”

“I—beg your pardon?”

She waved him off casually. “Nothing serious. Something small. Maybe he wanted to know who played with his tools or broke something in his shop? And you were too afraid to step forward?” Hadvar blinked several times, trying to make sense of her question, his mouth hanging open slightly. “It’ll make sense in a moment. I promise. Just answer the question.”

He moistened his lips. “I suppose when I was a young lad, I might have fibbed once or twice. I was just a boy.”

“Do you remember what it felt like when you lied for the very first time?”

“I—don’t know…”

“The thrill of fear. The flutter of your heart. Maybe your stomach felt like it was dropping out?”

Hadvar swallowed hard. “Madam, I am willing to answer any and all of your questions. Truthfully. I have nothing to hide from the Empire or the Thalmor. I…”

“I know. I’m not asking to put you off. I apologize for making you uncomfortable,” she assured with such sincerity it was only serving to throw him off balance further, “Forgive my strange questions, but I asked because I wanted you to know that there are things that happen to a body when a person lies. The heart quickens, palms get sweaty, eyes get dodgy.” She paused to lean forward and slid her hand across the table toward him, palm up. “If you place your fingers against this vein here in my wrist…” She waited for him to awkwardly touch her smooth, pale skin, and then positioned his hand correctly. “You can feel my heartbeat. Do you feel it?” He nodded. “Good. You’ll know if I’m lying to you because it will beat faster. It can’t be helped.”

Hadvar’s brow furrowed. “I thought I was the one being interrogated, here,” he said uncertainly.

“Yes, I thought that was the case as well,” Numithir interjected.

Maelys tried to smile reassuringly, but it was strained by the Justiciar’s looming presence. “You’re nervous because you think I’ve been sent to harm you,” she said, “That’s not the case. I want you to trust me. So, if I’m going to have the advantage of knowing how you’re feeling, then you should at least know if I’m having you on, too.”

It took a moment for Hadvar to process the fact that Maelys was not feeling his pulse in return. That she would not know if his heart was hammering away at the inside of his chest like a war drum. So, however she was reading him—it had nothing to do with the way she had just instructed him to read her. Still, her heart had been steady. By her explanation, she was telling him the truth, however confusing it was to him. “What do you want to know, madam?”

A small smile, then her expression sobered. “When you were held prisoner by Jarl Ulfric, were you tortured?”

“I was roughed up in the scuffle when they captured me in the first place, but I escaped the dungeon before I could be interrogated—or tortured.”

“How did you escape the dungeon?”

“Like I told General Tullius, a couple of thieves caused a stir in the palace. Most of the guard was called away so I overpowered the lone man left, slipped my bonds, and escaped into the sewer.”

“How did you get into the sewer from the dungeon without being apprehended?”

“The—thieves got in through a secret entrance. They left it open. I guess to find again? I slipped through before they came back.”

A pause. “You were lucky.”

“Very much so.”

“After you made it into the sewer, how did you make arrangements to escape the city?”

“I don’t know what those thieves were up to, but they continued to harass the city the next day. I escaped in the chaos.”

“And took a boat. The only one allowed through the embargo on Windhelm.”

“I figured it was safe enough because it was small. Worst case, I could try to make the Dawnstar camp when we stopped in the town to rest if he couldn’t take me clear to Solitude.”

“Did you have to bribe or threaten him? To ferry a man in Imperial uniform out of enemy territory back to safety?”

“I—wasn’t wearing my armor. I stole a change of clothes. Promised him payment upon arrival.”

Maelys nodded. “Very smart.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“And did you pay him?”

“What?”

“You promised him payment when he got you to safety. Did you pay him?”

“Aye. He saved my life.”

“And those thieves who happened to be ravaging Windhelm when it was most convenient—did you know who they were?”

Hadvar tried not to fidget. “No. Just some sneak-thieves.”

“There were some reports that one in particular, a woman, blonde, had direct interaction with Ulfric.”

“Oh?”

She smiled and he had the distinct feeling that he was about to be caught out for lying. That they knew about Tyv—maybe even who she was—maybe they knew about Sonja too. Shit, he tried not to panic, Maybe they know about the reports of the Dragonborn and are pissed Tullius is trying to keep it to himself. If General Tullius didn’t want anyone to know what the Battle-Born correspondence contained, then he must have left it out of any report that was sent to the Embassy. “Did you ever see her? This woman?”

“No.”

“Even while using her escape route, you never crossed paths with her? You have no idea what she was there for?”

“She’s a thief, right?” he said, hesitantly, “Wasn’t she there to steal something?”

“I fail to see what this unknown woman has to do with anything,” General Tullius interrupted, but Maelys’ eyes didn’t so much as flit in his direction. She remained solely focused on Hadvar. Numithir was happy to answer, however.

“Either your soldier is a liar and a turncoat and was set free by the Stormcloaks to spy on their behalf, or he had some dealings with a third party to escape Stormcloak custody,” the Justiciar snapped, “Whatever the case, his story is more than suspect and you, dear General, should have caught it.”

“If this a matter of treason, that is up to my discretion to handle. Unless Hadvar has been praying at altars to Talos or wearing amulets I’m unaware of, it’s none of the Thalmor’s concern,” General Tullius shot back, “The Dominion is overreaching the terms of the Concordant yet again.”

The Justiciar and the General continued to debate the rightful reach of the Dominion in Imperial matters while Maelys continued to stare at Hadvar. “Safe,” she whispered so gently, he almost didn’t catch it over the arguing happening just above their heads.

His brow furrowed and he reflexively mouthed the word “What?”

“She kept you safe.” A cold bolt of fear shot through his body. He prayed to every god he could think of to protect him from what would come next, and, unexpectedly, it seemed his prayers were answered. Her expression twisted into something strange like realization and her heartbeat suddenly thumped against his fingers like a jack rabbit. He glanced down at her wrist as if he expected to actually see her pulse pounding like a drum. “I believe you,” she said, abruptly, “I told you, Numithir. Nothing but a waste of time.”

Numithir sputtered mid-sentence in his argument with General Tullius, “How can you…? No! This interrogation is not over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over,” she snapped and withdrew her arm from Hadvar’s grasp who stared at her with complete confusion and concern scribbled across his face.

“The First Emissary will hear of this!”

The Justiciar’s threat only incensed Maelys and she abruptly stood from her chair, nearly knocking it to the ground in the process. “To Oblivion with Elenwen! If she cared what you thought, she wouldn’t have sent me!”

Numithir reacted by raising his hand to strike her across the face. She didn’t even flinch at the movement, ready to receive his retribution when General Tullius caught the mer’s hand. “That is enough, Justiciar,” he growled, “I do not tolerate that kind of behavior in my keep.” And he hurriedly pushed him out the door to have a very loud and heated discussion in the hallway.

Hadvar hastily rose from his seat to follow the General but was halted by Maelys who pressed herself against the back of the door, snapping it closed. “The woman,” she said, her whole demeanor was desperate, almost scared, “The thief. I know she’s important to you. You want to keep her safe, yes?”

“I don’t know what you’re…”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. Just listen. Elenwen doesn’t know who she is but she’s searching for her because she was able to get to Ulfric and escape unharmed. She wants to use her. If you care about her, warn her somehow. Don’t let Elenwen sink her claws into her or she’ll be lost.”

Hadvar reeled. “Who are you?” he asked, numbly.

She smiled sadly. “Just a prisoner,” she breathed and then the door was forced open by the Enforcer.

The female mer grabbed Maelys roughly, upsetting all the smooth lines of her beautiful outfit and immaculate hair. “Expect another visit from the Embassy, Tullius!” Numithir bellowed as he and the Enforcer half-dragged Maelys down the hallway toward the stairs, “The Thalmor will not stand for this kind of treatment!”

“Neither will the Empire,” Tullius shot back angrily. “Good riddance,” the general grumbled when they were finally out of sight. He looked to Hadvar. “Did she say anything to you while you were alone?”

“I asked her who she was really was…”

“She answer you?”

Hadvar nodded. “A prisoner, she said. She’s not serving them willingly.”

General Tullius frowned, brow furrowing, and nodded. “She certainly doesn’t harbor any love for the Thalmor. That’s apparent. But why the pretense? Why make her look and act official? Dress her up like a lady?” Hadvar didn’t know. None of it made any sense to him, Maelys’ identity least of all. “This damn Dominion just keeps poking at a hive and acting surprised when they get stung. Mark my words, next war after Ulfric’s will be with the Thalmor again.”

Hadvar didn’t doubt it. Relations with the Aldmeri Dominion were certainly headed in that direction. The Empire was grating beneath the weight of the White-Gold Concordant every day. “The woman? What of her? Should we…is there anything we can…?” he began.

“Let it lie, soldier,” the general advised, “That’s a mess you want no part of.” Truth be told, there was nothing even Tullius could do to free the innocent from the grasp of the Thalmor, and there was no guarantee Maelys was innocent. The General looked deeply pensive, however, and Hadvar wondered what the man was thinking. “Well, auxiliary, as far as I’m concerned, we fulfilled our obligation to the Thalmor and you can return to the field. Report for duty immediately before they send someone else to cause trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Hadvar…”

“Yes, sir?”

“You did tell the truth, didn’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

General Tullius nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good man. Get to it.” Hadvar eagerly rushed from the room, wanting nothing more than to catch up with his regiment en route to the Dawnstar camp, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Maelys or her warning and wondered if there wasn’t some way he could get a message to Tyv to warn her about the First Emissary of the Thalmor. It was the least he could do after she’d risked so much to save him. More than she knew, as it turned out.


General Marcus Tullius was not a man easily swayed by emotion. He preferred logic. Emotional decisions were usually the wrong ones, in his experience. Tactics informed by solid evidence won the day. He generally lived his life the same way he conducted his military career: as a professional. He was not a man prone to smiling or laughing, but by that same token, he was not easily angered or vindictive, either. The only things he had no patience for were incompetence and unprofessionalism. To others, he seemed a bland, hard man—and, in many respects, that might be true, he didn’t know any side-splitting jokes nor did he possess any degree of charm, intrigue, or likableness, but those things held no importance to him.

Regardless of whether or not these facets of his character could be considered flaws, they had helped him to succeed in the Imperial Army. He had become a general after his successful strategy during the Great War that helped retake the Imperial City. He had been there when the walls fell, and he had been there when they marched back in. The Emperor had called him a hero and that was precisely why, when Ulfric Stormcloak stirred up trouble in Skyrim, he had been sent to deal with it. A war hero to challenge a war hero. Marcus had never served with Ulfric, but they had once been a part of the same army. It would have disturbed another, more emotional man, but not General Marcus Tullius.

In the beginning, Marcus’ no-nonsense attitude quickly whipped Imperial forces into shape. The Nords had always been consummate soldiers and skilled warriors, and he had seen nothing to contradict that fact during his time in Skyrim, but they were also a people who felt deeply and cultivated their pride in ways Marcus found tiring. He was a logical man amidst a nation of expressive people and it often grated against his nerves. It took a couple of years, but he developed a sharp snap to his demeanor that hadn’t existed before. He was still as calculating as ever, though, which made him a worthy adversary for Ulfric Stormcloak, a man comprised almost entirely of passion and pride.

So, Marcus was both surprised and dismayed to find himself thinking of the Breton woman who had come to interrogate his auxiliary. He was not easily disturbed by the stories told about or the techniques employed by the Thalmor, but he was—uncomfortable—with the idea of Madam Joliame being subjected to them. Sure, she was beautiful—he had eyes, for Dibella’s sake, it was plain to see—but he was not a man easily stirred by something so temporary and shallow—and his proclivities lay elsewhere, anyway. She was charming; her snark had struck his sense of humor just so, and yes, he did have a sense of humor, dry as it was.

He appreciated her fight, he supposed, the elegance of her demeanor and her line of questioning—it was quite good. She made him doubt Hadvar’s truthfulness with a few simple, logical questions. And he still doubted it, but he liked to think he had a better read on the character of his auxiliaries than anyone else and Hadvar was a good man, a good soldier. If he was lying, it was harmless. The lad was probably just embarrassed by what means he had to use to escape. Maybe those thieves helped more than he let on, maybe they didn’t; a Nord’s sense of pride was a tricky thing but Marcus doubted a couple of small-time criminals were worth the effort of an aggressive interrogation. He had better, more important things to do like fight a war which was why thoughts of Maelys Joliame plaguing his mind were extremely unwelcome.

What good did his interest serve either of them? Even he, an Imperial General, who, in the absence of an elected High King, carried the authority of the Emperor in this foreign, frozen land, couldn’t and definitely shouldn’t meddle with Thalmor affairs. And yet—he still found himself fiddling with a quill as he penned several correspondence to get to the bottom of her identity, sticking his nose squarely where it did not belong. He might not be able to demand her release, and certainly trying to do so would result in a larger political mess than he had the skill to navigate—Divines, he hated politics—but, he could ask for an investigation. He could make things difficult when they didn’t need to be. He could be a thorn in the side of the Thalmor for holding an Imperial citizen prisoner. Unless Maelys was a Talos worshipper—which he highly doubted, Talos was nowhere near as popular in High Rock—they had no authority to keep her. That was something, at least. A logical tactic—perhaps fueled by the barest hint of emotion.


“She is deliberately trying to undermine your efforts, First Emissary!” Numithir insisted, his voice on the very cusp of shouting, “She is nothing but disrespectful of my authority…”

“You have no authority but that which I give, Justiciar,” Elenwen interrupted coolly. She leaned back into her chair at her personal desk, her hard features perfectly devoid of emotion, “You overestimate your usefulness to me in comparison to Madame Joliame.”

Numithir looked as if he had been struck and the dark golden hue of his skin was almost purple with rage. “That filthy half-breed must know her place!” he snarled, “It was obvious to me that that boy soldier was lying through his stupid face, and she denied…!”

“Tarwenwe,” Elenwen called abruptly, forcing Numithir into an uncomfortable silence as he waited for his Enforcer to enter the room, “Bring Joliame in, please.”

Moments later, the Enforcer pushed a disheveled Maelys through the door before stepping in behind her. Elenwen’s golden eyes darted over her half-mer prize and she openly frowned. It was obvious she had been struck as the bloom of a bruise spread beneath one of her eyes. “Who struck you?” she asked solemnly.

Maelys, who had intentionally been looking anywhere else but at Elenwen, reluctantly turned her gaze toward her. “Does it matter?” she asked.

“I struck her,” Numithir admitted, heatedly, still uncomprehending of his own insignificance, “She was mouthing off.”

Elenwen tapped her fingers against the surface of her desk before rising smoothly from her seat. “You are still failing to understand,” she said as she stepped around and toward Numithir, “I did not send you with Maelys so you could beat her like a dog. I sent you to escort her. To protect her because she is useful…”

“I must disagree. Her tactics are…”

Don’t interrupt me, Numithir, if you wish to keep your tongue,” Elenwen snapped, her harsh tone in conflict with her stoic features, “I sent you to safeguard my property and you mishandled it.”

Numithir’s brow furrowed as he quickly began to recalculate his position. “I don’t understand…” he began.

“What did you sense from the soldier?” Elenwen demanded of Maelys.

“That he is incredibly lucky and unknowing,” she answered, her face twisted in open disgust as she glared at the First Emissary, “His story was true and the evidence of lying dear Numi, here, saw was just his youth and confusion. Your pet Justiciar was so eager to find truths that were not there, he was willing to waste time beating a soldier who knew nothing useful.”

“Very well. I have other agents pursuing stronger leads.”

Numithir blinked rapidly in utter disbelief that the First Emissary was taking the word of a half-breed over his own. “But s-she’s just…”

Elenwen made a sweeping gesture and pulled a conjured blade from the air. She held the dagger thoughtfully between her fingers, the serrated edges of the daedric design pressing pinpricks against her skin, but she didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood. “I find weapons to be so inelegant compared to spellcraft,” she informed him, casually gesturing toward his person with the tip as if it were something far more benign, “But a good blade is quicker and quieter and makes less mess when one wants to dispose of something quite useless.”

The Justiciar’s throat visibly bobbed as he swallowed to alleviate a mouth suddenly gone dry. “Forgive me, First Emissary,” he rasped, “I have spoken out of turn.”

“Indeed, you have,” Elenwen agreed.

“I would relish the chance to make it up to you,” he continued, uncertainly, “Do better—for the Dominion.”

Elenwen sneered in disgust. “Get out of my office. I’ll decide your new assignment later.” Numithir nearly bolted from her office, leaving only Maelys and Tarwenwe. “You may leave as well,” she dismissed and the Enforcer left without another word, her expression relieved.

“Trouble with the help?” Maelys prodded.

The elder mer released the blade. It disappeared into a flash from Oblivion. “You bring it out of them,” she accused, but her tone was mild as if she did not fully blame Maelys so much as the weakness of others, “You’re meant to be submissive, not subversive.”

“I hardly have to try. They only have to look at me and all your uptight, proud Justiciars get hot under the collar with just the mere thought of me commanding any greater authority over any of them.”

“You tempt them to it.”

“They want to be tempted.”

“You’re supposed to exploit weakness in those I choose for you.”

“The soldier? He was just a lad who wanted to serve his Empire.”

Elenwen actually rolled her eyes. “I don’t doubt it. He was merely a test. I’d hardly send you after something vital on your first venture beyond these walls.”

Maelys pursed her lips to keep herself from smiling. She’d more thoroughly sabotaged the interrogation than she thought. “I thought the Stormcloak was your highest priority.”

“Don’t pretend to know anything of my agenda. Just do as you’re told, serve as I bid you, and things will get better for you.”

“Is that your version of kindness?” Maelys scoffed, “Is that how you soothe your conscious for murdering my mother? At least you’ve been kind to her daughter?”

Elenwen frowned openly. Why mask what Maelys would undoubtedly sense, anyway? “You do need to learn to mind that tongue of yours.”

“Why? Does it make the Thalmor look bad? I don’t care about the masks you wear.”

“You should care at least a little.”

“Would you really kill my father over something so small? Lose your greatest asset against me—my leash, as you put it—over some Justiciar’s wounded ego?”

Elenwen chuckled. “No, of course not,” she said, “You are, as ever, completely right. That would be a poor use of your father’s life.” She walked smoothly toward Maelys, hand extended. Maelys did her best not to flinch away. “You see, you are mine…”

“I’m not your property. I’m your prisoner.”

“My pet,” Elenwen corrected, sinisterly, “What sense would it make to keep threatening your father’s life? You’re a smart girl. You know what’s at stake and this is your life now.” She rested her hand on Maelys’ cheek and the younger woman fidgeted, leaning away, but she was unable to escape the feel of Elenwen’s hand on her face. “When you step out of line like that, all you need is a little correction,” she said calmly and a gentle pulse of healing magic radiated across Maelys’ cheek to her bruised eye, “A stick to prod you along.”

“You disgust me.”

Elenwen chuckled again. “So spirited,” she sighed, “And it’s exactly that spirit that needs breaking.” She turned away, stooped to pull back the rug spread across the floor, and tugged open the wooden hatch hidden beneath. Stairs descended into blackness. “I can’t poison, drug, or otherwise harm your body,” she said, straightening and dusting her delicate hands off, “Not without effecting your powers or risking the sanity of my staff, and you’ve proven surprisingly resilient against the abuse already levelled at you. That mind of yours is too precious to break conventionally, but I adore a challenge.”

Maelys stared into the darkness at her feet. “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?” she asked, jaw tight, “Because I will never…

“I would be disappointed if you did,” Elenwen admitted and then she forced Maelys down the steps and slammed the hatch closed behind her, locking it with a loud metallic clank before returning the rug to its original position. The First Emissary took a moment to adjust her attire and smooth her golden hair, before stepping neatly behind her desk and reclaiming her seat. She resumed reading reports and taking notes, unconcerned, as if there was nothing of interest imprisoned beneath her feet let alone the most powerful empath she’d ever met.


Maelys hugged her knees to her chest in the darkness and wondered if perhaps she had overplayed her hand. She was not a master manipulator. Not in the way Elenwen was. Sure, she could poke and prod at sensitive spots when she found them, and she was old and experienced enough to guess how people would react to having their deepest feelings exposed in certain lights, but she had too much heart to do it with conviction. It genuinely bothered her to use her powers to hurt or fool others. She was a healer, for Mara’s sake! She was meant to give comfort and understanding, not violate the minds of unsuspecting people who had the misfortune to somehow become dangerously interesting to the Thalmor. So, she made it up as she went along, trying to ease her way in instead of crash through. That was why she had tried to be so kind with Hadvar. That and he was a sweet, unassuming lad, even if he did know more than he was letting on.

Despite his secrets, Maelys sensed his motivation wasn’t malicious. She was halfway certain Hadvar didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He wasn’t lying for his own sake. In fact, it seemed he very much wanted to tell his superior officer everything but held his tongue regardless. If she had been—ruthless—if she had pushed harder and in just the right way, he would have unraveled. But she didn’t. He was already anxious enough. It wasn’t until she mentioned the blonde woman that things became clearer. Strong affection and a feeling of indebtedness. A strange element of unfamiliarity, too. He didn’t know the woman well, but he cared about her enough to protect her from a Thalmor interrogation team, and if he was willing to do so much to protect a stranger, couldn’t she do the same? I’m already locked up, anyway, right? Why drag others into the darkness, too? But thinking like that, however honorable, was not going to see her free from Elenwen’s clutches.

She growled and buried her face in her hands, tapping her fingers against her hairline just for the sensation of touch in the oppressive darkness that robbed her of any other sense of depth or distance. Furtively, she began to hum to herself, soft and low, to fill the silence. Elenwen had stuffed her down there to unnerve her, after all, to punish her. It was best not to let the witch think she succeeded so easily. Eventually, the humming grew louder until her voice reverberated off the stone walls which were much closer than she expected them to be, and she started singing every Breton drinking song she could think of at peak volume. Her father had sung quite a few during her youth—and probably still—and Maelys had learned most of them.

Around the third song, she expected Elenwen’s patience to thin enough to angrily demand silence or otherwise rebuke her, but she never did. It was hard to tell over the sound of her own straining voice, but it seemed the office above was very quiet and she didn’t feel anyone immediately nearby—though it was harder to sense anything through thick stone. Maybe she left, and Maelys was singing to an empty room. That possibility was less satisfying than imagining Elenwen covering her pointed ears with her head on her desk and regretting the day she ordered Maelys’ capture. So, she kept singing, maybe a touch quieter than before to spare her voice which was growing sorer with the completion of each little ditty.

She had no way of knowing that Elenwen had definitely heard her. That the haughty First Emissary had even stood above the door and listened for a while before walking away into the next room to stare out the window that overlooked the gardens, frigid and covered in snow. So unlike the immaculate beauty of the Summerset Isles. Maelys didn’t know how much her joyful singing, though forced, reminded Elenwen of someone else. Even singing in that blasted foreign language songs of the various reasons to imbibe copious and unwise amounts of alcohol, she couldn’t help but think of Maelys’ mother—whose death Maelys could never forgive and Elenwen would always regret.

Notes:

So, first things: Clairvoyance. That spell is sometimes super useful. I have used it to find my missing followers so many times. That alone makes it worth it for me, but the idea of the spell itself, while it makes some sense in the context of a game to provide a little extra help when a player is struggling to find their way, it's a bit world-breaking when trying to write about it in a semi-real-ish (yup, I'm a wordsmith, alright) context. For it to work the same way as it does in the game would make things way too easy for the characters to accomplish. That's always been the trouble with magic, though, in general. It exists beyond typical reality and tends to render certain, everyday tasks unnecessary. It can be counterbalanced in many ways. Like making it complicated, making it scarce, requiring the use of spell components that might be difficult to obtain, etc. So, i did all three to Clairvoyance. It is scarce. One cannot simply pick up a book and learn it like you did in the game. It's old magic that is generally taught by another, more powerful spellcaster. It's a little more complicated than the game version, as it requires a spell component (the bone rune) and a relationship with spirits of the air. Plus, it all fits in nicely with the mysticism of the sea theme that I want for Captain Lonely-Gale.

Also, his dog is a Giant Alaskan Malamute which, I know, makes no sense for a viking type culture, but they are so much cuter and fluffier and just cooler than the in-game dogs and breeds that are more historically accurate. So, love Rahna!

Lastly, what other stronger leads Elenwen has to pursue...? And what kind of trouble is that going to cause for poor Anja? She's already got too much on her plate as it is. Her and Sonja, both.

Chapter 40: My Heart for Jorrvaskr

Summary:

Sonja and Vilkas spend the morning hungover and completing Vilkas' first alchemy lesson. Later, Sonja asks Hera for help finding Anja, and then spends her afternoon training with Vilkas. Lydia and Faendal finally get a look at Breezehome. And Hera pays Vilkas an unexpected visit.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: depictions of violence, grief, thoughts of suicide/longing for death, depictions of assault.

PoV: Sonja, Vilkas, Faendal, Hera

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Vilkas felt terrible when he woke in the morning. He had abstained from drinking heavily for quite some time for the sake of maintaining control over his Wolf, so he was both annoyed he had allowed his grief to cloud his judgement and regretful that he had had enough to make himself sick. So, he was perhaps a touch grumpier than usual—a feat in and of itself—when he finally arrived on Sonja’s doorstep fresh from the bathhouse and carrying a generous breakfast neatly packaged with love from Tilma. He very much didn’t want to be out in sunlight, but no one came to the door when he knocked. So, he knocked a little louder and against the protest of his own aching head. Still no response. His brow furrowed and he canted his head slightly to listen. Her home was silent.

He was certain that Sonja had not returned to Jorrvaskr last night. He had not heard her stumble around the barracks in the darkness and her bed was empty when he passed by that morning on his way upstairs. Impatiently, he tried the latch and the door swung open, unlocked. He quirked an eyebrow and poked his head inside. She was nowhere to be seen in the immediate vicinity. “Sonja?” he called only to hear the faint echo of his voice return to him in the largely empty space.

Growing concerned, he stepped inside and went straight to the kitchen, half expecting to find her there passed out on the flagstones, but the room was vacant, the hearth cold. The bottle they shared was missing though, as was her glass. He set the food down on the island and inhaled sharply, easily catching her scent in a home that did not yet smell of her. He followed it, eyes scanning dark, barren rooms and hallways, and near the top of the stairs he finally heard her heart beating slow and quiet, and the gentle growl of muffled snoring. His expression flattened as he took the last few steps to the top, swung around the banister and headed straight toward what he assumed was the master bedroom.

The door was ajar, affording him a view of her bare foot. Just the one, however. The other was still clad in her boot. Suddenly, Vilkas was feeling much less grumpy at the prospect of what he would find beyond that door. He knocked and her snoring turned into a comical cadence of snorting, but she did not stir. Gently, he pushed the door open and peered inside. “Sonja?” What he imagined he would find did not compare to the reality of what lie sprawled across the bare mattress.

Sonja was face down on the bed which bore no covers of any kind, still mostly dressed in the fine clothes she wore the night before, minus a boot and one arm popped out of the coat. Her hair was in complete, tangled disarray and she loosely clutched the empty bottle of whiskey in the hand that dangled off the bed. Her glass was missing, though Vilkas suspected it had likely rolled to some odd corner. The whole room stank of booze.

His mouth twitched as he struggled not to laugh aloud. “Sonja,” he said loudly. She moaned vaguely in response. “Wake up.” She moaned again but didn’t move. “Pup,” he growled at her and tapped his boot against hers. She flinched, pulled her legs inward toward her chest, dropped the empty bottle onto the floor, and groaned as she covered her face with her burn-scarred hand which looked worryingly stiff. He sighed heavily, edged around the bed, leaned over her, gently plucked her hand from her face, and when she tried to instinctively pull away from him, he let go. Just like that, the Dragonborn smacked herself straight in the face. Everything had worked out much better than Vilkas had anticipated.

Sonja jolted awake with a startled snort, blinking rapidly as her sleepy, alcohol-addled mind struggled to understand what had just transpired and how her hand connected so hard with her own nose. Though Vilkas’ rumbling laughter pretty much explained who was responsible for her rude awakening. “Cock,” she snarled and indelicately wiped dribble from the corner of her mouth.

Still smirking, Vilkas stooped to retrieve the bottle and dangled in front of her face. “You shouldn’t drink alone,” he chastised.

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue to keep herself from reminding him that she had not started out alone. Her expression very clearly declared it, however. “Come to start your lessons?” she asked, instead, snatching the bottle from his grasp.

Vilkas let some of the mirth die from his features. As amusing as he found her morning confusion to be, there was work yet to do before them. “I brought breakfast,” he said both to get on with the day and to offer a small apology for causing her any distress.

“From Tilma?”

“Who else?”

Sonja’s stomach audibly grumbled. Whether it was from hunger or upset was unclear, but she made a face regardless and attempted to smooth out her hair with her sore hand. She was unsuccessful and it was clear the limb was paining her. “Divines bless that woman. She’s a mercy,” she declared as she finally, gracelessly rolled out of bed and searched for her missing boot.

“I’ll be downstairs,” Vilkas said as she dug around beneath the bed. She grumbled something at him he did not quite catch largely because he was certain it was not words she had spoken so much as a series of grunts, and then he left her in peace to make herself somewhat decent for breakfast.


Sonja rejoined Vilkas in her kitchen wearing fewer layers of her fine clothing than with what she had awakened. Stripped down to the plain, but well-made tunic, the trouser, and boots, she ran her fingers through her hair, piled it atop her head, pinned it at odd angles, and self-consciously sniffed herself as she plopped onto one of the stools at the island. Vilkas slid a plate of meat pie and an entire jug of water toward her, both of which she eagerly accepted and happily shoved into her face as quickly as she could with as little finger-licking or slurping as possible. She was marginally successful, at best, but enjoyed the companionable silence between them as they ate. He finished before her, having gotten a headstart while she changed, and began to fiddle with the kitchen hearth.

She watched him pensively for a few moments before she finally asked, “What are you doing?”

“Where’s your flint?” He paused. “And your tinderbox is empty.”

“Oh, right.” Sonja wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “I don’t—need those things…”

“So you don’t have them,” he said, recalling her lack of lantern on the Hunt. Of course…

“No.”

He pursed his lips. “Could you…” The hot air of a fire bursting to life right before his eyes breathed heavily against his face. He wasn’t close enough to be singed by the act or Sonja wouldn’t have done it, but he hadn’t quite been prepared for her to cast the spell so abruptly, either. Hastily, he withdrew, swiftly stood, and tried to hide his discomfort in busying himself with her cast iron kettle.

If he hadn’t been responsible for her abrupt and unpleasant awakening earlier that morning, Sonja might have felt guiltier for startling him. As it was, though, she hid her satisfied smirk in the rim of the water jug as she took several large gulps and watched her soon-to-be student prepare morning tea. He was meticulous, but she had noticed that about him before in the way he arranged and packed his gear for travel. He was certainly far neater than she was, and he was efficient in the way he tended to her hand when she asked it of him. That was good. Alchemy was a practice in precision—and patience—of which he had varying degrees.

She set the nearly empty jug aside and continued to watch as he carefully measured out tea leaves into her new teapot and wondered how unsatisfying the tea she brought him out on the Dragon’s Tooth must have been to what was surely his sensitive pallet. All his other senses are so sharp…She thought about commenting on it, just to see if he was secretly a connoisseur of teas as well, when flecks of yellow caught her eye in the curve of his measuring spoon. She quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward. “What kind is it?” she asked and snatched the tea pouch out from under him, bringing it up to her nose to breathe deeply. It was a strong black blend with a hint of something that reminded her of cinnamon.

“Dragon’s tongue,” he answered, setting the spoon aside.

“Wanted something different from the usual?”

“Something stronger,” he corrected. In truth, he’d picked it for the irrational reason that it contained a flower of a dragon namesake, and he thought, somehow, that would mean she would like it more than the others.

She chuckled and set the pouch back onto the island. “Mmm, perhaps your first lesson should be how to brew a cure for a hangover.”

“There such a thing?” He sounded hopeful.

“Hair of the dog.”

“You drank the last of the whiskey already.”

“Oh, you would have joined me for a nip this morning, would you?”

He gave her a look that suggested he might have, but she didn’t quite believe it. “I am—unused—to drinking so much of late,” he admitted.

She nodded. “I noticed you take less than the others. Thought it was just because you always like to be in control.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, mouth parted and ready to refute that she had any intimate knowledge of his habits, but he quickly shut it again. She was right; she just didn’t know for what, in particular, he maintained his restraint. “But you seemed of a mind last night, so I indulged you. Was I wrong?”

“No.” But his expression was not so clear. “I was of a mind.”

She was chewing on the tip of her tongue again, he could tell. Whenever she was debating whether or not to say something, she did that as if the physical act of biting her tongue could stop her from saying something she shouldn’t. “How’d you sleep?” she asked, changing the subject, whatever silent battle she had been waging with herself concluded. She was checking in on him now, especially after the nature of their conversation last night.

“Like the dead,” he lied, and she knew it.

But she nodded anyway, not prying or picking at what he didn’t want her to. She let him keep his façade. “Well, on nights you do have trouble finding sleep, I find a little canis root in my tea helps send me off.”

“Then why do I find you up so early?”

Because sometimes the things keeping her awake at night would only turn to nightmares if she let sleep take her. “Just take the root and shave a little off into the leaves to steep,” she continued, “Not too much. Don’t want to poison yourself.”

His expression grew dubious. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And they lapsed into silence until the water was ready.

Vilkas filled the teapot and let it steep a few minutes before straining it into two wooden cups. He passed one to Sonja and she took a moment to soak in the heat and aroma, letting the small cup warm her hands as she breathed deeply over it before sipping. Fucker even makes a good cup of tea… “I should be hosting you,” she pointed out as they enjoyed their drinks, “It’s my house.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “I don’t mind.”

She smirked and chuckled darkly. “I don’t make as good a cup of tea, though,” she continued, “So, perhaps it’s for the best.”

He canted his head thoughtfully. “For something made in the cold dark of a Skyrim night, I was glad to have it.”

“I’m unsure if that’s a compliment…”

“Me either.”

Sonja snorted with laughter. “Alright, top me off and we’ll get your lesson started. Wasted enough time already.”

Vilkas obliged, refilling the quarter empty cup, before following her into the next room. Sonja bid Vilkas to take a seat at the dining table laden with her many tomes and notes. He settled onto the bench, somewhat hesitantly since he was not accustomed to becoming the student to one of his own Newbloods, and watched as Sonja slid a large, thick tome toward him: Herbalist’s Guide to Skyrim. “You already know a thing or two about alchemy you didn’t realize,” she said as she leaned over to pull the cover back, “Going by the way you make your war paints—and brew your tea, you’re good with detail and alchemy is all about detail.” She flipped through a few pages until she found what she was searching for: a recipe for a simple healing potion. “Best way to learn is to dive right in. Taste the ingredients for yourself, smell and feel them. Brew, possibly explode, and test your results.”

“Explode?” Vilkas repeated.

Sonja smirked. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you burn down my house. I just moved in.”

“That’s less comforting than you think.”

She chuckled. “Review the recipe. Read about the individual ingredients and we’ll discuss what you want to use and why. Then go to the shop and brew your first potion.”

“Today?”

“Aye, today.”

It sounded like a lot to accomplish to Vilkas, but Sonja seemed unconcerned. His brow furrowed with some disbelief, but he nodded. “As you say,” he shrugged, “I am your student in this.”

Sonja liked the sound of that. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, “I need to wash up.” She pointed to a stack of paper beside which sat an ink pot and quill. “Take notes if you need to or have questions. I won’t be long.”

Determination overtook the Companion’s demeanor and he nodded curtly. It reminded her of his expression in the training yard: he was sizing up a new opponent. She smirked, looking forward to the unexpected reversal of their typical exchange. It pleased her to know there was something Vilkas could learn from her in return for all the help and knowledge she had already taken from him. And he was learning it for Kodlak. That was more than she had been able to do for her own father. Besides, Vilkas had been right: someone had to make the potions when she was gone up to High Hrothgar—and possibly beyond. Where did her path lie after the Greybeards? She tried not to think about it too much as she descended the steps into her basement two at a time. Have to get up the damn mountain first…


“Some of these ingredients are—mundane,” Vilkas commented dryly when Sonja returned, freshly bathed, hair still dripping a little, and dressed in a common tunic, trouser, and quilted bodice. She quirked her eyebrow at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. “Wheat? Charred skeever hide?” he continued, “One could make a meal out of such things.”

“True,” Sonja agreed, “Turn wheat into bread and skeever into stew…” She did her best not to make a face at the idea of skeever stew but failed. “And you’ll fill your belly, but it won’t stop the bleeding from that scuffle you got into earlier. It’s in the preparation that makes a difference.”

“Aye, I noticed that too.” He pointed to the alchemy set on the table. “Heating and cooling at the right time—melting and steaming into liquids…and gas?”

“It’s easier to show you than to explain it,” she insisted, “Let’s start with your healing potion. What ingredients do you want to use?”

“There are many. More than I thought there would be.”

“More complex potioncraft makes better use of rarer ingredients because they have deeper uses than some of the more common components.”

“Something simple would be more practical, then,” Vilkas said, following Sonja’s reasoning, “Something the alchemist always has in stock.”

“Aye. Exactly.”

“Wheat and blue mountain flower, then.”

“Solid choice,” she said approvingly, “Both are found nearly everywhere, and it will be easier to combine them because they are prepared in similar ways—for this type of potion, at least.”

“Dried and ground. Steeped in natural water over heat,” he readily supplied; he’d very thoroughly read the recipe before Sonja’s return, “And a pinch of—alchem-alchimist-iko alas…”

Alchimistikó Álas,” she corrected, “It’s an older dialect of Aldmeris. It means Alchemist’s Salt.”

His eyes left the page to look at her. “You speak Aldmeris?”

“Aye, a little. Most spells are written in it. Altmers are the oldest race to cultivate magic. You pick up a few words after a while.”

He grunted, perhaps impressed but it was hard to tell, and returned his attention to the alchemy tome. “It says here the salt—purifies—the ingredients, leaving only the essences behind.”

Sonja rolled her eyes. “Old tomes always have a flare for the dramatic,” she grumbled, “All the salt does is draw the alchemical properties of the ingredients out and bind them together if they’re similar so they can be dissolved in a solution—in this case, plain water. Otherwise, you’re just making—really revolting tea.” Her expression shifted as something clicked into place in her mind.

“What’s wrong?” he prompted when her silence was too long.

“Nothing,” she assured, “But we’re going to have a talk later about that tea you and Tilma made me drink for the Hunt.”

“I don’t think your alchemist-iko salt will improve that.”

She didn’t think it would, either, but she was curious now. “Back to the task at hand,” she said, reeling in the conversation before it strayed too far, “Wheat and blue mountain flower have something else in common the salt will bind.”

Furtively, he glanced back at the book, thinking he had missed something. “They’re not dangerous…” he said slowly.

“Can be, in certain situations,” she contradicted, “Look again.”

Vilkas flipped through the pages of the tome once more, quickly finding the ingredients in question. He saw the effects that could prove dangerous in certain circumstances; mainly to mages who would suffer greatly in combat with reduced magicka regeneration. Not a concern for him, personally, though, and not an effect that would be brewed into the final product, either. At least he didn’t think so. If he understood Sonja and the recipe correctly. He skipped to the common effects. “Fortification of health,” he read aloud, “It will make the drinker heartier.”

She nodded. “Depending on the strength of the mixture, the drinker’s body will be able to take more of a hit in a fight than usual, but when the potion wears off, so does the effect—which could push a person from the verge of fainting into unconsciousness if they’re careless.”

“Or reinvigorate an ailing old man?”

Sonja jerked her head toward a basked covered by a square of linen on the table amidst her notes and tomes. Vilkas lifted a corner and peaked inside. Many of the ingredients contained within were on the list for a basic healing potion, including wheat and blue mountain flower. “It all depends on how it’s used,” she agreed, “Alchemy, like any practical art, can be as dangerous as it is beneficial. Ravage as easily as it fortifies.”

Vilkas dropped the linen, eager for the lesson to continue. “What next?” he prompted.

“We go visit Arcadia and see what she has in stock.” Vilkas glanced back at the basket, pointedly. “I want you to spot good ingredients amongst the inferior,” she explained, “Not merely what I have already selected.”

“Alright. After you, pup,” he rumbled and rose from the table. Sonja led the way out of the house.


“Ah, welcome back, my thane,” Arcadia greeted, happily, as Sonja stepped inside her shop, “Come back for more ingredients?”

“Something like that,” she allowed and stepped aside for Vilkas to enter after her.

“Master at Arms!” Arcadia exclaimed, “I have your order ready!”

Sonja’s eyebrow raised as she glanced in Vilkas’ direction. “Aye, for Jorrvaskr,” he said, clearing his throat and straightening his posture. His overall demeanor hardened, and it occurred to Sonja then that he had been quite relaxed in her presence and the privacy of her home. “I’ll take it when we’re finished here.”

For some reason, the alchemist looked jarred by his answer. “O-of course,” she said, tripping over her tongue a little, “I’ll fetch it now while you—shop?”

“If it suit you.”

Arcadia mouthed an affirmative as she slipped out from behind the counter and disappeared into her storage room across the way. “Jorrvaskr puts in orders?” Sonja asked casually as soon as Arcadia was gone.

Vilkas shrugged, unconcerned. “Before you, we either went to the temple or the alchemist for healing,” he explained and followed Sonja as she made her way toward the rows of shelves and baskets of ingredients displayed against the walls. “It comes out of everyone’s pay to keep Tilma’s cabinet filled with enough supplies to render aid when needed.”

“And you see to such orders?”

“I am Master Trainer,” he pointed out, “All whelps and Newbloods are my responsibility.”

Sonja smiled slightly but did not otherwise respond. Instead, she gestured toward the common ingredients, each neatly labeled in Arcadia’s tidy handwriting on a yellowing scrap of paper behind a brass bracket. “Pick your curative,” she invited.

He went straight for the wheat as it was the most obvious and easily identified hanging from a drying rack dangling from the ceiling. Once it was in his hands, however, he didn’t know what to do with it. Feeling vaguely foolish, he looked to her for guidance. “Have a look at it,” she suggested, “Run your fingers over it—carefully or you’ll knock the grains loose—hear it rustle, give it a good whiff…” He did. “What do you sense?”

Quite a lot. His Wolfish senses were perfect for this. “It’s—recently dried. Cut not long ago.” He thumbed the stems. They rustled but flexed rather than splintered. The grains were thoroughly dry, however, and smelled sharply of hay. “No mold,” he added as an afterthought.

“Very good. Now taste it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Put it in your mouth.”

“It’s wheat. I know what wheat tastes like.”

“I’m not asking you to tell me what wheat tastes like. There’s something else I want you to see. So shut up, close your eyes, and pop a grain in your mouth.”

He frowned, opened his mouth to argue, but then did as he was bid. “Aye,” he mumbled when nothing different became apparent to him, “Tastes like wheat.”

Sonja rolled her eyes and plucked another grain, gesturing for him to do the same, and then placed the golden seed upon her tongue. “Pay attention,” she said with a slight lisp to avoid biting into the grain prematurely, “When you bite into it, you’ll feel heat on your tongue.”

Vilkas remained unconvinced, but bit into the wheat at the same time as she and tried to pay closer attention to any unfamiliar sensations on his tongue. His eyes widened slightly as an extremely subtle warmth spread along the side of his tongue pressed against the molar he had chewed the grain apart. “How have I never noticed…?”

“Eat a lot of raw wheat, do you?” she pointed out, “It loses that quality when baked into bread.”

“What was that?”

“That’s what restoration feels like.”

“The other ingredients on the list…”

“Will feel the same. Taste changes and reveals other qualities, but that feeling marks an ingredient as restorative.”

“Magic?”

“No—well, yes…in a way, but not like you think.” She worried that he would be horrified at the thought of magic somehow being done upon his tongue. “It’s magic like a spirit is magic, like…”

“Shouting? Like your thu’um is magic?”

She blinked, taken aback by how perfect his comparison was. “Aye. Like that. Old, of nature—of Kyne.” She’d never thought of it that way, herself, but it made sense.

His expression shifted subtly. It was clear that he understood what she was saying and even seemed pleased by her explanation of it. That kind of magic he could handle, but he was still treading unfamiliar waters. He considered the wheat in his hands again. “So—this is suitable?” he asked.

Sonja nodded. “Aye,” she agreed, “Arcadia does a decent job of keeping her stock clean of mold and rodents. Small shops usually do but be wary in larger markets and personal stocks. People sometimes get sloppy when preserving their own.”

“Good to know.” He looked lost again. “Now—what do I do?” Sonja quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “I don’t do this myself. I usually place orders and retrieve them later when Arcadia is done.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, feeling slightly foolish herself for not considering that something as mundane as purchasing ingredients would prove difficult to someone who’d never done it before. She took the bundle of wheat from him and went to the small table situated beside the shelves upon which a scale and an assortment of different sized envelopes were arranged. “It depends upon the ingredient and what you’re using it for, but for wheat in a healing potion, we need only the grains and not the stems,” she explained. Carefully, she set the bundle down and unlaced the binding. “Do you remember how much you needed?” she asked.

“Three coppermarks.”

“We’re going to take a silver and two coppermarks’ worth just in case there’s trouble with the brewing,” she reasoned and set the scale with the appropriate weight. Neatly, she separated the grain spikes from the stem into the second pan.

Meanwhile, Arcadia returned with a box from which the sound of clinking glass issued like wind chimes. It also looked heavier than one might expect if the woman’s expression was anything to go by. Vilkas helped her set the box on the counter while Sonja filled an envelope with the measured wheat. “Shall I go over the contents, Master Vilkas?” she asked.

“In a moment. We’re almost done.”

“Very good. Is there anything else you need?”

“No.”

“For you, my thane?”

Sonja straightened from writing the name and weight of the envelope’s contents across the back of it. “No. Thank you,” she said distractedly, handing Vilkas the packet of wheat, before rebinding the bundle and returning it to the rack.

“I just distilled a new batch of lavender oil,” the alchemist said, trying to sound as tempting as possible.

“Maybe a bottle of that,” Sonja allowed before returning her attention to Vilkas, “Next?”

His eyes darted over the shelves again. The blue mountain flowers filled a medium basket, dried and neatly pressed into thin sheets of blue and green. He plucked one between his fingers, careful of its delicate nature and sniffed it. Before he could report his assessment to Sonja, she reached passed him and gathered a heaping handful. She brought it to her nose and tented her hands over her face, inhaling long and low and deep. “Drying mellows the scent,” she explained, “It’s better to get a handful.” She offered the cup of her hand to him.

“Oh, has Master Vilkas taken an interest in alchemy?” Arcadia asked, her tone light, but a touch nervous. Jorrvaskr was her biggest account, after all.

“Nothing to worry about. Just teaching him a few pointers that might save his life in the field,” Sonja reassured dismissively, waiting for Vilkas to scoop the flowers from her hand.

He hesitated briefly before grasping her wrist and lifting it to his nose to sniff its floral contents, against Sonja’s expectations, but she didn’t pull away or fidget. She was right, he found, the scent of the little blue flowers was far more intense in multitude. “Sweet. Dried for a long time. Musty.” He sniffed again. “But clean.”

“Gods, you have a keen nose,” Sonja breathed, envious.

“They keep for quite a while, but if you’d prefer something fresher…” Arcadia offered.

“No, this is fine,” Sonja assured. To Vilkas, she continued, “She’s right. These little blooms last a long time dried. A little dust is fine, but if they practically turn to dust when you handle them, find something else to suit your needs.”

He released her hand. “Do I have to taste these as well?”

Sonja chuckled and dumped the flowers back into the basket. “Aye. One bloom. Whole thing, right on the tongue. Go on.”

He made a face but did as instructed and felt the heat blossom across his tongue more intensely than with the small wheat grain. And it was sweet, tasted much like it smelled with a bitter green aftertaste from the stem. He nodded to Sonja’s inquisitive gaze. “I felt the warmth in it as well.”

“Good. Weigh out what you need, grab a few vials, and we’re done.” As Vilkas did so, Sonja watched him from the counter.

“He a quick study?” Arcadia whispered.

Sonja smirked, certain that Arcadia could never achieve a volume low enough for Vilkas to have not heard her in such a small room. “Aye,” she muttered back without troubling herself to watch her own tone too much, “Very quick.”

Vilkas joined them when he was done. “That all you need, Master Vilkas?” Arcadia prompted, collecting the envelopes and reading their weights.

“And a jar of Alchemist’s Salt,” Sonja interjected, “So you don’t have to use any of mine.” Vilkas sensed that Sonja might be particular about her alchemical ingredients.

“Grade?” Arcadia asked.

“Basic, semi-coarse. We’re just making minor healing potions today.” Vilkas was lost and looked to Sonja for an explanation, but she gave him a look that suggested her answer would be a long one, so he waited.

Arcadia produced a corked bottle, neatly labeled. Vilkas picked it up and examined it, curious. It looked somewhat like table salt, but the crystals were much larger and had a sheen to it that reminded him of pearls. “Will that be all?” the alchemist asked.

“Aye.”

“And the lavender oil?”

“Add it to my order,” Vilkas instructed.

“I can afford my own components,” Sonja objected, and she reached for the smoke colored bottle.

He slid it out of her reach. “Payment for the lesson.”

“Vilkas…” she said, warning in her tone, “You don’t need to pay me…”

“Go over the order, Arcadia. Please.”

Arcadia hesitated, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them before Vilkas’ impatient expression prompted her to do as he asked. “Two dozen assorted healing potions, a dozen stamina potions, half dozen Cure Disease potions, half dozen assorted resistance philters, and—five magicka potions,” she said the last three words slowly as if waiting for someone to correct her, but neither Companion had any intention, though Sonja was intensely curious. “Five muscle salves,” she continued when no one spoke, “Tilma’s usual assortment of teas and tonics, and assorted bandages and treatments as per the usual arrangement. Please check the bottles for yourself.”

Vilkas ran his fingers over the bottles contained in the wooden grid inside with an air of having done so many a time before. They clinked together, but none appeared to be broken and a quick count confirmed everything was there. “Looks good,” he confirmed, “It will do.”

“Again, I apologize that I couldn’t have the magicka potions done before the Hunt, but it was such short notice for an add-on order…”

He raised a hand. “It’s fine. We have them now.” Sonja’s brow furrowed, but she held her tongue, wanting to hear the rest of the conversation play out.

“Will the magicka potions become a regular part of the order?” she ventured further, “I will gladly always keep some in stock for emergencies if that’s the case. It’s just there’s not really a lot of demand for them. Danica and Farengar are the only ones who make use of them and they typically brew their own…”

Furtively, he glanced in Sonja’s direction before answering. “I’ll let you kn…”

“Aye, I think so,” Sonja interrupted, not looking at him, “For a long while yet, at least.”

“Good to hear,” Arcadia replied brightly and then hesitated as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Is there—is there a wizard up at Jorrvaskr, now?” she asked, careful of her tone and fully aware of Jorrvaskr’s pride.

“Aye.” Sonja’s mouth twitched into a smirk and back again. “Me,” she answered. Vilkas chose to remain silent.

Arcadia blinked, surprised. “Oh—I’m sorry, my thane,” she said, “I didn’t realize you were a wizard. I thought you just had a knack for alchemy like myself! Well, good. I’m glad the Companions have opened up Jorrvaskr to practitioners of the arcane.”

Vilkas winced and looked very much like he wanted to be somewhere else. “Sonja is an exception,” he grumbled irritably as he placed the appropriate coin on the counter.

“Well, exception or not, let me know if you need any more,” the alchemist beamed as she scooped his gold into her hand, “I’ll brew a few extra to keep in stock now that I know there’s a mage in residence!”

“Thank you, Arcadia. I appreciate it.” And Sonja hurried to catch up with Vilkas who had already hefted the box and reached the door.


Vilkas peered into the dark sludge bubbling away over the flame of Sonja’s alchemy set and frowned. He was certain he had followed the recipe’s instructions to the letter and Sonja had supervised his skills with the mortar and pestle and praised him on how fine he had ground his ingredients. So, what in Oblivion went wrong to create such a repulsive and foul-smelling slime? He glanced across the table at her where she was soaking strips of charred skeever hide in a bowl of solvent she called Neró Isch…Ischy…Gods, he was useless with Aldermis—Aqua Fortis and taking notes on her own project. “Sonja?” he said, reluctantly interrupting her train of thought.

She didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“I did something wrong.”

She didn’t immediately respond as she finished her sentence and then looked up, rubbing her sore hand. “Looks like,” she agreed and reached over to completely douse the burner, “You scorched it. Easy to do the first time. These burners are tricky.” She waved the smoke rising out of the flask away from their faces. “Dump it when it’s cooled and try again. I’ll help you adjust the temperature better next time. I should have been paying closer attention. Sorry.”

“You were slicing rat skin…”

“Not really a difficult task.”

“No.” He peeked at her notes. “But that looks like a difficult task. What is that?”

Sonja looked down at the scrawl of alchemical equations covering more than half her page. “Experimental potioncraft theory?” she offered, aware of how off-putting it must be for a novice to see what largely looked like a nonsensical spread of numbers, weights, and alchemical symbols. “You don’t need it if you have a recipe that lists the weights of each component. It gets tricky if all you have is proportions or you’re making it up as you go along. This equation predicts which ingredients will interact with each other and what they’ll produce. If the negative effects can be lessened—or if I’m just brewing a really complicated poison…”

“That is—impressive…” he admitted, “I know my sums, but I don’t know that I could do that.”

“It’s advanced,” she assured, “Not something a novice learns their first day. But you could learn it, if you had an interest. You’re quick.”

“So you said to Arcadia.” He tried not to look pleased with himself, but the barest of smiles tugged on the corner of his mouth.

“She asked. I answered. It’s true.”

Suddenly, Vilkas looked stricken. “Does Arcadia know how to do this?” he asked.

“Maybe, but probably not.” She laughed at his distress. “Most alchemists who run a shop like hers don’t use it unless they’re into serious academic research—like Farengar, I’m sure. Some just have a feel for it without the equations, too—like Anj. Ysgramor’s balls, this stuff was so easy for her.”

Vilkas canted his head with interest. “She go to university, too?”

“No. She had no interest, much to ma’s relief. But she had a knack for alchemy and taught herself from books and my schoolwork.”

He chuckled. “That make you angry?”

“At first,” she admitted, “Especially when I was burning my potions—and she loved to rub it in.” She shook her head, but the look on her face suggested that was standard Anja behavior. “It just meant I had to work harder for it,” Sonja concluded, “She’s still the better alchemist, but I’m certainly no novice.”

Though it was obvious that Sonja and her sister were fundamentally different people, Vilkas wondered what it was exactly that drove them apart. It wasn’t as if he and Farkas were very similar, apart from their shared physical features. Often, the only thing they seemed to have in common was love for each other and their Pack. Surely there must be something for which both Ironheart sisters cared. “What is she like, your sister?” he asked, curious.

Sonja narrowed her eyes slightly as she considered his question. “You’d like her if she wanted you to like her,” she said after a moment, “Anj has a knack for people that I don’t—and she’s dangerous in the way a spider’s dangerous.”

“Which is how?”

“You never know she’s coming ‘til you’ve been bitten.” Vilkas didn’t know what to make of that. Largely because he couldn’t imagine an Ironheart that wasn’t as subtle as mammoths. “But—she has a good heart. Better than she knows.”

“You miss her,” he observed.

Sonja grew very still, lips pursed and expression tight. “I didn’t think I would, but—aye.” She seemed intensely uncomfortable with that admission. “Wouldn’t you if it was Farkas missing?”

Vilkas nodded. “Aye,” he agreed, “But he and I are rarely parted.” Now, he refrained from adding. “There was a job—years ago—when we were fresh to the Circle. He’d gone with Skjor to take care of some milk-drinking noble’s problem in Solitude. They were gone for nearly a month.”

“Oh, you must have been crawling the walls.”

He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “I may have taken it out on the whelps in the yard until he came back.”

“No worse for wear?”

Hesitation. “No. Just a few more scars to tell a few more tales.”

Sonja’s expression grew thoughtful for a moment as she realized she never saw either of the twins anything but fully clothed at any given time. Even out in the yard where training leathers were deliberately revealing or other male Companions went topless altogether on warmer afternoons, they remained dressed in thin, often sleeveless tunics. In fact, she only ever recalled seeing Vilkas’ bare chest once before on the day of their first meeting, but she hadn’t paid attention to any exposed scars at the time; she’d been distracted by his skill with a blade and the intensity of his eyes. She blinked, realizing she was staring blankly at the Companion in question and he was staring back at her as if concerned she’d dozed off with her eyes still open. “Any worth sharing?” she asked abruptly.

Vilkas blinked. “What?”

“Stories,” she clarified.

“Uh…”

“Yours, not his.”

“Aye. A few.”

“More than that, I’d wager.”

“You’re free to put your money where you like.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“Am I?”

“I thought Nords liked telling stories.”

“Aye. Just not this one.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen your little library,” she reminded him, “You read epics. Least you can do is thrill a Shield-Sibling with a tale from your own experience.” She gestured with her injured hand. “Gives me a moment to rest before I set your next potion right.”

He gave her his typical stern look—or at least something very similar since his expression was not as heavy as it usually was. “I’ll tell you a story,” he relented and then he paused as he turned his attention to her hand still hovering in the air between them, “Have you tended to that today?”

“You’re changing the subject,” Sonja accused, withdrawing her limb.

“You’re dodging the question.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s hurting you.”

Sonja pursed her lips and stretched her sore hand in her lap. “I saw to it already. This morning. After bathing. Mother. It’s fine.” Vilkas opened his mouth to object, but she continued. “Now, quit stalling and tell me a story. Make it a good one.”

He checked to see if the failed potion had sufficiently cooled enough while he searched his memories for a tale that might amuse the Dragonborn. It was still too hot to handle and he marveled at whatever changes took place inside the flask to cause such simple ingredients to retain heat so well. “Kodlak had asked me along on that job for the hagraven since it was his last,” he said at length when he could stall no longer.

Sonja’s brow lifted with interest. “Did you go?”

“No, I’m telling you a story about a job I didn’t go on,” he snarked, “Aye. Of course I did. I rarely deny my Harbinger.”

“Was it a good fight?”

“And hard-won,” he huffed, “We had travelled many days to reach her hovel at Orphan Rock.”

“Charming name.”

“Justly earned, too,” he said gravely, “Many wayward children have gone missing in those woods.”

“That why the Companions were hired in the first place?”

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

“I’m getting to that.” He smirked. “As I’ve said before, I’m a poor storyteller…”

“I’ll suffer through it.”

He sighed. She was determined. “The journey was hard as it was,” he said, “Slogging through the mud at the height of the wet season. Such times are miserable and chill to the bone of even a Nord, but…”

“Not for you and Kodlak?”

“No,” he almost smiled, but the memory was bittersweet now. The Blood had been singing in their veins. They had been warm and battle-glad, eager for the slaughter to come. “Kodlak knows many stories to pass long hours on the road—and a few fool bandits always seemed to cross our path whenever things got too quiet.”

“The rate at which idiots die in this province, you’d think there’d be smarter bandits by now.”

“A new idiot is born every day,” he pointed out.

“Truer words were never spoken,” she agreed and shifted over the bench into a more comfortable position. “And when you finally reached Orphan Rock?”

He paused, thinking, remembering. “It was late,” he recalled, also readjusting, “The sun had set, but there was enough light by the moons to be able to see. Still—it would have been wiser for us to stay the night in Helgen and attack by daylight.”

Sonja tsked at him. “The Harbinger and his Master Trainer were unwise?”

He glared good-naturedly at her. “Aye, and if you want to hear the rest of the story, you’ll keep your smart tongue in check,” he warned, unoffended. She smirked and offered an exaggerated gesture of surrender for him to continue. “We paid for our foolishness,” he said, returning to the past, “Kodlak got the drop on one of the witches, but I was not so lucky.” He raised his right arm and pulled the sleeve back to show her the burn scar there on his forearm, well-healed and faint. “Seared right through my bracer,” he growled, shaking his head, “Damn spellcasters—well, you know—might not be as tough as you, but they’re hard to pin down when they’re winding through the trees in dark robes in dim light.”

Sonja did her best not to make fun of him, but she was swallowing a laugh at his expense. “I’m imagining you chasing them through the brush, cursing into the darkness,” she informed him.

He sighed. That was about the truth of it. “They knew the forest better. Slung spells at us when they managed to put enough distance between us. Until…” Well, until he and Kodlak Changed. It was much easier to scent them through the wood and gain on them then. “They tired,” he lied, “We kept pushing until we slaughtered them all and made our way back to Orphan Rock for the hagraven, herself.”

“How did you survive the spells?” she asked.

He blinked, momentarily flummoxed. He’d never had to explain such things to a mage before. Of course Sonja would be more aware of the dangers of tangling with spellcasters. “Dodged most of them, but darkness helped almost as much as it hurt. They could hardly see us, let alone hit us.”

She nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced. Wards were best against practitioners of any sort, but the Companions—particularly Vilkas—would not use such methods. Shields were the next best thing, but against a caster strong enough to burn through leather and metal they still fell short, and Vilkas didn’t typically make use of them. Kodlak was partial to battleaxes. He did not utilize shields either. Dodging spell attacks was the best either of them could do, provided they were spry and lucky enough to be successful every time. “And against the hagraven?” she pressed.

Kodlak bounds across the fallen tree, his graying fur singed by the fires of the hagraven as she hurls fistfuls of flames at us. He takes the brunt of it and I cannot argue. The Alpha has spoken and proves his ferocity as he wraps his maw around the hag’s neck. She screeches and screams and claws at his face until he crushes her throat, but her words are lost upon the wind to me. Kodlak, though, he hears them. He hears them and he doubts as his form shrinks back to that of a man, and he is Harbinger of the Companions once more. He does not consume the heart of his last kill.

“It was not easy,” he said, distantly, “Kodlak has a few scars worth showing. We overwhelmed her when she spent her magicka. Hacked her to ribbons. Her claws were sharp but no match for our blades.”

“I don’t doubt it. What’s Kodlak like in a fight?” she asked, her eyes alight with eager curiosity.

He smirked. “Kodlak is Harbinger for a reason,” he pointed out, “If he wanted, he could put any of the Circle on their asses.”

She chuckled. “I would pay good coin to see that.”

“There was a time he used to join us in the yard every day,” Vilkas continued, “He’d help the Newbloods. Give them pointers. Adjust their grip. It made me a better trainer watching him.” He sighed. “And then one day he stopped—I should have known something was wrong then.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” she reminded him, “We’re doing all we can.”

He nodded but looked moodier than he had all day. “Well—that’s the end of it,” he declared, “You got your story.”

“Not such a bad storyteller, after all.”

“Properly thrill you, did I?”

Sonja snorted. “In this, at least.” And she checked the flask of charred goo with the back of her hand. It was sufficiently cool. “Could work a little harder in your potioncraft, though.” He agreed, smirking, and removed the flask to clean and prepare for the next batch.


Vilkas’ second attempt at a healing potion was much improved; the third even better, though he nearly swallowed his own tongue he sputtered so hard when Sonja, without warning, downed the freshly brewed contents to test them for herself. He watched her with apprehension as she smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth a few times, thoughtfully. “Cured my hangover,” she said with a shrug, “You did well.”

“So, there is a cure.”

She shrugged. “Takes the edge off.”

He grumbled to himself and downed the other potion, but it didn’t seem to help much. “I think I need something stronger,” he grunted.

“Vilkas.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m fucking with you.”

“Of course you are.”

“Unless you had an ulcer, the potion wouldn’t do much to cure your ails.”

“I’m getting an ulcer just listening to you.”

“Just as well, that’s the end of your first lesson.”

Overall, he was pleased with his first foray into alchemy and the teacher he found in his own student. He was surprised how different her instruction was from his own, though, despite their similar personalities. She freely gave praise and encouragement during their lessons with such straightforwardness that it never felt undeserved. She would be equally blunt with his failures, too, but not unkind. Never unkind.

Nearing noon, they parted ways so Sonja could seek out Hera and Vilkas could take Jorrvaskr’s alchemy order to Tilma. “We’re only working on footwork and laps today,” he informed Sonja as he stepped out onto the street, “Take your time with Hera if you need it.”

Sonja frowned at the mention of running but nodded. “I won’t be long,” she promised and then made her way toward Hera’s home while Vilkas returned to Jorrvaskr.

To her annoyance, the former Companion was not there. She knocked with great force a couple more times just to be sure, though. “She’s probably gone to the Mare to eat,” Jon Battle-Born called over to her. He was just leaving his family’s home when he spotted her on Hera’s stoop.

Of course. Hera probably took most of her meals at the inn just to be with Hulda. She waved to Jon in gratitude. “Thanks.” And she hurried to The Bannered Mare.

Sure enough, Hera was at one of the back tables, taking her meal with Hulda and Rengeir. She looked up the moment Sonja entered the inn. Her white-blue eyes shone in the sunlight of the open door. Wordlessly, Hera gestured for Sonja to join them and the Dragonborn strode swiftly through the room. “You have need of me,” Hera said in lieu of a greeting.

“Aye. We need to talk,” Sonja confirmed, “About Anja.”

Hera quirked an eyebrow. Whatever she had expected Sonja to ask for, it was not that. “Take a seat.” Sonja complied and took a moment to greet both Hulda and Rengeir.

“You hungry, dear?” Hulda asked.

Sonja tried not to react to Hulda’s use of the endearment. “Aye. I could eat.”

The innkeep barked for Saadia and the Redguard hurried over. “What can I get for you, my thane?” she asked politely.

“Something light, Saadia, thank you—and water. Lots of water.”

“Hard night?” Saadia ribbed pleasantly.

“Moving into a hard afternoon,” Sonja confirmed somewhat impatiently.

“You train with the boy again today?” Hera asked.

Sonja’s expression darkened. “Aye. I resume training with the Master at Arms of Jorrvaskr today.”

Hera scoffed. “He’s always just a boy to me.”

“Because you’re old, love,” Hulda teased as she stood from the table and shooed Saadia on her way. Hulda was much younger than Hera, though by how much Sonja did not know.

“You really know how to wound a woman,” Hera grumbled good-naturedly and kissed Hulda’s hand before she moved beyond her reach.

“You’ll live.”

“Could make it up to me.”

“You don’t deserve it, and I’ve an inn to run,” Hulda sassed, but there was warmth in her eyes as she stepped away.

When she was gone, Hera sighed and returned her attention to Sonja. “Alright, out with it,” she prompted, “What do you need from me?”

Sonja blinked. “You to give a damn wouldn’t hurt.”

“Your sister’s a grown woman. She chose to piss off. Neither you nor I could have made her stay.”

Sonja’s jaw tightened. “She might have lingered here in town if you had been more welcoming.”

“And why did she leave Cyrodiil in the first place?”

“She’s not Freydis and I am not you. Don’t put your ghosts where they don’t belong.”

Hera’s expression sobered at Sonja’s words. She ran her tongue along her teeth, searching out leftover pieces of her afternoon meal and leaned back in her chair. She glanced at Rengeir before digging in her tobacco pouch to retrieve her pipe. “There’s—a good chance she’s already dead,” she said gently as she began to pack the ivory bowl, “Skyrim is not kind to her own, let alone outsiders.”

Sonja moistened her lips to speak but stilled when she caught Saadia’s approach in her peripheral. The Redguard placed a plate of roast chicken and vegetables in front of her as well as a large pitcher of water and a clay cup. “Need anything else, my thane?” she asked.

“No.”

“Give me a holler if you do.” And she was gone.

Sonja looked down at the food before her and frowned. She wasn’t feeling particularly hungry anymore. Despondently, she tapped the blade of her thumb against the rim of the plate. “I know,” she said softly, “I’m not so naïve.” She cleared her throat. “But Anja’s not so easy to kill, either. Runs in the family, I guess.”

“Certainly brandished that mace like she knew how to use it,” Rengeir commented dryly and Hera snickered, agreeing.

Sonja’s eye twitched as she refrained from asking why, precisely, had Anja felt compelled to draw her weapon in the first place. “She does and she’s an even better shot,” she growled.

Hera lit her pipe and pensively puffed on it for a moment. “So, do you have a lead? Or do you need me to ask around?” she asked at length.

“Markarth,” Sonja supplied, “She might have gone to Markarth.” And she filled Hera in on all the details: how she came to suspect the Khajiit might have helped Anja, that leading the Great Hunt was an effort to find an in with them, and, finally, what transpired during her meeting with Ri’saad.

Hera listened in silence with the pipe caught between her teeth. She didn’t say a word until Sonja was done speaking. “If she went to Markarth, she was looking for my sister, alright,” she said, “Girl was right upset with me for dismissing her and she knew she had other family.”

“She knows more about all of you than I, that’s for sure.”

“It was in that journal of your ma’s she was lugging around, I’d wager,” Hera reasoned, “Though I find it hard to imagine Freydis keeping such a thing. She wasn’t the type to write her feelings out in secret.”

“No. You always knew where you stood with ma,” Sonja agreed. She had no memory of her mother keeping a diary of any sort. Freydis was more likely to punch someone in the face if she was displeased with them than write about her anger in private. Unless…Softer feelings were trickier for the warrior. She largely expressed affection in good-natured ridicule and swift, well-meaning strikes to the back of the head. ‘To knock some sense into you…’ Freydis hadn’t even been particularly affectionate with her own husband, either, but Sonja had never wondered, never doubted that her mother loved her and her siblings. If Freydis did keep a journal, perhaps it was filled with all those soft, unspoken things—which made the thought of Anja reading it feel like a deep trespass. Standard Anja behavior.

“At any rate, it doesn’t sound like she got through to Rota.”

“Or she was turned away—again.”

Hera shook her head, sharp and curt. “No, of all of us, Rota has the tender hearted one. If your sister had made it passed the guards at the keep, I would have received a nasty letter about my poor treatment of long-lost blood.”

“Too bad Anja didn’t meet Rota first.”

The former Companion frowned and grumbled to herself. “Aye, aye. I’m a wicked old witch, but I don’t think Anja met with Rota just the same.” She paused. “I can ask around, though. Someone in the city might know something useful.”

“That is all I ask.”

Hera pursed her lips and exchanged meaningful looks with her housecarl. “And you should meet Rota, too,” she continued, “I haven’t told her about you or Anja. She was only a lass when Freydis went off to war and never came back. I—didn’t have the words to tell her…”

“I want to meet her,” Sonja interrupted to spare Hera from finishing that agonizing sentence, “We are kin. I should meet her.”

Hera nodded. “I’ll write to her. It will take some time before Rengeir and I can leave. I don’t usually visit her before the end of the month. She’s busy running a Hold, after all. And I have business of my own.”

“How long?”

“Couple of weeks, likely.”

Sonja didn’t like that. She felt like she’d wasted so much time already, but she had other obligations to the Companions—and the Jarl’s court; she still owed Farengar for the magical restraints, after all. That besides, she needed to know what secrets—or trap—were waiting for her at Shalidor’s Maze. “That gives me time to prepare,” she said, “And train a little longer with Vilkas.”

“Aye, focus on your work with the boy. The Greybeards have been patient enough already.”

Sonja blinked. “Didn’t think you took much interest in that,” she said, recalling how disdainfully Hera had used the title ‘Dragonborn’ in their past interactions.

Hera shrugged. “Far as I was concerned, you were a hot-headed wench when I met you,” she pointed out, “Harder to disregard the Dragon after what I saw on the Hunt.”

“It wasn’t the beating I gave you?”

The former Companion smirked. “You’re a hot-headed dragonling now. Still a wench, though.”

Sonja returned her aunt’s smile with a dark edge. “That runs in the family, too.”


Just because Vilkas was Sonja’s student in the morning didn’t mean he was going to take it easy on her in the afternoon and let her run without the heavy armor, but he did as she asked and completed the exercises with her instead of watching from a dispassionate distance. He was right there, sweating alongside her. Though, he seemed far less bothered by the exertion than she was even encased within his own Wolf plate armor which made her want to trip him every time he lapped her. “Pick it up, Ironheart,” he growled as he ran back up the street from the city gates, passing her. Childishly, she mimicked him as she half-jogged to the gates, tapped them, and turned to run back. “I heard that!” he warned.

“You hear everything!” she complained, but she picked up the pace even as her muscles burned in protest and forced herself to catch up with him.

The look on his face suggested he did not think she had been capable. “One more lap and you can rest,” he huffed.

She tried to glare at him, but the bouncing of the loose-fitting armor made it difficult and he wasn’t really looking at her to appreciate the expression anyway, so she focused her attention on running. When they reached Jorrvaskr again and turned to make that final lap, Vilkas glanced at her, catching her attention. “You beat me there and back and I’ll run five more.”

“And if I lose?”

“I think you know.”

“Make it ten. I want you to suffer,” she growled.

He smiled, confidently. “You’re only punishing yourself, pup. Deal.” And then he sprinted off without another word.

“Oh, you fucking…” she grumbled as she quickly chased after him.

She managed to catch up in the marketplace partly because she jumped down the stairs and—possibly he may have let her, but she couldn’t be sure. Then it was a mad dash down the main road. She slid several inches, colliding into the main gates, themselves, as she shifted her weight to change directions. When she gained traction again, she was hurtling back up toward the marketplace, pouring every ounce of effort into every step, lungs burning and legs aching. For a moment, it looked as if she was going to win when she reached the Wind District and Vilkas was somewhere behind her (she didn’t dare look back for fear that it would only slow her down). But then, suddenly, he was in her peripheral and gaining. He’d pulled ahead by the time they were ascending the steps to Jorrvaskr and had obviously won by the time they reached the empty yard.

Sonja collapsed in the dirt with nothing more to keep her upright as Vilkas jogged a victory lap around her. She threw a rude gesture toward him. “I…hate…you…so…much…” she wheezed, rolling onto her back and staring up into the sky. It was a lovely shade of blue—or at least it was supposed to be; her vision was pricking and darkening around the edges from lack of oxygen and hydration. This is the price I have to pay to slay dragons? She momentarily reconsidered if it was worth it.

He smirked and came into her field of vision, standing over her head and looking down. “I’ll run them with you, pup,” he offered good-naturedly.

“Now you’re gloating.”

“No. I want to.”

Briefly, she wondered if she was able to keep running after days of horrible, horrible tea and a hangover. Her legs were already jelly. “Help me up,” she rasped, certain she wasn’t capable under her own power. He complied, flashing concern at her, suddenly realizing that she might have overdone it in that last lap trying to beat him. Once upright, she took several deep breaths and a few quick steps to work into a jog, and nearly toppled over again. “Nope,” she grunted, catching herself, “Need a moment.” She hauled her sorry carcass to the nearest chair on the porch and plopped down in it, nearly tipping it backward in the process. She steadied herself against the table in time, much to her relief.

“You need to drink more water,” Vilkas chastised as he hurried to the water bucket and filled two cups. He brought them back to her and fell into the opposite chair.

She knew he was right, but she hadn’t ever had to run so much in her life before coming to Skyrim. Battlemage conditioning had been very light in comparison. Finding the proper balance proved to be a bit difficult. “I thought I had,” she admitted and tried her best not to gulp down the icy water in one go.

“You cool quicker in the chill here,” he explained, “It fools your body so you don’t thirst as much. You should always drink a little more than you think you need.”

“This sort of thing happen a lot?”

“I’ve been a Companion for more than half my life and trained whelps for the last decade. There isn’t much I haven’t seen.” He hesitated. “Also, you will catch a chill soon if we don’t head inside,” he added.

She waved him off. “Give me a moment and I’ll be right again,” she assured, but now that she had stopped running and was sitting in the shade, she could feel the truth to his words. The sweat glistening over every inch of her skin was cooling her body too rapidly. She had to fight not to shiver after a few minutes.

“We’ll run them tomorrow,” he insisted, giving her a stern look, “But we’re done today.”

Sonja huffed in defeat, though she was more than a little relieved to be done running and drank deeply of her cup as she uselessly reached for the straps of the armor. “I need Eorlund to fit this to me properly if we keep using it,” she grumbled.

Wordlessly, he reached over and tugged loose the strap with which she always had trouble. “Do as you want with it,” he said, “I don’t use it anymore but for this.”

It took a great deal of effort to heft the breastplate off her chest and onto the floor. It clattered with more force than she had intended and the rush of cold air through her sweat-soaked tunic and partially bare midsection immediately blanketed her in an uncomfortable chill. She was wearing that ratty, torn garment she had decided was really only put to good use during training when she needed something to wear under the greasy heavy armor instead of ruining one of her better shirts.

Vilkas looked sideways at her as she stretched backward in her chair and fumbled with the greaves, exposing the stretch of her stomach. She was an impressive specimen of muscle, indeed. Very athletic. Broader shoulders than he’d seen on most women, but it suited her, and a comfortable layer of softness over the flat plane of her belly. She wasn’t quite lean, but she wasn’t exceptionally bulky, either; the curve of her biceps bulged on her upper arms and her legs, particularly her thighs, were thick. Probably why she was able to catch up even winded, he mused. With proper conditioning, she could easily hike Skyrim’s more mountainous terrain which was important if she was going to climb the Throat of the World.

But, he wasn’t looking solely to assess her physical suitability for travelling as his eyes began to wander over the curve of her backside, and suddenly felt a dirty lecher for openly appraising and appreciating his Shield-Sister’s figure. Guilty, he began to look away and as his eyes swept back over her one last time, the dark purple of bruises blooming on her hips caught his attention. His eyes darted to her shoulders in time to catch her rubbing at a couple there as well. They were from her lack of a proper gambeson and the poor fit of the armor, especially since she was not shaped like a narrow-waisted male. The armor he had worn in his twenties suited her general size, more or less, but her hips were paying for the difference in shape. “Might have Eorlund fit the armor for you tomorrow,” he suggested, “Give those bruises time to heal.”

Her gaze darted to him and then her exposed markings. She poked at them experimentally to test their tenderness and winced slightly at the discomfort. Could be worse. They had been worse in previous weeks, but Vilkas hadn’t noticed them or cared to notice them then. “I’ll take care of it,” she assured and finished freeing her legs from the armor, “Nothing I can’t set right with a little magic—or a minor healing potion. Help with the soreness, too. Might have you brew one for me, you know—for practice.” He grumbled his refusal of her request. She paused and looked at him again. “Thank you for ordering magicka potions from Arcadia’s, by the way.”

He glanced away. “I am responsible for the Newbloods,” he reminded her, but it felt like an excuse. He’d been worried for her and didn’t want a repeat of their scouting venture. If her life ever depended on her waning magicka reserve again, she wouldn’t die for lack of potions.

“Still, it is appreciated.”

Vilkas began to remove his own breastplate. “Tomorrow we’ll warm up and work on your footwork. Spar a bit, hand to hand,” he continued.

“Sounds good to me. Finally get to put you on your ass.”

“You can hardly move as it is. I am not worried.”

She shot him a look but didn’t deny that she was more than a little wobbly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

Vilkas glanced at her again. “Still, you did well today,” he said, casually, “Drilled you like a soldier and you kept up. For the most part.”

Sonja noticeably tensed. “Old habits.”

He had trouble picturing her in crimson uniform, rigid, and eager for the orders of a superior officer. Indeed, the look on her face suggested she was struggling with the same thing. She barely listens to me in the yard. But she did listen. “You told Kodlak you were trained as a soldier,” he ventured, “I didn’t realize—even after you had told me more about your training—that you were that kind of battlemage.”

“And what kind is that?” she asked wryly.

“The legionnaire kind.”

Sonja pursed her lips and ran her fingers across the scar on her stomach. “I’m not a legionnaire,” she said softly, “Not really. I’m just a spellsword.” Vilkas stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “It’s complicated.”

Vilkas mulled over the look of her, tensed and uncertain. “Skjor was a soldier,” he informed her, “Fought in the Great War.”

That nugget of information had the desire effect. “How’d he get out of the service?” she asked, intrigued.

“Injury nearly killed him,” he supplied, “You should ask him about it if you want the full tale. He’ll tell you.”

“I might at that.” Then she sighed, heavily, and somewhat awkwardly gestured to her abdomen. “Same,” she grunted, and he finally got an unexpected explanation if not a story for the ugliest of her scars. “Not in the Great War, obviously,” she added, “But it was enough. The Legion has no use for damaged soldiers.”

“You are not broken.”

“I was. Then.”

“What happened?”

Her expression was obviously pained. “I would—prefer—not to speak of it,” she said reluctantly, “But, I was close to death. That I recovered is…”

“A miracle?”

For a moment, she looked troubled by the implication. “Maybe it was.” She wondered how many of the coincidences of her life were due to Divine intervention—how many of her sorrows. “I should have died.” Instead of Thornir…

Vilkas didn’t like the way she said those last four words. It almost sounded like she had wanted for it—perhaps still did. “It’s good that you didn’t,” he stated sternly, and Sonja cocked an eyebrow at him, “Whiterun—my home would have been burned to ash like Helgen if you had not been here to destroy the dragon at the watchtower.”

She blinked, a dozen thoughts zipping through her head at his words. “I didn’t slay it alone,” she pointed out, but her mood had lightened somewhat, “I needed the Companions or we wouldn’t have gotten the beast to land, but—I’m glad I spared Whiterun Helgen’s fate. May Jorrvaskr stand for eras yet to come.”

“I could drink to that.”

Sonja chuckled. “Maybe a small one.” Then she involuntarily shuddered at the cold, no longer able to resist the chill creeping over her.

“We should go inside.” And the pair of them gathered up their armor. Vilkas helped her with the breastplate, partly because he was a little concerned she was still unsteady, but largely because he could see her fingers were having a difficult time wrapping around any part of it for a proper grip. They almost knocked heads as he stooped to grab the armor, and once straightened became uncomfortably aware of their close proximity to the other. “If you ever want to speak of your days as a soldier, I’d like to hear it,” Vilkas offered, though the words felt clumsy on his tongue.

Judging by the way Sonja looked at him, though, she didn’t think so. “If I ever want to speak of it, it will be to you,” she replied and then slid passed him, her expression unreadable as she entered the warmth of Jorrvaskr.


“Haven’t seen much of you since we got back from the Hunt and the first thing you have to say is: I have a house, help me move in?” Faendal sassed as Sonja haphazardly tossed her belongings into her trunks down in the barracks of Jorrvaskr. Beside him, Lydia watched, bemused, with her pack ready to go at her feet.

Sonja straightened, her hands full of papers and a crease to her brow, but she didn’t turn to face her friend. “You were balls-deep in Camilla when we got back. Hardly a group activity—unless you’re into that sort of thing.” She laughed at her own joke. Lydia chuckled as well, and Faendal did his best to look scandalized for nobody’s benefit but his own since Sonja wasn’t looking at him, but he couldn’t hide the satisfaction lingering about his expression. He had been balls deep in Camilla after all, and that was something he still had trouble believing the longer she was gone. “Besides, I’ve had the house for a bit. Inherited it from my grandfather,” she explained as she scanned the contents of the pages, “Just thought it was time to move in.”

“Never mentioned it before.”

“Lydia knew.”

The housecarl glared at the back of Sonja’s head briefly before turning her attention to the now properly scandalized mer. “Hera gave it to her the night of the prøve,” she explained, “I didn’t think it my place to bring it up if Sonja didn’t want to…”

“Why didn’t you?” Faendal asked—almost accused.

Sonja shrugged, losing interest in the papers and tossing them into a disorganized heap in one of her open trunks. “Didn’t think it mattered. It was mine to do with as I pleased, and I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with the Ironheart fortunes.”

Faendal’s disposition eased a little, replaced with guilt. He knew she struggled to make peace with her mother’s legacy; her reluctance to embrace all the trappings of the Ironheart name did not surprise him. And her silence was also to be expected. That was just her way, he knew. If she didn’t think it was important or relevant, then she didn’t bother to bring it up. Though how she could think a house was unimportant completely escaped him. Especially when it meant she and Lydia could move out of the barracks. That was the part that was bothering him, truthfully: that he would be left behind and couldn’t insist otherwise as he had so many times before.

“So, why now?” he asked, his tone now mellowed.

Sonja gestured to the halo of mess around her bunk. “I’m running out of room,” she pointed out, “I think Jorrvaskr will be glad to see the back of me.”

“Njada certainly will,” Lydia sighed. There was a reason no one slept on the bunk above Sonja’s; she was too much of a slob. “The house in good condition?”

“Aye,” Sonja confirmed as she kicked her trunks closed, “Dusty. Empty. But the hearth is good and there’s a private bath in the basement. Already tried it out. It’s even better than it sounds. And there’s a kitchen for Faendal to lose himself in.” She turned to look at both huntsman and housecarl and frowned. “Why aren’t you packed?” she asked Faendal.

The mer stilled and glanced at Lydia, uncertainly, but the housecarl was no help, unsurprisingly. “What?” he finally asked.

Sonja crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you not want to move out of the barracks? I thought you’d be pleased,” she said, sounding a little disappointed, “That kitchen will go to waste, otherwise.”

Faendal blinked. “You want me to move in with you?”

Sonja’s expression imploded with confusion. “Yes?”

“Oh.” He wasn’t to be left behind, after all.

Lydia sighed heavily. “Go pack your things, Faendal.”

“Yep. On it.” And he happily sailed over to his bunk and packed his few belongings as quickly as possible.


Faendal let out a long, low whistle as he crossed the threshold of Breezehome. “This is…” he began.

“Huge?” Lydia supplied.

“Overcompensating?” Sonja interjected.

“Empty as Oblivion,” Faendal finished, “There’s an echo.”

“I ordered a few things from Belethor should be here from Solitude sometime next week,” she sighed, “So—your rooms are a bit empty, but I thought you should see the place—and work out whose room is whose before the beds come in.” Faendal had to resist the urge to drop his end of Sonja’s trunk in favor of racing through the house to scout out the bedrooms. Sonja sensed his excitement, however and set her end down instead. “Go on.”

Truth be told, she was hoping for a small skirmish to break out between the housecarl and huntsman, but, sadly, they looked for such different qualities in a bedroom, there was nothing to fight over. Lydia took the one closest to the kitchen since the second entrance into the house was located there and that bedroom allowed her a clearer view of the front door as well. Faendal wanted the one with the most windows. He had plans for window boxes filled with all sorts of cooking herbs and alchemical ingredients. “If that’s alright with you,” he added, tempering his excitement.

Sonja huffed out a laugh. “This place is yours as much as mine,” she replied, “Do as you please.”

The huntsman stilled as he stared through the unshuttered window into the night. It was strange how much the room, the house, Sonja, and even Lydia all felt like home. Like he was precisely where he was meant to be, and Riverwood had only been a place he stayed a while until his life truly began. The only thing missing to complete the moment, to make him whole, was his heart, Camilla.

She’d been gone from his side a little more than a day and already he was heartsick for her. He’d make sure to fill one of his window boxes with her favorite flowers. Maybe she’d see them one day when visiting; maybe they would only remind him of her when they were parted, but he very much wanted to create a little refuge for them both—even if he didn’t really know what moving in with Sonja meant for their distant future. He didn’t even know how distant that future would be. The passage of time was a little different for a mer than it was for his Imperial beauty. She would not be a young maid forever, but he’d be considered quite young for another couple centuries yet. He sighed and closed the shutters, trying not to think about it too much just then and spoil the thrill of a new home.

“Something on your mind?” Sonja asked, obvious concern written on her face.

“Do you miss your home sometimes? Back in Cyrodiil?” he asked.

Her expression tightened briefly, but then relaxed. “Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

She sighed heavily and chewed on her lips in a way that made Faendal think she was about to brush him off as she tended to when asked a question she didn’t want to answer, but her eyes wore a soft, unguarded expression when she looked at him again. “I did—once,” she admitted, “Cyrodiil is very beautiful. Travel from one side to the other and no one part of it is the same as the next. It was a land I knew well. I knew many people of many different races in many cities. It’s colorful. Vibrant in ways Skyrim is not.” She paused, thinking. “But—there was—is—still a lot of pain back in those familiar places—for me—and sometimes things that break can never be fixed. So—no, I don’t miss my home anymore. It’s not a place I can ever go back to and I should have left much sooner than Anja running away made me. I miss what it was a decade ago, perhaps—but not now.”

“Skyrim is your home now?” he asked.

“Skyrim is my home now.”

He nodded. “I don’t long for Riverwood, but…”

“You miss Camilla,” she observed.

“Aye.”

She nodded. Though not the keenest for the young Imperial, she understood Faendal’s feelings. “Sometimes home isn’t a place. It’s a person,” she said, gently, “I know I’ve said it before, but I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go back—especially now you know she’s waiting for you.”

“Do you want me to go?” A note of concern.

“No.”

“I don’t belong there, chopping wood for the rest of my days—even with Camilla at my side.”

“No. You don’t,” she agreed.

“Camilla knows it, too.”

“Good she knows your worth—makes me like her more…”

“So, how do I know the right path?”

Sonja shrugged. “You don’t. I certainly don’t. Life is often a grim struggle, but—if it’s a path you want to walk with her—she probably has an opinion on how best to do it. Maybe your woman sees something we don’t.”

Faendal smirked sheepishly. “We—uh—didn’t do much talking while she was here…”

Sonja chuckled. “Good, but maybe next time, keep your mouth off her long enough to ask a few questions, yeah?”

“No promises.” They laughed like perverts and then moved through the rest of the house.

Later, Faendal wandered into the kitchen and started gleefully examining every cabinet and drying rack. Lydia arranged a few of her things in the sparseness of her room before joining Sonja in the den. She took greater interest in the alchemical equipment littering the dining table as she passed, having merely noted it the first time in her haste to select a bedroom before the plucky little mer. “Looks like you’ve already been making yourself comfortable,” she observed.

Sonja shrugged. “I like the solitude,” she said, “Easier to concentrate.”

“I don’t know how you got away from Jorrvaskr at all,” Faendal said, returning from the kitchen, “Without Vilkas dragging you back to the yard to pound you into the dirt.”

“Didn’t see much of Vilkas today,” Lydia added idly, “Not until this afternoon.”

Sonja’s eye twitched. “He was with me,” she stated, her tone colorless.

Huntsman and housecarl stilled and exchanged looks. “Oh.”

Sonja counted the long seconds of silence. She wasn’t in the habit of explaining herself to anyone. Especially if it was concerning something sensitive. She wasn’t a gifted liar, so silence was preferable over unconvincing tales—or half-truths. “He’s an interest in alchemy. I’m giving him lessons.”

Both Faendal and Lydia comically mirrored each other’s expression of disbelief and confusion. “Vilkas I-Hate-Magic Jorrvassen is interested in alchemy,” Faendal said slowly like he was trying to make sense of his own words.

“Aye,” Sonja said brightly and then walked off to meander aimlessly through her house, ending the conversation.


Vilkas’ eyes steadily zipped back and forth across the pages of A Dream of Sovngarde as he read in the corner of the meadhall. In his mind, he heard Sonja’s Voice reading the words aloud, and it was soothing. It was long after the evening meal and everyone was on about their own business, so he wasn’t paying much attention to anyone else until the front door opened and a hush fell across Jorrvaskr. He glanced up to see who had entered and was surprised to see Hera and Rengeir on the steps. Tilma rushed to greet them while the rest of the Companions exchanged uncertain glances. The last time she had visited Jorrvaskr unannounced had been to challenge the Dragonborn, after all, which is what Vilkas assumed she was there for now. For Sonja. Not to challenge her. He hoped. She wasn’t dressed for it, at least. She’d left her armor at home in favor of proper clothing befitting someone of her station. It was odd. “Hera!” Tilma exclaimed, surprised, but pleased, “It’s so good to see you, dearie! Have you eaten?”

Hera flashed the elder woman a rare smile and relaxed her demeanor. “Aye, friend,” she assured, unfolding her arms, “Hulda wouldn’t let me leave the house without a proper meal.”

“Good to hear she’s taking care of you,” Tilma said pointedly, rubbing Hera’s upper arm fondly, “Maybe one day you’ll repay her love with a trip to the temple? Hmmm?”

The look Hera awarded Tilma for her comment was an old, worn-in one: part acknowledgement, part chastised, and part affectionately annoyed. “Aye, maybe one day, Tilma,” she allowed, “But not today.” To Vilkas’ surprise and unease, her eyes flit to him sitting there in his favorite corner chair. “Today, I come to call on the Master Trainer.”

Vilkas abandoned his reading and leaned back in his seat, propping an elbow on each armrest and lacing his fingers together. “Evening, Hera,” he greeted dully, “What can I do for you?”

Hera smirked and stalked down the steps like the predator she was, Rengeir trailing behind her, until she hovered over Vilkas. “Pup,” she growled. He hated when she called him that. It had been an endearment, once, in his younger years when she was family. Pack. Someone he adored. Vaguely, he wondered if Sonja resented him for using the diminutive to address her, if it grated on her pride like it did when Hera’s voice wrapped around the single syllable. He hoped not; that’s not how he intended it.

“What do you want?” he reiterated.

What was clearly amusement did not leave her face. Instead, she glanced back at Rengeir who was busy glaring at anyone who might be trying to overhear their conversation. “Let’s take a walk,” she replied, “I need to speak with you. Somewhere more private.”

Vilkas seriously considered refusing her and sending her on her way. He was halfway certain he knew what she wanted to discuss. She had already attempted to talk to him while on the Hunt, but he had been less than receptive of her inquiry. Unless Hera suddenly developed an interest in the training of her niece, she had no other reason to speak with him. Silently, he ground his teeth as he made up his mind until the ache in his jaw grew so intense, he had to release the tension. “Follow me,” he rumbled and stood from his chair, “Your housecarl waits here.” He didn’t understand why she even brought the man along if she wanted to chat about the Beast.

“He will not,” she replied simply, and Vilkas frowned.

“Telling secrets not your own,” he hissed, low so no one but Hera could hear him. He’d always suspected Rengeir knew more than he should about Hera and therefore the rest of the Companions, but he was never certain until that moment.

“Tell Kodlak on me, if you must,” Hera sniffed, “I’ve nothing to fear, and neither does the Circle.”

“Fine. Let’s make this quick.” Without a second glance at her, he went through the backdoors and out into the training yard which was empty, but it was not sufficiently private enough for their purposes. After a sharp glance and scent of the air, Vilkas turned left and headed toward the steps to the Skyforge. He stopped short, just before he moved beyond the edge of Jorrvaskr, and pressed into the stone face that made up the base of the massive, famed forge. The stone shifted beneath his hands, pushed back, and slid sideways revealing the dark cavern beyond it. He stepped aside. “After you,” he prompted, gesturing to the darkness.

Hera gripped Rengeir’s elbow with gentle, affectionate pressure. “Wait here,” she instructed, “This place is for Pack only.” The housecarl nodded, and elected to take up in the shadow of the mead hall and—keep watch? Vilkas supposed. Send any nosey Newbloods on their way if they thought to ‘innocently’ follow them out into the yard. That was fine, but unneeded. The Underforge was a well-hidden secret from all but the Circle.

The two Wolves entered the den, the stone scraped closed behind them, and Hera immediately began lighting the torches with a wave of her hand that made Vilkas start. “Just like your niece,” he growled, “Can’t keep your spells to yourself.”

Hera looked amused. She only knew the one spell and tended to use it only for three things: setting her spear ablaze to slay trolls, lighting her pipe for a smoke, and lighting torches in dark places. Nothing else. She wasn’t a soft college mage, after all, and she wasn’t capable of causing much harm with it alone, but the spell had been useful—and had allowed her to save many lives over her long career as a Companion. Hard to argue results like that. “That crying I hear?” she sneered, “I thought your spine stiffer than that, pup. Or you gone soft? Hmm? Sonja fuck the fight out of you?”

Vilkas could hardly believe his ears and blinked stupidly at her while his brain struggled to catch up. He had thought Hera wanted to talk about the Blood—not the rumors freshly sprung from the Hunt. He’d much rather talk about the Blood. “You forget yourself,” he snapped when his mind registered enough to incite anger, “And I have more honor than to lay hands on a Shield-Sister—not that it’s any of your concern.”

Hera’s amusement intensified and Vilkas got the feeling that she was aware there was nothing between him and her niece but chose to press those buttons anyway because that was just what she lived for: confrontation. “No? She is pretty enough. Strong. Different from your usual preference, sure. I know how you like your women soft and eager…”

“Hold your tongue or you will lose it, Firespear!” Vilkas nearly bellowed, his body taught like a bowstring and ready to snap. It took all of his straining control to keep his Wolf in check.

“Better,” she chuckled, “But not the same. Is the old Vilkas lost?”

His hands clenched to fists at his side and he took several long moments of counting backwards and reminding himself that she was intentionally trying to get a rise out of him before he finally responded. “What do you want, Firespear?” he demanded, “I have no patience for your games. What business have you with me?”

“Still impatient as ever. That’s why I always beat you in the yard, boy. You know that? You’re too hungry for victory.”

“That was ten years ago. Much has changed. If a fight is all you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Hera quirked her eyebrow in such a way that it reminded him of Sonja and he instantly hated the family resemblance he’d never noticed before. “No, pup,” she sighed, heavily, “I didn’t come to fight.”

“Strange way of showing it.”

“You would have Turned by now a decade ago,” she said softly, “Seen you do it often enough to have a row with Farkas.”

Vilkas stilled and felt some of the pressure ease out of his shoulders as he realized what she had been doing: testing him. Did I pass? he wondered, but he resented her for doing it in the first place. “Much has changed,” he repeated.

Hera gave a curt nod and relaxed a little as well. Her hands swung behind her to clasp in the small of her back. “Skjor and Aela approached me one night on the Hunt,” she explained, “They told me of the ferals and the Silver Hand.”

“It is a Circle matter.”

“You are split.”

“We are always split.”

“Not always. Not when I was Second.”

“You are not Second anymore.”

Hera frowned, but did not argue. “No. I am not.” She made that choice and didn’t regret it. “They told me,” she said, “That you, Farkas, and the old man do not make the Change any longer—that you are abstaining.”

Vilkas tensed again. “What of it?”

“So, it’s true.”

“It’s no concern of yours,” he sniffed, “This is a Pack matter, and you are not…”

“Don’t you dare say I’m not Pack anymore, pup, or I will beat your Weak-Wolf ass all over the yard until you have to Change just to survive it!” she snarled with such ferocity, it surprised him; obviously, he’d struck a nerve. “The same Blood flows through our veins.” She smacked her hands against the Blood Basin at the center of the chamber with both hands so hard that it echoed, and she gripped the edges tightly. “I will always be Pack. Don’t forget it.”

“YOU LEFT!” Vilkas retorted, enraged by her insistence after she had practically abandoned them all, “A DECADE AGO! YOU TURNED YOUR BACK ON US ALL! YOU TURNED YOUR BACK ON KODLAK! ON YOUR PACK!”

Hera outright roared like an animal as she rushed Vilkas, her strong hands wrapping in the collar of his woolen shirt. He snarled back, gripping her wrists, ready to brawl right there in the Underforge the second she threw the first punch—or, more likely, when his Wolf grew too impatient to remain calm. “I’VE GIVEN MY LIFE TO THE CIRCLE!” she bellowed, spit flying from her mouth as she shouted in Vilkas’ face, “AND A LOT MORE! FOOL PUP, YOU KNOW NOTHING!”

“I KNOW KODLAK WANTED YOU TO STAY! I WANTED YOU TO STAY! I DIDN’T WANT WHAT WAS YOURS!” He almost choked on his rage, his grip tightening on Hera’s wrists until he expected them to snap, but she didn’t blink; she didn’t flinch. Her own stubborn Beast ready to teach an insolent pup a lesson. “I NEEDED YOU! WE ALL NEEDED YOU!”

Their fight was interrupted by groaning stone as the entrance was opened once more, but it couldn’t be Rengeir coming to check on his thane. That hunk of solid rock was too heavy for any but those bearing the Blood to manipulate. Sure enough, it was a member of the Circle—and not just any member, but the Harbinger himself. Kodlak stood in the doorway looking at them both with a deep-set frown. Rengeir was visible over his shoulder, trying to peak inside to see if Hera needed him. “Unhand my Master at Arms, Firespear, or it is I that you shall answer to,” he stated, his voice honed to a deadly edge.

Hera roared again, but it sounded more like a cry of pain than one of fury, and she shoved Vilkas away from her into the Blood Basin as she took several steps back, expression stricken. She had always burned hot—and long. When her anger set in, she was like a dog with a bone: always gnawing. She never understood the meaning of the phrase ‘let it go.’ Her longstanding silence against Freydis was only one of many examples of her legendary temper. A lot like her father that way, she was. So, Vilkas had never seen the fight melt out of her so quickly before and it touched something in his heart to see her deflate so abruptly and completely. “I know, pup,” she grumbled to Vilkas miserably, “I know.”

Kodlak’s Wolfish gaze darted between the two of them briefly before he stepped fully inside. Rengeir tried to crowd in after him, but the Harbinger shooed him away. “Your thane is fine,” he said sternly, “And will return to you when we have all spoken our piece.”

Rengeir pursed his lips and looked to Hera. “Venn?[1]” he called softly.

Hera’s head tilted in his direction. “Do as he says,” she answered, “We have much to say to each other.” The housecarl nodded reluctantly and withdrew several steps, allowing Kodlak to close the Underforge.

The Harbinger turned to face his loved ones and scowled. “I could hear you shouting through the stone,” he grunted, annoyed, “What’s the meaning of this, son?”

For Vilkas part, it took great effort to swallow his anger—particularly as a throbbing pain developed near his kidneys where his back struck the edge of the stone basin—and it felt like choking down a white-hot stone. He felt it bubble still in his gut as it cooled, and it made him sick not to release it against a willing opponent. Vilkas huffed and looked away, gathering his composure. This was not the way he had anticipated this conversation to go, though he should have known better when it came to Hera. She always pushed harder than was wise. Always. Both in the yard and in her relationships. She was a hard woman to know. A harder woman to love, but damnit all if he didn’t still admire her fight and grit. Frustrating as she was, he missed her in the halls and in the yard. She’d been such a big part of his life growing up, after all. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. “She came about the ferals and the Hand,” he answered reluctantly, “Skjor and Aela told her of them on the Hunt.”

Kodlak turned to Hera. “What did Skjor and Aela want from you?” he asked pointedly.

“My help,” Hera answered coolly.

“With the Silver Hand?”

“With the ferals.”

The old man did not answer immediately; he was surprised. “They are—worried—for the twins,” he said at length.

Hera nodded. “They say their Beasts are weak. I came to see for myself.”

“And what did you find?”

“That Vilkas has half starved his,” she spat, “How long has it been since you’ve Turned?”

Vilkas reflexively bristled, ready to start another argument, but one look from Kodlak made him choke back on his furious retort. “Six weeks,” he growled.

“Ysgramor’s fucking balls, Kodlak! A month and a half!” Of course she wouldn’t understand, Vilkas thought bitterly, She hasn’t shared council with us in years.

Kodlak’s expression darkened, brow furrowing. “I did not intend for you to find out this way,” he said, much to Vilkas’ surprise.

There was a storm in her eyes as she absorbed his words. A hundred different emotions raced across her face as she struggled to decide how to feel about what he had said. Vilkas could almost hear the thunder of her heartbreak rumble across her expression when the clouds suddenly broke and a beam of relief shone through. In the next second, she turned away from them both, guarding her pain from their prying eyes. “How did you want me to find out?” she demanded, back still turned to them, “I have suffered for this for ten years, and now you refuse the Blood!”

“I am sorry, Hera,” Kodlak said softly, “But you have never been alone. You were always welcome here…”

“AMONGST BEASTS!” she shouted, turning around; then softer, “Or so I thought.”

Vilkas’ mind reeled. “You left…” he said slowly, “Because of the Blood?”

Hera’s mouth twitched into a frown as she struggled with how to answer Vilkas. “Yes,” she said at last, “I—didn’t like what it had made of me. What I had given up because of it. I didn’t join the Companions just to be leashed by bloodthirst. I wanted to be rid of it. I thought the Circle should be rid of it. That we should stop passing it on to others.”

Vilkas’ mouth hung open in disbelief. As Second, her word carried weight. If she expressed these concerns to Kodlak, surely he had taken them seriously. He had to, didn’t he? Didn’t he? But ten years ago, they all loved the Blood too much—all of them, but Hera. He looked at Kodlak expectantly. “And I let you leave,” the Harbinger said, regretfully, “Thinking you only needed time to regain perspective.” He paused, his expression deeply pained. “But it is I, dear friend, who has gained perspective and I am sorry that I failed you, both as your Harbinger and as your friend…”

Hera struck him. Hard. Across the face. Blood collected in Kodlak’s mouth and Vilkas instantly took several steps toward them but stopped short when Hera flung her arms around the Harbinger in a tight embrace. “You fucking fool,” she breathed, “You’ve always been more to me than that. I’ve never known a brother but for you.”

Kodlak hugged her back. “There is more yet to tell you, sister,” he said, “More I hope you can forgive.”

“Tell me everything. My sword is always yours. My heart always Jorrvaskr’s.” This was definitely not how Vilkas anticipated this conversation to go, at all.


[1] Google Translate (Norwegian): Friend?

Notes:

Okay, okay, okay...where to start...

Sonja and Vilkas. I am slowly becoming more and more annoyed at how close I come to making them just make out and get it over with already, but I don't want to ruin it, because I have a lovely scene written out for them at a much more appropriate time. Still, though, we at chapter 40 and the most we get is eye-fucking and tea parties because I'm a monster. Ugh, that aside, I am taking great pains to build trust and friendship between them first, because I truly feel that it's important. Also, not all of Sonja's time is taken up by Vilkas because Sonja' relationship with her friends is also important. Particularly Faendal who has some stuff going on in his life, too. So, we get a nice bit of dialogue where Sonja is much more open with him than she has been because she does care about him.

Alchemy. So, yeah, I really thought way too long and hard about how to express alchemy in this story. In the game, it's super straight forward. Eat stuff to find out some of what it does, mix it with other stuff to see what else it does, find a combination of stuff that will make you a lot of money very quickly...then farm giants for their toes and elk for their antlers so you can make nothing but health regenerating potions and slow poisons. Did I mention I was a monster? Anyway...for alchemy, I did a mixture of what you get in game from Skyrim and what you get in game from ESO. Also, I looked up some actual alchemy solutions and threw that in there, and I happened to have taken chemistry once upon a time in college, so I loosely based Sonja's theoretical alchemical equations on the very real chemical equation process of stoichiometry. Why? Because it was fun for me, though I recognize that it might have been a bit boring to read, so I tried to make brief...ish...Sorry about that, but I hope some of you enjoyed it nevertheless.

Aldmeris. Unfortunately, there is not a good translator for Aldmeris. There just aren't enough phrases from the games or lore for a good jumping off point for it and no one has taken it upon themselves to fill in the blanks like some have done for other languages like Ta'agra. So, I got a little creative for it, by replacing it with a real world language: Greek. Although...to be fair, it's more like I am implying that Greek is Ehlnofex from which Aldmeris and Nedic evolved, more than it is Aldmeris, itself. Sonja can speak it rather well, but if she tries to speak it to a modern Altmer, they won't understand her dialect as it is so ancient, it's practically another language. Since mer are the oldest races to cultivate magical practices and Altmer the eldest amongst the mer, I figured that might linger in texts teaching those practices, so there's a lot of Ehlnofex names for compounds or phrases for spellcraft in scrolls and enchanting. Just a thought.

Hera. Yeah, turns out there is a reason why she's a grumpy old biddy, but that doesn't unravel her story entirely. More to find out with her!

I think that's all the big things I wanted to address. I can't think of anything else at the moment. Please feel free to ask if you have questions of your own. Thanks, always, for reading!

Chapter 41: Anesthetized Nightmares

Summary:

Anja gets another job for the Thieves Guild, visits the Face Sculptor, and runs into some unexpected trouble.

Notes:

Trigger Warning: self-loathing, survivor's guilt, loss of a loved one, grief, depictions of surgery and general gore, psychological nightmares related to anesthesia, physical assault, and mauling.

PoV: Anja, Delvin, and Lonely-Gale

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Anja tapped her fingers against the table impatiently as Sofie soaked in all the praise Bersi had to bestow upon such a brave and clever girl. Sofie loved every second of it, grinning from ear to ear as she spooned her breakfast into her mouth. Anja imagined the poor kid didn’t get much of that kind of attention when she was living on the street. Maybe she never received it at all for all Anja knew. Maybe her da was a right ass like mine, she thought, which seemed about right for a man more invested in his battles than his family. Fucking soldiers. Dying for every kind of noble cause but the one calling them back home…

All the warriors in her life had been forged from the same steel. Especially Thornir. Though she loved her deceased twin with all her heart, she hated how noble and good he had been because it had led him straight to an early grave. With Sonja nearly on his heels if it hadn’t been for one truly gifted healer and a lot of luck. Still—without that heart, he wouldn’t have been Thornir. He wouldn’t have been the same and she could never bring herself to wish any part of him different. Sonja, though, could be a little less arrogant. For starters…

“Tyv?” Anja started and looked at Bersi who, from the tone of his voice, must have called her name more than once to get her attention.

“What?” she asked, her voice sounding far away as if she hadn’t quite returned from her thoughts yet.

“Did you want some more?” he offered, tilting the cast iron pot in her direction, “There’s a bit left but I’m stuffed and Kit-Cat’s had her share.”

All this strange and sudden domesticity was bizarre to her, but she wasn’t opposed to a bit more; it was possibly the best porridge she’d ever eaten. True to his name, Bersi Honey-Hand seemed to have a sweet-touch that laden honey to perfect taste, but she glanced at Sofie who, possibly for the first time in a long time, was not eyeing the food on the table like it was about to disappear. “You should eat more,” she said, “You’re too little already.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sofie said happily.

Anja chuckled. “Just a little more so you’ll fit in those trousers Bersi gave you.”

Sofie liked the sound of that. “Deal.” Everything a negotiation.

Anja took what Sofie didn’t and dropped in a few forest berries and nuts. “How’s Drifa?” she asked through a spoonful of food as Bersi cleared away the table.

“Good. She’s resting,” he said, his voice so much lighter than it had been all night or the day before, “Your Kharjo-fellow said that was normal and I can’t argue. She’s been through a lot.”

“There are potions that will help put her on the mend when she wakes. I can mix a few up for you, if you like,” Anja offered.

“How much will that cost me?” Bersi still wasn’t sold that Anja wasn’t going to ask for a price—a real price—the second it suited her. He would still pay it, of course, whatever it was; she and her Khajiit friend saved the love of his life and that was worth any sacrifice. Anja wasn’t particularly interested in convincing him otherwise. She had already named her reward and received it. It was more his problem than hers if he didn’t believe some clothes for the kid was enough to appease her.

Anja shrugged. “Got books?” she asked and then looked to Sofie with mocking curiosity, “You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course I can read!” She was so indignant, it was sweet. Anja snickered. It was precisely Sofie’s ability to read that caused so much trouble in Windhelm. “Just—not big words…”

“That’s alright. We’ll get you books with stories about High Rock fairies and Cyrodiilic minotaurs with words the size of mammoths! How’s that sound?”

Sofie smiled. “I like mammoths.”

“Good. That settles it, Bersi: potions for books.”

The shopkeep looked between the two of them, bemused. “I’ll see what I can get my hands on, but you might have to settle for animal spirits of Kyne and whales in the Sea of Ghosts to start.”

“Oooo, whales!” That was fine with Sofie.

Bersi shook his head, chuckling, and went upstairs to see what he had in stock. “Will Kharjo be back later?” Sofie asked as Anja continued to eat her breakfast.

“Yes, but he’s not allowed in the city so he’s safer back at camp with the caravan,” Anja explained. The girl had been sound asleep when Kharjo snuck back out to his camp before the sun came up.

“Why’s he not allowed in the city?”

“Because the jarl said so.”

“Why did the jarl say so?”

“She—and a lot of other Nords—think the Khajiit are only thieves and cutthroats.”

Sofie’s brow furrowed as she tried to imagine Anja’s large Khajiit friend slinking through the shadows, picking pockets, and charming people the way Anja did. It just didn’t make sense to her—and Kharjo was so gentle with everyone around him like he was aware that his size and the sharpness of his claws was intimidating. Sofie thought him quite sweet. “But he helped Drifa.”

“Yes, he did.”

“So, why do people think they’re bad?”

“Because they’re assholes.”

“There’s a lot of assholes in Riften.”

Anja snorted with laughter. “That’s about the truth of it. Eat your breakfast.”


Delvin Mallory leaned back in his favorite chair at The Ragged Flagon and ruminated over his traditional breakfast ale. He stretched his old bones a little until everything cracked in the right places—and a few wrong ones that he would complain about later. Gods, I’m getting old…And stared into the ceiling thoughtfully. Windhelm. He sighed. What a godsdamn mess.

He was a man with his ear to the ground, so of course he had people just about anywhere you could imagine and a few places you couldn’t. It hadn’t been long after Tyv and Rune’s return that he knew what in Oblivion the two of them got up to running amuck through the city like idiots with death wishes instead of professionals. This is what I have to work with? Damn young thieves! No respect for the craft anymore. He had half a mind to lecture them if he was the lecturing sort, but he wasn’t, so he held his tongue while he decided if it was worth it to at least tell Brynjolf what he’d heard and let him worry about it. Danger to the Guild, really…But then again, Tyv had saved Vex and volunteered to take the job that had nearly killed her. That was impressive. Stupid, but impressive. He was curious. Maybe Bryn was right and there’s far more to the girl than a pretty face and a tight, perfect…form…for lockpicking…

He chose to drag Rune off to the side then and have a word with him, instead. Nothing serious. Just a nice chat between colleagues. Lad sang like a canary. Tyv clearly needed better help. But he was impressed, the stupidity of the situation notwithstanding, that she pulled it all off at all. Got both of them out of the city and escaped the guard, to boot? Nocturnal’s perfect, dusky tits, I haven’t had a run that good in years…Clearly, the few numbers, bedlam, and fishing jobs he tossed her way on a regular business were too easy for a woman of her skill—and luck. That was the bit he was certain was different about her. She still had a bit of luck left in her where all the rest of the Guild had run dry. So, he had her followed. As one does.

Turned out Rune hadn’t told him everything. He’d neglected to mention the kid. Bit of a spine on that one after all. Cynric asked around and got it out of the Argonians at the Bee & Barb that the girl was an orphan from ‘the frozen streets up north.’ Didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, so Delvin had a less friendly conversation with Rune about what really happened in Windhelm and got a few more extra details about Tyv’s soft spot for orphans. Cute, sickly sweet, and not unlike the start of many a thief in the business, himself included, but not exactly what he was looking for. There was something missing, still. Something else Rune wasn’t saying—or maybe something he just didn’t know.

Then the unexpected happened: Tyv pulled off Goldenglow. Without a hitch as he heard it told from Thrynn who had been listening in when she came back from those deadly islands. Bloody fucking Oblivion, Vex was livid her skills were even remotely questioned…The little Imperial sprite with more stones than any recruit he’d seen in years had gone on a suicide mission and came strutting back into the Cistern as if it had been no more strenuous than a walk along the lakeside. Had to drive Bryn wild…Delvin speculated. Brynjolf was a cocky little shit, in the best sense; his confidence was not unearned, but he was not a man of deep commitment. A woman as capricious and impulsive as Tyv precisely scratched Brynjolf’s every itch. Even if Bryn is slow to indulge—after the last one…He wasn’t a cruel man, after all, breaking a lass’ heart at the end of an affair was never something in which he took pleasure. Tyv will give him a run for his coin, that’s for sure…

One thing was for certain, though. When Tyv came back from Goldenglow alive and successful, the winds of change blew through the Cistern that night. Delvin could feel it in his creaky old bones. Fuck, I’m old…If they were going to restore the Guild back to its glory days, it had to start like that: with luck and a damn good thief. He glanced around the dismal, dank sewer and frowned. This was not how he wanted to spend his golden years, rotting away in a damp tavern over the gold pit that Riften’s Thieves Guild had become. He hadn’t left Morrowind for this. There was work to be done, if she wanted in, and something told him that an ambitious girl like her with an extra mouth to feed would always double down where others shied away. Brass tits on that one. That was the proper thief’s life. The hungry life.


Anja stared at the blank page smoothed out before her on the table and chewed on her bottom lip, thoughtfully. It had been a while since she had last picked up the charcoal or quill to draw anything. Once, her room had been plastered with her artwork in various mediums of a variety of subjects from the most mundane to something fantastical she had read or seen pictures of in Sonja’s schoolbooks. But that was long ago, when her heart had been filled with color, line, and form. She couldn’t remember creating anything since Thornir died. Maybe a lifeless, two-dimensional sketch here and there to show a place on a map or a diagram of a trap she knew was waiting for unsuspecting thief, but certainly not art. Not like what she was about to attempt, at any rate.

She tapped her charcoal against the table mindlessly. It wasn’t quite art that she was looking to create and she tried to remind herself of that to take some of the pressure off the endeavor, but every time she glanced at herself in the looking glass Bersi leant her, she felt the weight of what she was about to undertake anyway. I’m changing my face! The one she’d had all her life, that greeted her every time she looked in the mirror—that she shared with Thornir. She had her mother’s eyes and cheekbones and her father’s nose and chin. An Ironheart scowl and a Draconis smile. And, yes, she was vain enough to worry about her looks. She knew she was pretty, had profited from it, used it constantly in her work, and was not keen to lose the edge Dibella had granted her since birth.

But this wasn’t just about how attractive she was or how sentimental she was about certain features. She’d pissed off a jarl, and worse, she’d let him see her face. Perhaps ‘let’ was unfair, but she shouldn’t have been caught. She should have been better. Even if she had been flying by the seat of her pants the entire time. Irritated with her own shortcomings, she scratched at her eyebrow with an impatient flick of her finger and accidently smeared charcoal on her brow. “You got black on you,” Sofie pointed out as he slid into the seat beside her and propped her little head up on the butt of her hand.

Anja glanced at the mirror and scoffed. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Bersi clean up the shop?” she asked as she rubbed the charcoal from her face with her clean hand.

“He’s doing the books now,” Sofie answered and shrugged, “Came to see what you were up to instead.”

“Sums are important. You should ask him to teach you.” Anja twirled the charcoal in her hand, waiting for some kind of inspiration to strike, but the page remained steadfastly empty.

“They’re boring,” Sofie sniffed, “I’d much rather see what you’re doing.”

Anja sighed. “Today I go to the Face Sculptor, remember?”

“Aye.”

“Well, if I’m getting a new face, I want her to know what I want.”

“Are you going to draw it?”

“I was going to try.”

Can you draw?”

“I used to be able to, but I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Maybe you should practice first, then.”

“Oh? Have a request, do you?”

Sofie scrunched up her face, feigning thought, though they both knew damn well who she was about to suggest as a model. “Draw me!” she offered like it was the best idea she’d ever had.

Anja chuckled. “Alright, but you have to sit still until I tell you otherwise. Think you can manage?”

“I’ll try,” the little girl sighed like it was the undertaking of the era, and then she repositioned to sit more comfortably. Her precociousness was endearing, and Anja snickered a little to herself as she looked over the young girl’s smooth, round features and wide brown eyes. It was easier to draw Sofie than it was to draw the person Anja wanted to become. The lines practically pulled themselves across the page from the edge of her charcoal until a very sharp likeness began to assemble itself on the parchment. It took a little longer than she thought it would and it was nearly too long for a child’s attention span, but she was very pleased with the finished result and Sofie was flabbergasted. “It looks like me!”

“Course it does. I said I could draw, didn’t I?”

“I look older,” Sofie observed.

Anja’s brow furrowed and she reexamined her drawing. Perhaps she had gone a little too heavy on the shading of Sofie’s cheeks, thinning out the girl’s youthful roundness and making her appear much older than she really was. “I can try it again if you don’t like it,” she offered.

“No! I-it’s nice! Can I keep it?” Sofie didn’t know how to articulate what she was feeling. Years later, she would look back on that moment and give it a name, but in that second, looking at a sketch of what she might look like in a few years at an age that, until last week, she hadn’t previously thought she’d ever live to reach, all Sofie could express was her desire to keep it like a secret wish.

“It’s all yours.” She carefully picked up the drawing and ran upstairs to show Bersi of whom she was becoming increasingly fond. Anja watched her go with a little smile on her face, but it died a little as her eyes wondered back to the next sheet of blank parchment. She still had to compose her new face, but all she could see where Sofie’s adorable little features winking up at her from beyond the blank. So, she let it take her, for now, and see what lines she could conjure from the cobwebs of her forgotten talent.


“Can the kid stay with you for a bit while I take care of some business?” Anja asked as she fastened her cloak around her shoulders. Bersi was carefully going over his books, trying to determine how much gold was lost to Drifa’s habit in the recent months so he could account for it. Sofie was looking over his shoulder as he did so, her brow furrowed with interest as she tried to decipher how all the numbers he was writing fit together.

Bersi looked up. “What kind of business?” he asked.

“The kind you think and the Ratway’s no place for a child—even one as fierce as she.”

It wasn’t as if he had expected Anja’s kindness toward him to change everything (though it surely had, for him at least.) She was still a thief and she would still have her due. She was even likely to steal from him in the future. But he had hoped, and over the span of the night, he had seen a different side to her that was far gentler from the woman he thought her to be the day she first stepped foot into his shop. “She’s always welcome here,” he said, “Possibly you as well, if you can keep your fingers off my merchandise.”

Anja chuckled darkly. “I don’t get paid to be good, Bersi,” she pointed out, then added, “But I’ll make an exception for you.” He was relieved.

“When will you be back?” Sofie asked, coming around the counter.

“By lunch unless something’s amiss,” Anja answered, “Definitely before supper, though.”

Sofie’s eyes narrowed. “Will there be trouble?”

“Course not—I think,” Anja hesitated. She didn’t really know what changing one’s face required. She hadn’t even known it was possible until she joined the Thieves Guild in Riften. Such strange, powerful—and surely dangerous—magic that hooded, shifty Altmer wielded. She’d seen other customers come out of Galathil’s chambers wholly changed and completely spent. Whatever took place in that darkened room, it wore a body out. Could it exhaust someone into death? Is that why the Face Sculptor sculpted no more amongst her highbrow Altmer brethren in the Summerset Isles? Anja didn’t know. “I’ll be very tired,” she said at length, “And I won’t look myself, but you remember our secret greeting, don’t you?”

Sofie nodded. “Will you need to sleep like Drifa?”

“Maybe. For a little while.”

“Hurry back, then.”

Anja scoffed and ruffled Sofie’s hair to loud protest from the girl before slipping out into the mid-morning air. She pulled up her hood and silently moved through town as people bustled about the market. Coyly, she winked at Balimund as she approached his forge and the blacksmith grinned at her, nodding a bashful greeting. “Come to see Balimund perform miracles with steel, eh?” he said when she was near enough.

She chuckled. “To thank you, actually,” she said, “For not giving my little sprite what she wanted.”

“She’s a fiery one,” he observed.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Was there—something else you wanted? Something I can do for you?” He very much wanted there to be something unrelated to smithing that he could perform for her.

“Yes. I have a commission for you, if you’re taking new ones,” she said, “I know the jarlessa keeps you busy.”

“I’m always taking new orders,” he assured, only slightly put-out she wasn’t making a pass at him, “Might take some time if you want something fancy.”

Anja made a noncommittal head wobble as she withdrew something the likes of which Balimund had never seen before from her pocket. It was an odd bit of rusted, twisted iron, looped twice in narrow ovals. The bottom opening was wrapped with leather, closing most of it off, and the top loop was snapped near the sharpest curve of it. “It might be fancy,” she allowed, “If you can design a better one out of ebony.”

Balimund blinked and took the bit of metal from her. He turned it over in his hand curiously. “What is it?” he asked.

She took it back from him and slid all fingers but the thumb through the top loop, resting the leather-wrapped piece in the palm of her hand, and made a fist around it. The sharper, twisted metal edge aligned just over the top of her knuckles. “Packs a little extra hurt in your punches,” she explained, “Without breaking your knuckles.” She wasn’t surprised he’d never seen anything like it before. Usually such things were accomplished by adding studs to gloves or extra plating to heavy armor gauntlets, but Anja needed to keep the profile of her hand very slender in order to slip in and out of pockets. Her fingers needed to remain dexterous to pick locks. Besides, she wasn’t always wearing armor. Sometimes a mark needed to be charmed in a pretty, low-cut dress. “Girl like me needs every edge she can get in this harsh world.”

He was charmed. “Clever bit of smithing,” he acknowledged, “I could make a few improvements, ‘specially working with ebony. Stuff’s much tougher than iron and it won’t rust.”

“I should hope so. I cut my finger open when this broke.” She gestured to the place where the iron had weakened and snapped. It was a little bent, and with her fingers filling the space, Balimund could clearly see how she had likely torn open her pinky.

He nodded. “I can fix that,” he said confidently, “Give me a couple days to come up with a better design, but after that, it shouldn’t take too long to craft.”

“Two of them?” she pressed, “One for each hand?”

He smiled. “Aye, two of them. Anything else?”

“Don’t make them too bulky, but some heft is good,” she instructed, “Most of the sting comes from the bladed part—and the enchantment.”

Balimund was intrigued. “You’ll have to bring them back after enchanting so I can have a look at the finished work,” he said.

Anja grinned and removed the weapon from her hand. “Will do.”

He took the iron knuckles from her, turning it over in his hand. “Right. Let me take a few measurements and I can get started.” He took detailed notes of each of her hands with such intensity that Anja nearly accused him of merely looking for an excuse to touch her, but for the deep furrow of his brow that marked his concentration. However Balimund blushed and smiled at her, his first love was obviously smithing. When he was done, she thanked him and headed for the graveyard to the Cistern’s secret entrance.

In the Cistern, thieves milled about on their own business. As always, Niruin practiced his shot on the various targets secured to the stone walls at different heights and distances, and a new one attached to the ceiling he must have made just to spice up his routine. Cynric was in the midst of making a meal which smelled rather delicious while Thrynn and Rune played cards at the table, waiting for it to be finished. All three of them looked bored out of their minds. The rest were nowhere to be seen, but Anja assumed they were in the training rooms beyond, practicing their lockpicking or swordplay. Mercer was not at his desk, thank the Divines, and—even better—Brynjolf was absent, also. So far, so good…She made her way to the back entrance of The Ragged Flagon unbothered.

Delvin was at his usual table, drinking an ale and stealing glances at Vex from the corner of his eye. She was looking much improved, to Anja’s satisfaction, and was doing an excellent job of pretending not to notice Delvin existed. At least everything’s back to normal. The old thief’s head perked up when Anja stepped through the false cabinet and into his view, obviously anxious to see her, and waved her over. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, love,” he declared as she slid into the chair opposite him, “I was hopin’ you’d come ‘round sooner.”

Anja signaled to Vekel for a drink before she answered. “Was a bit hungover yesterday from celebrating my big success, darling,” she said, tone light and dismissive, “You understand.”

The old thief chuckled and shook his head. “Ya know, I almost believe you,” he said, “You really are somethin’.”

It took all of Anja’s self-control not to physically react to his odd statement. She smiled sweetly at him instead. “Oh? Given you reason to doubt me, have I?” she almost pouted as her drink arrived, “What a pity…”

“On the contrary, this will work out very well for us both—and the Guild, too, if it’s done right.”

Anja couldn’t help a small, amused smile. “What do you think you know, old man?” she asked and sipped her mead.

“Windhelm.”

“Oh.”

“Aye. ‘Oh.’”

She cleared her throat, eyes dancing over Delvin’s face for a quick read. He didn’t seem outright upset with her, so perhaps it wasn’t as big a problem as she feared it would be. “Rune told you, I assume.”

“Not as much as you think. I’d already ‘eard from a contact of mine.”

“You just needed him to fill in the details?”

“Took two tries before ‘e cracked.”

“That’s two more than I thought he’d last. And what did he tell you, exactly? I hope he didn’t embellish too much.” There was only one thing that she was truly worried Delvin had found out about: Hadvar and his message of Sonja. The Guild traded in a lot of things, but it didn’t pick sides in the war. It needed to survive it, no matter the outcome and it couldn’t do that if it traded secrets for the wrong army. Besides, what she had stolen from Ulfric mistakenly implicated her sister as the supposed Dragonborn and she wasn’t about to tell anyone that.

A strange look passed over the old thief’s face as he seemed to suddenly reconsider the chance that Rune had not told him everything for a second time. “A right legend of a tale of how you broke ‘im out of Ulfric’s dungeon, twisted up the guard so he could get away, robbed the Bear, ‘imself, and pulled a bit of clever trickery to get you both and the runt out of the city—aye, I know about the wee one and I don’t care. No one does.”

Her eye twitched at the mention of Sofie, but she was relieved at his indifference and general lack of knowledge concerning the full nature of her brief but memorable encounter with the Great Bear of Eastmarch. “Bit underwhelming when you lay it all out like that, but that’s the truth of it.”

“Not leavin’ anythin’ else out, love?”

She flashed a smile at him. “Course not. Why would I do that?”

Delvin was obviously unconvinced, but he just couldn’t imagine what could possibly make the whole debacle an even bigger, grander mess of attention-grabbing proportions than it already had been. If there was something she was still holding back, it was probably nothing worthwhile. Like the kid. Probably something only important to her and no one else. “So, do you ‘ave a plan to keep your brothers and sisters in crime from turnin’ you in for what I’m guessin’ is a hefty bounty?”

She sighed dismissively and pretended to pick at an invisible spec of dirt from the knee of one of her legs elegantly draped over the other. “You needn’t worry about anything coming back on the Guild. I’m sorting it. Today, in fact,” she said.

“How?”

“New face, new name.”

Delvin nodded. “That would do it,” he agreed, “Puts a bit of a damper on the job I’m offerin’ you, but what good’s a contract if you can’t even enter the city without the guard havin’ a bad reaction to that pretty face of yours?”

“What’s the job?”

“Lucky for you—and the Guild, too—your shenanigans caught the attention of some choice clientele. People are startin’ to talk about the Guild again.”

She smirked. This was working out much better than she anticipated. Maybe she should go about harassing jarls more often. No, definitely not. “Do tell.”

“I got a special job request in,” he informed her, “I haven’t gotten anythin’ like that in years.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Got word from Torsten Cruel-Sea back in Windhelm. His family has a lucrative history with the Guild…”

“What changed?” Anja asked, intrigued.

A cloud passed over Delvin’ face. “You’re new, so you don’t know…”

“It’s not a secret the Guild’s seen better days.”

“Aye, but it wasn’t just better; they was golden.” Anja smirked at the nostalgic tone in his voice. “Years ago, the Guild used to have a foothold in every major city in Skyrim,” he continued, “You wouldn’t dare even lift an apple without checkin’ with us. If there was something you wanted, we could get it for you, no trouble. Smugglers over every border.”

“But it didn’t last.” It was almost sad, his tale of a failed criminal empire, but such things happened—and often. The Imperial City Guild was all but ruined after Corvus had his way with it, but that was the key: a Guild didn’t crumble on its own. There was always something. Disaster, war, famine, anything that thinned the pockets of the populace, narrowed profit margins, and chipped away at overhead. Worst and most common amongst a Guild’s demise—and most heinous, perhaps the only thing that thieves considered remotely sacrilegious—was poor management. Anja sensed that was what was really at the heart of the Guild’s problems, and no one was willing to say it.

He sighed wistfully. “No. When things started going downhill around here, it became difficult to keep it all together. Like rats abandonin’ a sinkin’ ship, we lost fences, influential contacts, and coin.” He took a rather large swig of his ale. “It wasn’t long before we lost what we depend on to survive…”

“Respect.”

He nodded approvingly. “You’re smarter than your actions in Windhelm suggest.”

“Be nice,” she cooed, “Or I might just pass.” But she wouldn’t and they both knew it.

He chuckled and let her have her victory. “Thanks to Maven Black-Briar, we still have some pull in Riften,” he said, “It’s the only thing that’s kept us afloat over the years…”

“Playing Maven’s hired thugs,” she said with mild disgust and Delvin’s eyes narrowed.

“Careful who hears you say that,” he warned, “Maven has eyes and ears everywhere, and heartless old bitch she might be, but don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Without ‘er, we wouldn’t ‘ave a leg to stand on.”

“Yet,” she pointed out, “I expect her grip won’t be so tight if we had others willing to support us, too, hmm?”

Delvin smiled knowingly but didn’t respond one way or the other. He preferred to play it safe when it came to Maven. “Point is, Cruel-Sea’s an old friend and he’s come knockin’ again.”

“And what does our old friend want?”

“To warn us about the peak of all insults: a rival Guild is tryin’ to get itself started. In our territory. No fuckin’ respect, I tell you. Not only that, but they’re givin’ us thieves a bad name by murderin’ their marks.”

“They kill someone close to him?”

“Aye. His daughter.”

Anja frowned. She did not like that one bit for a number of reasons. First, thieves don’t kill. Aside from it being a matter of professionalism, it was one of the few moral stances Anja took—and it was such a waste. Gold wasn’t worth it if it was earned in blood, no matter how great the sum. That’s why she was a thief and not an assassin, mercenary, or bandit. Coin only glittered when it wasn’t stained. Where she took even greater issue with the job Delvin was offering, however, was that it sounded like he intended to send her alone to deal with an upstart and bloodthirsty rival Guild. That was possibly more dangerous than the job she just did at Goldenglow. “What does any of this have to do with my face?” she asked dubiously.

“Torsten made it very clear that ‘e wanted ‘that woman who made fools of the jarl and ‘is men and no one else,’” Delvin explained, “Might take a bit of convincin’ that I’m not just sendin’ him a pretender if you don’t look like yourself—but, with your silver tongue, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“He probably only vaguely knows what I look like. I was quite invisible when running through the market square.”

“Even better.”

She fell silent a moment as she sipped her drink and mulled the job over. “They need to be dealt with, I agree,” she said at length, “And I’m not opposed to weaseling my way back into Windhelm with a new face—but—are you sending me alone?”

Delvin scratched his chin thoughtfully. “If you need a bit more muscle than the average thief, you migh’ ask Thrynn,” he suggested, “He’s doesn’t ‘ave any irons in the fire at the moment, as far as I know. Cynric is good at gettin’ out of scrapes you wouldn’ expect, but he might have a job from Vex he’s busy with. Ask ‘im.”

“And if neither are available?”

“There’s a bit of gold set aside for hired help,” he said slowly, “If you need it.”

“Let’s say I do, just to be safe.”

“So, you’ll take the job, then?”

Anja hesitated briefly, warring with herself. Half her brain told her it was a stupid risk to take, especially when she was trying to lie low not just for her own sake, but Sofie’s too. Taking this job so soon after her close call in the city the week before was a big risk—and an unnecessary one. The other half of her mind relished the challenge and the guts it would take to walk back into Windhelm and pull off yet another impossible job. This is what I do. This is what I’m good at. “Of course, Delvin. What do you take me for?” she said, smirking, and then sipped her mead.


When Anja finished hammering out the details of when and how she would leave so Delvin could write to Torsten to tell him when to expect contact, she returned to the Cistern and sought out Thrynn who was eating the meal Cynric had prepared. “My sister in crime!” Rune greeted pleasantly as she approached, “What do you need?”

Anja smirked and slipped onto the bench beside Thrynn so she was directly across from Rune. Thrynn hardly glanced at her, too consumed in his food. “You’ve been talking to Delvin,” she said to Rune, pointedly, and the Imperial did his best not to look guilty.

“He’s a guild master!” he insisted, “And he’d already caught wind of most of it from his contacts in Windhelm…” She hummed, feigning disbelief. “Are you in trouble? Are we in trouble?”

Anja considered letting him sweat it out a while but decided against it; she was a busy woman. She had other, more important things to attend to. “No. He offered me a job.”

“Oh?”

“And, normally, I’d be happy to ask you along, but…”

“Oh, come on! You owe me!”

“Owe you for what? You spilled your guts the second someone asked!”

“I didn’t spill all my guts…!” At his words, Cynric suddenly became very interested in their conversation. Anja noticed and swiftly kicked Rune under the table. He hissed but seemed to realize that perhaps some of his brothers in crime might be listening in for the wrong reasons.

“Job’s in Windhelm again, anyway,” she continued, “And it was your pretty mug that got us in trouble in the first place.”

“And what about yours?” Rune pointed out, “You think the jarl will be eager to see you again?”

Anja smiled. “Let me worry about that.”

Rune grumbled to himself and took a few bites of his stew. “So, did you come here to gloat, or…?”

She sighed, propped her head in her hand, and looked at Thrynn beside her. “Actually, I’m looking for a bit of muscle and Delvin said I should ask you,” she said, catching his attention. Rune made a sound of disgust.

Thrynn paused mid-bite. “Me?”

“You.”

The rough, muscle-bound Nord grinned. “What do you need, exactly?” His voice was deep with a pleasant growl.

“We might be dealing with an unsavory, rival element,” Anja replied, vaguely.

He cocked his eyebrow, obviously wanting more information, but seemed to more or less catch onto what she was implying. “What’s it pay?”

“Even split of the commission plus whatever you can manage to steal. You get caught, though, I can’t guarantee the recovery of your goods.”

“Fair. Expenses?”

She held up a flawless sapphire. “Guild coin. This is a special request.”

He whistled long and low and then looked her up and down. “You any good in a fight?”

“Probably not as good as you, but I have my bag of tricks…”

“She bested the Bear of Eastmarch, Thrynn,” Rune interjected glumly, “She’s more than decent in a fight.”

Anja shrugged a shoulder. “Like I said: I have my bag of tricks.”

Thryn chuckled. “Sounds like an enticing offer.”

“You up for it?”

“You’ve been bringing in a lot of coin for the Guild,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “Been making us look good too. Damn good work at Goldenglow—and what you did for Vex…” He nodded. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.” She held out her hand and he took it, shaking firmly. “We leave in a few days. If you need potions, let me know.” She looked passed him to Cynric. “How about you?” she asked, “You free for the next week?”

“I’ve got a few jobs going for Vex, sorry,” he said with a tone of voice that strongly suggested he was not actually sorry for anything, “I’m busy.”

“Your loss,” Anja sniffed, “Looks like it’s just me and you, Thrynn.”

The burly thief shrugged and clapped Cynric on the back. “Fewer shares,” he reasoned, “More for us.” The smaller Breton thief sneered at him but said nothing.

“I feel your pain, Cynric, brother, I feel your pain,” Rune opined.

“Next time, dear,” Anja mockingly assured, patting Rune’s cheek, “When your face is less recognizable.”

He made a face at her but winked. “Bring me back something pretty.”

“Something to bring out the color of your eyes,” she suggested, but quickly pulled away as Rune attempted to grab at her hand to place an equally mocking kiss upon it. “Have to run, boys. Thrynn, it’s been a pleasure.” She swiftly stood from her seat to groans from Rune still lamenting being left behind and headed back toward The Ragged Flagon. Only she turned right as soon as she passed back through the false cabinet doors and entered the Ratway Vaults.


The Vaults were as dank and dark as the rest of the Ratway with the exception that it was better maintained by the Guild. A lot of passageways in and out and through the city intersected down there, so it was kept clear of debris if nothing else. A few harmless crazies claimed random hovels in the darkest corners, and sometimes one could hear the echoing of their whispers as they skittered across the stone walkways with the Skeevers. It was eerie and Anja could hear a few unsettling murmurs of laughter bubble up from the lower levels from where she stood just inside the door leading back to the tavern. It made her skin crawl.

The first and highest level of the Vaults was about as clean as The Ragged Flagon and mostly served as storage for Vekel. One of the rooms along the walls was fitted with a solid steel door to which only Tonilia had the key. Behind it, the fence kept her precious stock of smuggled and stolen goods. Another space housed kegs of alcohol and extra furniture. The alcove Anja was headed for was covered by thick purple velvet drapes hung upon a golden rod. She imagined that it was meant to look grand, especially against the filthiness of the sewer, and perhaps did once, long ago, but the rod was tarnished now, and the drapes were mildewed and torn. They looked more sinister than inviting.

Anja took a deep breath and pushed the fabric aside to reveal nothing but pitch-black darkness. Her brow furrowed as she glared inside, trying to catch any hint of shape or movement. “Do we have an appointment?” a very haughty female voice asked, but it didn’t sound like it was coming from beyond the curtain. It sounded like it was everywhere.

Grip tightening on the curtains, Anja nearly withdrew and spun around to see from where the voice was coming, but she stopped herself and took a steadying breath. She’d lived with Sonja almost all her life; she knew when there was magic in the air and the Vaults were thick with it at that moment. “No, but I’d love to engage your services, Galathil.” Anja forced brightness into her tone.

“You are with the Guild.” It was not a question.

“I am.”

“I remember seeing you around the Flagon, but you—do not linger often.”

“Why would I want to linger in the Flagon?”

“Why, indeed?” She sounded amused which Anja took as a good sign.

“May I come in?”

A pause. “No one is stopping you.”

Anja hesitated, then ran her finger over her earing and stepped inside. The curtains swung closed behind her, plunging her into complete darkness. Even with Nigh Eye, she couldn’t make out a thing. “I appreciate a flair for the dramatic, but I prefer to look someone in the eye when I’m procuring their services…” Anja said. Her voice sounded very loud to her own ears in the silent void.

A loud snap cut through the air and cleared the thick, gloom from the room like smoke. Anja jumped at the sound, startled, and then glanced, half-blind from the sudden light, around the room which was much larger than she had expected. Quickly, she dismissed the Night Eye spell and blinked. She found herself in a cozy little living space with a few pieces of worn, but well-made furniture and silver candlesticks. It was not dark and damp, but dry and pleasantly comfortable with a little fire flickering in a large brazier. A lone Altmer in worn ruby robes stood across from her, a comfortable distance away. Her raven black hair was piled neatly upon her head in braids and twists befitting a highborn lady and her deep, emerald eyes observed her visitor with unsettling dispassion. Anja recognized the mer as Galathil, the Face Sculptor, though it was the first time she’d seen her without her hood drawn. She was quite beautiful in a distinctly dangerous sort of way than made Anja feel exceedingly uncomfortable. “No one sees your face when they hire you,” Galathil pointed out.

“Depends on the job.”

“A job gone wrong, is it?” Galathil sounded disappointed, “The wrong people got a glimpse of something they shouldn’t?”

“You don’t need to know why,” she pointed out, “You just need to take my coin and give me a new face.”

Galathil rolled her eyes, obviously annoyed. “I once practiced my art in the salons and manors of Tamriel’s greatest,” she lamented more to herself than to Anja, “Now, the scum of Skyrim are my only clients.” She frowned and looked her new client over. “No matter. The greatest artists are never recognized in their own time.”

“So, we have a deal then?” Anja prompted instead of goading her. She wanted to be gone from the Face Sculptor’s sight almost as much as she suspected the mer wanted her gone.

“Yes, yes. We have a deal. Seven hundred and fifty septims with the Guild discount.” Anja held out a fat coinpurse filled with gold and gems. Galathil took it from her as if she had been handed something distasteful and turned to face the wall immediately behind her. With a grand wave of her hand, the stone seemed to ripple and then reveal an archway into another room. Neat trick. Sonja would be envious. “Follow me,” the mer prompted as she gracefully walked into the next chamber.

The second room was less welcoming than the first, but the furniture was still smoother and sturdier than anything in The Ragged Flagon. At the center was a large table draped with a yellowing white sheet, but no chairs. A workbench with an alchemy lab and other ominous looking—instruments—was pushed up against one wall where there were other cabinets with glass doors displaying dozens of bottles of varying size and color and shelves of spell tomes and scrolls. There was a bench, wardrobe, and chest at the far end beside a changing screen. This must be where the, uh, sculpting takes place…Anja looked around apprehensively, feeling thoroughly out of her element.

Galathir went to a nearby cabinet and retrieved another sheet which she handed to Anja. “Go behind the screen and remove all of your armor and weapons. You can store them in the chest and wardrobe back there if it suits you.” She paused, taking in Anja’s suspicious expression. “Don’t worry. I have no interest in robbing you. But it is rather difficult to do my work while you are clothed—and I do not think you want blood all over your things.”

“Blood?”

Galathil looked supremely amused. “Yes, of course. How did you think this was going to happen?” Certainly not like that. Anja looked again to the tools lined up on Galathil’s workbench and nearly ran from the room, panicked, but she didn’t. Instead, she reminded herself that every client she had seen walk into Galathil’s chambers always walked back out changed. It’s this or prison…or worse…and she swallowed her fear, wadded Galathil’s sheet up in her hands, and walked to the back of the room to change.

“I’ll just be a moment.”

“Take your time.” She didn’t see the curious expression the Altmer mage gave her as she did so.

While behind the screen, Anja heard the gentle clink of glass as Galathil searched through one of her cabinets. She tried not to focus on the sound or what it was the mer could be looking for in her collection of potions and Divines knew what else. Like a kid trying her best to avoid doing chores, Anja took her sweet time removing every article of armor and clothing until she was fully naked behind the screen. She managed to squeeze out another few minutes wrapping and rewrapping the sheet in creative ways around her body until she felt she could stall no longer. It was an intensely uncomfortable moment of vulnerability for Anja when she finally stepped out from behind the screen wrapped in the stained sheet and nothing else. Carefully, she arranged her gear and clothing in the nearby chest and slowly approached Galathil with only a folded piece of parchment clutched in her hand.

The mer didn’t look at her right away until she was almost within arm’s length and then her gaze roved over every inch of Anja’s body and face with critical study. “Whole body or just the face?” she asked after a moment.

“Just the face—unless…”

“Unless what?”

“You can remove scars?”

“I can remove them, alter them, and give you new ones.”

Anja nodded. “There’s a scar on the bottom of my foot I want gone. Otherwise, just the face.”

Galathil glanced toward Anja’s feet. “Get up on the table so I can have a look.”

Anja hesitated a heartbeat before complying. The wood creaked beneath her weight, but the table did not wobble. Awkwardly, she lifted her foot to Galathil’s inquiring gaze. The Face Sculptor’s brow furrowed and for a brief moment of fear, Anja wondered if she somehow knew what it meant. “Well…?”

“That’s deep,” Galathil said, voice flat, “Not much skin surrounding it to work with, but—I can minimize its presence.”

“You said you could remove it.”

“I did not know you had been branded.”

Anja put her foot down. “Just—do whatever you can.”

“Any other identifying marks you’d like to get rid of? I can remove tattoos as well.”

Instinctively she covered the little Imperial dragon inked onto her wrist with her other hand. “No.”

“And your face?”

Immediately, Anja held out the piece of parchment. Galathil quirked an eyebrow but accepted it and neatly unfolded the page to be greeted by a sketch of a stranger’s face. “Like that,” she answered, “I want to look like that.”

Galathil looked at the drawing for a long time, studying it. “Who is she?” she asked at length.

“No one. I drew her.” After much anguish and several failed attempts.

“She’s—beautiful.”

“I can’t afford to be ugly. Not in my line of work.”

“The eyes are too similar, though. Would you like me to change them?”

“No. Take a little artistic liberty where you need to, but my eyes must stay the same.”

Galathil looked away from the sketch to study Anja again. “Color too?”

“Yes.”

“As you wish. Hair?”

“Long. Auburn.”

The Face Sculptor nodded and neatly refolded the drawing. “I think I have everything I need,” she said and retrieved a vial from her workbench. “Drink this,” she instructed.

Anja did and it was sicky sweet like honey with something extra floral in the mix. Nightshade? she suspected but couldn’t be sure as the world very quickly began to cloud around her. She swayed, but Galathil caught her and eased her down to lay flat across the table. “Wha…?!” she garbled.

“Shh, be still,” the mer soothed with strange gentleness, “You will only sleep for a little while so you don’t feel the pain and when you wake—you will wake a new woman.” If only it were that easy…Anja thought wistfully as she slipped into unconsciousness, To unmake what’s already so…damaged…


Galathil took her time with the young Guild member, carefully drawing her likeness with clinical attention to detail. She was lucky enough to have been blessed with some measure of natural beauty. Many were not so lucky. Galathil, herself, had not been so lucky. Her own face had been sculpted by the hands of a genius and her former mentor who had been obsessed with perfection and beauty. Noble sentiments to pursue, but ultimately unfulfilling to Galathil. She wanted more. She wanted soul and substance and art—and sometimes art was grotesque. Hence why she was forced from her position down into the lowly underbelly of a filthy Nord city. The singular downside to flesh sculpting over something less animated was mundane clay never complained or shrieked in horror when formed into something grim yet sensational.

Now, her hands were tied by necessity. She could not risk alienating the few clients she had managed to attract with her own artistic desires. If they wanted to be beautiful—and they almost always wanted that—she would make them beautiful. If they wanted to disappear in a crowd, she would make them unremarkable. If they wanted the smallest adjustments made to their noses, chins, or smiles, she’d tweak their features into their ideal of perfection. It was unsatisfying, but it was work. Coin put bread on her table and paid for her ingredients and supplies. Brought so low by one idiot model whose highest aspiration was to be my greatest masterpiece. And the fool could not conceive it.

But this Guild girl was different. She was filled with so much personality already; her skin was lived in and marked by the brushstrokes of her experiences. It was such a rare, natural sight of loveliness like a sunset on a cloudy evening or the auroras on the moonless night. For once, it felt a little wrong to tamper with what Dibella had already mastered, but the girl wanted to be different—needed to be different, if Galathil was reading between the lines correctly. And she had already selected her new face. Created it with an eye for detail that would have made her an excellent candidate for study in the art of flesh sculpture, herself. Galathil consulted the drawing one last time. It is an excellent replacement, she decided and then she took up her razor and made the first cut.


“Of course it’s you, out of all of us, to do this first,” Thornir says, his expression distant as we sit on the end of a dock on the Waterfront and watch the ships sail in.

“Do what?” I ask and pull my legs up to my chin, wrapping my arms around them and trying to make myself small.

“Carve a new face.”

“You know about that?”

He nods and points to the next pier over. It’s far enough away that it’s difficult to make out, but I recognize the table with the yellowing sheet positioned there on the end of the dock. I can see my body—at least I think it’s my body—sprawled limp across the table, naked and uncovered and—faceless. The Face Sculptor hovers over me, her hands soaked with my blood as she pulls and twists bone and muscle into place there in the breeze and dying light of the sun. A wave of nausea crashes against me and I have to look away, back to Thornir. “Did I—I messed up again, didn’t I?” I whisper to him.

He smiles that same smile that belongs to both of us—or used to. “No, Kit-Cat,” he promises, “It’s not wrong. You’re not wrong.”

“We won’t have the same face, anymore…”

“We’ll always have the same heart. That’s what matters.” I begin to cry, so angry with my own stupid decision to cut away the last remnants of my brother. How did I not see? Can I take it back? Please, let me take it back…! He grabs my hand. “Sh-sh-shh,” he soothes and I’m not sure if I ever spoke the words aloud, “I’m not gone. I’m not gone. You don’t have to make yourself a monument to me.”

I hug him, hard and long, because I need to know he’s really there, solid on the planks next me. He feels real. His arms are strong, a strange reminder that he wasn’t a child when—when…“Gods, it should have been me,” I whisper into his shoulder, weeping, “If Mara had mercy, it would have been me…”

He squeezes just enough to let me know he’s about to speak and I still as much as my sobs allow. “But you have so much left to do,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, “By Talos, you don’t even know how much.”

“I don’t care. I want you back.”

“Kit-Cat?”

“Yes?”

“You’re braver and stronger than you know. Don’t forget that, alright?”

I press my eyes closed and try to hold onto him tighter, but I can already feel him disappearing. The substance of his body seems to dissolve in my grasp. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not gone.” But then he is and I’m clutching at nothing and wailing into the darkness now that the sun has set. A blood moon rises and I suddenly I can feel the pain in my face.

Anja sat bolt upright on the table, clutching at her chest and face. She was alone in Galathil’s lab and there was no sign of blood on the sheets or her skin. It was just a dream, she told herself, It was just a dream. But it hadn’t felt like one. What in Oblivion was in that potion she gave me? Exhausted and disoriented, she looked around, searching for the Face Sculptor, herself, to no avail. Gracelessly, she flung her legs over the edge of the table and attempted to stand only to plummet straight to the floor in a heap of sheets and silken auburn hair.

She stilled at that realization as it sunk in slowly and grabbed a fistful of the strands in disbelief. So, it’s done. She had a new face now. Carefully, she felt out her features, but it was difficult to tell how different they had become. She wasn’t in the habit of memorizing her face by touch, so everything felt normal: two eyes, one nose, one mouth, a chin. Different was another story. Trembling, she attempted to stand again, but found it nearly impossible, so she crawled toward the back of the room were her things were stashed. About halfway there, she crawled right out of the sheet and dragged her naked body across the cold floor.

Galathil returned by the time she reached the trunk. “Mara have mercy, I am gone five minutes…” she sighed and there was an impatient clatter as she hurriedly set something down on her workbench, but it was beyond Anja’s vision. The sound of her footsteps approaching sent a strong and irrational jolt of fear through Anja and she tried to shrink against the stones to keep the mer from touching her. It didn’t work, obviously. Galathil’s fingers wrapped around Anja’s upper arms and hoisted her to her feet. It was a graceless, cumbersome action as it was clear that Galathil was not accustomed to lifting anything much heavier than a full pitcher of water, but she managed it get Anja to the bench through clever use of Anja’s disoriented flailing. Once seated with relative safety, Galathil went to the wardrobe and removed a plain dress of rough fabric. “Here, put this on,” she said, “Your gear will be too heavy to wear until you’ve recovered your strength.”

Anja held onto her face with one hand and took the dress in the other. “My face?” she grumbled.

The mer stilled. “It’s done,” she answered softly, “I did as you asked.”

Anja nodded glumly and her eyes watered. “Can I see it?”

Galathil canted her head. “Of course.” She returned to her workbench while Anja pulled the dress over her head. The garment was loose and too long for her height, but it covered her nakedness, so she didn’t complain. A moment later, Galathil was at her side again, offering a silvered mirror. “Some of my best work,” she said as if to reassure her.

With trembling hands, Anja took it and, after steeling herself, looked at her reflection. It was hands down one of the strangest experiences of her life. Her drawing was made real in the glass—on her face. She touched her new features in disbelief. Her appearance was far more Nordic than it had been before: big and robust but still delicate. She’d easily pass for a local beauty if she could pull off the accent consistently. But her eyes—thank Mara, the Face Sculptor listened. Those were her eyes staring back at her beneath the sharp slant of copper eyebrows, and that was the most comforting thing she could see in her new reflection because there certainly was no other trace of what she had once been. I’m not gone. So he wasn’t, and neither was she.

“Are you pleased with it?” Galathil asked after Anja had stared at herself in total silence for an excruciating amount of time—at least to her.

“I am,” she said numbly, and she was not displeased with the results, just overwhelmed by them.

Galathil nodded as if that was enough and handed her a cup of clear liquid. “Drink this,” she instructed, but Anja was not so quick to consume anything the Altmer offered, “It’s only water.”

Anja was parched. She felt as though she hadn’t had anything to drink for days. That thought sparked some panic. “How long have I been out?” she asked and accepted the water.

The Face Sculptor hesitated. “Most of the day,” she admitted, “You were proving resistant to the sleeping draught, so I had to give you another dose—and you had a reaction to it…”

“A reaction?”

“Your heart stopped beating.”

“WHAT?”

“Only for a moment. I brought you back.”

Thoughts of Thornir swirled through her head. “Is that—normal?” she asked softly.

“It’s not unheard of,” Galathilr replied diplomatically, “But—it has only ever happened on my table once before.” Anja nodded mutely, her mind struggling to grasp what happened to her, the possibilities of it. I need to sleep. I need to get back to Sofie. She drank her water and set the cup on the bench beside her. Galathil claimed it and went for a refill. “As a result of your—experience—you are weaker than expected. I do not think you can leave under your own power. Do you have someone who can help you home? An associate from the Guild, perhaps?”

“No,” she muttered, “I have no one.” She rubbed her face as if she could scrub away the lingering fugue of the sleeping potion. “I have stamina potions. I just need to get dressed.”

Galathil opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. If the Guild girl wanted to stumble delirious through the streets, that was her prerogative. She had already done her part and accepted her fee. “As you wish,” and she took Anja the cup of water before disappearing through another archway in the adjacent wall that Anja was certain had not been there when she first arrived.

Alone again, Anja drank the water in large gulps and gingerly made her way to the chest. Opening it and staring down at the neat arrangement of her gear, she knew she would not be able to get back to Bersi’s without help. But she was an Ironheart and they were a stubborn family. So, she dressed herself slowly. The weight of each layer covering her body felt multiplied on her already heavy limbs and she was amazed by how much her typically very light leathers felt like lead at that moment. She flung her cloak over her shoulders, stowed away her knives and thanked her lucky stars she had decided to leave her bow and quiver at Bersi’s. Only her clawed ebony mace dangled off her belt with her coinpurse.

Dressed, she made a valiant attempt for the exit—only to stumble, fall, and lie very still on the floor while she considered her life choices. Galathil returned and rolled her eyes before she stooped and helped Anja to her feet again. “I do not tell you to rest for my own benefit,” she chastised, “Your sense of balance is not…”

“You are quite lovely, you know,” Anja interrupted, unaware that she was speaking aloud.

Galathil’s expression flattened. “I should hope so. This face was perfected by masters.”

“Do you ever miss it?”

“What?”

“Your old face?”

The Face Sculptor’s expression grew pensive. “No. I was but a blank canvas, then. Too young to have lived in my skin long enough to miss it.”

“Can it be undone?”

“Not for me and I do not wish it, but you—it is not uncommon to fear what has changed. The sleeping draught makes you weary in body and soul. After a rest, you will feel differently.”

Anja nodded despondently, exhausted. “I should go,” she agreed, picked herself up from the floor, and swayed through the archway. Galathil wondered if she would see the Guild girl ever again or if she would be swallowed up by the shadows lurking in the Ratway. She hoped not. That was some of the best work she’d done on a face since she took up residence in the Vaults. It would be a shame to see it go to waste.


No one paid Anja any mind when she slipped into The Ragged Flagon. She was mostly obscured by the darkness of the hallway and her hood, so she chugged a stamina potion and stumbled through the false cabinet and into the Cistern. Luckily, thieves tended to be a self-absorbed lot when they weren’t on the job. She made it halfway to the exit before anyone noticed her, and, with her hood drawn, no one noted her face. Half-hearted or distracted greetings were flung her way which she responded to with throwaway gestures that vaguely resembled a wave. Once, she thought she heard Brynjolf’s voice say something to her, but she couldn’t focus on it and didn’t hear it a second time, so she pressed on to the ladder and tried to prepare herself for the seemingly monumental task of pulling her body up and into the graveyard.

It was an agonizingly slow process that required a rest halfway up and the use of another stamina potion, but she managed it and crawled up the remaining stone steps of the mausoleum until she was lying on the cool grass of the graveyard and staring up into the auroras of the night sky. It was lovely. She almost fell asleep right there, huddled in her cloak. I promised Sofie, she reminded herself, And I’m already late. Standing required the aid of a nearby headstone, but once she was on her feet again, she began a slow shuffle towards Bersi’s store. She cut through the Temple of Mara’s courtyard and paused to rest against the gate when the strangest sensation overcame her.

A wind. No, a breeze. A strong breeze fluttered over her skin, carrying the sharp smell of sea salt. Cleaner and fresher than anything a person could smell at the docks, and cold. It was so much colder than Riften’s relatively temperate climate. She wondered if it was part of her dream crossing over into reality again. She had been at the docks with Thornir, hadn’t she? Wasn’t I?—though it hadn’t been cold. It hadn’t been cold…but the thought was ill-formed in her mind as she started stumbling forward again, guided by her determination if nothing else. The buildings looked annoyingly similar to her tired eyes in the growing dark.

“You lost, sweet thing?”

Anja froze a little like doe that heard leaves rustle in the forest. Everything about that voice made her skin crawl. That was sleaze, pure, plain, and simple. Her eyes locked onto the man leaning against the side of The Bee & Barb. A Nord, big as any, and clad in furs. His face was familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place it in her current state of mind. He was grinning at her, arms crossed over his chest, completely at ease even as he set every nerve in Anja’s body on edge. What did he have to fear of her, after all? She took another stamina potion, her last, and rested her hand on her mace. Just in case.

He laughed at her. “No need to get so worked up, girl,” he said, “I’m only being friendly to a woman alone.”

“I’m not alone,” she replied automatically as she continued to edge toward her destination. It wasn’t far. Just beyond the inn and around the corner, come on…

The man looked her up and down and then around the empty city streets from where she came. “You look alone,” he pointed out.

“A thief is never alone in this city,” she bluffed.

“You’re with the Guild, are you?” he asked with disdain, “Then this is going to be all the sweeter when I take all that Guild coin off your…”

And then someone cold clocked her from the shadows. Stars exploded through her vision and she reeled. She grunted in pain, her reactions slow as she fell sideways, straight into the ground, stopped by the railing over Plankside. “Damnit, Hewnon! I wasn’t done talking to her.”

“Now she knows we’re serious.”

Hewnon and Drahff. Ratway scum even the Guild doesn’t want. Anja realized who they were then and thoroughly regretted taking such great pains to avoid conflict with them when she first joined up with the Guild weeks before. She glared at them both as Hewnon stepped out of the shadows to stand beside his associate and wondered why they’d chosen to come up from the Ratway. “Why don’t you boys piss off before the guard comes around?” she suggested, propping herself up on her elbow and subtly shifting to spring to her feet in a moment—hopefully. Everything was still fuzzy. “Go back to the sewers where you belong?”

Drahff kicked at her ribs and she was not prepared for the painful loss of breath; she crumpled beneath his boot, wheezing. “Guard’s light tonight,” he said, “Stormcloaks are gathering for something big for the war. It might be a while before anyone comes around to help you, sweet thing.” He moved toward her.

Reflexively, she took a vial from her belt and smashed it as hard as she could into the ground. The glass shattered beneath the force of her hand, shards embedding in her palm as thick plumes of smoke exploded from between her fingers. It was noxious and choked both Anja and her assailants, but she hastily crawled away, pulling herself toward The Bee & Barb entrance. “Where do you think you’re going?” Hewnon coughed and blindly grabbed at her through the smoke finding purchase on her boot. His hand clamped down and pulled her back toward him.

In the haze, she kicked and punched and swung her mace. She connected with Hewnon a few times, but then the smoke began to clear a little and Drahff joined the assault, pinning one of her arms to the ground. He tried to grab at the mace, but she managed to hook it behind his ankle and trip him up. With a grunt, he fell backwards onto his rump, freeing her hand again, and she swung at Hewnon’s legs in the hopes of pulling his base out from under him as well, but he avoided the grapple of her weapon. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of her now long hair—Mara’s ass, fucking long hair!—pulling her upright as his fist wound back to strike her—when the biggest bear of a war dog Anja had ever seen came barreling out of nowhere and latched onto Hewnon’s arm. He yelled in pain and surprise as the dog tackled him to the ground.

Anja scrambled backward until her back was pressed against the railing again while Hewnon’s screaming increased as the dog fiercely began to shred the flesh of his arm. Drahff panicked and scrambled to his feet; he aimed a kick at the dog and connected, but the beast hardly seemed to notice him until he drew his sword. There was a sharp whistle through the air then and the dog released Hewnon in order to assess a new threat. “I’d rethink challenging Rahna, if I were you,” said a man, a stranger, as he approached them with his hood up and his own weapon drawn, “We’ve had a long journey and she’s quite hungry.”

Drahff stilled and glanced between the dog and her owner several times, unsure of who to fear more. Slowly, he shrank away a half step while Hewnon whimpered at his feet in a pool of his own blood, arm brutally mauled. The dog—Rahna—licked her bloodied chops menacingly as if to drive her master’s statement home. Drahff knew the fight was lost and only wanted to get as far away from the newcomer and his hound as possible. Especially the war dog. His grip tightened on his sword and he looked down at his fallen associate, apparently weighing the benefit of helping him before deciding he wasn’t worth it. “You ain’t seen the last of us, girlie,” he growled at Anja in a futile attempt to recover some semblance of his pride before turning to run away. Spitefully, Anja tripped him, and he fell flat on his face, possibly breaking his nose, but she couldn’t tell before he scampered away, abandoning Hewnon to whatever fate the stranger deemed appropriate.

But Anja’s unknown rescuer was no longer interested in Hewnon. “Rahna, guard,” he commanded, and the dog clamped hungry eyes on the injured man who was unsuccessfully attempting to stop the bleeding. The stranger stepped over him, seemingly unconcerned and knelt before Anja. She edged away from him, distrustful. “Are you alright?” he asked, kindly, and pushed back his hood to finally reveal his face.

Anja’s breath hitched when her eyes were able to focus on him fully. He was a Nord, undoubtedly. Handsome. Fair coloring with sea gray eyes, long black hair pulled back from his face in a low ponytail, and a thick black beard. He was an older gentleman, by no means elder, but the gap in their ages felt very real to her as she examined his features—features that very strongly reminded her of someone else. Thornir…he looked like the man her twin might have become had he lived passed the age of seventeen. No, it’s the sleeping potion fucking with me. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and breathed deep, but when she looked at him again, he was still there, unchanged. “I’m fine,” she mumbled and straightened against the railing, wanting nothing more than to get away from her rescuer.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, gesturing to her hand, “And…” He reached into her space to brush her hair aside but stopped when she flinched away from him. “You have a gooseberry forming on your temple.” He withdrew his hand. “One of them strike you?”

“Yes, but your hound’s nearly chewed his arm off, so…” Her gaze darted to Hewnon who was growing pale from blood loss before returning to the stranger.

He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “It’s my first night in Riften,” he said without looking at her, “I’ve no wish to pay a blood price.”

“Better help him then.”

“Aye, I better,” he agreed, but he didn’t immediately move away. Instead, he lingered and produced a flask from his belt. “Here.” He offered it to her. “Drink this. It will help your head.”

Anja eyed it suspiciously. “A potion would do better.”

“That it would.” He nodded. “But I have to pick the glass out of your hand before we go sealing up your wounds.” Anja still did not take it from him, so he pulled the top off and took a swig himself to demonstrate that it was safe, that he was not trying to hurt her. “It will help with the pain,” he said gently and offered it to her again.

Slowly, she took it from him and sniffed the contents. It was definitely alcoholic, but not strong. She sipped enough to taste, and her brow furrowed. It was water-whiskey with a touch of something else. She had to take a second sip to identify it as blue mountain flower. “Your drink’s gone a bit off,” she informed him, but took another, larger swig. Between the healing power of the flower and the gentleness of the watered-down whiskey, it was a clever little mixture to ease small pains without the expense of a fully brewed potion.

Her reaction made him smirk and he sidled away from her to tend to Hewnon with whom he was far less gentle. “It’s an old sailor’s trick,” he explained as he pulled Hewnon’s belt loose and used it to tourniquet his arm, “Whiskey keeps the water clean and a little added curative keeps the body healthy.” He produced a proper potion from his bag then and poured half of it into the shredded flesh of Hewnon’s arm and the other half down his gullet.

“So, you’re a sailor then?” Idly, she wondered if he brought the sea breeze with him and then smiled at the absurdity of such a thought.

“Was. A long time ago. Old habits.”

“Ship’s medic?” she asked, watching the perfunctory way he tended to his adversary’s wounds.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, “When we were shorthanded, I filled in for a lot of odd jobs.”

Anja took another drink and leaned her head back against the railing to stare into the sky alight with the shifting colors of the auroras. “What should I call you, sailor?” she asked softly and prayed that it would not be a name to haunt her the way his face did.

“Llyr,” he replied, and she made an audible sigh of relief, “Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale.”

“Captain?” she repeated and started to giggle as she slid sideways and onto her back, “I’ve been saved by a ship’s captain?” This was endlessly amusing to her for some reason. Sofie’s going to love this…

Llyr glanced at her, bemused. “I make my whiskey-water a little stronger than others, but I didn’t think there was enough in that to addle you.”

“I was addled already. By a beautiful Altmer mage,” Anja informed him and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Why not hang a sign around your neck begging people to take advantage of you? She cleared her throat and gingerly pushed herself back up into a sitting position. “I should go.”

The Captain immediately abandoned Hewnon to catch Anja before she fell over the railing in her attempt to stand. “That mer addled you good,” he commented, sounding vaguely amused, and relieved her of his flask, “Let’s get you inside and tend to that hand in the light.”

“I have to go home.”

“I’ll take you home, then.”

“I can manage myself.”

“My lady…”

“Raef.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Raef and I’m not your lady.”

He hesitated, expression unreadable. “Raef, I don’t doubt you manage just fine every other night. Even four to the floor, you were giving them a bad time when I showed up, but you’re stumbling and bleeding, and that other milk-drinker still wishes harm on you. I only want to see you safely home. Without expectation.”

He was still holding onto her because she was swaying so badly, but he wasn’t pressing her up against him like a man looking for a reward for his good deed. He was just steady and waiting like his dog behind him. It was hard for Anja to get a proper read off him in such a broken state of mind, but she suspected that he might just be that rare person who did things simply because they were the right thing to do. Like Thornir which was endearing…like Sonja which made her want to roll her eyes…Just not me which made her heart hurt. “What about him?” she asked and jerked her head toward Hewnon.

Llyr was obviously unconcerned. “He’ll keep long enough to be found—might lose the arm, but he’ll live.”

Anja pursed her lips but then nodded. “Alright,” she relented, “I could use a little help.”

He steadied her as she made her way toward Bersi’s shop but didn’t paw or grab. Rahna trotted behind them, fluffy tail wagging happily like she hadn’t just mauled a man half to death. They reached The Pawned Prawn very quickly with Llyr’s helping hand. Light burned within, shining through the windows. “Here we are,” she said and tried the latch. It was locked. “Balls.” She hammered on the door with her injured hand.

There was some shuffling and then Bersi’s voice called from within, “Sorry, we’re closed. Come back in the morning!”

“It’s me, Bersi,” she shouted back, “Let me in.”

The sound of metal scraping against metal announced Bersi unlocking the door. Then it swung back, revealing the man, himself, who gawked at the sight of the changed woman standing in his doorway. “Look at you,” he breathed in disbelief.

Anja winked and held a bloodied finger to her lips. “Ran into a bit of trouble on the way back from my experience with Galathil,” she explained, “Just a scuffle.”

Bersi nodded and tried to appear unbothered, but he was staring at her with such wonder, it was becoming uncomfortable. “A-and this isn’t trouble, is it?” he asked, worried and pointing to Llyr.

“No…” Anja began.

“Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale at your service,” he introduced and held his hand out to Bersi to shake.

“He helped me out of trouble.”

The shopkeep blinked. “Captain Lonely-Gale,” he repeated, “The Captain Lonely-Gale.” He enthusiastically shook hands with the captain.

Anja cocked an eyebrow and turned to look at the man who was apparently well known enough to warrant an article before his name. He looked embarrassed to be recognized. “Don’t think there is another,” he replied, humbly, “I didn’t think anyone would know my name this far south…”

“I used to be a sailor, myself, sir! Out of Dawnstar in my youth! Please, come in! Come in!” Bersi ushered, excited, and stepped aside to allow them entry. Anja’s night was just getting stranger and stranger, but she couldn’t process it at that moment. She needed to see Sofie and then get a good night’s sleep. They slipped inside. Bersi nearly closed the door on Rahna, but she barked, alerting him of her presence. “Oh, sorry,” he muttered, letting her in, and immediately felt foolish for apologizing to a dog.

“Where’s Kit?” Anja asked as she stumbled and leaned heavily against the counter.

No sooner did she ask, did the ten-year-old in question come zipping into the room and flung herself at Anja. “You said there wouldn’t be trouble,” Sofie breathed into her chest.

“I was wrong. I’m here now.”

Sofie pulled back far enough to look up into Anja’s new face. “It really you?” she demanded and held her forearm out, little hand balled into a fist.

Anja chuckled and struggled to remove her glove and bracer to reveal the tattoo on her wrist. She couldn’t quite make a fist with the glass still embedded in her palm, but she pressed the mark against Sofie’s wrist, forming an ‘x’ between them. “Told ya I’d be back, little Kit,” she said and then leaned forward to whisper the rest in her ear, “Anja always keeps her promises.”

Sofie flung her arms around Anja’s shoulders that time, dragging her downward. Anja didn’t fight it and just let herself fall to her knees. Sleeping right there on the floor at the foot of the counter was starting to sound like an incredible idea. “Might want to take it easy on your ma,” Llyr suggested kindly, “She’s had a rough night.” Sofie shifted to address the newcomer but went rigid in Anja’s arms. Before Anja could see why, Llyr spoke again. “Sofie?”

“C-captain?”

Shit. The Captain was from Windhelm. Anja felt all the carefully compartmentalized parts of her life bleed together in a terrifying swirl of exposure. She broke free from Sofie to look back up at Llyr, her unexpected rescuer who seemed too good to be true, and wondered if perhaps his intervention had not been so accidental after all. Though the look of shock on his face suggested otherwise. His eyes bounced between Sofie and Anja, and then to Bersi, and then back to them. “Go,” Anja hissed and Sofie bolted from the room, back downstairs.

“I thought the girl’s name was Kit,” Bersi said awkwardly, “Didn’t realize it was a nickname.”

“Like Tyv?” Lonely-Gale asked pointedly, and Anja’s stomach dropped out. Also, she was too tired for this shit.

“Bersi, what’s our esteemed Captain here famous for?” she asked and leaned her head back against the counter.

Bersi tensed, caught between the woman who helped save his wife and the man who was a bit of a legend amongst Skyrim’s sailors. “Perhaps I should go…” he pleaded nervously.

“Hunting pirates on the Sea of Ghosts,” Llyr answered for himself, “I’m retired now.”

She nodded and laughed harder than she meant to. “Can you retire from something like that?” she mocked, “Just give up a life of bringing in thieves and cutthroats? Bad people? People like me?”

“I didn’t ‘bring them in,’” he corrected, “I killed them.”

Anja focused her attention on him with great effort. “Was I better off with Drahff and Hewnon in the street?” she asked, her voice sounding far more pitiful than she wanted. It would be poetic, she thought, if a man who reminded her of her brother took her life when Thornir had lost his because of her mistakes.

Llyr cocked his head to one side and then knelt before her like he did when he was offering to help her not ten minutes before. “No,” he assured, “They would have killed you. I just want to deliver a message.”

Her brow furrowed with utter confusion. “What do you want?”

“First? To tend to that hand. Then for you to sleep off that mer,” he replied and gently plucked her glass-riddled hand from her lap. She didn’t stop him, but she didn’t exactly want him to touch her, either. Her will at that moment was too weak to argue. Sleep. I need sleep. I need to think… “We’ll talk in the morning. I’ll be at The Bee & Barb. You and Sofie can join me for breakfast.” He turned her hand palm up and inspected it. Vaguely, Anja was aware that he was stroking her wrist with the blade of his thumb where her tattoo stood bold on her skin.

“The Captain can leave now,” growled a familiar voice from beyond the counter, “Kharjo will tend to his Vari’s wounds.” Sweet, smart Sofie. She ran for someone able to chase off a bounty hunter…It was passed nightfall, of course Kharjo had already come to check on Drifa’s progress and Anja was relieved for his presence, however technically illegal.

Llyr looked up at the sound of a foreign accent and pattern of speech, but he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the presence of such a large Khajiit looming over him from the other side of the counter. “Warm sands, friend,” he greeted and made the appropriate hand gesture, releasing Anja in the process, “I meant no disrespect. Only to speak with—Tyv? Raef? Vari?” He smiled at the parade of her aliases. “But it can wait until morning. If you will tend to her injuries, then I leave her in your capable paws.”

Kharjo’s tail flicked with obvious displeasure. “Good-bye, Captain,” he said firmly.

Llyr nodded politely and bid Bersi a good night before slipping back out into the darkness. Once he was gone, Bersi closed and locked the door again, completely astounded at the strangeness of the last several minutes. He was blithering about not wanting trouble, especially with the Great Captain Lonely-Gale, but Anja wasn’t really listening. Kharjo came around the counter to see her and she fell limp against him when he reached for her. “Sleep,” she muttered, her tone almost pained, “I need to sleep.”

“Be still, Khajay,” he soothed, “Kharjo has you now.” And he scooped her up into his arms. He took her to the small loft above the next room where Sofie talked Bersi into letting mer make a little makeshift bed for Anja and herself. The loft was used for storage and the bed was little more than a mattress on a foundation of crates, but it was far better than nothing and it was isolated, dark, and quiet. He worked on her hand in the darkness, using his natural ability to see without much light, and she fell asleep before he plucked the first shard of glass from her palm.


“Three nights, if you please,” Llyr said to Keerava as he arranged the appropriate coin out on the countertop, “Thank you.”

The Argonian innkeep scoped his coin into the strongbox beneath the counter and jotted his name down in her ledger. She did not recognize his name and he was glad for it. “Need anything else?” she asked.

“Warm food and a cold drink.”

“And—your dog?”

“Any leftover chucks of meat you have, I’ll pay for. She’ll eat anything.”

“I’ll see what we have. Take a seat and Talen-Jei will bring your food.”

“Thanks again.” He returned his coinpurse to his belt, selected a table, and sat down. Rahna curled up on the floor beside him, somewhat under the table, but not quite. She was too large to fit comfortably. He affectionately scratched her head and removed the leather-bound journal Ulfric had given him. He cracked it open and flipped passed the first few pages of his notes from the jarl’s tale and description of Tyv, to the first blank spread. In neat, careful handwriting, he summed up her new appearance and an identifying mark he suspected would not change for sentimental reasons: the little dragon tattoo. Ironic, considering she was the sister of the Dragonborn. Sister of the Dragonborn. He could still hardly believe it, though Ulfric was not the kind of man to boast or sensationalize, that the age of a Dragonborn was upon them—or what that meant for them all.

He paused in his writing when a male Argonian he assumed was Talen-Jei approached his table and served a steaming bowl of hearty stew and some bones for Rahna to gnaw. Talen-Jei offered a select variety of house specials for drinks, none of which appealed to Llyr who wanted for only a good mead. When he was alone again, he ate a little and then resumed his note-taking, replaying the night’s events in his mind since his arrival. He had been casting his spell as he neared the city to be sure she dwelled within the walls and not in one of the surrounding farmhouses when he felt a feral, violent tug through the wind guiding him to her. That hadn’t happened before in all his years of practicing what little magic he knew. So, he hurried along, left his horse with the stablehand, and rushed inside the city.

He didn’t know what he was expecting to find, but when he saw someone struggling against two attackers, he reacted more than thought his way through. Rahna was faster and so made it before he was able. Still, he had not suspected the person fighting on the cobblestones to be one and the same with his quarry. The spell could have led him to the front door of any house in Riften for all he knew, and he hadn’t even realized she was a woman until he’d gotten closer. Then there was the matter of her appearance. She looked nothing like the sketch Ulfric had provided. No, he thought her only a woman perhaps a little too fond of her liquor and in need of a little help. It wasn’t until he recognized Sofie that he realized who she must be. It seemed the spirits of the air wanted him to save her. How strange. They never cared before. He dropped her name just to see her reaction and she was too impaired to deny or cover her natural response. Her fear was confirmation enough; she seemed to know it too, even disoriented as she was. What use was there in hiding when she was already found out?

But he wasn’t there to drag her screaming back to Windhelm and he certainly wasn’t there to kill her, though she seemed unsurprised by the possibility of it. He was only there to invite her back to his jarl’s city, to bid her welcome back to Windhelm. So, the jarl can work her over for himself, he thought. He frowned and finished his notes, thinking about her changed features as he fiddled with his wedding ring. That was a thread that needed better explanation if Ulfric was going to be satisfied that he had actually found the right woman. Throughout his travels, he had heard of such magics that allowed a person to change their face, but he’d never met a practitioner of the art, nor did he know how to contact one. Luckily, Llyr knew who to ask. He had an old friend down in the Ratway—well, more reluctant contact than ‘friend.’ Still, Delvin Mallory owed him more favors than he had ever provided in return. Ask the right questions, get the right answers. Perhaps he’d go tonight before bed just to be ready for Tyv in the morning when she came. And she would come; she was too curious not to, of that he was reasonably certain.

When he was done with the book and the ink had dried, he closed it up again and returned it to his pocket. He finished his supper, went to his room to stow his gear and more valuable items, then he and Rahna left for the Ratway. “We lock up for the night in a couple of hours,” Talen-Jei informed him just before he walked out the door.

“I won’t be long,” he assured and then stepped out into the night.

Notes:

Alright, I hope you all enjoyed, especially since I feel like this is a dark chapter for Anja. She has a lot of stuff she's working through. Particularly with regard to changing her face. I know in the game, visiting ol' Galathil is not a big deal, but I felt like for a real situation in a time that was steeped in superstition, doing something like that would be a huge decision. One not easily made and then difficult to process. Particularly for Anja who is a twin still mourning her brother's death. So, a lot to unpack for her.

Further, I decided that Galathil's presence as it is in the game just wouldn't do for the story. I mean, why would the Guild be okay with an illicit face-changing mage in their midst without trying to cash in on that action. That's a hot commodity, right there. Especially for a criminal organization. So, she pays the rent by sliding Guild members a discount if they need to use her services. The Guild takes a cut of every other exchange, too. So, boom, business!

Oh, and I am changing the order in which Guild quests happen a little bit. In the game, you don't do the special request missions until after the main questline of the Guild is complete which was always A) annoying to me, and B) made no sense. Maybe it was just me, but I didn't like the order in which things transpired for the Guild. Besides, if Anja is building up renown as she goes along, it makes her more of a credible threat to Mercer--and perhaps even Maven? Ooooo!

Chapter 42: The Best Stories

Summary:

Anja and Sofie go to breakfast with Captain Lonely-Gale. It goes well. Mostly. Then Lonely-Gale tries to learn a little more about Anja without her knowledge. Anja stumbles into another ridiculous situation while snooping on her own.

Notes:

Sorry this took 2 months! Ahhhh! But I moved to a new state! We're settled in finally, so I can get back to writing again. :)

Trigger Warning: depictions of violent assault.

PoV: Anja, Lonely-Gale, and an unspecified 3rd party

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Anja woke with the worst headache she ever had, but she was warm and cradled against a strong chest. Kharjo. Another, smaller body was curled up in her arms as well. Sofie. And, for a moment, she felt perfectly content—until the events of the day before stampeded through her brain. Fuck. Her eyes snapped open and she struggled to adjust to the dim light. She groaned softly, feeling hungover without any of the joy from drinking. “Khajay is awake,” Kharjo purred in her ear and he nuzzled her neck, “Kharjo was worried.”

“Mmm, how do you know it’s me?” she whispered back, “What if I’m an imposter?”

He pulled her closer to him, disturbing Sofie a little in the process, and sniffed deeply of her hair. “Kharjo kor jer aki,[1]” he growled and then licked her neck just below her ear with a quick dart of his tongue, “Jer zashto.[2]” 'Subtly, he grinded against her. “An nezal di jer shabar ahziss krada. Vakona vaba zira may’a nezalna q’zi akrai vaga. Atha’a vara baso thjiziitali.[3]

She nestled further into his chest, feeling safe for the first time in a long time. “Tsin’ra nezalna’a dej vaba yoshithka,[4]” she insisted, thinking of her dream of Thornir on the docks. Everything about it had felt so real.

Arra jajo vaba jai koli aydith jaji jajo fa saj kasashoh zaigohali iitay.[5]

She smirked and reached behind her head to stroke his cheek. “Too bad it must end.” There was a Captain with whom she had yet to deal. “Kit, darling, it’s time to get up,” Anja prodded, gently.

The girl groaned, covered her face, and rolled over. “I don’t wanna,” she complained.

“We have to. The Captain’s buying breakfast.”

Kharjo’s paws tensed on her hips, displeased. “Kharjo does not like this Captain.”

“I don’t like him either, but I want to know what he knows,” Anja replied sharply, “Why is he here if not bounty hunting?”

“Perhaps he is,” Kharjo pointed out.

“Then he should have taken me when I didn’t know my arse from a hole in the ground instead of letting me sleep it off. He’ll have an Oblivion of a time taking me in, now.”

Kharjo shook his head slightly and his whiskers tickled the back of Anja’s neck. “He did not know he was not outnumbered last night,” he pointed out, “If Bersi plays host to Khajiit, what else might be waiting in the dark corners of his shop?”

Anja pursed her lips. “He wasn’t alone, either. I saw that dog nearly rip a man’s arm off. Pity she didn’t.” She rubbed her face, now keenly aware of how foreign her features felt against her palms and quickly removed her hands from her face. “You’re right—he didn’t know—but he’s still dangerous.”

“We don’t have to go,” Sofie interjected, “Let’s just run away!”

Anja smirked. “Normally, I’d be first out the door,” she agreed, “But not this time.” She needed to get to the bottom of this quandary, or she was afraid it—and the Captain—would follow her and Sofie no matter where they tried to disappear to.

Sofie moped. “But he’s Captain Lonely-Gale…”

And I’m Anja Draconis but no one gives a shit about that. “Mmm, yes the illustrious.” She rolled her eyes. “Get cleaned up and then you can tell me everything you know about him.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I rarely do.”

Sofie wriggled out of bed, climbing over the top of both adults in the process, and descended the ladder out of the loft. The instant she was safely out of immediate earshot, Kharjo began nuzzling Anja’s neck with greater intensity, his paws creeping over her belly to press her even closer. His advances were not unwelcome—quite the contrary, in fact—but unexpected. There was too much to do; she could hardly afford to be distracted by her kitten that morning, no matter how pleasing it might be. “Kharjo, dear,” she said patiently, “What are you doing?”

“Reminding Khajay why she prefers Kharjo above all others,” he said, his purr rumbling in his chest like thunder.

Anja laughed. “Are you worried?”

“No. Kharjo knows he only has Khajay’s favor as long as she grants it to him,” he said matter-of-factly, “But you were not yourself last night. Kharjo worried.”

Anja’s expression darkened as she grew pensive. Slowly, she turned in his arms so she could face him. “I died on the Face Sculptor’s table last night,” she said, her voice low.

Kharjo’s brow furrowed, but he reflexively pulled her closer. “This one does not understand…”

“My heart—stopped beating.” She took one of his paws and pressed it against her chest where he could feel the steady rhythm of her blood coursing through her. Alive. Scared but whole.

“How can this be?”

“One of the potions she gave me. Because of my skill as an alchemist, I resisted it. She gave me more, and…”

“Killed you.”

She nodded mutely. “I saw—I was back in Cyrodiil on the docks of the Waterfront—watching the ships leave port.” She hesitated, half expecting him to demand more answers about her death, but he didn’t. He waited for her to say what she needed to. “I used to do that with my twin when we were little. He wanted to be a sailor when he grew up—but became a soldier instead. Divines, he loved the water. He should have been a sailor, but pa…” Maybe he’d still be alive if he had taken to the sea instead…

“You do not speak of him.” An observation.

“He’s dead.”

Kharjo closed his eyes in a moment of empathy. “Was he there with you, Khajay?” he asked gently, “In your vision?”

She nodded again, tears welling up in her eyes. When she next spoke, emotion cracked her voice. “He called me Kit-Cat and held my hand and I didn’t want him to go…I didn’t…want him t-to…go-o…” she began sobbing and buried her face in his chest. He held her there, meditatively running his clawed fingers through her hair until she calmed down. The new, long tresses felt silken and strange; he was used the short curl of her natural hair.

“This one—I believe he was there with you, Khajay,” he said when he thought she would listen, “The bond between littermates is strong. Especially between twins. You are like Jone and Jode. You are sacred. Your souls are forever bound. He came when you most needed him—when your life was leaving you. What did he say?”

“That I had much left to do.”

“Mmmm, he is definitely of your soul to be so wise.”

“Why couldn’t he stay? I wanted him to stay.”

“You are not dead, so Kharjo assumes the Face Sculptor saved you, yes?”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound happy about it.

“Then perhaps he did not leave. Perhaps it was you who had to go.”

Anja squeezed her eyes shut tightly, hoping to be transported back to that dock on that sunny afternoon, wanting nothing more than to finally be at peace with her daemons. “Do you think that’s true?” she whispered.

He nodded. “I do.”

“I hope your right, sunej[6].” And they just laid there for a moment, Kharjo holding her, reminding her that she was loved, and Anja allowed herself to be comforted by his unwavering affection.


Anja spent a long time looking at her new face in the mirror as she dressed. First thing she noticed were the freckles. A lovely little dusting across her cheeks and over her nose that crept up onto her forehead. That had not been in the drawing, but Anja thought it a cute little addition. She found it difficult to produce a saucy smile, however. Everything she tried came off awkward or frustratingly innocent which had its place but not what she was going for at that moment. I’ll have to work on it later…She grumbled to herself and set about trying to manage her new long locks of hair.

How in Oblivion does Sonja put up with this? Anja had always preferred to keep her hair short, just below the chin. It was practical. Long hair only got caught in traps, window lattices, or eaves of rooftops. In a fight, it just gave an attacker one more thing to grab onto. Like Hewnon the night before. How Sonja managed to keep her hair out of an enemy’s fingers was beyond Anja’s imagining and she regretted asking Galathil to make her hair long. For the time being, she decided to plait it in that tight braid Sonja always favored from the crown of her head down. It wasn’t as nice looking as Sonja’s practiced one, but Anja’s dexterous fingers managed to pull it off and she went to collect Sofie to head over to The Bee & Barb—only the little girl wanted a braid like hers to match. That turned out to be a trial in patience greater than Anja had anticipated—Sofie’s hair was even finer than hers and tended to slip out of almost every twist—but she struggled through it with minimal cursing and the pair of them arrived at the inn sometime in the mid-morning.

Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale and his dog Rahna were seated at a table in the far corner, comfortably isolated from the rest of the dining area and unwanted eavesdroppers. He was not alone, however. Two guards were talking to him, but neither he nor they seemed confrontational. Still, any chance to avoid the city guard, Anja usually took, so she and Sofie headed for the bar, instead. “What can I get for you?” Keerava asked, wiping down the counter.

“Nothing right now. We’re joining a friend in a moment,” Anja replied distractedly, watching Lonely-Gale converse with the guards, “Thanks Keerava.”

There was a long pause before the innkeeper spoke again, uncertain. “Tyv?”

Anja winced. Argonians had keen ears and didn’t forget the pitch of a voice easily. So much of their native language relied on tones and clicks and strange chirps. They often heard through false accents which Anja didn’t even have the presence of mind at that moment to fake. “Name’s Raef,” Anja said, turning her attention to the innkeep, “Gray-Raven.”

Keerava’s head canted and her eyes flit to Sofie. “Last I saw the kid, she was with someone else…”

“And now she’s with me.”

“What happened to Tyv?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“She’s gone. That’s all you need to know.”

Keerava tapped her fingers against the bartop and then shrugged. “Fine by me,” she said at length, “None of my business anyway.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” And she placed a respectable fifty gold pieces on the counter.

Keerava slid the bribe directly into her strongbox. “Not my business. Never will be,” she said, unconcerned, “Your friend’s waiting.”

Anja glanced back over her shoulder at the Captain. The guards were leaving, and he was leaning back in his chair, relaxed. When he spotted her and Sofie at the bar, he waved them over and called to the Argonian innkeeper, “Breakfast if you please, Keerava. Thank you.”

“Coming right up,” Keerava assured and busied herself preparing the requested meal.

Anja and Sofie exchanged glances before sliding off their stools and heading for the Captain’s table. “Please, take a seat,” he offered, gesturing to the empty chairs across from him. Anja hesitated, her eyes dancing over his features in the light now that she was not compromised by the effects of the sleeping potion. He did not so greatly resemble Thornir anymore now that she was more clearheaded. Handsome, though. Distinguished with a proud bearing, and he wore a wedding band. A simple, well-cared for golden ring upon his finger that shined from much polishing. How interesting…

From what Anja understood of the bounty-hunting profession—or any profession like it—it was not the kind of life a person with a family typically took on. Long days on the job that easily turned into weeks turned into months and the constant threat of death did not exactly make for a good home life. Besides, having a spouse or a lover or children only gave a hunter’s targets something to use against them. And Anja would know. Both her mother and sister had worked for the Fighter’s Guild, after all. Very similar work, that. So, she was further intrigued by the Captain who, according to Sofie’s gossip and Bersi’s hero-worship, was a profound pirate hunter. Slayer of the wicked, protector of the innocent, blah, blah, blah…Anja had tried and failed not to roll her eyes as Bersi gushed about his personal hero.

“Did you end up having to pay a blood price after all?” she asked as she slid into one of the offered chairs. Sofie plopped down next to her and laced her fingers together on the tabletop, fixing the Captain with a hard stare—or the hardest a ten-year-old could muster, at any rate.

“The guards? No. Hewnon survived his injuries.”

“How unfortunate.”

The Captain’s expression was muted, but suggested he felt the same way. “He’s at the temple now, recovering,” he continued, “The guard wanted to know what happened before they arrest him—by his injuries, it was apparent to the priestess that he had not been attacked with a blade.” He paused long enough to affectionately nudge Rahna with the toe of his boot. She leaned into it and looked up at him from beneath the table.

“The only interesting detail about what happened, no doubt,” Anja predicted, “They can’t be unknown to the guard. They’re too stupid to be good at what they do.” She didn’t know for sure; she’d only ever encountered them in the Ratway, but they had to come up for air sometime, didn’t they? If they weren’t earning their coin by the Guild, they were earning it in other ways.

“They were not surprised by my story,” he confirmed, “Hewnon and his friend are well-known for their petty crimes.” He noticed Sofie staring at him and smiled kindly at her, his first open expression during their conversation, but she didn’t break her glare.

“Oh? And what did you tell them of your heroics?” Anja crossed one leg over the other in a swift, fluid movement and cut an amused glance at Sofie beside her. “That you rescued a buxom beauty from a couple of Ratway fiends and she was oh so eager to repay you for your bravery?”

“They hit you harder than I thought.” He actually looked a touch concerned.

“That’s how the stories go, darling,” she informed him patiently as if he was a student trying and failing to comprehend something quite simple, “For a man as renowned as you, I thought you would be better at spreading word of your own selfless acts.”

“You have been misinformed of my reputation. I am not so well known away from the Northern shores of Tamriel, and I do not spin tales.”

“No? How disappointing. What a wasted opportunity to expand your influence to Riften, don’t you think?” she consulted Sofie who nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“Everyone knows all the best stories,” the girl agreed, “You could have songs written about you, Captain.”

Anja’s eyes widened a little with intensified mirth. “Ooooo,” she almost growled, “Songs. Nords really take their heroes seriously, don’t they?”

“We do,” the Captain confirmed, expressionless.

“So, what did you tell the guards, then?”

“The truth. I mentioned you as little as possible.”

Anja shrugged. “It matters little. I am not acquainted with any of the city’s distinguished protectors.”

“None of them?”

She smirked. “What are you implying, dear Captain? That I am some common criminal?” she feigned offense.

“No insult was intended, but let’s call a blade a blade. Can it be an insult if it’s true?”

“It’s not true.”

He cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “You’re not a criminal, then?”

“I’m not common.” Sofie smiled smugly for her.

Involuntarily, he scoffed and canted his head, thoughtfully. “No,” he agreed, thinking of the truly bizarre, though begrudgingly impressive, tale Ulfric had told him of his run-in with Tyv, “I suppose you are not. I misspoke.”

“You are forgiven,” she assured magnanimously, “This time.”

“How kind.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t come all this way to indulge your ego…”

“Shame. I like to be indulged.”

He hesitated briefly before continuing and tried not to look directly at Sofie who was watching and listening to the exchange with wide, impressionable eyes. “I came to deliver a message,” he reminded her.

“Ah, yes. So you said. For Tyv, I presume.”

Another pause. “For you.”

She grinned. “Aye, see there’s a problem with that,” she said in an impressive Nordic accent she modeled after her very own mother, dearest. Even Sofie looked flabbergasted at her sudden change in voice, but her surprise quickly gave way to admiration as it was clear, to the Captain at least, there was very little Anja could do in which the girl could find any fault. “I’m not Tyv. I’m Raef Gray-Raven and I don’t think there’s a lot you can do to prove otherwise, now is there?” No point in denying what he already knew, she figured. Better just to make sure he understood that that knowledge would do him no good.

The Captain was momentarily thrown. He hadn’t expected her to take such an angle with him after what transpired the night before. She’d all but admitted who she was—hadn’t she? In retrospect, perhaps she had not. “Do not insult my intelligence,” he said, recovering quickly.

“Oh no, Captain, certainly not,” she assured in her natural tone of voice again, “I wouldn’t dream of insulting a man as clever as you.” She leaned forward and propped her head on the butt of her palm. Despite her earlier failures in the mirror that morning, she attempted an expression she hoped appeared appropriately coy. “You breezed into town, saved my life, and saw straight through—well, everything.” She smiled, almost embarrassed. “I’m impressed. I like a man with a sharp mind. How did you figure it was me, anyway?” She gestured to her face. She needed to know if the Captain’s good luck was earned or accidental; if he saw through her disguise because he was truly exceptional or—far worse—because she had been sloppy and walked the streets with a target on her back she had not foreseen. “I’m sure this face doesn’t match any description of Tyv, and—for all you knew—I could have been heartless and abandoned Sofie with anyone else.”

He nodded. “The thought did occur to me,” he admitted, “When I aided you, I had no idea who you were. Just that you needed help. It wasn’t until I saw Sofie that I put it together, and when I said your name, it was your fear that convinced me. You looked like prey before the killing.”

She didn’t like that analogy, but it was accurate; she had felt a little something like prey when the Captain was swinging her name around like a sword in Bersi’s shop last night. “So, it was little more than a gut feeling,” she observed.

“Instinct is often correct, if heeded—in my experience.”

“I could be fucking with you, right now, you know,” she pointed out, “Maybe Tyv did leave Sofie with a friend. Maybe I’m sitting here with you now just to buy her time as she flees to Solitude to catch a boat to High Rock or Hammerfell. Maybe the more time you waste with me and your gut feelings, the better chance she has of escaping. You don’t know for sure, do you?”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed slightly as he thoroughly searched the smug features of her face for any hint of honesty. “You would have been well-suited to the stage,” he stated, “I almost doubted myself.”

“Oh, Captain, flattery will get you everything.”

“But even you cannot convince me of what I know not to be true,” he continued, “I went to the Ratway last night to speak with an old contact…”

Every muscle in Anja’s body went rigid and she had to force herself to relax as much as possible to hide her nervousness. It was one thing when she thought danger was only coming from one direction, but if the Captain so much as mentioned her name to Delvin—and let’s be honest, who else could have been the Captain’s contact, the man knew everyone—even Riften wouldn’t be safe any longer. The master thief was already anxious about Windhelm; the Captain’s presence would only make that worse if not practically hysterical. “The Ratway,” she repeated, “A lot of seedy characters down in those tunnels. You continue to impress me, darling, though I fail to see what a little trip through the sewers could possibly accomplish.”

The Captain shook his head. “Don’t worry. I know better than to drop your name,” he assured, “Delvin’s even harder to get a straight answer out of than you are. He’s not changed in the decade since I last saw him. It would be a waste of time. No, I went to ask if he knew of a way to change a person’s face.”

Balls. From her peripheral, Anja saw Sofie shift anxiously. If she wasn’t giving away her own discomfort, the kid certainly was. Anja gently patted her knee under the table, and the girl stilled. “I didn’t know there was such magic in the world until recently,” she replied perhaps a touch too sharply than she intended, “Whatever gave you the idea?”

“I’m clever, remember?”

“And modest, too.”

“I’ve been a sailor most of my life,” he explained, “You wouldn’t believe some of the tales I’ve heard, the things I’ve seen, but I’ve never met a Flesh Sculptor, myself, until last night.” He paused, taking in her expression. “And you’re right. Galathil is quite lovely.”

“So much for discretion.” It was difficult to conceal her displeasure. She’d practically handed that lead to him when she blundered on like an idiot last night. There was no one but herself to blame for that.

He shrugged. “Again, I didn’t ask about you. Just what was required of such magic. I wanted to know what you’d gone through—what lengths you were willing to go.”

Anja toyed with the end of her braid. “Well, now you know, but it’s hardly proof,” she pointed out, “It’s all just a possibility vaguely shaped like a woman named Tyv.”

“That’s all I need.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Is it?” she challenged, “You think you can be more convincing than me? You might be clever, dear, but do you know what never fails with clever people?”

To Anja’s eternal frustration, the Captain remained irritatingly stoic. “What?”

“They’re usually surrounded by idiots,” she answered and then leaned back in her chair to inspect her nails for invisible dirt, “You came, you saw, you drew all the right conclusions, but how are you to explain yourself when you show up with a woman who looks and speaks like a Daughter of Skyrim and not a lovely little blonde thief?” Her brow furrowed apologetically as she looked up at him then and shrugged. “I don’t know this Tyv he speaks of,” she said in her false accent with a disturbing amount of believable conviction, “I had a few too many at the tavern and next I know, he’s accusing me of strange shit and carting me off to the jarl when I got a little one at home that needs me…”

“You’ve made your point.”

She pouted at him. “Oh, don’t be sad, sugar,” she insisted, though it was impossible to tell what he was feeling one way or the other, “But I’d be useless to you for a bounty. No respectable steward would release—mmm, how much is Ulfric willing to pay for me, anyway?”

Amusement twinkled in the Captain’s eye. “Nothing.”

Anja’s clicked her tongue at him, eyes narrowed. “Now, there’s no need to be rude.

“There is no bounty,” he elaborated, “Ulfric has posted none and all private bounties are forbidden by his order.”

“That is…”

“Lucky?” Sofie suggested.

“Generous?” the Captain supplied.

“…Suspicious,” Anja concluded. The Captain didn’t answer immediately. The untimely arrival of Keerava and Talen-Jei with their meal temporarily halted their conversation at precisely the most agonizing moment in Anja’s opinion. If the Captain isn’t lying, then what is Ulfric playing at? Impatiently, she waited, watching as the Argonians brought out a spread of meats, cheeses, fruits, eggs, bread, and pastries. Sofie immediately loaded her plate with all the nearest delicacies while Anja picked at a snowberry tart. Mulled wine was poured for the adults, milk for young Sofie.

When they were alone again, the Captain spoke, “I told you I merely had a message to deliver. I have no interest in anything else.”

Anja thoughtfully swirled the wine in her cup. “A message from whom?”

He took a moment to help himself to a piece of toast. “Who do you think?”

Internally, Anja was screaming. She had been sure before that she had earned the personal ire of a jarl, but she was genuinely very afraid of the kind of game a man like Ulfric Stormcloak could play. Powerful people didn’t like to lose. She knew that. Corvus taught her that. She should have known better. Stay calm. He could still be lying. He could still just be in it for a bounty and is lying through his teeth to throw me off…but that was becoming more of a vain hope than an actual possibility. Rather than betray an ounce of her fear to the Captain, she forced a brilliant smile across her face. “Oh, Ulfric,” she sighed, “Did my kiss break him? Is he hoping for more?”

At the mention of a kiss, the Captain paused for a long moment while buttering his toast. “He didn’t say.”

Anja shrugged and sipped her wine. “Ah, well. I suppose our parting had been bittersweet.”

“You shot him.”

Barely. And he had the girl.”

“He wouldn’t have hurt her. She’s but a child.”

“Not true! He said he was going to send me to his dungeon!” Sofie piped up, indignantly. Anja gave him a look that clearly stated, ‘I told you so’ in support of the girl’s outburst.

He glanced uncertainly in Sofie’s direction. “Whatever happened, the Jarl has forgiven,” he assured, “He tasked me with finding you only to extend an invitation. Nothing else.”

“He need a date for a party?”

“For you to return to Windhelm…” he began.

“Mmmm, I’m sure,” she interrupted, chuckling, “Do you know what I did, love? Did he tell you?” His brow furrowed slightly. “I’m just curious,” she continued, “If all of this sounds as absurd to you as it does to me because, from where I’m sitting, Ulfric has absolutely no reason to play nice and every reason to want me locked up or worse.”

“He told me everything.”

“Not about the kiss.”

“He must have thought it unimportant.”

“What else did he deem unimportant, I wonder?” She tapped her fingers against the grain of the table as she debated her next words and then promptly decided to go with shock factor because—well, that was just her style. “I released prisoners from his dungeon, assaulted his men, assaulted him, stole military intelligence off his person, threatened to kill him, and riled up his entire city with a clever application of light and smoke.” She took a deep breath, unsure if she should be proud of her list of accomplishments or to feel vaguely ill about the charges that were surely laid against her. “So, explain to me, darling Captain, why Ulfric wouldn’t pay to have me delivered to his doorstep in irons and a pretty bow?”

“I admit that sounds ridiculous.”

“You see the problem in our relationship, then? I can’t trust you.” She feigned hurt. “A pity because I find your company so enjoyable.”

The Captain didn’t answer right away. Instead, he served himself a proper breakfast and cracked open a soft-boiled egg. He dipped the edge of the remainder of his toast in the golden yolk almost pensively. “You spoke with Bersi about me.” It was not a question.

Anja sipped her wine, unsure where the change in subject was going to lead, but willing to play along. “Hardly had to ask,” she admitted, “Man was eager to sing your praises.”

At that, he did look vaguely annoyed, but quickly smoothed his expression over. “The stories are exaggerated,” he insisted, “As they always are. But, I survived the seas for twenty years.” His gaze lifted to meet hers, and the storm of his gray eyes seemed to fix her in place. “Not just pirates and brigands, but storms and beasts, too.”

“That supposed to scare me?”

“I’m not trying to scare you—but you’d be foolish not to be a little warry, at least,” he said reasonably, “I’m only telling you this so you can be certain of one thing, if nothing else.”

“And what’s that?”

“I am a man of action. I haven’t survived as long as I have chatting with my enemies over breakfast,” he pointed out, “If it was a simple matter of collecting a bounty, I would have done so already and not wasted time with pleasantries.”

She blinked. “Fair point.” And it was.

He nodded, pleased he had gained any ground with her, and then bit into his toast. “So—for clarity’s sake—there are no bounties. I am not here to take you in. Ulfric does not wish to harm you or rob you of your freedom, and has invited you to return to his city, provided you cease stealing from his citizens.”

Anja bit back a laugh. She could take whatever she wanted and there was no way Ulfric would never know or even stop her. Idly, she thought of robbing the Palace of Kings just to make a point. “And when would he like me to stroll back into his city?”

“When it suits you, but I think he would prefer it if you did not keep him waiting long.”

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“He is a patient man. But all men have limits.”

“I’ll have to test them, then.”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t try his temper in your position—but do as you like.”

“Worried for me?”

“Take it as you will. It’s none of my concern.”

She hummed, thoughtfully, as she mulled the situation over in her head, attacking it from different angles, trying to find the deadly loophole. “Why?” she asked softly, and the Captain flashed her a confused look. “Why the sudden generosity?” she clarified, “There’s no reason for any of this.”

“Perhaps it was the kiss,” he said, and it took Anja a heartbeat or two to realize he was making a joke.

“Care to find out?” It wasn’t a serious offer and she would have been shocked if he had accepted. She just wanted to provoke a reaction out of him, any reaction, but wasn’t quite prepared for it when it came.

He openly smiled then and she was struck by how much it changed his features. He looked much younger, and though people in general tended to look better while smiling, the Captain really seemed to have a face for it like anything else was such a waste. Still, the expression was warm rather than desirous; he was amused, not enticed. Not even a little. It annoyed her deeply. “Your attentions would be better spent on someone who appreciates them, Mistress Thief,” he informed her, “I’m afraid they are wasted on me.”

Anja clicked her tongue at him and swallowed her bruised pride in the process. “It appears so,” she conceded, “Your wife is a very lucky woman to command your heart so completely.”

The smile faded, and he glanced at his wedding ring which he thumbed out of habit. “I was the lucky one,” he said softly.

She nearly asked him it elaborate on his use of the past tense but didn’t. There were a lot of ‘was’ and ‘were’s in her life that she preferred to keep to herself, and that particular word dropped from his lips sounded painful. And pain was private. Even if it belonged to an annoying ship’s captain who was doing his best to stamp on all her coyest turns of phrase while maintaining the eeriest straight face she’d ever seen. He’d be downright delightful at cards. She didn’t really need to know the specifics of his life, anyway. If everything was as innocent as he made it out to be, she’d hopefully never have to see him again. If not—well, it was just better not to know such things if she was forced to draw blades against him for her life or freedom. “You still haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out instead.

He nodded, tapping the blade of his thumb against the edge of his plate. “That was intentional,” he admitted, “The Jarl’s reasons are his own and he does not keep counsel with me. It would be better for you to ask him, yourself.”

“Perhaps I will.”

The Captain sensed that was the closest he was going to get to an affirmative from her, so he tilted his wine glass vaguely in her direction as it traveled to his mouth in the smallest of victory toasts for a job completed in unexpected record time. She did not return the gesture. “Good,” he said after he had sipped, “I return to Windhelm in two days. You—and Sofie, if it suits—are welcome to travel with me. There is safety in numbers.”

“Maybe. I’ll let you know,” she answered in a tone of voice that clearly declared she had no interest in his invitation. It was just as well. He didn’t know what in Oblivion they would talk about on the journey back, anyway. For now, they could tolerate each other for the remainder of breakfast. The food was already paid for, after all, and it was more than he could eat alone.


Llyr sighed heavily and poured himself another glass of mulled wine. That could have gone better, he thought ruefully, but it also could have gone a lot worse. For the most part, he had fulfilled his obligation to Ulfric: he delivered the Jarl’s invitation but finding out more about her would prove to be difficult. Tyv—Raef—whatever her name was, she was a slippery one. Like trying to hold onto a fistful of smoke.

He thought of his first meeting with her last night when she was too intoxicated by the Face Sculptor’s magic to be properly elusive. She had been fierce and full of laughter but guarded in a way only a person who had once been used by the unkindness of the world could be. He sensed a depth to her that he had never credited to other criminals before. And then in the morning that person all but evaporated in the heat of another woman so sharp and coy and sinisterly smart that it was jarring to see the difference. Like the two had nothing to do with each other, and yet—everything.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to make of her. She didn’t match the picture he had assembled in his mind of a master thief capable of besting Ulfric Stormcloak. Even with Ulfric’s firsthand knowledge and Llyr’s own extensive experience with thieves and cutthroats over a decade and a half long career of pirate hunting, he couldn’t make out what it was that made her tick and he sensed that was precisely her intention. She lived in the enigma like a second skin. It kept her safe better than any armor. Last night, he had merely erred too close in a strange moment when she was vulnerable and needed help, and that’s what had his head so twisted. He had seen something he was never meant to see: the woman hidden in the shadows.

Idly, he watched Keerava clean away what was left of breakfast from the table. “Anything else I can get for you, Captain?” she asked politely.

His gaze shifted from observing the movements of her scaled hands to her face. “Perhaps.” He glanced around the dining area. It was a slow morning. Aside from Talen-Jei, there were only two others enjoying the comforts of the tavern: a mage-for-hire looking for mercenary work and a comely crimson-haired Altmer ranger at the bar. “Do you have a moment to chat?” he asked, politely.

“What about?” she asked slowly, “You have a concern about your room?”

“No, no,” he assured, “Everything is to my liking.”

Her expression tightened. “Something else then?”

He didn’t like doing this. It was easily his least favorite part of an investigation of any sort. Bribery. “Just a few questions,” he said kindly and plopped the heft of his coinpurse onto the table with a thud and the clink of gold.

Keerava’s yellow eyes darted to the purse and back to him twice before she anxiously looked around the room. “What about?” she prompted, her voice pitched low.

“Tyv.”

The plates in her hand rattled slightly. “Don’t know anybody by that name.”

Llyr canted his head. “Are you afraid of her?”

“Absolutely not!” The innkeeper looked incensed. She feared for her strongbox, though.

“Then what’s the harm in answering a few questions?”

“What makes you think I know anything worth telling?”

He’d seen them chatting at the bar when she’d first arrived and wondered if maybe there was more than a passing acquaintance between the two of them. “Nothing you say will get back to her,” he said instead.

She didn’t look so sure, but she glanced around the room again before placing the stack of dishes in her hands back onto the table. “What do you want to know, exactly?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Are you telling me you don’t know anything about her?” she asked pointedly.

Llyr chose a wan smile to adorn his face. “What I know is unimportant. What you know is what I’m paying for.”

Her reptilian lips twitched into a frown. Mentally, she debated with herself for several seconds before finally taking a seat and leaning over the table. “Tell me where to start or we’ll be here all day.”

He counted out three stacks of five coins each. “From the beginning,” he said, “When did she arrive in town?” Keerava was still plainly uncomfortable with the situation, but she answered and for every juicy piece of the story she provided, she was rewarded with one of those little stacks of coin.

It cost him all of thirty-five gold to get the whole story from her, but it was coin well spent in his opinion. It never ceased to amaze him the amount of information the average innkeeper possessed at any given time. “Thank you for your cooperation, Keerava,” he said when they were through and she eagerly pocketed her coin before gathering up the stack of dishes once more.

“That all?”

“It is.” She nodded and returned to her counter where she cleaned with a renewed fervor and tended to her customers sitting there at the bar. Llyr watched her go, returned his coinpurse to his belt, downed the last of his wine, and then rose from the table to return to his room. He had a bit of notetaking to accomplish before he spent his afternoon following up on the information he’d just learned from Keerava. Starting with that stablehand…That was a story he was keen to hear explained.


“You’re not really going to go back to Windhelm, are you?” Sofie asked as she and Anja walked back to The Pawned Prawn. The market was busy and bustling. The usual merchants were hawking their usual goods. Even Brynjolf was there, peddling his snake oil elixirs and tonics with his usual enticing showmanship, but he didn’t yet know Anja’s new face and so easily overlooked her as she walked by, side-eyeing his wares and wondering if she could pickpocket a master.

“I was going to go back for a job anyway,” Anja admitted, looking away from the handsome Nord conman, “Might as well pay the jarl a visit while I’m at it.” Sofie frowned, expression storming. “What’s wrong, Kit? You’re too quiet.”

“What if he’s lying to you?” she asked reluctantly.

“I thought the Captain was an honorable man?” she challenged, but shrugged one shoulder, “I’m betting that he is lying. It’s a good wager to win, a better one to lose. The Captain’s got a good face for bluffing, but…” She replayed the pieces of their conversation in her head that she thought might indicate a tell for the stone-faced captain, but she couldn’t be sure. He was difficult to read. Whatever Ulfric’s intentions, he certainly picked the right man for the job. Captain Lonely-Gale had absolutely no inclination to be charmed—in the usual way, at least. Everyone’s got a soft spot. I just don’t know what the Oblivion his is. “He’s holding something back. I know it.”

“A gut feeling?” Sofie teased.

“Woman’s intuition,” Anja corrected, “It’s better.” Sofie smiled a little, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Anja frowned. “You’re still worried.”

“Maybe I should change my face, too?” Sofie suggested. It had been she the Captain recognized, after all.

“No,” Anja said flatly, “I like your face exactly the way it is.”

“But what if someone else sees me…?”

“No. What I went through for this…” she pointed at her face, “Is not for children.”

“I’m tough. I can handle it!”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Then why can’t I…?”

“Because I barely handled it.”

Sofie scrunched up her face, prepared to argue further, but then abruptly sighed heavily, deflating. She remembered how disoriented Anja had been when she returned, how Kharjo had worried, how Bersi had wrung his hands nervously. No one explained to her exactly what a Face Sculptor did, but it was clear that it wasn’t a small thing Anja had undertaken. Maybe it was too big a danger for one so small like herself. For now. “When I’m older?” she prompted.

Anja raised an eyebrow. “When you’re older,” she agreed, “We’ll talk about it again.” If it’s even necessary then…But she was happy to have the thought of face sculpting put out of Sofie’s head for the moment, at least.

The girl nodded with an air of determined finality. “I’ll remember,” she warned.

“I’m sure you will.” Anja didn’t doubt it. “But let it lie for now.” She tugged affectionately on the end of Sofie’s matching braid which was already coming loose, strands of her dark hair unwinding from every other twist.

The girl squirmed to get her hair away from Anja’s grasp, but she was smiling. “Knock it off!” In the next moment, she was laughing as Anja chased her in circles, trying to reclaim the end of the braid, until Sofie darted inside The Pawned Prawn to escape. Anja followed, pausing in the doorway just long enough to look down the walkway back toward the marketplace where the shrieks of Sofie’s laughter had caught the attention of a certain Nord thief. Brynjolf squinted at her as if trying to make out her features through the distance, but she stepped inside the general store and out of sight. One thing at a time…

“How did it go with the Captain?” Kharjo asked when Anja and Sofie went downstairs. He was seated at the dining table, mixing a tonic for Drifa who was sitting up in bed and talking with Bersi in hushed tones. It was long passed the time for him to safely sneak back to his camp, but the Khajiit lingered for Anja.

“Good,” she replied pleasantly and when he did not look convinced, “Not bad. Fine. It went fine.”

“There’s no bounty,” Sofie offered helpfully.

Anja pointed to the girl appreciatively. “Silver linings.”

Kharjo’s tail flicked with irritation. “So he really has come merely to deliver a message?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, he certainly had a message to deliver, that’s for sure,” she allowed, “And—he doesn’t have a lot of reason to lie to me at this point. I already don’t trust him. I’m not ever going to trust him. If he had some other game to play, he’s already losing, but yes. Message delivered. He leaves in a couple days.”

“And what was it?”

“What?”

“The message, Khajay.”

“Welcome back to Windhelm if you can keep your fingers out of other’s pockets. Straight form the Ulfric Stormcloak, himself.”

“That’s—how you say…?”

“Unbelievable?” Anja supplied.

“Lucky?” Sofie offered again.

“…Suspicious,” Kharjo concluded.

Anja nodded. “That’s what I said,” she agreed, “But, I still have to look into it. I don’t want the jarl sending more pirate hunters just to deliver messages. If Ulfric wants to see me, then I’ll go. Have a little chat when it’s least convenient for him.”

“If anyone can sneak up on a man with nerves torn by war, it is Khajay,” Kharjo allowed, “Still, this one would like to see you again, so go carefully.”

She smiled and leaned down to plant a kiss atop his head. “Always.”

“T-yv? Raef? By the Eight, what do I call you now?” It was Bersi. He had managed to tear himself away from his wife’s side and he looked flustered over it.

“Raef, Bersi. Get used to calling me Raef,” Anja sighed.

“How did breakfast go, Raef?” He put special emphasis on her new name, but it was obvious he was going to struggle with it for some time.

“Fine. The Captain and I became fast friends. You have nothing to fear, Bersi. Your hero will remain at The Bee & Barb for a couple of days. Maybe you can buy him a drink and swap stories or something.”

Bersi was obviously relieved. “Good to hear. I might at that.” Then he cleared his throat. “But I—uh—wanted to ask another favor of you—if I could…”

“Oh?”

“It’s a small one. Shouldn’t take you but a few minutes—it’s nothing like—nothing like what you did for us already, but I was talking to Drifa and I thought—we thought—well…”

“Spit it out, Bersi.”

“Something really ought to be done about the docks—about the Skooma dealers, I mean,” he rushed, “It’s not just Drifa who’s suffered. They’re poisoning people and it’s only getting worse.”

Anja’s brow furrowed. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing! Nothing, yourself, at least. But someone has to tell the jarl so she can send the guard and—and I’d do it, but…”

“You don’t want to say something you shouldn’t and possibly get poor Drifa in more trouble,” Anja concluded and the shokeep nodded mutely.

“Just deliver the message to the Keep, please. That’s all.”

Anja leaned far enough over to see into the bedroom where Drifa was resting against the headboard of her marriage bed, expression twisted with shame and unshed tears. She was humiliated and grateful to be alive and ashamed of all the pain and fear her addiction caused her husband. Anguish. Pure anguish. “I can pass the information along, but the more details the better,” she agreed; it was a small enough request and if it cleared the streets of poison, all the better, “I don’t want the guard to mess this up.”

Bersi sighed with relief and Drifa covered her face with her hands. “What do you need to know?” she asked from behind the wall of her fingers.

“Whatever you think might be useful,” Anja replied as she slipped passed Bersi to sit at the edge of the bed, a comfortable distance from the woman, “How many are there? If they have security? Where on the docks is the den? What time of day do they usually do business?”

Drifa pressed her hands harder into her face and shook her head. “Mara have mercy, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” she sobbed and when she dropped her hands from her red, puffy eyes, Anja’s heart clenched in uncomfortable sympathy, “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know. Just—just stop these bastards before anyone else gets hurt. Please.”

“Start at the top,” Anja prompted, “No judgment.” There never was with her. Never would be.


Llyr questioned the excitable Redguard stablehand, Shadr, only to receive glowing approval for the mysterious woman who had saved his skin upon her arrival in Riften. “It was the strangest thing,” the young man said, “She just sat on the bench next to me and said she was going to solve all my problems.”

“She say why or who she was?” Llyr asked, mystified.

“N—no…” Shadr’s expression clouded over as he recalled that night, “She didn’t give a name until after she’d already straightened things out with Sapphire for me. I didn’t think much about it then. I suppose I was really worked up and she just came out of nowhere, offering to help—and what could it hurt? I was already in too deep…”

“And she didn’t ask for a reward?”

“No,” he said firmly, “She wouldn’t even take the potion I tried to give her as payment, either.”

“Potion?”

Shadr kicked at the ground, embarrassed. “Invisibility,” he explained, miserably, “I saved up what little I had left over just in case Sapphire came after me.”

Llyr suppressed a smile. The lad seemed sweet and extremely naïve. He wondered if that was why Tyv elected to help him. “And this Sapphire, is…?”

“Part of the Thieves Guild,” Shadr informed him eagerly, “Thugs, all of them.”

Llyr cocked an eyebrow. “But isn’t Tyv a part of the Guild?”

“Well—yeah, but she’s different.”

He suppressed another smile. “And Sapphire. What can you tell me about her?”

“She hangs around The Bee & Barb sometimes or—I’ve seen her meeting with Grelka at her stall in the market.”

“What’s she look like?”

Shadr briefly described the beautiful, but terrifying Nord thief. “Mean as they come,” he warned, “Be careful with her.”

“I’ve been warned.” Llyr smirked. “Thank you, Shadr. Good day.”

“Wait, Captain! Sir!” the stablehand called after him as Llyr walked away; the Captain paused halfway to the city gate and waited for the younger man to catch up. “She’s not—in trouble—is she? Tyv, I mean?” he asked, belatedly realizing that perhaps he shouldn’t have been so eager to run his mouth to a stranger.

“No.” And he began to turn away again, but Shadr caught his arm.

“I know she’s got a bad reputation,” he insisted and self-consciously released Llyr’s arm, “And—and maybe she’s earned it—a little. I don’t know all she gets up to—just what they say, you know—but what I do know is she didn’t have to help me—but—but she did. If she was all bad, then why bother with me?”

Why, indeed? Llyr wondered as he examined the stablehand’s nervous expression. The lad was clearly worried he had done a poor turn for the woman who had saved him from the clutches of the Thieves Guild. “She’s safe with me,” he assured, “I helped her out of a bit of trouble once. I’m just curious how she’s fared.” Not strictly a lie.

“Oh.” And then he looked sheepish. “I’m pretty curious about her, myself.”

Llyr was unsuccessful in suppressing a slight chuckle and wondered how many impressionable young hearts had fluttered with the same hope at a mere wink from Tyv’s pretty, blue eyes. “Take care of yourself, Shadr,” he said, earnestly, “And mind that curiosity. You know what they say.”

Shadr was embarrassed, but he nodded politely and shook the Captain’s hand. “Have a good one, sir,” he said and then hurried off to do something—anything—else.

Llyr watched him go, shaking his head, and glanced beyond the ridge where the Khajiit Caravan set up camp. Smoke from their fire snaked upward with the smell of faraway spices. He thought to poke around the camp to see what the Khajiit might have to say about Tyv but didn’t. He expected Kharjo to be amongst them which would only make a skittish group of merchants outright unwelcoming. Besides, he didn’t think there was enough coin in all of Skyrim to bribe that protective feline into talking about Tyv unless she wished it. He knew the jealous, possessive look of a lover when he saw one and that Khajiit was smitten. Perhaps that was enough to speak for itself. Tyv must have done something truly exceptional to earn trust like that. Maybe she proved to be useful or kind or both in this frozen North to travelers far from home.

He turned back toward the city gates. Rahna nudged his palm and he looked down into her face cracked with a canine smile. She nudged him again and he scratched behind her ears. He knew what she really wanted, but there was more to do yet before they could take to the surrounding forest to hunt for Rahna’s next meal. “Soon, girl,” he assured as they neared the city gates. “After you,” he offered when he noticed the Altmer trailing up behind him from the direction of the Khajiit Caravan. It was the same female he had seen before at the bar of The Bee & Barb; she must have gone down to do a bit of shopping—or selling since she carried nothing in her hands.

“Thank you,” she said, politely and stepped through. He and Rahna followed and then made for Haelga’s Bunkhouse.


Anja didn’t go to the Keep right away. She had a few errands to run around town, preparations to make before she left for Windhelm again. When she finished at Elgrim’s Elixirs—they had no idea of who she truly was and were happy to serve a new customer—she climbed the stairs to Dryside and nearly tripped over herself when she saw none other than the Captain leaving Haelga’s Bunkhouse. Quickly, she ducked into the nearest alleyway before he spotted her. What’s he doing there? she wondered, Someone tip him off to the most willing lay in all of Riften? But he didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked very much annoyed and disgusted. Oooo, maybe Haelga did turn on the charm and he didn’t like it! She smiled peevishly to herself. The Captain might have proved to be immune even to the charms of an experienced Dibellan worshipper. Oh, it does the soul good! And it did her ego a bit of good, too, knowing it had nothing to do with a personal lack of allure on her part so much as his staunch refusal to be enticed. His wife must really be something…

But, what surprised Anja even more than the Captain’s odd visit to the Bunkhouse was the young woman who followed him out moments later and chase him down before he made it to the bridge crossing the canal. Svana, still wearing her apron and clutching a broom, caught his attention and was speaking very quickly and with some fervent animation. The Captain had to lean back twice to avoid being knocked with the broom; Rahna moved behind him altogether. Of course, Anja needed to know every detail of that conversation, so she practically sprinted down the alley and around the back of the Bunkhouse to come up the other side and hide behind a stack of barrels a good ten feet away from the Captain and Haelga’s niece. They were none the wiser.

“She’s not in any trouble with me, I promise,” the Captain said, sounding a little annoyed like he’d had to say it more than once.

“Then why are you asking about her?” Svana demanded.

“Just collecting a little information. That’s all.”

“Whatever you think she’s done, she must have a good reason. If you’re not the law, you should just stay out of it,” the girl insisted, and Anja almost knocked the stack of barrels over to hear a little better.

The Captain’s hesitation was almost palpable. “What’s she done to earn such loyalty from you and such hatred from your aunt?” he asked, his tone deep and pointed.

Svana put her free hand on her hip and cocked the broom out like it was a weapon ready to be unsheathed. “She helped me out when I needed it most,” she replied vaguely, “If my aunt wasn’t such a belligerent cow, things would have gone differently for her. She’s got no one to blame but herself.”

“Why did Tyv help you? What did you have to offer her?”

At that point, Anja almost barged out from her hiding place altogether to ask the Captain why the fuck he thinks he can go around town sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but Svana answered, “Because I needed help—and she wouldn’t take anything from me. You got the wrong idea about her.” The young woman’s conviction was heartwarming. She was standing up to a man twice her size armed with only a broom just to try to repay the little favor Anja had done for her over a month prior. Not that she thought the Captain would do anything to harm young Svana, but still, the sentiment was not lost on her. Oh, sweet girl, don’t waste your faith on me.

The Captain canted his head, curiously. “I’m starting to think the same,” he agreed and then glanced toward the Bunkhouse door as it swung open and Haelga—judging by all the shouting—stuck her head out to order her niece back to work. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

Svana twisted her hands around the broomstick. “Just remember what I said!” she insisted, trying to sound as tough as possible.

“I will,” he assured with a little smile, clearly not the least bit intimidated. His gaze followed Svana back to the Bunkhouse and then he turned to walk up the street back toward the marketplace.

Anja stepped out from her hiding place and watched him go. Snooping, are we? She glared, irritated. Well, two can play at that game and I play it better. Silently, she slipped down the walkway to the inn and entered through the north doors. Hardly the back entrance, but it was close enough. Keerava couldn’t immediately see who entered or exited through there because of how far back her counter was positioned. Talen-Jei happened to be looking the other way, so Anja easily slipped up the stairs unnoticed.

On the second floor, there was nothing to indicate which of the rooms belonged to the Captain. One was unoccupied, though, its door cracked open to reveal the corner of a made bed. The rest were closed so Anja went to each to have a little listen. There was only silence beyond the first door, so she peeked through the keyhole. A blonde Nord man sat at the desk directly across from the door, writing. Nope. She could hear snoring through the second door before she even drew near. No, again. Beyond the third, she heard faint rustling noises—Not that one either—and was about to move onto the fourth and final door when the smell of sea spray tickled her nose. It was gone in the next instant; she must have imagined it, but she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of her mind. So she knelt and peeped through the keyhole for a quick peek too sooth her curiosity.

There was a mer standing in the center of the room. An Altmer by the gold tinge of her skin and impressive height. She was dressed in dark leathers and deep green fabrics with a malachite bow and blade on her back and hanging off her hip. Anja couldn’t make out the features of her face through the small hole and awkward angle, but the shock of her long red hair cascaded in silken sheets around her shoulders. Bet her hair never gets in her way, Anja thought bitterly; still she thought the mer looked a little familiar but couldn’t quite place where she might have seen her before. As she watched the fully armored mer move silently through the room, stopping to search the cabinet and then the trunk—and the desk, it occurred to her that something wasn’t quite right.

This isn’t her room, she realized as the mer eased the mattress back to look beneath it as well. She was obviously searching for something of which she did not know the location. What in Oblivion…? By process of elimination, Anja reasoned the room could be the Captain’s—or she had managed to stumble across something strange and unrelated, but she didn’t really think so. This was just too coincidental to be an accident. But why? she wondered, What’s the honorable Captain got that Red, here, could possibly want?

“Good afternoon, Keerava,” said a familiar voice from downstairs. The Captain! What in Oblivion is he doing back already? Keerava responded to him, but Anja couldn’t quite catch what was said. “Aye, a spot of dinner would be good,” he replied, his voice growing louder as he neared the stairs, “Packaged up, if you don’t mind. I’m going out to run Rahna.” His boots clunked against the bottom step as he began to ascend the stairs, and Anja darted into the vacant room next door just as the mer creaked opened the Captain’s door and scurried into the last room.

Anja waited, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he progressed from the stairs to his room. Apparently, Red had left everything in good order because he seemed unaware that anything had been tampered with. He muttered something to himself—or possibly his dog—she couldn’t be sure. Then left the room again, closing and locking the door behind him before taking the stairs two at a time. He told Keerava he would be back for his lunch shortly; then the sound of the southern doors opening and closing announced his exit from the inn. Still, Anja did not move, barely breathing, as she watched the door of the fourth room through the sliver of open space between the jamb and door of her own hiding place. A few painful heartbeats passed before the mer silently exited and slipped downstairs, presumably after the Captain.

She let out a long low breath when she was certain no one was coming back and edged out of the vacant room. Well—that was interesting. She now had a choice to make: pick up where Red left off and possibly find something very interesting hidden amongst the Captain’s belongings, or—perhaps the more entertaining option—stalk the Captain’s stalker. For no one’s benefit but her own, she tapped her fingers against her jawline in imitation of making a difficult decision even as she padded over to the last room and tried the latch. Locked. Not a problem. She had it open in record time. Inn locks were always cheap. Even on their strongboxes.

Red’s—as Anja decided to permanently dub her—window overlooked the marketplace. So, the very first thing Anja did was to look outside and see if she could get eyes on either the Captain or his shadow. Finding both was easy enough. The Captain was at Balimund’s, viewing a selection of hunting bows—for some reason? Does he not own his own?—and Red side-eyed him all the way from Grelka’s stand on the other side of the market. Anja scoffed. There was literally no other merchant on Nirn with less patience than Grelka; Red had her work cut out for her, pretending to peruse that surly Nord’s wares. Better be quick about it then, she decided, Just in case Grelka’s in a particularly foul mood today…

Anja scanned the small room. She had stayed in there before with Sofie, so the first thing she noticed that was out of the ordinary was the furniture had been rearranged which she thought odd until she realized it was strategic. The bed was in a better position to block the door, and the desk had been pulled into the farthest corner which made it easier to get at the window for a quick and very desperate escape. Not only that, but the trunk had been pushed beneath it and several personal items lay out across the top in plain view: an alchemical set, ingredients, and potions. Something was brewing in the alembic at that very moment. Anja moved toward it cautiously, intuition prickling at the hairs on the back of her neck, but she didn’t see anything immediately dangerous—until she took one step too far.

A large, vibrant green rune appeared beneath her boot as if energized by her presence and then exploded in a wave of magical discharge before she had the chance to escape it. Fuck. Magical traps were every thief’s worse nightmare. She felt the runed spell overtake her body. Her muscles tensed so hard, they almost spasmed, grinding her movement to a standstill. It felt like stone creeping up her skin from toe tip to the top of her head. Paralysis. A favorite of mages looking for a little extra security. Particularly those with something to hide and enemies they wanted kept alive long enough to interrogate—or play with. At least it wasn’t fire or ice. Or poison. She might have fared better against poison considering her alchemist training.

Oddly, the spell didn’t last—or, rather, it felt like water rolling off her skin? Almost as abruptly as the magic tried to take over her, its grasp slipped and withered. She couldn’t explain it, but it didn’t feel like the spell had run its course and she would know. She’d been paralyzed before. It was impossible to be the younger sister of a battlemage and not experience paralysis at least once in her life. So she knew what it felt like when a spell naturally decayed. This was not it. She shivered as if to shake off the dregs of something unpleasant and retreated to the window again to check if the flash of green light from the triggered rune had attracted the attention of anyone outside.

Madesi was squinting in her direction, but he seemed to be uncertain of what he’d seen and was soon distracted by a customer: Red, herself. She managed to escape Grelka and continued to keep an eye on the Captain who was dry drawing a bow he seemed to like to test the limbs. But no one else looked up from their business, thankfully none the wiser to her misstep.

Anja withdrew again and returned to the desk. No other unseen runes exploded beneath her feet, but the force from the first had upset a few vials. The alchemical lab, itself, remained intact. So, she snooped through the ingredients; some of them were high end—Briar Hearts, Canis Root, Imp Stool, Swamp Fungal Pod…Everything you need to make poisons of paralysis...Deathbell, Nightshade, and…yep, that’s a heart…good for poisons, too…She made a face and a small sound of disgust as she picked past the gruesome ingredient, dried and hard like a bloodstone, to examine another, unknown one. What in Oblivion is this? She picked up the twisted black root and turned it over carefully. It was too dark to be more Canis Root. She sniffed it and it smelled vaguely rancid. Her brow furrowed and she returned it to its place. Normally, she’d be all for tasting a new ingredient, but considering that everything else on the table was used in the brewing of poisons, she decided not to take her chances with someone else’s components.

She squinted at the labels on the vials. They were in Aldmeris which wasn’t too much of an issue. She wasn’t fluent in the language by any stretch of the imagination. Dunmeris was the only mer dialect she could speak and read, and though it shared a few similar words with its cousin language, it was very different in just about every other aspect. However, all solvents and salts straight from an alchemist’s shop were typically labeled in Aldmeris so those names were familiar, at least. They were all caustic to brew the strongest poisons. Fine grade, too. Apparently, Red didn’t skimp when it came to creating something truly deadly. The few remaining vials must have been finished products because the only word she recognized on their labels was Dilitírio: poison.

Safe to say she’s probably up to no good…Anja reasoned. It likely wasn’t a good thing that she was stalking the Captain through the streets with vials of poison in her pockets and brewing in her room, but Anja wasn’t about to storm off into the marketplace and warn him without knowing a little more than Red had the ability to cast spells and prefers the deadly side of alchemy. So she searched the drawers of the desk and found nothing but a candle, sealing wax but no seal, the wax spoon, a few sheets of parchment, ink, a quill (recently used), and a book, The Talos Mistake. She flipped through the tome, looking for loose leaves or something hidden in the binding, but found nothing so she returned it to its original place.

Next, she tried the trunk. It was locked. Carefully, she slid it out from beneath the desk after thoroughly checking it for the possibility of more traps. Nothing was readily apparent, so she picked the lock and pushed the lid back. Immediately, she triggered another rune, much smaller this time and sickly green instead of the sharp emerald light from before, but it hit her full in the face and she almost reeled from the wave of nausea that flooded through her like high tide. Yep. Poison Rune. There it is. Her mouth watered and she feared that she would be sick, but a few moments of deep breathing steadied her discomfort. She made a mental note to sort her inability to detect magical traps after all this was through.

Inside the trunk were Red’s belongings. Typical traveler fare for anyone coming from afar: a small tent, a bedroll, and pack. She looked well prepared to stay a night or more out in the wilderness. Anja opened the flap of her bag with the tip of her dagger to give herself a little room just in case the mer was really fond of runic nesting dolls, but there was not another spell waiting to blow up in her face.

Resting at the very top, clearly stowed there merely for safekeeping until Red returned, was a letter without an address and a folded piece of parchment that matched what Anja had found in the drawers of the desk. She examined the letter first. The seal was—odd. It looked as though the wax had been reheated and then smudged with the swipe of a finger to obscure what it had once depicted. When she opened the letter, its contents were even stranger. Neatly inked across the page were symbols of some kind. It wasn’t a language, as far as she could tell. At least, it didn’t look like any language she had ever seen written down and it certainly wasn’t Aldmeris. It’s code…The symbols were grouped together in what might have been words and there seemed to be some idea of punctuation. There were periods, at least, to separate long lines of text.

What the fuck is going on here? she wondered, hungry for an explanation, but there wasn’t any time to attempt to decipher it. She’d need a cipher, first of all; she wasn’t a godsdamned savant of all things sneaky. Without it, she doubted she could decode any of it even given all the time in the world, but its mystery scratched at her brain in an unpleasant way. She didn’t like not knowing what those bizarre markings might be screaming up at her face if she only knew how to read them.

Impatiently, she turned her attention to the piece of paper to see if it shed any further light on what she found in the letter and it did—sort of. Scribbled across it in looping script was nothing but gibberish in the Common alphabet. Mostly. There were other characters, too. Ones that were familiar, but not used by the Empire. It took her a moment to realize they must be part of the Aldmeri language. Her first thought was that the page was Red’s reply to whatever instruction or information she had received in the coded letter, but the characters were grouped together in the same pattern as those in the message. She was decoding it for herself…and was halfway through—probably. Maybe. They wouldn’t code it a third time, right? Fuck if she knew. She set the coded pages aside with a deeply troubled expression.

Carefully, she searched the bag, finding only the usual assortment of things the experienced, prepared traveler took with her when going anywhere. Nothing exciting. She almost gave up and put everything back where she found it when something caught her attention: there was an odd lump in the flap of one of the side pockets. Cautiously, she ran her finger and thumb over it and felt a ring of something hard caught between the lining. Her pulse raced. This little trip into a stranger’s room was getting very interesting.

Quickly and silently, she hastened to the window to check on the Captain’s progress in purchasing a bow. He was finished and talking to—Ysgramor’s hairy ass, what in Oblivion are you doing talking to HER?!?—Sapphire. The grumpy thief must have just come up to Grelka’s stall and was leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest. She was scowling which wasn’t unusual, but she seemed to be particularly annoyed with whatever the Captain was saying. Anja clutched at the windowsill as if it was the only thing holding her upright. At breakfast that morning, he had said he knew better than to approach Delvin about her, but clearly he did not know better than to approach anyone else in the Guild. Why? she mentally whined, Why can’t you just play delivery boy and then go home? What is it you’re after? And then an answer suddenly occurred to her. My real name. Ulfric wants my real name. It would be the best card for the Jarl to play, if his man could secure it for him. But he won’t be getting it from Sapphire. Not even the Guild knows. The only thing he’ll get is me in deep shit with Brynjolf. And she doubted she could kiss her way out of that.

One thing at a time…She’d have to do damage control later. Quickly, she looked for Red and found she had moved on to Brynjolf’s stall. Uncharacteristically, the Nord thief barely paid his customer any attention. He was too busy watching Sapphire and the Captain have what now clearly looked like a heated conversation. Brynjolf looked ready to intervene, but he waited, looking for an opportune moment or a signal from Sapphire. This is getting out of hand…Anja ran through the possible scenarios unfolding in the square below her, and regardless of which one would eventually transpire, Red would either continue to follow the Captain out into seclusion or return to the inn to check on the poison she’d left brewing and finish decoding the letter. Either way, Anja didn’t have much time.

Now with a renewed sense of urgency, Anja returned to the bag and fiddled with the flap until she found the small slit in the seam and fished out what was inside. Two things: a coin the size and weight of a Septim but made of something lighter than gold and covered in very different markings and a ring with two revolving inlays set into it. The ring, fortunately, was the very cipher needed to decode the message. The coin, unfortunately, was plainly from the Aldmeri Dominion. The elven empire’s proud eagle was emblazoned across one side and the odd markings were etched into the back. Not another cipher, she didn’t think. There were only two lines of text on the back. Enough for a first and surname, perhaps. It reminded her of the coins needed to get into the counting house in Markarth. Like the one currently tucked into her boot. A way to let allies know to be friendly. “Fuck,” she swore under her breath. Red was a Thalmor spy.

She reacted more than planned her next few moves as she pocketed the ring, the coin, and the coded messages and swiftly returned everything to its place. There was nothing that could be done about the expended runes that had previously protected the spy’s valuables, but Anja had no intention of leaving behind any other clue that she had been there. One last look out the window revealed that the Captain had somehow resolved his dispute with Sapphire. She was walking away, headed for the Ratway and Byrnjolf was still at his stall. The Captain was moving back toward the inn and his deadly stalker was already headed for the City gates.

Anja slipped out of the room and listened for the Captain’s entrance. He claimed his food from Keerava, paid her, and swiftly left through the north doors. Even through the floorboards, Anja could feel the frustrated aura radiating off his body. He was not a happy man. Not going to get any happier, she thought and zipped downstairs. Annoyingly, Talen-Jei noticed her this time. “Hey!” he growled and started to walk towards her, but she ignored him and peeked out the north doors instead, just in time to catch the red-headed Thalmor spy as she passed through the city gates. The Captain and his dog were not quite there yet, however, oblivious to the danger they would soon meet.

“Damnit.” She closed the door and strode toward the counter, pushing passed the indignant Argonian in the process. “Not now, Talen-Jei,” she barked and headed straight for Keerava.

“Now wait just a moment!”

“The red headed mer, who is she?” she demanded when she reached the innkeeper.

“None of your business,” the Argonian snapped.

“How about now?” Twenty gold appeared on the counter in front of the innkeeper.

“I just can’t seem to remember…”

Another ten.

“A ranger, lives out in the forests somewhere nearby. She comes through pretty often.”

“Name?”

“It escapes me.”

Another five.

“Really?”

“Everybody’s purse gets a little light eventually. Just answer the question or I’ll have to go relining my pockets with gold from your strongbox.”

“Naari. Never gives a family name.”

“She say what she was here for?”

“Are you going to rob her? Because I don’t…”

“So help me Keerava…”

The innkeeper sighed. “Just that she was looking for someone.”

“Friend or fugitive?”

“Didn’t say. Why? You running from something?”

“Nothing worth your while—or the trouble. I promise you.”

Keerava’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she seemed to ultimately agree with the statement. “She said ‘friend,’ but…”

“…it felt like fugitive?” Anja finished. Keerava nodded. She believed her. The Argonian looked annoyed, but not dishonest. “Pleasure doing business with you,” she said, thumping the bar and turning to leave.

“Pleasure’s all yours.”

Talen-Jei still tried to block her path as she practically sprinted for the northern doors again, but she moved passed him so quickly and with such force, she nearly put him off his feet. “Let her go, love,” Keerava consoled him, “She’s not worth the trouble.”


Naari was the name she chose to use when she was on a job. It was short and simple. Easy to remember so she never had to worry about accidently changing a syllable between introductions. Her given name was a precious secret she fiercely guarded. Her code name possibly even more vital than that, but she’d been doing this for centuries now, so she wasn’t as worried as she had been before when she was a green agent, fresh and anxious and eager for blood. Well, she was still eager for blood, for the hunt, the chase, and especially the kill. She was very good in her line of work. She had to be, or her employers wouldn’t have had much use for her. So, she was skilled in a variety of tasks typically considered too dirty for governments of any kind to handle for themselves. Part bounty hunter, part spy, thief, or recruiter, part Master Wizard, part whatever-she-needed-to-be-to-get-the-job-done—and assassin, too. Oh yes, she was a talented mer with the loosest moral compass and that was precisely why she had been so successful for so long.

But she was most at home in the wilds. She’d learned to stalk the urban streets because she had to, but nothing compared to the thrill of stalking prey through towering trees and tall grasses like a sabrecat. It was possibly more satisfying because her target, the good Captain, was so utterly unaware, and, as long as she stayed upwind of them, so too would be his hound.

She knelt in the golden grass by a ginger leaf aspen, invisible, her sharp emerald eyes watching the Captain and his hound meander through the trees, he on horseback and the dog happily jogging alongside. It had been a little over an hour since they’d left the city and the sun was getting low. They had started out by chasing rabbits just outside the city gates. The Captain hadn’t shot so much as directed his dog to chase down every little creature they came across for its own amusement and nourishment. Naari admired the animal. It was a well trained and faithful beast. It was a shame she would have to kill it. Since then, however, they did little but wind aimlessly through the trees for the mere enjoyment of it rather than anything remotely resembling hunting. Occasionally, the dog chased down an errant critter skittering through the grass, but the Captain seemed more interested in watching the sunlight as it filtered through the autumnal leaves than he was in using the new bow he’d just purchased. A resident of hard, gray Windhelm, perhaps he found the colors enchanting.

“Have you had your fill, yet? It’s getting dark,” he addressed his dog like she could understand him, and she certainly demonstrated some semblance of comprehension as she excitedly wagged her tail and ran circles around the horse. “Alright, just a little longer. I’ll join you this time.” She knows when it’s time to kill, Naari reasoned and slinked to the next tree.

A little while later, as twilight began to set in, they came across a little herd of goats climbing the rocks in a low clearing. The Captain surprised her with a sure shot as he felled one of the little beasts. She didn’t think he was very well acquainted with a bow because he seemed so reluctant to use it, but he was skilled well enough to bring supper home, it seemed. His dog chased down another animal for itself. The rest of the goats bleated in fear and skittered away.

As the Captain knelt to clean his kill and his dog feasted on her own, Naari quietly took a knee, drew her own shining bow, coated two arrows in her favorite poisons—one for death, the other for weakness—stabbed one into the earth, and knocked the other. She thought she heard a twig snap somewhere off her peripheral when she drew string, but by the time she turned to look, a hand shot out into the middle of her bow and wrapped around the arrow nestled there while a second formed a fist and clocked her hard across the temple. Her fingers slipped off the string, releasing the tension of the limbs and snapping against the invading hand, but the arrow didn’t fire.

Naari reeled from the blow to her head and let out a low grunt in pain, but tried to recover quickly, lurching sideways to put space between herself and her attacker. She hardly made it an inch when her vision was obscured by the whirl of black fabric and she felt a sudden slackness in her bowstring. Another flutter of darkness and then a blow to her shoulder that was at once blunt and piercing. It took her a second to realize her bowstring had been cut, and another second longer to see that she had been stabbed with her own arrow stolen from her bow’s rest. No…It had been the one intended to kill. Her training in alchemy would help her fight off the poison’s effects, buy her a little time, but she was going to die if she didn’t take an antidote soon. And she had one! Didn’t she? Somewhere on her belt—her mind was already growing sluggish. The more she moved, the faster her heart would pump death through her veins. If she was to have any chance of surviving, she’d have to kill her attacker quickly, drink that antidote, and somehow escape the Captain and his dog—or at least convince them she was merely an innocent victim. Focus!

She flung the useless weapon aside and drew her sword off her hip. The black cloth whipped against her face again and she felt a heavy, crushing blow against her sword hand. She tried not to drop her blade, but she thought some of her fingers might be broken. The sword clattered to the earth and she received a swift knee to the nose. Blood gushed down her face; she tasted it as she fell backward into the grass, breaking the arrow still jutting from her shoulder flush against her skin, and reached out wildly to take some hold of her assailant, but she only found the shaft of the unused arrow still sticking out of the earth. Desperately, she grabbed, snapping it in half as she pulled it from the ground and stabbed in the direction of the shadow now looming over her.

By some miracle, she made contact and the attacker hissed in pain, taking a half step back. Naari seized the opportunity in that momentary distraction to paw at her belt with her unbroken hand and find the antidote. As she tried to crawl away, she downed the contents of the small vial so quickly she nearly choked on them, but her enemy was not through. Recovered, they grabbed Naari by her long, crimson hair, wrenched her head back until it strained her neck, and wrapped a cloth damp with something—heady—around her mouth and nose…it smelled…Oh, sweet Magus, what’s…that…? The last thing she saw before she passed out was the Captain’s warhound bounding up the rise with bloodlust in her eyes.


Anja panicked and climbed the nearest tree with the aid of her mace, but Rahna caught the tail end of her cloak and nearly pulled her straight back down. Instead, she choked her. Anja squealed and released the clasp at her throat with some difficulty as her fingers on that hand were not functioning quite right after had so foolishly shoved it into a drawn bow. Still, though—she’d never stolen an arrow straight off the string before. That had to be another level of dexterity altogether. But there was no time to gloat about that, mentally or otherwise, because Rahna was such a godsdamned beast, she was halfway up the tree just standing on her hind legs.

“Fuck!” she cursed, “Lonely-Gale! Call off your damn dog!” She felt her muscles strain against the effort of keeping her aloft. Whatever Naari had coated that arrow with, it was eking away at her strength. She didn’t know how much longer she could stay safely up the tree and out of Rahna’s jaws. “Please?”

The Captain finally made it up the rise with his sword drawn, a little ball of light bobbing over his head to light his way through the growing darkness. “Tyv?” He lowered his blade slightly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Raef! Call me Raef!”

His brow furrowed as he took in the scene around him: the signs of struggle, the motionless body of the female mer he’d seen around town, her broken weapons, and, finally back to Anja up the tree. “Rahna, guard,” he commanded, and she put all four paws back on the ground, but she didn’t take her eyes off Anja as she paced the bottom of the tree. “Stay a while,” he said before going to the mer to see if she was dead.

Anja glared. “Lonely-Gale! Please! I can’t hold on much longer…”

“I thought scaling high places was part of your profession?” he pointed out as he felt the vein in the mer’s neck. Her heart was beating, but barely, and her breathing was labored. Anja didn’t respond which he thought strange and when he looked up at her again, he saw her clinging to the tree with so much concentration it would have been comical under different circumstances. As it was, he glared up at her and cast a healing spell to try to remedy some of the fallen mer’s injuries, but her wounds were well beyond his skill and he doubted he was doing much to help her.

“Don’t heal her!” Anja objected from the tree, her attention drawn by the sound and feel of his magic.

“Why did you attack this woman?” he snapped, “Is this what happens when someone catches your hand in their pocket?”

His insult broke her focus and she slid down a few inches. “No, you self-righteous pirate-fucker!” she snarled, “She was trying to kill you!”

“What?”

She slipped again. “I followed her following you!” she attempted to explain and clawed at the smooth bark of the tree to find some purchase.

Even from the ground in the poor light, Llyr could see that one of her fingers was dislocated. He let the spell die from his hands. Something strange was afoot; that was for certain, but he was still warry of her. From where he’d been standing at a distance and in the twilight, the entire encounter had looked like a shadow given solid form had risen from some dark corner and brutally attacked that mer with ruthless efficiency. He hadn’t expected that from her. It seemed she had an alarming ability to appear nonthreatening when she was, in fact, extremely dangerous. “Watch,” he instructed Rahna and she withdrew to stand at his side, “You can come down now.”

Anja huffed loudly through her nose but didn’t answer. Instead, she focused on climbing out of the tree without falling. She did well until she was about halfway, and then the trembling of her limbs was too violent to maintain her grip on the trunk and she fell backward. To both her relief and displeasure, the Captain caught her, but her knees buckled, and he was forced to hold her upright. “You’re shaking,” he observed, concerned.

“She got me with one of her arrows,” she muttered and weakly gestured to the thin cut along her cheekbone. It was unimpressive but for the sickly green color tinging the split flesh.

“Poison?”

“She’s got loads of it in her room.”

He hesitated. “I’ll need an explanation for that soon, but for now, what do I need to do to help you?”

She was relieved he wasn’t wasting time with too many questions. “What color is it?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to afford him a better look at her scratch.

“Green.”

“Oh good. I’m not going to die, then.” She gingerly felt along the tender skin. “Dark? Light? Putrid?”

“Green.”

“Bring me her belt,” she instructed, forgoing further specifics she guessed he would not appreciate the nuance of, “She might have an antidote.” At least she hoped that’s what Naari had been drinking before she drugged her. “She should have an antidote.” When dealing with poisons, it was always best to play it safe.

Llyr let her sit at the base of the tree while he did as she asked, but he kept one eye on her as he undid the buckles and relieved the mer of her belt. He checked her pulse again. It was fainter. “She’s dying,” he informed Anja as he brought the tangle of leather straps to her.

“Shite,” she cursed, but she couldn’t do much about it; not like this, “It’s the arrow in her shoulder. It keeps dosing her.”

“What arrow?”

“The one I stabbed her with.”

He blinked. “Through the leather?”

She was as surprised as him; she must have been as belligerent as a troll on adrenaline when she forced the sharp point in so deeply. “Focus,” she insisted, “Pull it out or she’ll die.”

“And—we don’t want that?” he asked pointedly. He certainly didn’t, regardless of whether or not what Anja had said was true. If she really had been trying to kill him, he wanted answers. If she was innocent, she deserved to live. But, it seemed to him that the viciousness of Anja’s attack indicated that she had not intended for the mer to get back up.

“Ask me again in a little bit,” she grumbled and fiddled with one of the pouches on the belt.

While she searched for a solution to her own problem, Llyr saw to his would-be assassin’s injury. When he inspected her shoulder, he saw no evidence of the deadly arrow in question. “Other shoulder,” Anja muttered. Nothing there, either. “In the back.” Ah, there it is. He had to cut the straps of her pauldrons and remove them in order to get at what little remained of the shaft. “What color is it?” she asked, leaning over slightly and squinting through the gloom.

“What?”

“The wound.”

He looked, pealing back her tunic and edging his head out of the way of the light. “Black.”

Anja visibly winced. “That one was the killer,” she said, “I saw her use two different vials, but I wasn’t sure. Be careful not to cut yourself when you pull it loose.”

He had to use his dagger to create a little wiggle room in her flesh in order to pry it free. “Can I seal it?” he asked once he had the arrowhead out; he tossed it aside and commanded Rahna to leave it be.

“Might as well. She’s already taken her medicine.” She removed several vials from a pouch and squinted at their labels. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to read Aldmeris, would you?”

Llyr closed the wound and tossed a little extra to stop the bleeding of her nose, but he wasn’t skilled enough to mend the break. When he was finished, he returned to Anja and took the vials from her. “Paralysis, Stamina, Magicka, and Weakness to—Shock?” He pointed each out to her.

“I guess you do,” she grunted, impressed, and then drank the stamina poison antidote.

“My wife had Altmer blood in her family,” he elaborated.

“Mmmm,” she hummed knowingly, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the tree as she waited for the medicine to take effect, “That where you learned your spells from? Your wife?”

“Some of them.”

A few moments passed and she started to feel better. Llyr let her be and took the belt back to investigate its contents for himself. There was a shining pair of runed silver manacles hanging off the back he’d never noticed whenever he happened upon the mer in the street or outside the city, not that he really looked at her longer than a few seconds any given time. It must have been covered by the fold of her cloak. He picked through the rest of the pockets and pouches and found nothing particularly interesting until he unbuttoned one of the larger ones. Inside, he found a few pieces of folded paper. Upon smoothing one of them out against his knee, he was shocked to be greeted with a likeness of himself. Another page contained a startling amount of information about him: who he was, where he lived, what his reputation was like. Then there was a likeness of Anja before her face change, a near exact copy of the one Ulfric had provided, obviously drawn by the same hand, but Llyr knew that only one should exist. Ulfric didn’t want anyone else to know what she looked like. The final page provided a limited description of Tyv, the Thief: the color of her hair and eyes, and even a vague description of her armor and weapons, but nothing else. He frowned and looked up from reading. Anja’s features were slack. She looked almost asleep. “I think it’s time you explained what’s going on,” he said, rousing her. She cracked one blue eye open and squinted at him. “Who is this woman and why—” he held up the two sketches—“was she looking for us?”

Anja sat bolt upright and snatched the drawing of her face from his hand. “Both of us?” she said in disbelief, “I thought she was just after you…”

“Explain.”

She hesitated. “While you were busy chatting up all of Riften about me, I took the opportunity to poke through your belongings at the inn. Turnabout’s fair play,” she stated, wanting him to know she knew what he had been up to, “You can imagine my surprise when I found someone else was already there doing the very same.” She told him what happened next. That she snuck into the mer’s room instead and searched the place for any clue as to who she was. “Of the two of you, she seemed more interesting.”

He rubbed his face, annoyed. He wondered how long Anja had been following him and why she didn’t stop him from asking questions when it clearly bothered her. But her decision to investigate the mer instead of walking away was not lost on him. Especially since she didn’t know at the time that her life was in danger as well—which made him wonder why she bothered to help at all. Like with the stableboy and Bunkhouse girl. Why did she care? She must have followed them all for hours through the trees, unseen by the three of them. No simple task, surely. And when the mer coated her weapons with poison to take her fatal and crippling shots, again, she chose to interfere, risking her own life in the process. To what end? He wanted to know. To her, he was only the bearer of strange, dubious news and a man who asked dangerous questions. He was nothing and no one, and thieves of her ilk—like Delvin Mallory—did not gamble with their lives unnecessarily. “And what did you find?” he prompted.

She cocked an eyebrow at him and plucked the manacles off Naari’s belt almost in his lap. “She’s a Thalmor spy,” she answered and rose to her feet, unsteadily. She removed a few items from her own belt and handed them to him. More paper, a ring, and a coin. Then she went to the unconscious mer and slapped her own restraints on her motionless body. “I found that hidden in her bag,” she explained as she checked to make sure Naari was not worsening. Her heartbeat was strong and leveling out.

Llyr blinked several times in confusion, trying to process the words he had just heard come out of Anja’s mouth. At first, he thought it some sort of joke, but then he looked at the coin and his brow furrowed tight into a deep scowl. “It’s a mark of safe passage,” he said almost to himself, “I’ve seen these on the seas. Not from the Dominion, but something like it…”

Anja nodded. “I thought it was something like that,” she agreed, “She doesn’t look a Thalmor, so she’d need something to prove it to others if their paths crossed accidently.”

“And this ring…”

“A cipher.”

“Shor’s bones,” he breathed, “How did you…why did you…?” He honestly didn’t know what question he wanted to ask first.

“Better question is why she’s after us in the first place?” she pointed out and returned to kneel to his level by the tree, “At first, I thought maybe you were doing other, dirtier work for Ulfric on the side. Maybe you were his spy. Couldn’t figure why the Thalmor would give two shites about you otherwise, but this…” she waved the sketch of herself almost in his face, “This makes me think differently.”

Llyr pursed his lips. The muscle along his jawline twitched as he ground his teeth. He was extremely displeased, if she had to guess, but again, she couldn’t be sure. “You think she was after me only because it would lead her to you,” he reasoned.

“I do.”

“I—agree.”

She had expected a denial but, somehow, his abrupt agreement was much worse. “So—I’ll ask you again, Captain, because it’s the only thing I can think of that might matter to the Thalmor,” she said, her voice tight, “Why does Ulfric Stormcloak want me back in Windhelm?”

He gave a little nod as if making up his mind a moment before he answered her. “Sonja Ironheart.”

Anja blinked several times in shock. “What did you just say?” she breathed.

“Ulfric knows she is your sister,” he elaborated.

“She’s not my sister,” she said numbly, “I don’t know who she…”

“This would go much faster if you stopped lying,” he interrupted.

She wet her lips and looked away. “So what if she is, then? Why would anyone care about either of us?”

“She is Dragonborn.”

“She’s not Dragonborn,” she said automatically.

Llyr’s brow furrowed slightly. “I won’t argue with you. I don’t know different,” he admitted, “But Ulfric is convinced she is.”

“Why?”

“He was a Greybeard once. He would know,” he hesitated, “And he said he’d met her before.”

“At Helgen?”

“On the pass.”

“Right,” she scoffed, remembering what Hadvar had told her, “Didn’t think there was much time for socializing before they knocked her head in.”

“She saved his life,” Llyr informed her.

“Of course she did,” she sneered, agitated, “She’s always sticking her neck out for everybody else instead of looking out for herself.”

“It was an honorable act.”

“She must be honorable, then.” The way she said it, she had meant it as an insult and Llyr couldn’t fathom why. She huffed a forceful breath of air through her nose and rubbed her temples. “I told him I’d kill him if he didn’t leave her alone,” she said after a moment, her voice suddenly rising an octave, “So he sends someone after me, instead? What’s he want from me?”

“To get into your sister’s good graces.”

“To use me, you mean. To get to her. So he can use her, too.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone recognized the potential of the Draconis sisters and tried to play it to their advantage.

Llyr frowned. “Aye,” he said softly.

She fixed him with a piercing glare. “He won’t be happy with you for telling me everything,” she pointed out.

“He didn’t save my life. You did.”

“I think the deadly arrow was meant for your dog, actually, so…” Besides, he had saved hers first before either of them knew who the other was.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “But if the other was meant for me—what do you think she would have done once I was too weak to fight her?” He gestured to the sketch still clutched in her hand. “I don’t think she knows what you look like now, or she wouldn’t have bothered with me.”

Anja pursed her lips and crumbled the page in her hand. “I need to know what that message says.”

“We have time…” He looked to the unconscious Thalmor spy. “I will take care of her and get you back to town to have that hand tended to.” He stood.

“By ‘take care of her,’ you mean stab repeatedly?”

“Just the once usually does the trick.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fucking warriors only think with your swords,” she growled, “She’s more use to us alive than dead.”

“She’s a threat.”

“Not right now, she isn’t.”

“And when she wakes?”

“She won’t for a few hours yet—maybe less if she’s half the alchemist I am,” she gave a little head wobble that was caught somewhere between a nod and a shake, “Plenty of time to get her behind bars.”

“You want to turn her in?” he said slowly, plainly in disbelief.

Anja shrugged. “You have a better place to keep her?” she asked, “If she just goes missing or turns up dead, they’ll send another agent to find out what happened. Maybe even pick up where she left off.”

“But if they know she failed…” he said, catching on.

“Worse, one of her targets caught her…” Anja added.

“Her investigation compromised…”

“She becomes a war asset for the wrong side.”

“And it would be a waste of resources to send another—for a time, at least.”

“‘For a time’ is plenty for me to tie up loose ends. If it’s not worth their while to look, they won’t bother. I can smooth things over. Make Tyv disappear for good.” she paused, “If you let me.”

Llyr stared at her in the white light of his spell, eyes carefully examining her features as he made up his mind. “I will help you,” he agreed.

Her expression brightened with relief. “Good,” she said and stood, snatching up her cloak along the way, “Then let’s get going. The sooner I get to work on that message, the better.” He nodded and whistled for his horse which galloped up the rise to join them.


Getting through the city gates with an unconscious and bound woman slung over Lonely-Gale’s shoulder proved to be much easier than either of them anticipated. “One for the dungeons, friends,” Llyr said as they approached.

“Crime?”

“Treason.”

That was no light charge, but still they took one look at the respectable Nord man standing in front of them and the pointed ears and golden skin of the woman he was carrying and decided he was telling the truth. Anja rolled her eyes and tried to minimize her presence by standing just behind Lonely-Gale as the guard opened the gate. “Straight to the Keep,” one guard insisted as they passed through.

“Of course,” Llyr agreed and reentered the city. Anja followed along silently beside Rahna. The guard hardly noted her.

The streets of Riften were much calmer after dark. Shops closed and people returned to their homes for the evening meal or to the tavern for a drink. Things were no safer because of it, though. Criminals stirred at night, searching for opportunity. The road Anja, Llyr, and Rahna walked was dimly illuminated by firelight through the windows of the houses lining the street and sparse lamplight from those lit on the posts for the night. They were largely alone, and those who did cross their path gave them a wide berth, afraid to catch trouble in an already troubled town.

When they neared the Temple of Mara, Anja abruptly took her leave. “I think you’ve got it from here,” she said and headed for the temple courtyard gates.

Llyr watched her go in disbelief before following her. “Wait,” he objected, “Where do you think you’re going?”

She looked at him through the bars of the gate and firmly closed it behind her, separating them. “Seeing to my hand,” she said as if it was obvious.

“Can it not wait until we’ve spoke to the Jarl?” he pointed out.

“It hurts.”

He threaded his hand through the bars and held it open to her, palm up. A pulse of healing magic swirled around his fingers. “I can ease your pain until we’re through.”

Her eyes darted to his hand and then back up to his face. “I like Dinya, thanks.”

“Raef…”

“You go on without me.”

“This was your idea.”

“So?”

You defeated her,” he continued, frustrated, “The Jarl will want to thank you for your service to her hold…”

“A person like me isn’t particularly interested in honor and glory—Llyr,” she said softly, “Or don’t you know that?”

He stared at her and retracted his hand. “You’re afraid.”

She laughed. “Of course I’m afraid,” she said, shaking her head, “You’ve already brought more trouble to my door than I usually manage alone…”

“Not of the Thalmor or even the Jarl,” he interrupted, “For Talos’ sake, those are threats you meet head on, but this you run from.”

“You’d be surprised what’s deadlier to a girl like me,” she said, “But it doesn’t matter. A good man takes the credit. That’s what’s important. Your name. Captain Llyr Fucking Lonely-Gale. That’s a name they’ll care about. Raef Gray-Raven doesn’t matter. She’s no one.”

His brow furrowed. “She’s you.”

“Same thing.” She winked and started to walk up the stone pathway toward the temple. “I’ll find you later. And have fun spinning your own tale for once, Captain,” she called back toward him over her shoulder, “You might find the experience—freeing…

Llyr watched her walk up the stone steps and disappear inside the temple in shocked frustration. This was her plan all along, he realized. He should have known better. It made sense why she was reluctant to make herself known to the literal Law-Giver of the land, but what he continued to struggle with was her strange brand of honor that she hid like a disfigurement in a cloak of shadow. As if she was ashamed. Maybe she is, he thought, though it was hard for him to imagine why. Everything he was as a Nord made it difficult for him to understand, and yet…

Silently, he totaled her uncredited acts of kindness of which he knew: the stablehand, the Bunkhouse girl, the little orphan she chose to love. Possibly the Khajiit and the shopkeep, too. He didn’t know for sure and probably never would, but he saw the way they huddled around her like a protective shell when they thought she was in danger last night. That kind of love wasn’t bought with coin or blackmail. It was earned. And now there was this Thalmor agent who owed her life to the very woman she had been sent to find and didn’t even know it. She made the choice to stay and help when she could have walked away—when she probably should have walked away for her own sake.

He wondered how many more honorable acts were strung throughout the course of her life, this thief who stole with one hand only to give with the other. He wondered if she teased him for his renown because it was a song she denied herself. If she wrapped herself in shadow only because she was afraid to walk in the light. He could believe she was the sister of the Dragonborn, then. That the same blood ran through her veins as those of heroes. “Everybody knows all the best stories,” Sofie had said that morning, but Llyr started to think that maybe that wasn’t always true.


[1] Lit. “Kharjo knows your smell;’ intended ‘Kharjo knows your scent.”

[2] “Your taste.”

[3] Lit. “And the feel of you in my arms. Sight is a very poor feeling when against the others. Eyes are easy to fool;” intended “And the feel of you in this one’s arms. Sight is a very poor sensation when compared to the others. Eyes are easily deceived.”

[4] Lit. “All feelings can be deceived;” intended “All senses can be deceived.”

[5] “Then this is a most pleasant dream that this one does not wish to wake from.” More or less. I had to screw with some sentence structure.

[6] Lit. ‘heart;’ intended as an endearment.

Notes:

I decided to have another Anja chapter because I felt I had left her in a far more urgent position than I had left Sonja or Hera. I wanted to resolve her issue a little bit before I could leave her hanging to write about Sonja. So, ta-da! Don't worry Sonja fans, we'll get back to her shortly.

But, boy, was this a difficult chapter for me to write. I rewrote it...three times? I think. I just wasn't happy with the direction it was taking no matter what I did. Things were either too busy or too heavy or too distracting; I felt I had bogged the characters down in so much plot that it was impossible for their reactions to be anything other than curl into a ball and hope for it all to go away. So, much ruthless revision later, I think I managed to produce something much better. I hope you enjoyed reading it because a lot of extra effort went into this one, lol.

Some things I wanted to highlight:

SPIES! Elenwen did say that she had other agents pursuing stronger leads. There are a lot of interesting implications behind the presence of this lone agent and I am excited for them. Also, coded messages! I did actually write a letter--and code it twice--for this chapter and they don't even decode it yet! *sigh* Soon, though.

Anja the Ninja! Heh, so I haven't really gone out of my way to demonstrate how Anja's shared blood with Sonja is affecting her. We get to see very clearly how being Dragonborn is a huge change for the elder Ironheart, but for Anja, having the Dragonblood, is much more subtle because she is not Dragonborn, herself. She's always been a quick little shit, graceful, not particularly strong, but things are shifting slightly. She's more than she had been before. She's sneakier, she's quicker, and she's strong enough to resist a paralysis spell, or perform feats like breaking Naari's hand with her mace or stabbing her with her own arrow through a few layers of leather armor with only the force she can generate on her own. She hasn't yet registered how things are changing.

Captain Llyr Fucking Lonely-Gale! Maybe this is self-indulgent, but I just love him so damn much and I like painting him in because he's just so blank in the game. But I like viewing Sonja and Anja through the eyes of other characters because always knowing why a person does or doesn't do a particular thing takes away the mystery. Trying to unravel it, make it make sense, and understand it through the brain of another character is just so interesting to me. And Llyr is somewhere between a typical honor-and-glory-loving Nord and a worldly man who has seen a lot, lived a lot, and lost a lot. He does always try to do what's right which will put him at odds with Anja, but he also knows that what's right and what's honorable are not always the same which makes him more open to thinking well of a thief. He's tragic and strong and complicated and I just can't wait to write his journey! I hope you all enjoy reading it!

Chapter 43: Don't Drown

Summary:

Sonja and Vilkas start a new training regimen. Vilkas deals with an old injury and Sonja has a pleasant evening until she falls asleep. The Circle meets to discuss their plans for the ferals and Silver Hand, and Skjor and Aela reveal strange happenings on the tundra.

Notes:

Sonja and Vilkas chapter! Bit lengthy at 30+ pages. So take some time and enjoy!

Trigger Warning: depictions of PTSD, blood and gore, cannibalism, and nightmares.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There was possibly only one person more unhappy about Hera rejoining the Companions than Sonja, and that was Skjor. For her part, the Dragonborn was not keen to have more of an opportunity to see her aunt than she already had, and Skjor was outright suspicious of her reasons for returning at all. But they both behaved themselves—with no small amount of effort—when she turned up at Jorrvaskr in the afternoon to train the Newbloods. Both warriors watched in annoyed disbelief as Hera, dressed down to training leathers, stalked into the yard with her housecarl and bellowed, “Form up, whelps! It’s time to teach you how to fight like real Companions!”

The younger recruits obeyed immediately, but there was a split second of hesitation from the older warriors. Njada, in particular, looked to Vilkas where he stood in the shade of the porch with Sonja; she was gauging his mood toward Hera before she joined the others gathering around the Firespear, but he wasn’t surprised or irritated or even the least bit indignant. He merely nodded to his fellow Companion in silence. She returned the gesture and then lined up as Hera had commanded.

Sonja stared, eyes darting between him and Hera for any hint of animosity, until he finally looked at her, and the corner of his mouth upturned slightly. “She came back,” he said simply, and he sounded genuinely pleased about it, “She can handle training the others while I focus on you.” The smile flattened. “Training you,” he corrected.

Sonja cocked an eyebrow at him but then looked back to the yard with a faint smile. “You don’t mind her taking over the yard?”

“Vilkas is still Master over you all, but while he whips the Dragonborn into shape, you will answer to me!” Hera shouted at her new students almost as if in answer to Sonja’s question. The Dragonborn pursed her lips.

“No,” Vilkas responded and gestured for her to follow him to one side of the yard away from the others, “Woman taught me almost all I know. They’re in better hands with her.”

“I doubt it.” But he couldn’t tell if it was because she thought so highly of him or so little of her aunt. He chose not to ask for clarification. “Skjor looks none too pleased,” Sonja observed, dryly.

Vilkas barely glanced in the direction of the older Companion who was watching Hera from the sidelines and frowning. Aela stood beside him, her expression tight but she, like Vilkas, seemed pleased with the elder Ironheart’s return to Jorrvaskr. “Hera was Second before Skjor,” he grunted, unconcerned, “Aela will ease his mind. She’s fond of her.”

Sonja almost stopped in the yard. “Hera was Kodlak’s Second?”

“Aye. Ten years ago. Before she retired.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement, but it was heavily colored by intrigue. Ordinarily, Hera’s past with the Circle didn’t interest Sonja—beyond maybe a few good stories. Those were always worth hearing. And, of course, any that also included her mother, but otherwise Hera’s past was her own and she had already chosen not to share it with Sonja’s family for thirty years. No use prying where she wasn’t wanted. Still—Hera’s return was not only odd, it was already rattling some cages. Skjor’s not least of them. Sonja wondered how that would affect the dynamic of the Circle, if at all.

When they reached the area where they would train, Vilkas cautiously stretched out his shoulders a little. His bad one was troubling him since he woke that morning, and nothing he did granted enough relief. Especially after spending his morning at Breezehome studying alchemy instead of warming up in Jorrvaskr’s yard. Hunched over tomes and parchment for hours on end was clearly not doing him any favors. For the first time, Sonja noticed his range of motion was not so wide on his left side and tried to remember if that had always been the case. “Something troubling you?” she asked and jerked her head toward his tender shoulder.

His gaze darted to her, almost startled that she noticed, and then away. “Just getting old,” he said in a tone he had intended to sound joking but came out insincere even to his ears.

She didn’t respond right away. Instead she glanced back toward Hera and the other Companions as the elder began to separate them into new groups. It appeared she was going to use the older Companions like Njada, Athis, Torvar, and even Ria to help train the younger. Aela assisted, also, while Skjor stalked off toward Jorrvaskr, uninterested in assisting the Newbloods, especially at Hera’s request. Everyone seemed perfectly busy with their own concerns to be paying the Master of Arms and the Dragonborn any attention. When Sonja looked back to Vilkas, her expression was not soft, but near it. “Could have a look at it, if you want,” she offered, her voice low and he realized that she was trying to preserve pride and privacy.

“No,” he said firmly and shook his head so slightly, the gesture was barely noticeable, “It’s nothing.”

Sonja very much wanted to argue but decided against it. So she shrugged, appearing to give up her concern. “What first, then, old man?” she asked sarcastically.

Vilkas’ expression flattened. He should have chosen another excuse because he was sure Sonja would make the most of that one, even though he guessed their ages were not so far apart. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, “How you fight.” Ysgramor’s balls, his brains hadn’t been with him all day, either. He’d burned a lot of healing potions that morning at Breezehome, too, and now he was leaving half his sentences behind. “I realize now that I was—wrong—about the best path to set you on,” he continued.

She listened, intently; her expression vaguely amused. “You? Wrong?”

“You are not a warrior,” he stated.

Her expression immediately flared up with anger—and a touch of hurt. “I thought we were passed this…” she began.

“You are a battlemage.” She paused; expression cooled by confusion as she waited for him to elaborate. “You will always use magic in battle.” By the look on his face, he clearly wasn’t happy about it, but he was resolved. “Training you to fight without it will make your body stronger.” He paused. “But it will not make you the strongest you can be.”

Sonja chewed on the tip of her tongue. “What are you saying?” she asked at length.

“That if it came to saving your life, I’d prefer you cast a spell than reach for a sword,” he said reluctantly, “But, I’ll teach you how to be a better swordsmen with a fistful of ice in the other hand.”

Her expression went completely slack for a moment as she fully absorbed his meaning and then bloomed into an unexpected smile. “Let’s get started then,” she said, excitedly, and he felt a little more at ease with his decision.

“Footwork first,” he ordered.


Vilkas found Sonja to be a more willing student than she had ever been before. Downright eager. Even with the footwork exercises which he knew she hated as a general rule. Then again, it might have helped that he didn’t tie her up like he usually did when she was set against Lydia, but that had been equal parts training tool and precaution to keep the housecarl safe. He didn’t feel it necessary when she had only him to punish; he could handle it. So, her hands were free. Her balance better. He only had to make a few corrections to her posture which he made with a little pressure from the sheathed tip of a blunted practice sword against her hip or shoulder. No sharp smacks with the blade like before, but he was firm.

Once he was satisfied with her progress, he stood opposite her and moved through the footwork exercise again as her opponent, jabbing at her with the still covered weapon so she could deflect or dodge and see how those movements were smoother when she was balanced and harsh when she was not. To his pleasure, he saw the light of comprehension spark in her blue eyes and she studied his movements with sharper intensity. She moved quicker with greater precision after that. “Good,” he praised and began to circle around her, forcing her to pivot and follow him, “Now, before I give you a blade, I have some questions.”

She glanced up to focus more directly on his face. “I’m listening—ow!” He prodded her solidly in the ribs because she wasn’t paying attention.

“Focus, pup,” he warned and waited a moment to be sure she was back on track before he spoke again, “I’ve seen you wield both a material blade and a conjured one. Which do you prefer?”

“Depends on what I’m fighting,” she replied, eyes sharp again, “Material is usually better against other casters. They can’t dispel it and if they try to sunder my magicka, I won’t lose my weapon.”

“You didn’t draw steel against those we fought on the tundra,” he pointed out.

She hesitated, letting half a rotation pass before she finally answered. “I wasn’t thinking straight then,” she admitted, “I was—bloodthirsty. I wanted those pyromancers destroyed.”

“So a conjured weapon is most natural to you,” he concluded, deciding not to chastise her for clouded judgement when it had been his own stupidity that had drawn her into the fight from the start.

“I can pluck it straight from the air, so—aye.”

“Is the blade balanced? Does it have weight?”

“Like that of any daedric weapon, if you’ve ever come across one,” she answered.

“Few. They are not so common in Skyrim as other places, I think. But, they’re solid blades, aye? Heavy.”

“About as much as ebony. Maybe a little more. And they’re not usually enchanted.”

None of Vilkas’ gear was enchanted, either. None of the Companions bothered with such things. The Circle didn’t need it and the other Companions could scarcely afford the luxury of such expensive armor and weapons. It was a bit of a crutch in Vilkas’ opinion, anyway. It was better to be as good in your armor as you were out of it. Not the other way around. But mages were different. They liked to enchant every last piece of clothing and jewelry they could get their hands on. “Did you enchant your ma’s blade?” he asked, unsure how he would really feel about her answer if it was an affirmative.

“No, but I used to carry a weapon of ice and lightning. Lost it in the chaos at Helgen.” She assumed, anyway. Maybe one of the soldiers that arrested her had taken it. Maybe it was lost somewhere in the snow on the pass where she had been attacked. She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.

“You conjure anything else?”

Sonja nearly tripped over her feet. She wondered if Vilkas knew how borderline insulting his question could have been interpreted under different circumstances. Judging by his expression, she didn’t think so. “I’m not a necromancer,” she stated.

He realized his mistake. “I didn’t mean…”

“I only studied Conjuration far enough to arm myself. It’s—not my specialty. Reanimating corpses or pulling daedra through Aetherius is much more difficult than summoning something inanimate like weapons or armor.”

“You can conjure armor?”

“Others are better at it than I,” she admitted, “I wear the witchplate, so I don’t bother with anything else. I’ve conjured a shield before—but I usually prefer a second blade, instead.”

“I’ve never seen a wizard magic a whole set of armor before.”

“It’s not practical. Requires—too—much…” She didn’t quite deflect his next blow and was struck in the shoulder. She growled in pained irritation. “Focus.”

“What else do you cast in combat?”

She almost made the mistake of looking up at him again. “Nothing you haven’t seen already. Fire and ice mostly. I prefer ice.” She also preferred not to discuss her drain spells with the magic-wary Companion. He’d seen her use it to save herself when she was in dire need, but he didn’t need to know the extent of it—especially after she’d already denied being a necromancer. That was a fine line to define and explain to someone ignorant of magic.

Thankfully, he did not mention it. “And wards.”

“Aye, wards.”

He nodded, pensively. “Offense and defense. Good. Useful.” He abruptly stopped, unsheathed his weapon and tossed the hilt at her. She caught it and spun it unnecessarily, feeling the weight and balance shift through her grip. “When you trained at the University…”

“Aye?”

“…how did you…?” He wasn’t sure how to phrase it.

“Spar?”

He thought maybe they had another, fancier word for it. “With spells?” He tossed the sheath aside and fetched another practice sword.

“Novices learn spellcraft and swordplay separately,” she explained as he returned, “Apprentices start by using a magelight spell.”

“Magelight? Like the one you used in the tent?”

“Similar, but…” she paused, “I can show you—if you want.”

Vilkas mentally debated with himself. His struggle was plain across his features, but there was also a determined glint in his eye. “Go on, then.”

She made slow deliberate movements for his benefit only. Once the little ball of light sat in the palm of her hand, she tossed it up into the air like an apple and it came back down as if weighted. “The spell you saw me use before suspends itself, but magelight requires an anchor.” She threw it at the nearby stone wall, and it stuck as if lodged in something sticky. “It dispels against a ward, but it will stick to a body and show you exactly where their defense is shit.” It was one of her fonder memories of training: all the young apprentices stuck with dozens of balls of light in differing colors to denote spell type. They all looked ridiculous; it was an endearing image.

Vilkas’ brow furrowed as he cautiously approached the light now attached to the stone. “Does it hurt?” he asked, slowly reaching for it.

“No. It’s as light as air. Adept training’s when you add a little weight behind it. No worse than—a solid blow with the flat of your sword.” Generally speaking, but Vilkas had a way of making such a rebuke sting in Sonja’s opinion.

He stopped short of making contact with the light and clenched his hand into a fist, ultimately unwilling to touch it. Sonja pursed her lips and joined him at the wall. Her fingers wrapped around the ball and gently plucked it free. She held it, not quite out to him, but in her open palm. “It does feel strange if you’re not expecting it,” she admitted.

“Like what?” he asked dubiously, concerned it would be unpleasant.

“Like a hummingbird’s wings beating against your fingers.”

“A hummingbird? I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

“No—it’s too cold in Skyrim for such—tiny creatures,” she guessed, “But they’re beautiful.” She held up her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart for reference. “Small. Feathers a shade of green that shifts and sharp, needle beaks I haven’t seen on another bird before. They’re quick. Wings move so fast, you can barely see them. They’re just a blur. And they can hang in the air without falling.” Such animals sounded magical in and of themselves to the Companion. “But that’s what it feels like: one of those little birds hovering in your hand.”

Vilkas looked at the light again, apprehensively, and then slowly reached toward her palm, steeling himself for what he anticipated to be a truly uncomfortable experience. Sonja watched his finger graze the spherical edge of the captured energy and then her eyes quickly darted up to read his expression. It shifted from unsure, to confused, to intrigued, to—something unexpected: wonderment. “It feels like a heartbeat,” he said, “Fast and small.”

She smiled, relieved. “Want to hold it?”

He hesitated, finger withdrawing to tuck against his palm in a fist once more. “Another time,” he said, and his hand dropped to his side. Her smile faded a little, but she understood. At least he’s trying. Really trying…She released the spell. It blinked out and died. “When did you start throwing real spells?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Expert level,” she answered matter-of-factly, “When we were old enough to know better—and powerful enough to ward against the damage—in theory. Accidents still happened. But precautions were taken to keep anyone from really getting hurt. Full-contact spell combat was reserved for Masters.”

The idea of full-contact spell anything made him feel sick. “And which were you?” he asked.

She pressed her lips together into a thin line and fiddled with the sword. “Expert,” she answered after a heartbeat of reluctance.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Not a master?”

“Not yet.”

That was clearly news to him. “Truly?”

“I’m flattered by your disbelief, but—master level is difficult to achieve. The University doesn’t graduate entire classes of master casters every year.”

“I would have thought the Legion would take nothing less.”

“Do you make master swordsmen of every Newblood who passes through this yard? Or does it take years of study and practice?”

“Point taken.”

“Besides, I didn’t—quite finish my training.”

“Oh.” He canted his head. “Why?”

She patted the scar that wrapped over her hip not fondly, but resignedly. It was meant to be a careless gesture, but the tightness in her face betrayed how tender that particular piece of her history truly was. Whatever happened to leave such a gruesome mark, it was apparently bad enough not only to end her career within the Legion but put a stop to her studies at the University as well. “Things change,” she said.

Vilkas nodded and promptly changed the subject. “We’ll do like your—adepts do, then,” he said, “I need to see your form when you throw a spell while wielding a blade. See where you can make improvements.”

“You want me to hit you—with a spell?” she asked in disbelief. It sounded like a very bad idea. Briefly, images of their arguments on the tundra flitted through her mind.

“Why not? I won’t pull punches. You shouldn’t either.” Though he wasn’t thrilled by the prospect.

She stared at him a moment, but then nodded. “As you say.” Vilkas was a grown man. He knew himself. Knew his limits. Right? If he wanted her to throw spells at his magic-hating ass, she’d do as he asked.

Vilkas attacked without warning but that was half the point. Bandits did not politely introduce themselves before trying to kill or rob the unsuspecting. Sonja didn’t mind. She side-stepped the swipe of his sword with a perfect execution of the footwork they had just practiced. Though she was inclined to gloat, she resisted the urge and launched into an offensive with her own blade. One, two, three strikes with the sword then the spell. She conjured the light and tinted it sky blue, but when she raised her hand to release it, Vilkas lunged into the opening, gripped her wrist, and twisted it back. The blade in his hand knocked aside the one in hers and then was at her throat. “Again,” he said, releasing her, and stepped back. She frowned and rolled her wrist. At least it wasn’t the injured one.

They squared off. His attack was expected this time, and she changed her tactic. Always the aggressor, she backed off instead and tried to lure him in for a swift riposte. She was half successful, but the spellcasting hand was caught again before she could fire off any magic. “Not bad,” Vilkas grunted, releasing her once again, “But too obvious. Again. And make me work for it.”

She smirked and felt the hot breath of the Dragon stir at the back of her mind, suddenly roused by the promise of a challenge but not quite engaged in it yet. She was happy to make him work for it, though. They faced off a third time and Sonja focused her efforts on his left side, forcing him to back off and protect the weaker limb. Vilkas snarled low with irritation but maintained his guard and the second Sonja’s offhand moved to attempt another spell, he seized his opportunity. She had made him work for it a little, at least. Her sword flew from her grip and he managed to restrain her left hand again, but not before she successfully released the spell and it struck him square in his bad shoulder with a greater force than he was anticipating. He abruptly retreated then, breathing so deeply Sonja worried she had actually hurt him. “Get it off,” he growled.

The blue ball of light immediately disappeared from his tunic and he rolled his shoulder, but whether it was to ease the tightness of the joint or to dismiss the unwelcome sensation of magicka on his flesh, Sonja couldn’t tell. Her jaw tightened and she retrieved her sword. “It hurts you,” she said, “You should go to Danica.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted.

“It makes you weak,” she stated, and his nostrils flared with anger, but she held up her burned hand pointedly, “I would know.”

His indignation cooled. “You drop your guard when you cast a spell,” he said, changing the subject, “Every time. You leave an opening as big as a mammoth.”

Annoyed, she dropped her hand to her side and fixed him with a glare. “An ice flurry usually makes up for it.”

“I could have cut your hand from your wrist if I wanted.”

Considering how many times he had caught and restrained that arm, she decided he wasn’t exaggerating. Still, that was the way she had been trained: clear the way for your spell, leave nothing between it and your enemy. “What do you want me to do, instead?” she asked and rested the blunted blade over one shoulder.

“Tighten your guard,” he replied, “Don’t drop it just because you’re about to unleash an ice flurry. Your magicka can’t be stopped by blades, but your hand can. Protect it.”

Irritatingly, that was good advice. She nodded and prepared herself. He didn’t attack right away, taking a second longer to stretch his left shoulder until they both heard a faint pop. That can’t be good. Vilkas was briefly pained and then seemingly relieved. He chose to launch himself at Sonja before she could say anything else about his injury. That caught her off guard, especially since she had been standing flatfooted, but she recovered quickly enough and they danced around each other, exchanging a few blows, before Sonja felt comfortable enough to try another spell.

It was difficult to fight years of muscle memory commanding her to lower her sword. She managed something between what was comfortable and what Vilkas wanted. He still moved straight through it, though, and she received a rather punishing blow to the gut as a result. “Better. Again.” It didn’t feel better and she didn’t want to do it again, but she was determined to succeed in this. It’s going to be a long day…she thought as Vilkas pushed through her unpracticed defense once more. She just didn’t know how long. She’d forgotten about the laps she owed him from the day before.


Sonja ran around the edge of Jorrvaskr and back into the mostly empty yard, not even attempting to keep up with Vilkas who, annoyingly, looked like he wanted to run another set. Neither one of them was encumbered by the weight of heavy armor this time. Sonja was much faster and didn’t tire as quickly which made the first half of the laps they ran somewhat enjoyable for a change. But Vilkas’ speed had somehow quadrupled—or maybe she was exaggerating, but she hated it, regardless. “Come on, pup!” he taunted over his shoulder, “You can do better than that!”

She made a rude gesture at the back of his head. “I thought we were supposed to do hand-to-hand today,” she said instead.

It was late enough in the afternoon that declaring an end to training for the day would have been wiser to allow the body to recuperate, but Vilkas heard the keenness in her tone. Apparently, she considered such exercise a bit of a treat. “Eager for a beating?” he snarked, smirking.

“For yours,” Sonja shot back when she reached him.

Vilkas scoffed and ran his fingers through his sweat damp hair, pushing it out of his face. “Mind that ego, dragonling, it won’t be the only thing bruised when I’m through with you,” he teased.

“Prove it, blowhard.”

His hands clenched into fists, a little too eager for close combat than he should have been. “Take some water first,” he insisted, “Don’t want you almost fainting on me again.”

For a moment, Sonja looked as though she was going to forgo his suggestion and jump him immediately, but she seemed to reconsider and quickly trotted off to slake her thirst. Once watered and ready, they returned to center yard and exchanged a few easy blows to warm up. It was almost lazy. Vilkas watched the way Sonja moved, carefully. He’d observed before that she seemed oddly at ease without a weapon or magic in her hand, but it was even more obvious now that they had been practicing unfamiliar tactics all day. As he was making these observations, she feinted and delivered a heavy body shot to his ribs.

He huffed in pain. “Beautiful,” he grunted.

She blinked.

“Your form,” he elaborated, “Don’t get excited.”

“Like you could excite me.” But he could hear her heart beat a little faster than before.

“How does a spellslinger learn to throw a punch like you do?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Like I’ve said, battlemages are more physical than other casters, but…” Dodge. Rebuke. “My year, in particular, had a fondness for fighting.”

“And taking bets?” Block. Retaliate.

“Of course! Only way we were able to keep the ring going. Some of the staff were in on the action.”

Vilkas shook his head, amused, but struggled to picture a bunch of wizards dressed up in robes encircling Sonja and another mage (who looked a little like Farengar in his imagination), shouting, egging them on, and making wagers. It seemed behavior more common to Jorrvaskr, not the silent stone halls of wizard colleges where the soft and learned dwelled. How strange that the two places should have anything in common at all, let alone something so robust as a fighting ring. He almost had difficulty believing it. Still, it must have been true because Sonja obviously fought with surety granted by years of practice. “You fought in the tournaments?” he probed.

She grinned. “Reigning Champion,” she confirmed and nearly broke his nose, but he jerked out of the way far enough to alleviate some of the force of the blow. His eyes still watered, though, and he had to step back a half step to get out of her reach. “Clearly.” She was enjoying herself too much in his opinion. Time for a real fight, pup.

The spar started in earnest, then. They tossed each other all over the yard, kicking up dirt in the process, threw each other into walls, knocked over training dummies, and upset the practice swords. The few Companions still lingering in the yard quickly abandoned it for safety’s sake, except for Hera who decided to hang back on the porch by the doors and watched her niece and Blood-Brother brawl unbeknownst to either of them.

Sonja grew steadily more and more aggressive as her Dragon became increasingly invested in dominating Vilkas. His strength and skill made him an opponent worthy of conquering. Still, she tried not to heed the urge fully, tried not to let the beast out of its cage, but it breathed hot against her spine, weighed her fists down with molten force, and stoked her already significant ego to smoldering. It didn’t faze Vilkas in the least, however. In fact, he relished it. His features shifted into something almost savage. He looked wild and hungry and his eyes were the fiercest she’d ever seen, but he was still Vilkas. Still human. No real evidence of his dark secret was apparent beyond his twisted expression. “Let the Dragon out to play,” he growled, “I can take it.”

It was the most enticing offer she’d heard in a while and her response was immediate and visceral. With a roar, she tackled him straight to ground. He grunted from the force of her body hurtling into his, but his expression was set with determination and—pleasure. He was enjoying himself. Not carnally, or at least she didn’t think so. Their fight wasn’t charged in that way. His somewhat crazed grin was reminiscent of the day he fought Lydia for her right to live at Jorrvaskr when Sonja hadn’t a home for her housecarl; he was enjoying the physicality of the fight, the stretch of muscle, the execution of skill, and a proper partner with whom to dance. The challenge. And Sonja was enjoying it as well.

As the struggle wore on, it eventually devolved into a furious wrestling match in the dirt, the upper hand violently vacillating between the two of them until they were a gloriously spent heaving mess of sweat and—laughter. There was no victor which grated on the Dragon’s nerves, initially, but something in its attitude shifted when she looked at Vilkas laying on the ground beside her. The tension eased abruptly and the giddy force of the exertion they had just engaged in flooded through her body. Sonja snickered in spite of herself as she lay flat on her back and turned her gaze skyward.

Vilkas looked at her sideways as her chuckling morphed into full-belly laughter. She snorted and a smile spread across his own face, charmed. Hera slipped inside, then, feeling she had overstayed the bounds of what was decent, and left Sonja and Vilkas truly alone to laugh for a few moments longer before regaining control. Sonja rubbed her face which was caked in a little blood from a scrape on her forehead and mud made from her sweat and the dust of the yard. “Oh, I wish I had a sparring partner like you back in Cyrodiil,” she admitted, shaking her head, but her tone was amused.

Vilkas tried not to look too pleased with himself. “Told you I could take it.”

“And you weren’t kidding.” She sat up but made to attempt to stand.

“You did well, yourself,” he observed as he wiped sweat from his brow, also sitting but choosing to remain seated in the dirt beside her, “You did not let the Dragon rule you.”

Some of the delight died from her features. “I tried,” she said reasonably, “It’s—easier—with you.” His brow lifted and she scrunched up her face. “I don’t have to be so careful,” she corrected, “You can take it. If my grip on the—on the beast—on the Dragon slips, I don’t break you.”

He didn’t answer right away. “That’s what I’m here for,” he grunted.

“To bear the wrath of a dragon?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Her brow twitched toward furrowing but did not quite crease. “I know this—training me—is your duty as a Nord, but…”

“Not just a Nord,” he interrupted, “As a Companion. As Master of Arms of Jorrvaskr. You are my Shield-Sister. Your survival is—important to me. No matter where your path takes you from here, you must be strong enough to always come back home. That is my duty, my honor—and sometimes my pleasure when I get to knock you around the yard a little…”

She laughed, but was genuinely, deeply touched by his words. Without thinking, she wrapped her hand around his upper arm and squeezed gently. An affectionate gesture Vilkas hadn’t expected. His hand twitched, wanting to cover her burn-scarred fingers with his own, but he didn’t and her hand slipped away safely out of his space in the next second. “Thanks, all the same, Vilkas,” she said, “For everything.”

“Even the new scars?” he asked, pointedly, jerking his head toward the scrape on her brow.

“Aye. Especially those.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Speaking of, how’s your shoulder?”

She expected him to withdraw or change the subject or tell her to mind her own damn business, but he sighed instead and rolled the injured joint slowly. It caught and clicked, and he grimaced. “It’s an old injury,” he explained, “Danica can do no more for it.”

“Is it getting worse?” Her brow was knit with obvious concern.

He shook his head. “Just a bad day,” he assured, “Must have slept on it wrong.”

She chewed on the tip of her tongue, her gaze staring thoughtfully at his left shoulder. “Sometimes, old injuries get—knocked loose again,” she said, “Joints especially. They’re never as strong afterward.”

“It’s strong enough.”

“Not today,” she countered, and he glared at her, “You’re in pain.”

He scoffed and opened his mouth to deny her observation. “I’m always in pain,” he said instead, “I’ve learned to live with it.”

Sonja fidgeted; his admission disturbed her. “The way it’s popping—it would do you good to see the priestess,” she said slowly.

“I’ll think on it.”

She shrugged, disbelieving. “As you say.”

He nudged her with his good arm. “I will think on it,” he assured. Sonja pursed her lips and nodded, more convinced, but not terribly reassured that thinking about her suggestion would result in actually acting upon it. “Come on, pup,” he sighed, clearly reading her displeasure, “Training is done for the day.”

They locked hands and pulled each other out of the dirt. “Tafl after the feast?” Sonja suggested as they walked towards Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas smirked. “I’d like to, but not tonight,” he declined, “I have—business with the Circle.”

Sonja hummed knowingly. “About Hera?”

He cut a glance at her. “Aye.”

“Another time, then,” she asserted, “It’s time to break that tie.”

Vilkas chuckled as they entered the meadhall. “Aye, that it is.”


Hera walked down the hallway, headed for Kodlak’s room. Already from halfway down the corridor she could hear Skjor’s indignant growls from beyond closed doors. She frowned and glanced at Rengeir whose expression declared he could hear them, too, so it was loud enough even for the Unblooded to overhear. Idiot. She did not remember Skjor as a careless man. There was a reason he had been chosen as Second after she had left the Circle: he was competent—or used to be. But maybe he’s gorged himself stupid over the years…Only one way to find out. She pounded on the Harbinger’s doors when she reached them.

Skjor’s angry voice died abruptly. “Enter,” Kodlak called. Hera opened the door and strode inside with her usual square shoulder, head held high posture: a walking open challenge. Rengeir waited in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, and stood watch to move nosey Newbloods along if they wandered too close to closed doors. Both Harbinger and Second were standing in the middle of the room, hackles raised and gazes sharp from their argument.

“Speak of the daedra,” Skjor snarked.

“And she will appear,” Hera finished and then turned her attention to Kodlak, “Harbinger.” She nodded in greeting. It was just the three of them which meant either Aela didn’t know Skjor was there—unlikely—or didn’t agree with his grievance. A good sign in Hera’s opinion.

“Firespear.” Kodlak nodded in return and then took a seat at his table, regaining his composure.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

“My Second is not pleased with your return to Jorrvaskr.” Straight to the point, then.

Hera shrugged. “I am aware. And so is half of Jorrvaskr, the way he’s been shouting.”

“I want the truth, Hera,” Skjor snapped, “Do you intend to challenge me for Second?”

She cocked a silvered eyebrow at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s clear what’s precious to you, old wolf,” she spat, “There was a time when you used to know the difference between honor and titles.”

Skjor glared. “I haven’t forgotten, but you turned your back on us,” he reminded her, “Why come back now?”

Hera frowned. “Don’t pretend you felt betrayed when I left,” she shot back, “You had much to gain once I was out of the way.”

“But I didn’t want you to go. None of us did.”

“Didn’t stop you from asking for my help when you needed it.”

“For the boys!” His voice strained against shouting. “I care for my Pack! I protect them!”

“No. You want me to protect them so you can chase after prey that makes you hungriest,” she snarled, “If you cared for the twins’ safety, you would take up the worthier Hunt and you know it.”

“The Hand hunts us daily!”

“And the ferals retake the surrounding forests!” Hera nearly roared back as she took several menacing steps toward Skjor, “Let the Hand turn their attention to that threat instead of baiting them with your bloodthirst and we’d be rid of the monsters well before even your appetite for blood waned, Skjor. But you’re too hungry to hear reason. Hearts of the Hand taste too damn good to your savage tongue!”

Skjor responded with posturing for dominance. His shoulders raised and his chest puffed out. He made himself as big as he could without looking ridiculous—though Hera still thought he looked foolish, regardless—and stepped far into her space. “I am not feral,” he growled with such intensity, Hera could hear the base of the Beast rumble in the lower register of his voice. His eyes, even the ruined one, were wide and bulging and hungry.

Of course, Hera was unafraid of his display and sneered, plainly unimpressed. “No? You’re so close, I can smell the stink of Hircine on you already,” she replied, unwavering, “Blood and gore and wild fucking animal.”

“I’ll show you an animal…” He shoved her backward; she caught herself, and they might have erupted into a full-on brawl right there in Kodlak’s chambers had not the Harbinger, himself, intervened.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” Kodlak bellowed and he inserted himself right between the two Wolves with such surprising speed and dexterity for not only a man of his age, but for a Wolf so starved. “I will not have you fighting with your Blood-Sister, Skjor!” he hissed, his tone lowered for the sake of some semblance of secrecy.

“And your forebearer!” Hera added, pointedly, “Don’t forget the Blood that runs in your veins runs in mine too! I put it there! I brought you into our family when you were just an old warrior without purpose. I guided your first run, shared in your first kill. I taught you to Hunt!”

“Silence, Hera,” Kodlak hissed and she bit her tongue to stop from saying more.

With great effort, Skjor managed to regain some modicum of control. He snarled like a beast, scowled, and locked Kodlak in his fierce gaze. “Forgive me, Harbinger,” he ground out, “It won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t,” Kodlak agreed sternly.

“But she hasn’t answered my question,” he insisted, “Why come back to the Pack she has abandoned?” He paused. “Or did you convince her to join your search for a cure?” He spat the last word out like it tasted foul.

 “She had a right to know about the Blood,” the Harbinger answered, “To make up her own mind about it.”

“And?” Skjor prompted Hera, “What have you decided? Is it a Curse of Beasts? Or a Blessing for True Hunters?”

Hera’s eyes flit to the back of Kodlak’s head, briefly, and then back to Skjor. “I keep my own counsel in this,” she said.

Skjor inhaled sharply, scenting her. “Your Wolf is not weak,” he observed, “It’s never been weak. You’ve fed it well over the years.” That was the main reason he and Aela had gone to her for help with the ferals in the first place. “Do you really want to give up such power—power that made you Firespear?”

“I earned my honor-name before I took the Blood,” she said sharply, “Before I was a Beast, I was a warrior. A strong woman.” She paused. “I don’t need the Wolf nearly as much as it needs me, but I don’t deny enjoying the boons its strength has granted me.”

“I didn’t figure you for a milk-drinking fence-sitter.”

“And I didn’t figure you for a snow-back ice-brain, yet here we are.”

Skjor seethed at the insult. “I’ll be watching you, Firespear,” he warned, “You make a challenge or try to shift the balance of the Circle…”

“You’re not Harbinger, yet, Skjor,” Kodlak reminded him, his tone full of menace, “Take care or you never will be.”

Skjor clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth began to ache, but he was not so far gone that he could not pack in his anger and wounded pride and leave before he said or did something he would truly regret. “I take my leave,” he growled and tried to push past Hera on his way out of the room.

She caught his arm as he passed and forced him to look her in the eye. “I’m not here to take what you’ve earned, Skjor,” she said firmly, “But know that I can. With or without the Blood, I can still beat your sorry carcass into the ground like I did during your first trial. I don’t suckle at the teat of Hircine.”

He sneered at her, drawing up to his full height which was perhaps an inch or so taller than Hera. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind already.”

She scoffed and squeezed his arm tighter until she was certain it was painful, but Skjor did not flinch. “You know nothing of my thoughts. You would be a fool to think otherwise.”

Skjor wrenched his arm free of her grasp and all but stormed out of the room. “You pushed him far today,” Kodlak said when they were alone.

“He needed pushing,” Hera replied coolly, “He hasn’t been tested enough since I left. He only knows the power of the Blood and not the cost of it. If he is not reminded that he must control himself, he won’t bother.”

“Like Vilkas needed pushing?”

Hera pursed her lips. “Vilkas is strong. He handled himself well.”

Kodlak scoffed not in disagreement, but in rancor for Hera’s harsh ways. She was always hardest on her favorites. That’s why she pushed Skjor so far: she liked him. Respected him, even. Once. Long ago. Leaving had been easier for her knowing that he would take her place. She had hoped he would fulfill her duties better than she ever had. In some ways, he did. In others—he made the same mistakes and relished the Blood too deeply. “He is glad enough to have you back, I think he’s already forgiven you for what passed between you last night,” Kodlak continued and returned to his seat at the table, “But you’re right about Skjor. I did not test him as I should have. I did not guide him when he needed it most. In that, I have failed him.”

“We’re old. We’ve made many mistakes.”

“And will make many more before our time is through.”

Hera sighed at that and nodded. “Aye. That is certain.”

Kodlak gestured to the empty chair opposite him. “Sit,” he half-commanded, “I’m getting tired just looking at you. How went your first day training after so long?”

She barked out a dry, humorless laugh. “Well enough,” she said at first, her tone reserved, but then it suddenly seemed very pointless to her to carry on as such, “Truth is, those whelps—milk-drinking sops, the lot of them, by the way; you’ve lost your touch, old man—but, they hardly needed me…” Kodlak’s brow lifted with interest. “It’s clear that Vilkas has worked diligently with his students. All they need is experience to hone their technique and they’ll make fine warriors. Perhaps even worthy of Jorrvaskr.”

“He takes his duties very seriously.”

“He wants them all to come back home.”

Kodlak almost grimaced. “Aye. That he does.”

“You should have made him Second when I left instead of Skjor.”

“He was too young then. Too hotheaded and eager.”

“He’s grown.”

“He has,” Kodlak allowed, “And I am proud of the man he has become, but—he feels too deeply. That is both his greatest strength and most treacherous weakness. The weight of Harbinger would sit uneasily upon his shoulders. He would carry the title with honor. I know it. But—it would make something else of him. Something he should not be.”

Hera cut a glance at him. “Better than Skjor as Harbinger,” she pointed out, “Or do you take that view more for Vilkas’ sake than that of the Companions?”

“He is my son, Hera,” Kodlak said softly, “Allow me this one selfishness.”

“Even the Harbinger is only a man,” she said knowingly, “I cannot begrudge you that.” Her expression tightened, pain evident in her features. “The things we do for our children,” she muttered more to herself than to Kodlak.

“Indeed.”

“And he’s a good lad.” She buried her melancholy back deep down in her heart.

“You are proud of him.”

“In more ways than one.”

“His work with Sonja, you mean?”

A touch of mirth twinkled in Hera’s eye. “Aye, he has his hands full of my niece.”

With your niece,” Kodlak corrected.

“I know what I said.”

His brows shot straight into his hairline. “Oh?”

Hera shrugged. “You should venture out into the yard again, Harbinger,” she suggested, “You might find the trip enlightening.”

Kodlak was first pensive as he considered the pairing, then uneasy. “Curious,” he stated, “Perhaps I should look in on my Shield-Siblings…”

“But you did not send for me merely to sate Skjor or speak of Vilkas,” she continued, deciding to change the subject after Kodlak’s lukewarm response to the possibility of a romance blooming between his adopted son and her niece.

The Harbinger seemed to recollect himself. “No,” he confirmed, “I did not.”

“What, then?”

“There is more I have not yet told you.”

Hera quirked an eyebrow at her friend and frowned. “What now?” After he had told her everything of the Blood and Hircine the night before, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her more. Not when knowledge of the Curse was already burden enough, already more painful and vindicating than anything else he had yet to tell her. She needed time to process her own grief before he delivered the last piece of bad news. Especially when it had the chance to spark her anger. Albeit, a single day was hardly long enough, but if he waited much longer, she was certain to be angrier with him. No, it’s time. He sighed heavily and slid his hand across the table toward her, palm up. She eyed him and the offered limb suspiciously before placing her hand in his. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” Her tone was flat; her expression tight.

“No,” he confirmed, “You won’t.”

“Quickly, then.”

“I’m dying, sister,” he said gently, and Hera felt her world shift. She was very glad that she was sitting.

“How?” The word barely managed to make it passed her lips.

“The Rot.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It should be.”

“How long?” she demanded.

“The disease has had a year to dig in, but I don’t know how much longer I have left.”

Hera rubbed her face and growled. “Mara’s bleeding heart, Kodlak. Do the boys know?”

“Vilkas does. He found me when I was—not myself. I have not yet told Farkas, but I will.”

“You haven’t told the others.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“Skjor would challenge you if he knew.”

“He would.”

“If he was not so Blood-drunk, I would support his claim,” she said, bitterly.

“I’m not feeble yet,” Kodlak grunted, indignant.

“No, just about to die at any second!”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m receiving treatment.”

“Even Danica can’t cure the Rot, Kodlak.”

“No,” he agreed and then hesitated, “Vilkas found me someone else.”

“Who?”

“Sonja.”

Hera sat silently for a moment. “Does she—know about the Blood?” she asked slowly.

“Of course not!” Kodlak exclaimed.

“I don’t want her to know,” she continued sharply, “Not about this. Share all the stories of the old days you like, but I never want her to become a part of this. Freydis would not want it.”

“I have no intention of Turning her or anyone else ever again, Hera,” he assured, then he paused as he considered his next words, “Though—Skjor has concerns.”

“I’ll rip his throat out if he even thinks of Turning her.”

Kodlak shook his head. “He’d rather move her on to High Hrothgar than invite her into the Circle,” he assured, “Did you know she’d fought Wolves before? Back in Cyrodiil?”

“No—Freydis never mentioned it.” It was hard to miss the pain in her eyes.

“And she learned a thing or two about them at that university she went to,” Kodlak continued, “After she and Vilkas tangled with ferals out on the tundra, I was worried they were spending too much time together. That she would figure him out soon. Skjor shared my concerns.”

Hera growled more than hummed her displeasure. At least she understood Kodlak’s muted response to something more growing between the two young warriors. “Perhaps you are right,” she grumbled, “They do spend a lot of time together.”

“Apparently.”

She leaned against the table, pensively rubbing circles against the grain with her free thumb. “Do you think she suspects anything?”

“I spoke with her,” he admitted, “To feel out what she knows—but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about—yet.”

Hera let out a long, harsh sigh before she looked at Kodlak again. “I’ll take her to High Hrothgar kicking and screaming, myself, if it means keeping her blood clean of this curse,” she said, sternly.

“It will not come to that.”

“It better not.” Then she fell into a brief, contemplative silence before tightening her grip on Kodlak’s hand ever so slightly. He looked at her, head canted questioningly. “So, what can I do?” she asked, searching his face, “To help you and keep my niece out of this mess?”

Kodlak squeezed her hand in return. “Help Vilkas. Hunt the ferals. Be my eyes where I cannot go.”

Hera pursed her lips. “Duties for your Second,” she pointed out.

“But I’m asking you,” he paused, “You can refuse.” As if she needed permission.

“I already said I would help the twins,” she said gently, “I have no intention on going back on my word.” She just preferred to have Skjor properly fulfilling his purpose.

“Good.” Kodlak nodded, appreciatively, but then his expression suddenly shifted, and his brows drew in sharply. A little gasp of surprise whispered passed his lips. He didn’t say anything, but Hera sensed that he was in pain. It wasn’t a large flare up, but it was a sudden flit of agonizing disorientation. She squeezed his hand and he focused on her face again, though he seemed a little dazed. “Thank you, sister,” he said after a moment of retracing the conversation, “I know what I ask of you is dangerous…”

“I’m not out of practice. I’ll be fine. The boys will be fine.”

“Still, go carefully, stay safe, and hunt well.”

“As always.”

He smiled faintly, but his eyes were sad and he rubbed one her knuckles with his thumb. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to have you back within these halls.”

“It’s good to be back,” she admitted, “It was—hard to run alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said sincerely and hoped she believed him. Of regrets, he had many, but not heeding Hera when she needed most to be heard was one of his most shameful. He would do right by her and every other Companion who dared question the Blood in the past but were not heard or died in their first transformations when their hearts rejected it. The Circle would be worthy again. Jorrvaskr would be free of its taint. Pack would be replaced with Family and not ruled by brute force and bloodthirst, but honor, respect, and friendship. The way it used to be. The way it should have always been. Ysgramor help him, if it was the last thing he did.


Vilkas cleaned himself in the washbasin in his room and selected another couple of vials from the top drawer of his dresser for the pain in his shoulder. He tried inspecting it in the mirror and thought perhaps it was a little swollen, but he didn’t have an eye for such things. Sonja was right. He should seek help from Danica. There was nothing preventing him from going to see the priestess other than his own pride—and maybe a little fear. That injury was an old, precious, tender one, after all. He drank his medicine and put on some fresh clothes as he silently debated with himself as to whether or not he should go to the temple when there was a sharp knock at the door. He jumped, too absorbed in his thoughts to have been mindful of who could have approached, but he was reasonably sure it was not his brother. Farkas’ heavy steps would have drawn his attention no matter what. “Who is it?” he called.

“Hera.”

It was a surreal experience to hear her voice through his bedroom door again. Almost as if no time had passed at all, let alone a decade. “Enter.”

Swiftly, she stepped inside. Her gaze immediately appraised him, not suspicious, but out of habit. Hera sized everyone up. “How’s the shoulder?” she asked.

He frowned. “It’s fine.”

Hera’s eyes darted to the empty bottles on the dresser. “Of course it is.”

“Need something?” he asked. Though it was easy for Vilkas to forgive Hera now that he knew why she had left in the first place, he was still a little warry of settling back into the old, easy way between them. Those pieces of their relationship, broken by her leaving, still had rough edges that did not fit easily together again, but he was not resentful of her anymore. Understanding the struggle with the Blood firsthand went a long way toward soothing the ugly sense of abandonment her departure had left in its wake.

“Aye,” Hera confirmed, “I wanted to know if you were feeling up to hunting tonight after the Circle meeting.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, knowingly. Vilkas’ frown deepened. He was going to have to try harder to disassociate that expression with Sonja. “I watched you with the pup today.”

He fidgeted at the nickname. “And?”

“And you should be careful.”

He wasn’t sure they were still talking about his shoulder. “I’ve had this injury longer than the Blood. I can handle myself, Firespear.”

She shrugged at that, wordlessly acknowledging that fact at least. “It’s not just that.”

“You have other concerns, then?”

“The magic.”

“Oh.” His posture straightened slightly. He was not wholly unprepared to catch Oblivion for making an exception for Sonja’s spellslinging, but he was a little surprised it was coming from Hera, of all people. “I know it’s not our way, but you were there when she felled the mammoth. You saw what happened when she healed the calf. And I’ve seen her do a lot more. Talos save me, but she uses magic everywhere else.” He made an irate gesture with his hand. “She doesn’t even own a flint…”

“Drove Freydis mad, too,” Hera confirmed, “But that girl lives in another world. Always has. Her head in books, potion bottles up to her eyes, and drawing frost on windowpanes in the midst of summer. Not even her mother could make sense of it half the time—be careful if you intend to try.”

Vilkas stared at her a moment, uneasy. “You are worried I cannot control my—fear.” Hera knew just about everything there was to know about him. She’d been there since the beginning, after all. She knew Jergen, knew what happened to him. Most importantly, she knew what had happened to the boys and their mother—why Vilkas hated magic so much. This was far beyond the bounds of anything he was comfortable with now or ten years before.

She waved him off as if unconcerned. “I know you can. I saw you touch the light spell.”

“What then?”

“Don’t drown for diving into waters too deep, pup,” her voice was as soft as he’d ever heard it, as kind as she could make it—which was still hard but without edge, more weary experience than haughty demand. And her words resonated with him, plucking at the memory of when she first used them: when he was young, and she was teaching him to swim the rough white water of Whiterun River. ‘The river’s stronger than you, boy,’ she had said, ‘Always will be. Learn to keep your head above water first. Don’t drown for diving into waters too deep.’ What was he doing now if not wading waist deep into something far more suffocating than a lungful of river water?

His gaze dropped to her shoulder. “I will be mindful,” he promised, “It is a struggle.”

“I would be surprised if it wasn’t.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably and then fixed him with a solid stare. “But—that you are doing this—accepting her magic—even if you can’t fathom why in Oblivion she can’t just buy a godsdamned flint—it speaks for itself, Vilkas. You should know, I am—impressed.”

He blinked. “You’ve gone soft in the last ten years.”

Her expression flattened and she huffed as if she had been holding her breath for too long. “I hope she singes the snark right off your face.”

That might have made Vilkas feel ill had Sonja not already nearly done so recently in her kitchen. “She prefers ice.”

“Freezes, then.” She sneered without malice and finally turned to leave, but he stopped her just before she managed to open the door.

“It is good to have you back,” he said, “The yard was never the same without your shouting.”

She scoffed. “It’s good to be back,” she admitted, “But the yard isn’t mine anymore.”

“You could have it back. If you wanted. It always felt like I was only keeping it for you.”

She fixed him with a pointed expression. “It’s where you belong,” she insisted, “It passed to you for a reason.”

“No one else wanted to do it.”

“No one else could do it. There’s a difference.”

“So, you haven’t yet found fault with the whelps, then?”

“They’re green. They need work. Some of them you’ve kept too long in the safety of the hall,” she said knowingly, “Cut them loose to Farkas. Give them a chance to bloody up their blades and come back.”

Vilkas nodded, almost embarrassed. “I will see what jobs he has available.”

“Good. Until tonight.” Hera opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

“Hera?”

She glanced back, pausing in closing the door behind her.

“I will not hunt tonight.”

Her expression was caught between pride and relief. “Then I will ask again tomorrow.”

He nodded, silently, and watched the door finally swing closed. Now alone, he firmly gripped his injured shoulder and squeezed. Don’t drown, he reminded himself and finally made up his mind to go to the temple.


Sonja blankly scanned the bookshelf of random tomes in Belethor’s general goods store. She wasn’t expecting to find anything of interest, exactly; she was just passing the time while Faendal perused the cookware and other items for the kitchen. “Necessary for any home with an oven,” Belethor insisted, but Sonja didn’t turn to see what he was displaying to her friend.

Faendal hummed in disbelief. “Hey, Sōn…?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you fireproof?”

She wiggled the fingers of her burn scarred hand in his direction in answer.

He grumbled in disappointment. “Yeah, alright, I’ll take that, too,” he said to Belethor.

“You won’t regret it!” the Breton merchant declared, but he already was, Sonja could tell.

When she reached the rack of scrolls, Sonja lazily began to unroll a few to see if there were any worth purchasing for Faendal or maybe even Lydia if she was willing. Magic didn’t seem to put the housecarl off the way it did other Nords and Faendal had already expressed an interest in learning a few practical tricks. Ooo, Conjure Familiar! Faendal might like that…Continued bartering punctuated the rhythmic whisper of parchment in her hands. “Finest set of kitchen knives this side of Skyrim!” Belethor boasted.

“We’re in the middle,” Faendal pointed out.

“All of Skyrim, then.”

She snorted aloud at that one as she progressed through the line of scrolls until her attention was caught by a larger one wrapped in a leather sheath. Intrigued, she plucked it from the rack and popped the wooden toggle from the leather loop. The casing eased open to reveal a very delicate, yellowing vellum inside. Carefully, she removed the scroll and unfurled it. Thick text in black ink, appointed with dashes of vivid blue stared up at her, fading, from the surface of the parchment. She didn’t recognize the language, but she was certain it was not a spell inked into the page. There were no markings, arcane or otherwise, to indicate an enchantment, and it didn’t feel magical. “That was on hold for another customer, but they haven’t come for it in months,” Belethor called from behind his counter. It took Sonja several seconds to realize he was talking to her and not Faendal. “I’ll cut you a good deal if you take it off my hands today.”

She squinted at the frayed edges of the page. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s—uh—some ancient Nordic—poetry? I think,” Belethor said a touch self-consciously. Sonja’s sharp gaze shifted to watch him over the top of the scroll. He sighed, certain she wasn’t going to buy it from him now. “Look, I bought it off some adventurer a while back thinking it might be worth something to the right collector,” he explained, “And I found someone out of Solitude who was interested, but he’s probably dead on the road somewhere by now. In his letter, he said he thought it was poetry or verse—he didn’t specify.”

“Is it in ancient Nordic?”

“I think so.” Belethor wasn’t exactly an expert.

“How much do you want for it?”

“You’ll take it, then?”

“Depends on how much you want for it.”

“It could be a relic. Forty gold?”

“Strange, you said forty, but I think you meant twenty for this highly specialized piece of parchment no one else wants.”

“Works for me,” he relented.

Sonja paid for her scrolls. “And a couple of flints, too,” she added, thoughtfully. Faendal cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at her, fully used to the absence of such an item in the house. Generally speaking, she did a fair job of keeping each fire roaring that he’d rarely had to light one himself, and when he did, he used the stub of a flint from his pack that he used when they were out in the wilds.

“Tinder dump’s by the door if you need it. Take what you need,” Belethor said as he produced the flints from beneath the counter and added them to her total. She tossed the few extra coins at him. The rusted metal basin filled with dried sticks, leaves, little balls of juniper sap, and other such burnable trash was about the only thing for which the Breton couldn’t charge gold.

Faendal purchased his goods. They used the new stewpot to gather tinder and then the pair of them scooped up the remaining pans, dried goods, and—wooden paddle? and swiftly left the shop. “What, in Ysgramor’s name, is this for?” Sonja asked when they were out in the market square; she was waving the paddle around.

“It’s called a peel,” Faendal replied patiently, “So you don’t burn your other hand reaching for bread out of the oven.”

She looked at him pointedly. They both knew she was rarely going to cook anything in that kitchen let alone bake something. “It looks like an oar. I think he sold you an oar.”

“I think so, too.” He sighed and looked at the scrolls she stuffed through her belt. “And you? You suddenly read ancient Nordic?”

“No, but I know someone who does.”

Faendal’s brow lifted with interest. “Farengar? Think it might have something useful in it about dragons?”

She didn’t answer right away. She hadn’t even considered Farengar an option and dragons had been the furthest thing from her mind when she decided to purchase the scroll. “No…” she said slowly, “I thought Vilkas would find it interesting.”

The Bosmer blinked several times as he thought about her answer. “Ancient Nordic and alchemy lessons,” he said after a moment. They were nearly to the front door of Breezehome. “He’s—educated, then?”

“Aye.”

He grunted with mild surprise. “Didn’t think he’d care for more than swinging a sword.”

Sonja shrugged. “Jorrvaskr isn’t keen on magic but learning of any other kind is encouraged for those who want to pursue it,” she replied diplomatically.

“For Jorrvaskr, but what about Vilkas?”

“Vilkas is Jorrvaskr.”

Faendal’s mouth twitched into a frown and back again. “Didn’t seem set against magic today,” he pointed out as he tugged on the latch and pushed the door open.

Sonja stepped inside, carelessly swatting at Faendal with the wooden peel in the process. She almost got him. “He’s not unreasonable,” she said over her shoulder.

“Could have fooled me,” Faendal muttered under his breath.

Sonja didn’t argue. Vilkas could be stubborn, and despite all the defining moments of their growing rapport, she knew he hadn’t done a lot to demonstrate his kinder, more levelheaded side to others. “He has his moments,” was all she said.

Faendal hummed his disbelief as they made their way into the kitchen and stowed away his purchases. Lydia came out of her room, proofing a freshly inked letter in her hand and gently blowing the ink dry. She stopped short when she entered the kitchen, however, and saw Faendal trying to find a proper place to stow the wooden peel. “Is that an oar?” she asked, puzzled.

Sonja snorted and Faendal’s expression flattened. “Aye. That it is, Lydia. I’ve taken up rowing.”

The housecarl shrugged. “You’re going to need a boat.” Faendal’s head thudded against a cabinet in exasperation while both women grinned at the back of his head.

Lydia carefully folded her letter, creasing the paper sharply against the surface of the island. “I’m sending for the last of my things from Windhelm,” she informed Sonja, “Now that I have room for it.”

“Any furniture? So you have more than your bedroll to sleep on?” Lydia didn’t have to sleep on the floor. She was still welcome to a bunk at Jorrvaskr—and certainly to Farkas’ bed—but as long as Sonja was choosing to spend her nights at Breezehome, so too did her housecarl. Even if the evening started in Farkas’ room, much to his chagrin. Faendal stayed at the meadhall still, though, impatiently awaiting the arrival of a proper bed so he could enjoy his new room.

Lydia smirked and shook her head. “No. More weapons mostly.”

“Like we don’t have enough of those in this house…” The Axe of Whiterun bestowed upon Sonja by Balgruuf when she became thane of his city hung above the front door. The spear Whiterun rested across the mantle in the den. Their individual weapons were largely kept in their respective rooms, except for the shield Hera had given to Sonja which was propped against the wall beside the fireplace, waiting for the arrival of an ordered shield rack. Their home was a warrior’s home, filled with weapons and armor as others would collect knickknacks.

“And there’ll be a great deal more,” Lydia replied as she returned to her room to seal and address the letter.

“Sōn?” Faendal’s tone was gentle.

She looked at him.

“Will you put this on top of the cupboard? I can’t reach.” He held the peel out to her.

She smiled and did as he asked. She was a good six inches taller than him, after all. “We’ll get you a stool,” she said, her tone thoroughly amused, as she went to sit at the island.

Briefly, Faendal’s pride was wounded, but then he craned his neck back to look where Sonja had placed the peel. “That might be best,” he agreed.

Sonja removed the scrolls from her belt, taking extra care with the ancient one, and plopped down on one of the stools. She watched as Faendal began to move around the kitchen. Apparently he was so eager to make use of his new toys, he couldn’t wait to make bread. Watching the movement of his clever hands measure out his ingredients was so mesmerizing, Sonja didn’t even notice when Lydia left to post her letter. She was vaguely aware the housecarl called through the house that she would be back shortly. It wasn’t until a knock thudded on the front door that her head perked up.

Faendal looked up from his work; his hands were full of half-formed, sticky dough. Sonja slid off the stool and strode swiftly to the entrance, certain the unexpected visitor could only be one person, but was surprised to find Ysolda standing on her doorstep instead of a certain Companion. “Ysa,” she breathed, blinking at the other woman in the growing darkness, “What brings you here?”

Ysolda smiled apologetically and gestured to the covered basket in her hands. “I brought you a housewarming present,” she said, “And an apology.”

Sonja canted her head, curious. “What for?”

“Not keeping my end of the deal.”

“Ri’saad told me what I wanted to know.”

“No thanks to me.”

Sonja frowned. Truthfully, she had been upset with Ysolda for her lack of support in the moment, but a little time tempered that feeling to mild irritation. Of course the merchantwoman had tried to play arbiter more than take sides; she needed both parties. Ri’saad more than Sonja by that point. It wasn’t personal. It was business—only Sonja wasn’t as good at brushing off such tactics like Anja was, especially when it came to family. But the pretty Nord woman did look extremely apologetic and vulnerable standing in the cooling evening air, fully expecting a rejection of both her gift and apology. “Oh, what’s it matter in the end,” she grumbled, “Come in.” She gestured and Ysolda slipped inside. “Faendal’s in the kitchen.”

Hesitantly, the merchantwoman went to the kitchen, Sonja right behind her, and greeted Faendal as she poked her head through the door. “Smells good,” she said, watching his fingers work through the dough.

“I talked Hulda into letting me take a jar of the Mare’s best yeast starter,” he informed her conspiratorially.

“You must have a silver tongue.” Ysolda smiled and set her basket gently on the island. “I’d like to try a slice when it’s done.”

“If it comes out good, I’ll send you an entire loaf.” He paused to wipe his hands clean and started finely chopping rosemary. “What’s in the basket?”

“Ah, yes.” She placed her hand atop it and looked to Sonja who was pouring them both a drink. Unsolicited as it was, Ysolda accepted the mead and sipped. “You don’t know Olava, but she has a beautiful cat that breeds good mousers. A few from previous litters even keep the Jarl’s larder free of vermin.”

Sonja’s eyes darted to the basket, and Faendal stopped chopping. “Too bad they couldn’t also keep his dungeons free of Skeevers,” she snarked and Faendal agreed, but his gaze was glued to the basket.

“I think a large male might be able to take a Skeever on, but they’re better for mice,” Ysolda said thoughtfully as she set her drink down and flipped the lid of the basket back. Curled inside, sleeping, was a gorgeous silver maned kitten. “Olava’s cat just had another litter a few weeks ago—and I thought Breezehome could use a little hunter…”

Faendal practically melted and Sonja knew there would be no polite way of refusing the animal that wouldn’t insult the giver or break the heart of her Bosmer. There are worse things, she decided, peering into the basket. The small sleeping animal was extremely cute. “Such a fine gift,” she said to Ysolda, and it was. Well-bred animals of any sort were always worth their weight in gold. Dogs and cats especially. And it was a thoughtful gift. Sonja was just unsure of what to do with a pet of her own. She and her siblings hadn’t been allowed any while growing up. The practical reasons for keeping an animal like a feline were rendered unnecessary in the city where droves of alley cats kept the habitable spaces relatively clear of smaller vermin. “Does it have a name?” she asked.

Ysolda shook her head. “I thought you’d want to give him one.”

“Silverpaw,” Faendal blurted and when Sonja cocked an eyebrow at him, “Just a suggestion.”

“Seems to suit him,” she agreed and reached into the basket. Carefully, she scooped the kitten into her arms. He meowed and yawned and snuggled against the warmth of Sonja’s body. His fur was long and thick, and his paws were quite large. “How big will he get?”

“He was the largest of the litter, so—probably as big as a Skeever,” Ysolda estimated.

“So big?”

“They’re a good, Skyrim breed: Snowpine Longhair. They’re made for the cold, and…”

“Built big like everything else here,” Sonja finished.

“Aye.”

“Well, he’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like him.”

Silverpaw began to purr against her chest. Faendal made grabbie-hands, wanting to hold the kitten next. “Finish the dough first,” Sonja insisted, having no desire to clean up while her animal-loving friend cooed at their new kitten. Faendal pouted, but hastily continued his work.

Ysolda grinned and sipped her mead. Then she scratched at the back of Silverpaw’s ear with one finger and apprehensively caught Sonja’s gaze. “Apology accepted?” she asked softly.

Sonja nodded. “Apology accepted.” She liked Ysolda. The merchantwoman was good people. Besides, holding a grudge against any but the truly worthy was not in Sonja’s nature. So, they pet the kitten together, and played with him when he grew lively with Lydia’s return. Faendal finished his dough and set it aside, covered, to rise while the oven warmed to temperature. Then he finally took his turn loving on Silverpaw. Unsurprisingly, the kitten was taken with him the most out of all of them. “Not fair! You’re singing to him!” Sonja accused and the Bosmer was humming softly under his breath, just a little. It was a lovely, cozy evening at Breezehome. The kind that could make a house, even a largely unfurnished one, feel like home.


“I warned you to be careful, Companion,” Danica chastised Vilkas as she tested the joint of his shoulder. He gritted his teeth in pain until his jaw ached, determined not to make even the slightest noise of discomfort. “I told you to stick to the yard,” she continued, grumpily, “Take it easy, but no. You had to keep taking jobs. Now look at you.” She huffed, disapproving, and pressed a little too aggressively against just the right spot; Vilkas was beginning to suspect she was doing it on purpose. Except Danica would never do that. She was too filled with the healing light to be unkind. That’s why she accepted him without question when he entered the temple. Even though there were sick and grievously injured, she still found time to take him behind the screen in the corner instead of turning him away as other busy temples might have done. There was no injury too small for her attention, and Vilkas’ nearly life-long wound was in no way small.

“Is it getting worse?” he asked through gritted teeth, choosing not to respond to the priestess’ gripe.

“Do you still feel the lightning firing through your arm?”

He shook his head. “Rarely.”

That seemed to please her at least. “And you take your potion every day?”

“More if needed.”

She opened her mouth as if prepared to deliver a lecture about the strict use of his painkillers but changed her mind. Vilkas had been living with his pain for roughly thirty years and hadn’t shown any signs of addiction, yet. Though, she made a mental note to ask Arcadia how frequently she refilled his order. Just in case. “It’s trouble with the old break,” Danica informed him, finally withdrawing a step to speak with him properly, “Some of the scarring inside has come loose and is caught inside the joint. That’s why it’s catching and causing you pain.”

Vilkas’ brow furrowed. “Can you mend it?”

Danica hesitated. “We’ve been here before, Companion,” she reminded him.

He didn’t see how. This was the first time he’d ever had this particular problem with his shoulder. “The scarring is new…” he began.

“I told you what needed to be done to make this right,” she said, sternly, “To re-heal it properly.”

“Not this again.” He scowled. She had told Jergen when Vilkas was yet a child what would need to be done after he had passed puberty and stopped growing, but Jergen didn’t stick around long enough to see the brutal work done. By then, it was only Vilkas making his own decisions with the support of Kodlak, and the young Companion had elected not to revisit the pain of his nightmares. What was a little discomfort if it kept him from that hell? An older Vilkas stood by the same logic.

“It is a simple series of spells,” Danica asserted, “It would take Jenssen and me a few days to treat you and your pain would be lessened…”

“No.”

“But…”

“I said no.”

Danica pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then retire from the Companions, Master of Arms. It’s one or the other if you want any relief from that injury. It will just keep hurting you.”

“I have endured it this long. I will endure it longer still,” he retorted, “You didn’t think I would even manage to become strong enough to join the Companions in the first place. Yet here I am, part of the Circle.”

“You have exceeded my expectations, true,” Danica relented, “But you shouldn’t have to live like this. No one should. Even your brother wants this to stop.”

Vilkas tensed but willed himself to keep his temper in check. “What can you do for it now? For the scarring?” he asked stiffly, refusing to give in to the same old argument.

The priestess made a sound of disgust and shook her head repeatedly like she was about to deny him, but she sighed and let the fight drain out of her. “I can remove it,” she relented, “But it will be painful.”

“You don’t have to—cut me to do it…?” he asked hesitantly.

She shook her head again. “No. It’s just a spell to reduce scarring. In fact, the Dragonborn uses it herself.” Vilkas found it ironic that he was about to undergo similar treatment as Sonja had when he had insisted she seek healing attention weeks before.

“See it done, then,” he agreed.

“Do you—want to send for Farkas first?”

The Companion shifted uncomfortably on the table, bare chested and rubbing his injured shoulder. “Aye.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll send Jenssen.”

 While they waited for Jenssen to return with Farkas, Danica checked on the others seeking aid in her temple and Vilkas pondered around the edges of an old, traumatic memory. “Vilkas, run! Take your brother and run!” Her sweet voice that sings us to sleep every night is torn from screaming. “Go!” “Brother?” His head snapped up to see Farkas poking his head round the edge of the screen. The larger twin’s expression was tight with concern. “You alright?”

Vilkas sniffed, unaware that his eyes had begun to water. “I’m fine,” he insisted and rubbed his face as if merely tired, wiping his tears away, “Danica is going to do a little work on my shoulder…”

Farkas nodded and stepped behind the screen. He made no mention of his brother’s tears, but he noticed them and expressed no greater concern for his injury than usual which Vilkas deeply appreciated. Danica joined them soon after and greeted Farkas with far more pleasantness than she had Vilkas. To be fair, almost everyone else did the same. Farkas was the far more likable twin. Vilkas managed not to roll his eyes, but just barely. “Are you ready?” the priestess asked when she had positioned herself for greater access to Vilkas’ shoulder in the small space behind the screen.

Wordlessly, Farkas held out his hand and Vilkas took it, clutching at it like he was trying to arm wrestle, then he nodded. “I’m ready.” And the priestess began her work.

It wasn’t bad at first. Very bearable. He almost regretted hauling Farkas in for no reason when Danica finally struck a nerve and a renewed, familiar sense of lightning tore through his torso and arm. She knew she’d done it the instant it happened before he even had the chance to shriek or spasm in pain. Her eyes darted to his, but he was gone—eyes staring a thousand miles off through thirty years to a pinpoint in time when he’d nearly lost everything, a grimace of a half-uttered cry on his lips.

Farkas’s grip tightened in his hand and he spoke soothingly under his breath, trying to conjure his brother back from those dark memories. “Remember when Kodlak taught us to hold a sword?” he said, “And I broke your finger on the first swing?” Nothing. “Remember our first fight in the yard? You won. You always win.” Still nothing. “Remember the stories Hera told us of the Companions of old? Of Ysgramor and the five hundred?” Blankly stuck back in torment, but it didn’t deter Farkas. That’s why he was there: to help Vilkas remember if he slipped back in time. He rattled off a few more memories of their young exploits and edged into more recent ones, but he had to refrain from mentioning the Blood in front of Danica. Vilkas was still far away, though, which was starting to worry him a little. Usually, by then he would have hit upon something to successfully break the fugue. “And now you are Master Trainer after Hera, remember?” he prodded, “But she’s come back now.”

Vilkas’ eyes flit to Farkas’. “Don’t drown,” he said softly and seemed to come around.

“That’s right,” Farkas said brightly, relieved, “She taught us to swim.”

The smaller twin hissed in pain at Danica who was just finishing her spell. “How—how long was I—gone?” he asked hesitantly.

“Not long,” Danica lied.

“Long enough,” Farkas replied reasonably.

Vilkas pursed his lips, embarrassed and waited for Danica to declare him as fit-for-duty as she could make him under the present circumstances. Then he gingerly pulled on his shirt, sore from the spell, and left the temple with Farkas. “What was it this time?” he asked as they made their way back to Jorrvaskr.

Farkas glanced sideways at him in a way that reminded Vilkas of Kodlak which was both strange and endearing. “Swimming lessons.”

He nodded. Hera’s words were still fresh in his mind, it seemed, and powerful enough to bring him back when he needed it most. “I’m going to get some rest before tonight,” he said, “I think I need it.”

Farkas clapped his brother on his good shoulder and nodded. “I’ll wake you when it’s time,” he assured and they entered the meadhall.

The evening meal was in full swing, but Vilkas was too tired to deal with any of it, so he made a beeline for the stairs, barely glancing at anyone seated at the table; he missed Sonja watching him pass by with a concerned expression etched onto her face. “He alright?” she asked when Farkas took a saved seat beside Lydia.

The mountainous twin nodded and started filling his plate with meat and potatoes. “Just needs a rest,” he said pleasantly, but it was clear that he was holding something back.

Sonja momentarily considered probing Farkas a little further but ultimately decided it wasn’t her business. If Vilkas wanted her to know, he’d tell her tomorrow. If he didn’t—well, fair is fair: there were a lot of things she wasn’t keen to tell him or anybody else, either. So, she ate her supper and chatted with Faendal and Lydia about necessary preparations to leave for Shalidor’s Maze in the next couple of days. Faendal had a long list of things he thought they needed to make such a long, frigid journey, particularly since both he and Sonja were not as resilient to the cold as Lydia. “I’ll cover what we need, Faendal. I trust your judgement in this,” she agreed, finding no fault or frivolous expense in his suggestions, “You are my guide, after all. Occasionally, I should listen to you.”

It was a good meal with good conversation and laughter. A good distraction, or nearly, from the absence of another. Sonja didn’t even notice how many times her eyes drifted toward the stairs as if expecting to see Vilkas coming back up from the living quarters, but Farkas did and lost count.


The moon was high in the sky when the Circle gathered in the darkness of the Underforge. Kodlak and Hera were the first to arrive, followed closely by Aela and Skjor who had been out hunting the tundra already. The mated pair slipped in through the back entrance and dressed themselves in the privacy of shadows, but no one spoke to each other, spending the silence on last minute contemplation. Hera busied herself lighting the short remnants of candles in the chamber. She lit the last one just as Vilkas and Farkas arrived. “Good, we are all here,” Kodlak said, his voice even and firm. It occurred to Hera then that his tone sounded more human than it had in decades. How easy it is to overlook such small and precious things, she mused.

“What is your will, Harbinger?” Skjor prompted, his expression unusually mute. He was doing his best to behave like the Second he ought to be. Beside him, Aela passed him an approving glance and Hera wondered if it was at her counsel that Skjor managed to right his behavior. Good on her if so. At least someone can get through to that stubborn heart of his.

More importantly, Skjor’s effort was not wasted on Kodlak who nodded in respectful acknowledgement to him. “A Blood-Sister returns to the halls of Jorrvaskr,” he said, “As you know, the Firespear has rejoined the Companions.”

“We hold no opposition and welcome her back,” Vilkas interjected, his dark gaze darting between Hera and Skjor.

Kodlak looked to his Second pointedly. “Jorrvaskr is made stronger with her return,” Skjor said as if he had not argued with both Kodlak and Hera earlier that day.

“Huntress?” the Harbinger said.

“I have always admired the Firespear,” she replied simply, “It will be good to hunt alongside a Blood-Sister as strong as she.”

The Harbinger smiled appreciatively and nodded. For all of Skjor’s hotheadedness, at least he had a true counterbalance in Aela’s cool disposition. “Then, let us welcome Hera Ironheart back into the halls of Jorrvaskr and the shadows of the Underforge. A sister has returned to the Pack.” All but Skjor and Hera let out the customary shout of warrior welcome.

“Does she rejoin the Circle?” Skjor asked almost patiently.

“If I deem it so, it is so,” Kodlak replied.

“We’ve only ever numbered five.”

Kodlak pursed his lips, annoyed. If he didn’t suspect Skjor’s ulterior motives, he wouldn’t have been so irritated to have something so technical pointed out to him. “Aye, that is true,” he agreed, “Tradition dictates the size of the Circle.”

“I have returned to Jorrvaskr and taken a place within the Pack, again,” Hera interjected before anyone else could say more, “That’s all I want. I have no desire to mind whelplings beyond the work I do in the yard.”

Vilkas exchanged glances with Kodlak and Skjor’s expression shifted into something caught between relief and confusion. “If that is what you desire?” Kodlak said with the barest note of hesitation.

“It is,” she confirmed, crossing her arms over her chest, unconcerned, “I’ve spent too many years handing out jobs and coin. I’d rather spend my days with a sword in my hand instead of quill and parchment.”

Kodlak shook his head, smiling, while the others exchanged uncertain looks. “As it please you, Hera,” he scoffed, “I see no reason why you must take on the duties of the Circle if you do not want them. It’s Blood that binds you to the Pack and it’s Blood that’s called you back to us again. No reason to complicate matters for the rest of the Companions.” He glanced around the Underforge at the others. “Do any of you find fault in this?”

“No,” Skjor replied immediately.

“None,” Aela agreed.

“I was hoping to give her half my work requests,” Farkas admitted, smiling, and Hera chuckled, “But no.”

“If it’s what you want? I have no complaints,” Vilkas concluded.

“It’s settled, then,” Kodlak declared and then gestured to Vilkas, “Now, let us talk of the hunt before us.”

Vilkas stepped forward with a map clutched in his hand. He spread it out over the expanse of the Blood Basin, though it sagged heavily in the middle. He, Hera, Skjor, and Farkas held the corners taught to afford a better view of Whiterun Hold and the edges of the surrounding territories. “The last sign we saw of ferals was here in the west before the Great Hunt,” Vilkas stated, gesturing to the appropriate section of the map.

“I caught scent further east,” Aela supplied, running her finger along the northern treeline eastward, “While on watch, but didn’t see any movement. Our party was too large. Frightened them, I think.”

“Gave them pause, at least,” Skjor agreed, “Since then, we’ve been tracking Silver Hand movements in the far west, bordering on the Reach. Haven’t seen much else of ferals in that direction.” Aela glanced at him sharply and something wordless passed between them. “Except for…” he trailed off, seeming uncertain.

“What?” Hera half demanded.

“Lights in the southwest, near Bloated Man’s Grotto,” Aela supplied.

“What were you doing down that far?”

Skjor looked momentarily lost for words. “We had no reason to be,” he admitted, “But Aela saw something when we were making our way across the tundra.”

“The White Stag of Hircine,” Aela insisted, “I saw it clear as day leaping over the crags.”

There were a few moments of unblinking and slow comprehension. None of them were well-versed in the lore of Hircine beyond the most common stories—save Kodlak who had only recently been studying the Daedric Prince and his realm of influence, and Aela who had been raised a Huntress of Skyrim’s wilds—but tales of the White Stag were widespread enough to jog a little familiarity from each of them. “Are you sure?” the Harbinger asked skeptically.

“I know what I saw,” the Huntress asserted, firmly.

Her mate was obviously troubled. “I didn’t see it,” he admitted reluctantly, “But I trust Aela. If she says she saw the White Stag of Hircine, she saw it.”

Hera’s brow furrowed and she exchanged glances with Kodlak. “And it led you to the Grotto?” she probed.

“Aye.”

“Where you saw lights?”

Aela nodded.

Skjor glanced briefly at the twins. “Necromancers, probably,” he suggested, “So close to Northern Brittleshin Pass, that tunnel is always filled with such vermin.”

“Or will-o’-wisps,” Hera added. Skjor nodded in acknowledgement.

“If it was the White Stag, Hircine wouldn’t have sent it for wisps or even Necromancers,” Vilkas reasoned, “Small matters for a Daedric Lord they are.”

“I agree.” Aela nodded.

“You didn’t get close enough to see what it was?” Kodlak asked, pensively, eyes narrowed slightly at his Second.

“No—because…” Skjor frowned and exchanged looks with Aela again whose expression very clearly declared that if he did not tell the Harbinger, then she would. “When we approached to clear out the area, we ran into more trolls like the ones Vilkas described.”

“They ambush you?” Vilkas asked.

“Aye.” Skjor clearly didn’t look happy about it. “And more…”

“I was knocked out of Beast Form,” Aela interrupted, apparently impatient with her mate’s slow explanation.

Shocked and confused silence filled the space. “What do you mean?” Vilkas asked, blankly.

“What I said,” she replied, sounding a touch stunned, even in hindsight, “I was running full tilt as a Beast after the Stag, then suddenly I was a woman again. Tumbled over my feet and slid over the rocks.”

Instantly, every pair of eyes but Skjor’s gave the Huntress a once over to see if she had any new scars or healing injuries they’d somehow missed peeking through her revealing armor. Nothing was readily apparent. She must not have sustained serious wounds, then, but Kodlak was incensed. “When was this?” he snarled.

“Night before last,” Skjor replied.

“And you said nothing?!?”

“To who? You were buried in your books all day,” Skjor shot back, “You weren’t to be disturbed all morning!”

Kodlak clenched his teeth so tightly the muscle along the edge of his jaw twitched beneath the white of his thick beard. He had been unavailable nearly all day. Partly due to research, partly due to his illness. But it was no excuse. Vilkas constantly barged in on him when matters were important enough. “There are a lot of hours in a day,” he snapped, “You had your pick of many to tell me something this vital.”

“We didn’t know what we were dealing with to tell you anything useful,” the Second insisted, “And we didn’t have time to sit around until you finally came up for air from the archives. We went back during the day.”

“As Companions,” Aela added.

“What did you learn? Anything?” Hera asked before Kodlak had the chance to reprimand them further.

“There was nothing there.”

“What?”

“We killed the trolls that night, even with Aela’s—sudden transformation—before returning to Jorrvaskr to tend to her wounds,” Skjor elaborated for his mate.

“Mostly scratches. Nothing serious,” the Huntress assured.

“They were dead,” Skjor continued, “I tore one of them apart with my bare hands, but when we went back the next morning…”

“Nothing. Not even their bodies,” Aela concluded, “Three trolls just—vanished.”

“No blood?” Farkas asked in disbelief.

Skjor hesitated, thinking. “Aye, there was a little, but not nearly enough. Not after what we did.”

“Was it the incense?” Vilkas asked, as intrigued as he was disturbed, “Did you find any of it nearby?”

“We found an empty silver censer looked like it had been left behind,” Aela confirmed, “But nothing else and our senses were sharp. We investigated the Grotto.”

“Empty too,” Skjor revealed, “Just the stink of bears and the bite of Spriggans. We didn’t waste our time with them and headed straight back.”

“No other trouble?” Hera asked severely like a scolding mother.

“None,” the mated pair confirmed in unison.

The Underforge fell into a brief contemplative silence as everyone tried to make sense of what Skjor and Aela experienced on the tundra. “It can’t be the Hand, can it?” Farkas asked aloud at length, “This is a lot. Even for them.”

“Who else can it be if not them?” Skjor insisted.

“We’d be foolish to close our minds to the possibility of a hidden enemy,” Kodlak said pensively, stroking at his beard.

“I agree,” Aela affirmed, “This is something else. Something more.”

“You seem so sure,” Vilkas observed.

The Huntress’ sharp eyes flitted in his direction and she exhaled heavily. “This I am less certain of, but—I thought I heard a voice when I was chasing after the Stag,” she confessed, “It was distant. Faint. And when I was forced out of Form—I can’t be sure.”

“What did it say?”

“It wanted a champion.”

Vilkas canted his head and looked to Kodlak. “What do you make of this?” For his part, he was bewildered.

“I do not yet know,” the Harbinger admitted and looked to Aela and Skjor, “You were both reckless—especially you, Aela. Beast or not, it does not matter. Not with this threat. Hand or whatever it is. Hunt with greater care.”

Aela pursed her lips, bristling but fully aware of her conduct; she was no fool. “I will be more careful, Harbinger,” she said stiffly. Skjor was visibly annoyed by the reprimand, but it was clear the events had given him cause to worry for his mate’s safety if not his own. He merely grumbled and nodded along.

“But, you both have given me much to think on,” Kodlak continued, “These are strange happenings, indeed.”

“In the meantime, I think we should all stay clear of Bloated Man’s Grotto,” Hera declared, “Until we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“I agree, Firespear.”

“Besides, so far, we have no reason to think the ferals or the Hand are moving in that direction—besides the incense,” Vilkas reasoned.

“And we may have been too quick to assume it was the Silver Hand creating it,” Kodlak pointed out, “Until we have better proof, we can’t assume.”

“We’ll keep our hunt to the west,” Skjor assured, “If anything changes, I will let you know before we pursue it.”

“As you should,” the Harbinger growled pointedly. Skjor frowned.

“We will start in the northern forest closest to the city,” Hera stated, “The safety of Whiterun and the surrounding farms are our priority. Better to make sure they’re safe before hunting farther west.”

“Good,” Kodlak praised them all, “Then stay safe and good hunting my Blood-Siblings.”

It was already quite late in the night. Skjor and Aela would not be able to go out as far west as they wanted to pick up the scent of the Silver Hand, but they were creatures of the night. The Blood sang in their veins always, so they shifted and slipped back out into the darkness to spend what remained of it in forms more comfortable than their given ones.

Vilkas and Farkas returned to Jorrvaskr, the former eager for sleep and the latter still concerned for his brother. “You can go with Hera tonight if you want to,” Vilkas said as they made their way to the living quarters, “She’ll have Rengeir, but it’s always good to have a Shield-Brother watching your back.”

“You’ll be alright?” the larger twin asked skeptically.

“I’m fine.”

Farkas nodded. “See you in the morning, then,” he said reluctantly and shifted his course to alert Hera of his change in plans.

“Take care of each other,” Vilkas called after his brother.

“Always,” Farkas assured and disappeared back out into the yard.

Vilkas trudged onward until he was back in the blissful darkness of his bedroom once more. He was nervous about what the last few hours of sleep might bring him now that his head was alight with both old trauma and strange images from Aela’s tale, but he felt tiredness in his bones. The healing Danica had performed had really taken it out of him. Soundlessly, he sank onto his bed, removing his clothing as he went, and plopped face first into the pillow. He went off to sleep much quicker than usual and snored softly into the down of his bedding.

Inside the Underforge, Hera and Kodlak lingered. “What do you really make of this, old man?” she asked.

“At the Grotto?”

“Aye.”

He shook his head. “Sounds like foul magic to me.”

“Don’t know how useful your old Harbinger diaries are going to be against that.”

“Aye. You’re right. We need help.”

Hera hesitated. “Magic help?”

The Harbinger clearly didn’t look happy about it. “Perhaps. Someone better versed in the old tales of Hircine, at least.”

“Aela certainly seemed knowing.”

“But her heart is already half gone to the Hunting Grounds. No. Someone else.”

“Farengar?” she suggested only because the number of mages with which any of them were acquainted could be counted on one hand.

“I doubt he’ll take time away from his own interests,” Kodlak scoffed, “But maybe he knows another?”

“We can’t even trust Farengar. How can we trust someone else?”

Kodlak leaned against the Blood Basin. “There is another.”

“Who?”

“Sonja.”

“Not an option. I don’t want her a part of this.”

“I won’t send her to the Grotto. We can’t even tell her what happened to Aela, but she has studied much at that university of hers,” he pointed out, “She might know something that can point us in the right direction.”

“No.”

“Then we have no choice but to seek the help of strangers.”

“I’ll go to Farengar first thing in the morning, then.” And that was the end of it. Kodlak knew he could gain no further ground with Hera concerning her niece. So he let it lie for the moment just as Farkas reentered the Underforge.

“Ready when you are, Firespear,” he said simply.

Hera looked vaguely surprised to see him but nodded and gave Kodlak one last meaningful look that clearly declared that Sonja was off limits. “Time to go,” she said, “The hunt awaits.” They all left the Underforge then.

Kodlak split off from them at the meadhall and made his way down into the living quarters as Hera and Farkas went to join Rengeir. He heard Vilkas snoring in his bedroom as he passed by on his way to his own quarters. He paused, surprised that Vilkas did not go out onto the tundra with his brother and Hera and listened, absently counting the breaths the younger man took in his sleep. It was a habit from the twins’ youth. Though beyond the age for the possibility of crib death, after the horrible ordeal that had cost the boys their mother and badly, almost irreparably injured Vilkas, Jergen used to sit outside their room and listen to them sleep. Just to make sure they’d wake in the morning. When Jergen went away, Kodlak found himself doing the same every night until they were a little older—and even then, from time to time.

Now, it had been a long time since he’d done it last, and Vilkas was a grown man who certainly didn’t need anyone lingering protectively while he slept, but—he sounded the same as he ever did. Whether seven winters or seven and thirty, Kodlak recognized the whisper of air passing through his lungs as readily as his voice spoken aloud. Will I always remember this? he wondered or would the memory of his sons’ breath rot away in his ailing mind before the end? If he could choose what went and what stayed, that was something he would certainly keep.

Thickly, Kodlak swallowed and continued to his bedchamber where he methodically, almost meditatively undressed and peeled back the thick blankets of his bed. He sank down onto the mattress, covered himself, and stared into the stone ceiling for several long moments before abruptly throwing everything off again. He practically hopped out of bed and retrieved his journal from his nightstand. With an air of great purpose, he took the leather-bound volume to his desk in the next room and took a seat. He turned to the first blank page, inked his quill, and quickly scrawled an entry about the precious sound of his sleeping children and how it never changes. His hand ached from the urgent way he gripped the quill, but this, Mara willing, was the closest he could get to choosing what he could hold onto and what would slip away.


Running through the forests near Falkreath, the trees thick and lush and the air moist with the drizzle of lazy rain falling through the pine needles and pooling in the earth to feed their ancient roots, deep and vast. I am home in the wilds amongst the creatures that creep, the birds that fly, the fish that swim—and the predators that stalk. The smell of the forest, of pine and lavender, fills my entire body with a sense of freedom unknown to those who dwell in villages or within high, stone city walls. And the scent of blood sends a thrill of insatiable desire through me. I must feed.

The muscle of my body ripples with every movement, propelling me farther, faster, harder along the chase, the hunt. My prey scurries ahead of me, obscured by the trees but I can smell him. The fear, the panic, the blood beating through his heart. So weak, so frail. His death is inevitable and still he runs through the forest like a frightened child, breaking every twig and tripping over every stray rock or root, trying to flee his fate. Trying to outrun me.

When I break the trees, I see him standing at the far side of the clearing, bow drawn with an arrow knocked for me. Trembling, whimpering, sniveling. This spineless whelp deserves the death I will give him and I will become stronger feasting on his weak heart. The rain lets up a little and the clouds shift enough for the brilliant, glowing orb of the moon to shine through. It is as if it wants to witness my conquest for itself. I roar into the moonlit sky and charge him, claws digging into the soft, muddy earth with each bounding step as I tear across the clearing to sink my teeth into his neck.

He lets the arrow fly and I feel the head of it stick somewhere in my shoulder, the sharp edge penetrating the heavy weave of my muscle, but it doesn’t stop me. The shaft breaks as I close in on him. He cries out in fear and desperation, abandoning his bow to reach for his sword, but it’s too late. My jaws are upon his throat, cutting his scream short with a fatal crack of bone as the tender tissue of his neck gives way beneath my fangs. The hot, slick, metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, floods my senses and pitches me into a frenzy.

I cannot contain the bloodlust. It consumes me as I tear the man’s body apart, piece by gory piece, with my sharp claws and hungry maw. He is destroyed in moments, eviscerated beyond recognition. Just a bloody smear of entrails and shattered bone splattered against the grass, shining black in the moonlight…

And then the world shifts. I’m waking. It’s stopped raining, but it’s still dark. The moon has moved across the sky to set—and the sun—I can almost smell the heat of the coming dawn. Staggering to my feet, I feel the weakness of my flesh as the arrowhead jabs into my shoulder. I am naked, clothed only in the blood of my victim. I am no longer the Beast. I am something much weaker and I am filled with profound hatred for my inferior body until my eyes alight on the horror that pools on the earth at my feet, soaking into the ground, forever marking the very place I lost my humanity.

Be careful what you wish for, moonborn hunter!” the cackle of a familiar voice declares with glee, half feminine and half the screech of a raven call. I feel her claws on the back of my neck, smell her hot putrid breath as she breathes against my skin, but I can’t look at her, I can’t face my shame. “You belong to Hircine now!” she croaks, laughing and then my world is consumed in darkness and the fluttering of jet-black feathers.

Sonja woke with a start, peeling her face away from the pages of Herbane’s Bestiary at her dining table, Silverpaw asleep in her lap and purring. Her brow furrowed, confused. When did I…? What was I dreaming of just now…? She tried to remember, but the memory of it was in broken pieces. She could only recall the forest with any real clarity—and the ominous feeling of being unclean. It was so strong that she ran her hands over her forearms as if trying to wash away some unseen stain. She shivered and made a sound of disgust. Silverpaw meowed in protest at her sudden movement.

Don’t be stupid, she chastised herself, rubbing the strain from her eyes and rolling her neck to pop it, Just a bad dream. She’d been having quite of few of them lately, but they always danced outside the reach of her memory when she woke, fading fast like wisps of smoke in those early moments of waking as if a mere glimpse of reality was enough to shock the dream clean from her mind. It was strange. Must be more worn out than I thought…she mused, training with Vilkas had been rewarding but strenuous. That must be it. She rubbed her sore neck and looked down at the guide she had been using as a pillow. The page was open to the entry on hagravens. Absently, she traced the hideous illustration with her forefinger. “Moonborn hunter,” she muttered and frowned.

“Sonja?” Her gaze snapped up from the bestiary. It was Lydia, dressed down for the night. “You alright? I heard a noise.”

She waved her housecarl off. “Just me. Drooling on Vilkas’ books.” She canted her head and squinted at the little wet spot on the page, trying to determine whether it was noticeable enough to warrant a preemptive apology. She decided it wasn’t. “You can go back to sleep.”

Lydia lingered and rubbed her face, blinking sleepily at Sonja, and then her eyes abruptly widened. “You’re bleeding,” she informed her and pointed to her own nose for reference.

Sonja’s brow furrowed. She glanced down in reflex though the blood slowly dripping from her nose was beyond her vision and swiped at her upper lip. Sure enough, blood coated the ridges of her burned skin. “Shit,” she swore and abruptly stood, ejecting Silverpaw noisily from her lap in the process. Hastily, she leaned her head back and pulsed a gentle healing spell to mend whatever little vessel had burst in her sleep. The bleeding stopped and she went to the kitchen to clean her face. Silverpaw padded after her, rubbing his body against her boots. At least I didn’t get it all over the book. She did get a few drops on her tunic, though. The nosebleed must have just started as she was waking.

“You alright?” Lydia asked, following her into the kitchen. Her expression was concerned, but there was nothing she could do to help—and considering she had seen Sonja lying in a pool of her own blood on the tundra before, a little nosebleed was hardly alarming.

“It’s nothing,” Sonja assured, checking her nose again, “The cold, I guess.”

Lydia nodded, accepting the explanation. “Want a nightcap?” she asked, surprising her thane.

“Always,” Sonja grunted and bent to lift a disgruntled Silverpaw. He meowed. A lot. And loudly. But almost instantly curled up contentedly on the counter when Sonja sagged into a seat at the island.

“Should have named him Yeowler,” Lydia commented dryly as she inspected the bottles on the counter for something to strike her fancy, “Or Whiner. Or…” It was a whiskey night, apparently. Though, in Sonja’s opinion, every night was a whiskey night. “Pain-in-my-ass…” Lydia poured two drinks and brought the bottle with her.

Sonja chuckled as she indelicately tore chunks out of Faendal’s beautiful rosemary sour dough loaf and unceremoniously shoved one into her mouth. It was divine. Damn that mer can cook…The other she offered to Lydia. “He’s pretty cute though,” she pointed out.

The housecarl took the bread and fixed her with a pointed look that clearly stated she didn’t care how cute Silverpaw was; he was a daedra in kitten clothes. To demonstrate, she poked him. Not hard. Not even full contact. Lydia’s finger barely passed into the first centimeter of Silverpaw’s long, thick coat before he was meowing like he had been violently assaulted. “Yeowler,” she reiterated and took a swig of her drink.

Sonja ate more bread. “He’s young. Everyone cries when their young.”

Lydia paused at that, thinking, and reconsidered the kitten. “You think he misses his litter?” she asked at length.

Sonja didn’t really know. She wasn’t a cat. Clearly. But she knew what being alone felt like. “Probably.”

The housecarl sighed. It was significantly harder to dislike the cat when she thought of it as a little lonely baby. “He better be as good a mouser as Ysa claims he’ll be,” she warned, though there was no real consequence to it. She tried to pet him again and was more successful in stroking his nose from tip to forehead. He headbutted her finger and leaned into her touch, eager for the show of affection.

“See? Fast friends.” Sonja smirked and drank and ate.

Lydia mumbled nonsense and continued to pet Silverpaw. “I watched you train today,” she said after a while, catching Sonja’s attention.

“Impressive as always, I know,” Sonja snarked, “No one can get knocked on their asses as many times as I can.”

“True,” Lydia agreed, but her expression grew uncomfortable, “Was it Vilkas’ idea for you to use magic today?”

Sonja nodded. “I’m surprised as you,” she said, “Didn’t think he’d ever let me profane his yard with the corruption of my—light spells.”

Lydia seemed impressed. “He’s more committed to your training than I thought,” she observed.

“Vilkas doesn’t do things in half-measures.”

Of that, Lydia had no doubt. “No,” she agreed and then hesitated, “I wanted to say something before, but I didn’t think it Faendal’s business. It’s not even my business, but…” She trailed off, expression troubled as she clearly rethought her intentions. Sonja waited patiently for her housecarl to continue as she nibbled on another hunk of bread. “He won’t tell you until you’ve gone too far and there’s no reason for it,” she justified at length.

“Who? Vilkas?”

Lydia nodded. “Farkas is—covered in strange scars,” she said uncomfortably, “Like writing.”

Sonja’s brow lifted with interest. “Like—runes?”

“Aye.”

“Like the ones on my armor?” she probed further though she didn’t want to. She knew what the answer would be.

Lydia didn’t answer right away but then she nodded. “I asked him about them, but he said it wasn’t just his story to tell,” she continued, “So, I ask you what you think Vilkas went through for his brother to catch so many scars?”

Briefly, Sonja felt queasy and her gaze dropped away from Lydia to a distant corner of the kitchen. She didn’t know, but she could imagine. She’d gone through quite a lot herself in an effort to spare her siblings pain. And it had all been for nothing. Thornir was dead and Anja was Divines knew where. Suddenly, the memory of something Vilkas had mentioned drifted through her mind. The twins were always together on jobs, but for one and Vilkas had been cagey with the details. Perhaps Vilkas had gone through something similar to her own agonizing experience. Perhaps Farkas had been hurt because he hadn’t been there. The thought made her chest burn and she drained her glass of alcohol to put out the fire, but it only pushed it down into her gut. “Too much,” she finally answered and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I just thought you should know,” Lydia said gently, “So you don’t prod at sore spots, unknowing.”

Sonja stood from the stool and placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Thanks for telling me,” she said sincerely and squeezed firmly, “I’m going to bed.”

The housecarl nodded and scooped up Silverpaw from the counter to a cacophony of irritated meows. “Take Yeowler with you,” she suggested with the barest note of a plea in her tone. Sonja chuckled humorlessly, took the kitten into her arms, and headed for her bedroom.

Tenderly, she rubbed Silverpaw’s little skull until they reached her bed then she set him down and let him pick a place to make himself comfortable. Of course he chose her pillow. She grumbled to herself as she undressed and tried to nudge him off onto the blankets. She was half successful as he scooted over far enough for her to lay her head somewhat comfortably. For a while, she lay very still, staring blankly into the rafters above and trying not to imagine what poor Farkas could have gone through to be marked so visibly his lover wanted to know the story. What horror might have touched Vilkas, too. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and tried to think of something else. As if in answer, Silverpaw draped himself over her chest, purring. So she focused on the hum of his contentment and finally, slowly drifted off to sleep.

Notes:

Sonja will be back in the thick of action soon, promise. Hope you enjoyed this beefy chapter. There is more to come. Setting up a lot of stuff in this one that will come to fruition pretty soon. *excited squeals*

Also, your comments and kudos are always welcome and appreciated. Thank you subscribers for keeping up with this inconsistently updated fic o' mine; I love you all.

Chapter 44: The Docks

Summary:

Anja goes to Mistveil Keep to tell the jarl about the Skooma den on the docks, but things don't quite go according to plan.

Notes:

Happy Holidays, lovely readers! Sorry this took so long to post. This time of year is always so busy and I can never find the time to ignore people long enough to get some writing done! lol This is a long one, another thirty pager, so enjoy my little gift to you!

Trigger Warning: depictions of violence and implied sexual assault.

Chapter Text

Jarl Laila Law-Giver was a severe woman. She was older—a little younger than Ulfric, perhaps—but had that same cold, hard look of experience. She was a woman who had lived, loved, raised her children—two idiot sons, from what Llyr had heard around town—and ruled her hold fairly—according to some—or blindly—according to others; Llyr reserved judgement for the time being. But alone, regardless. There was no husband, and Llyr had never heard anyone refer to one before, not that he had spent a lot of his time discussing politics during his short stay in Riften. Laila’s power was her own, not married into. “The Thalmor spy certainly seemed to know a great deal about you, Captain,” Jarl Laila Law-Giver commented dryly.

Llyr smiled politely. “Aye, it would seem so,” he agreed.

“Yet so little about your shared quarry,” she continued pointedly, folding up the documents Llyr had forfeited and tapping the spine of the parchment against the armrest of her throne. The stack was not as thick as it should have been. It seemed Raef had made off with the pages concerning herself, the coded letters, and the cipher ring. At least he noticed their absence before he tried to hand over something he did not actually have. Though, without them, he was faced with the greater challenge of explaining to the jarl why a Thalmor spy would be after him in the first place without drawing further attention toward the illusive, fugitive thief in question. Thus, he was forced to tell her about his dealings with Ulfric—or a heavily edited version of them, anyway. “Perhaps you can fill me in?”

“Nothing but lies and intrigue I’m afraid, my jarl,” he replied calmly, “As I said before, Jarl Ulfric offered me a job to find a minor annoyance for him—a sneak thief, nothing more. And as you well know, the war occupies much of his resources, so the thief, while a menace, was something he could spare no one else for. I took the job only in the interest of protecting the hold in these trying times—but I’ve no reason to believe that she is here. The Thalmor was mistaken.”

“Then why are you here? Not that you are unwelcome, Captain. Riften is always glad to have a True Son of Skyrim within her walls, but if you’re hunting a fugitive in my hold, I need to know about it. And who is this minor annoyance, anyway?” she pressed. She was only vaguely aware of his reputation. His name was not unknown to her, but it certainly did not spark the same reverence it did in the likes of Bersi Honey-Hand. “Not so minor if the Thalmor are interested.”

“I’ve come to your city on personal business, only,” Llyr assured, “And the thief, I promise you, is just that. The Thalmor have placed more importance on her than she has. Whoever they are getting their information from seems little better than a rumormonger. They seem to think she is important to Ulfric, but he only wishes to see her brought to justice for the safety of his people’s property.”

“Bad information or not, they still managed to dig up quite a lot on you.”

“I do not live my life in shadows, my jarl. Ask anyone on the streets of Windhelm for me and they will point you to my home.”

The jarl seemed somewhat satisfied with his answer. It seemed likely enough, at least. And, in this, his reputation did factor in somewhat: why would Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale lie? “And what private business brought you to my city, exactly?” she asked, leaning to one side in her throne and thumbing the mark of safe passage Llyr had also turned over as evidence.

He hesitated. Though a skilled enough liar from years of tricking pirates, he had hoped she wouldn’t press into anything he referred to as a personal affair. “I’ve never been to the Rift before,” he admitted, “Though my late wife had always wanted to see the beauty of your hold. I thought to see it now. For her.” He almost felt guilty using his wife’s memory to fool the jarl, but Yiri had been a firebrand. She would have been the first to suggest a story in the same vein if she had been alive to do so. Besides, his words weren’t entirely untrue. While out amongst the brilliant aspen trees surrounding the city, he had thought of his beautiful wife and how much she would have loved to see them.

The jarl’s expression softened. “I see,” she said, edge absent from her tone, “And have you found it to your liking?”

“Even the Thalmor’s attempt on my life did not diminish it,” he assured, “My wife would have loved it here.” I should have taken the time to give her everything she wanted…he thought, with a powerful pang of guilt.

“That is good to hear.” Something about her demeanor seemed knowing; she was softer now.

“That is all there is to tell,” he concluded, “No controversies here. Just a bad agent with worse information.”

The jarl nodded. “I believe you, Captain,” she assured, “I’m sorry to pry, but I had to ask. Thank you for your patience. My guards will continue to look into the matter to see how she so easily slipped into the city. I will also write to Ulfric of the incident so he is made aware of what transpired here and that we are holding a prisoner of war for him. Would you deliver the missive, yourself, when you return to Windhelm?”

“Of course, my jarl. Your word will only add weight to my own.”

“Very good,” she approved, “You are welcome to dine at my table in the morning for the service you have performed not only for Riften or even Ulfric, personally, but for the whole of the Stormcloak cause in subduing this Thalmor agent and bringing her to justice.”

“Thank you, my jarl. It would be my pleasure.”

Then she gestured to her housecarl. A young Nord, strong with a stipe of brown hair over his head. “See her taken to the dungeons and secured properly. I want every precaution taken. She is an asset.”

“Aye, my jarl.” The housecarl covered his heart with a closed fist and nodded before instructing the guards holding the unconscious Thalmor to the dungeon.

“My jarl, if I may,” Llyr said as he watched the mer carried out of the main hall of the keep, “Because of my arrangement with Jarl Ulfric, I have an interest in your investigation…”

“My men will keep you informed,” she replied.

“I mean to ask if I can assist? This woman meant to kill me. She is concerned with my business. I would better serve my jarl and you if I was directly involved in unravelling her lies.”

Jarl Laila Law-Giver considered his proposal. The guard was already skint in her city, tying them up in an investigation was more than a little straining on her resources. Still, she struggled with the possibility of appearing weak or unable to care for her own people in front of an agent of Ulfric Stormcloak’s. “I would need a full report from you on any and all your findings,” she stated brusquely when she finally made up her mind, practicality finally winning out over her pride.

Llyr nodded respectfully. “Of course, my jarl.”

“Then go with my blessing.” She removed a golden ring from her right forefinger and held it out to him. He accepted it. It was a signet ring, the crossed daggers of the Rift’s banner emblazoned in the gold. A powerful mark of office. This was most certainly on loan. He’d have to be mindful to return it to her when he was done—and keep it out of Raef’s hands. “I should like to hear of your progress as soon as you have made any.”

“Thank you, my jarl. Until tomorrow morning.” And he swiftly left Mistveil Keep, having successfully navigated a compelling story and secured permission to remain informed of anything relating to the dungeon’s newest prisoner. Speaking of, he went directly to the escort carrying her into the shadows of a descending staircase. They had not quite reached the door. “Excuse me,” he called out and the housecarl glanced over his shoulder at him.

“Yes?”

“I’m aiding in the investigation.” He flashed the ring at him which was large enough to fit only his pinky.

“Good for you.” He didn’t seem surprised.

“I know she was staying at The Bee & Barb. If I’m to search her room, I’ll need her key.”

The housecarl had his men hold her still while he checked her pockets and pouches. “Nothing,” he said after a few moments.

“No key?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Maybe she dropped it in the fight, and it lies somewhere out in the woods,” he suggested, but he nodded to the guard to continue their progress to the dungeons.

“Perhaps.” Or Raef made off with yet another important item.

“Keerava will let you in.” The housecarl dismissed himself and went about his own assigned task.

Quickly, Llyr made his way to The Bee & Barb through the darkness of the market square with Rahna happily panting at his side. He was sharper now, far more aware of his surroundings as he walked alone. When he entered the inn, he checked every face of the late-night regulars, cataloguing them in his memory, just in case, before he made his way to the counter. “No luck on your hunt, Captain?” Keerava asked.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, darkly, “The red-headed mer?”

Keerava’s brow furrowed. “Aye?”

“I need the key to her room.”

“Lot of interest in that mer today,” she observed, sharply, “What right have you to go snooping through my guests’ rooms?”

“She was working for the Thalmor. I have been tasked by Jarl Laila to investigate,” he informed her bluntly, displaying the ring like a badge, “I can send for the guard to confirm it, if you like. Or you can give me the key and I won’t waste any more of your time.”

Keerava blinked in surprise and then fear. Usually, she was inclined not to believe anything anyone told her without solid evidence; living in Riften had hardened her, but if the Captain was trying to pull a fast one on her, that was one Oblivion of a story and one convincing and shiny signet ring. “Thalmor?” she repeated, “Here?”

“Indeed.”

How?

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

“Right. Of course.” She was stunned and fumbled with her key ring, searching for the spare. “Here. Her name’s Naari, by the way. Least that’s what she’s always told me it was. No family name.” But she didn’t release the key when he reached to take it from her. “Is that why Tyv—I-I-I mean Raef was here earlier?” she asked in an undertone, “She thought—are the—are they after her?”

“No, she and I had other business to discuss this morning…”

“After,” she corrected, “Just after you left to run your hound.”

He hadn’t been aware that Raef had been seen by or talked to anyone when she had rifled through the mer’s belongings. “You didn’t see her here,” he stated pointedly, “She had nothing to do with this.”

Keerava visibly swallowed with barely constrained worry. If an Argonian could pale, she surely would have done so. She didn’t know what was going on or what Tyv had to do with any of it, but she very much didn’t want to know. “See who?”

“Exactly.” He plucked the key from her grip. “And that other name you knew before? It would suit you better to forget it completely. There are some who would not be so generous as to offer you gold in exchange for it. They’re more inclined to take what they want, instead.” The Argonian nodded in abject horror. His expression softened a little. “Just a friendly warning,” he assured her, “Not a threat. Be mindful for your sake.” She nodded mutely and he turned to leave.

“Room’s first directly across from the stairs,” she told him helpfully and he made his way there.

Before he could feed the key into the lock, the door opened. “There you are,” Raef huffed, “I was beginning to think sending you to the jarl alone was a bad idea.” She stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

He blinked, his hand still outstretched with the key pinched between his fingers. “How did you know it was me?”

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the window which was shuttered with the curtains drawn and her dark cloak draped over the rod for good measure. “I kept an eye out for you,” she said as if it were obvious.

Llyr frowned. Even with paranoia heightening his awareness, he still hadn’t noticed when she was peeking at him through the shades of the inn as he walked through the marketplace. Though, she had gone to some trouble to make the room appear dark and unoccupied even as she sat within with a lit candle burning on the desktop. “It was a bad idea,” he insisted, allowing his hand to drop to his side as he slipped passed her. He ordered Rahna to remain on guard in the hallway and the hound dutifully positioned herself beside the door, turning twice on the spot before settling on the barren floorboards. “Especially with half the evidence missing.”

Raef sniffed and closed the door behind him. “You’re here now, aren’t you? Things must have gone well.” Her gaze flitted to his hand where she spied the golden signet ring, her attention drawn by the glint of something shiny. “Very well. You must have a silver tongue, Captain.” He gave her a look that clearly stated the ring was off limits to her sticky fingers. She shrugged, unconcerned, and strutted passed him to the desk where she had the missing documents he wished he’d had earlier, the cipher ring, and—of course—the missing room key already laid out across the top, elements of an alchemy set pushed aside to make room for her work.

It was then he noticed the acrid smell of something recently burning. “What’s that stench?” he asked.

She motioned to the vials, tumblers, and flasks of the little lab. “I think she counted on being back in time to keep her brews from burning,” she explained and picked up one of the glass containers that was scorched black on the bottom, “If I had taken a little longer at the temple, the inn would have caught fire.”

“Careless,” he observed. Any number of other events could have prevented her from returning in a timely fashion.

“Or planned,” Raef suggested, “Burn any evidence left behind?”

“Perhaps.” It was a good theory, but it was hard to say one way or the other. Only Naari could answer that for herself and it was hardly important enough to ask after when there were so many other more intriguing questions to put to the spy, instead.

She shrugged again and sat at the desk. “I had another look at her things now that I’m not rushed,” she said, “Or distracted by certain captains interrogating my work associates.”

“You smashed Sapphire’s face into the bar downstairs, I thought she would be more willing to talk than some of the others.”

“Like Svana?”

“Firebrand that one.”

Raef shrugged. “Haelga’s more concerned with her worship of Dibella than the care of her niece. Girl was made hard because of it.”

He canted his head and gazed at her curiously. “Life makes people everywhere, of every walk of life hard,” he pointed out, fairly certain that Raef was well acquainted with such a truth, “What made her different? Worthy of your skills free of charge?”

She smiled at him then picked invisible dirt from her armor and cleared her throat. “So Sapphire managed to keep that snarling mouth of hers shut, did she?” she asked, tone light-hearted as she pointedly did not answer him.

Llyr’s mouth twitched into a brief smirk and back again. “Claimed she didn’t know anyone by the name of Tyv and became very—aggressive—when I pressed her.”

“Sounds about right.” She became thoughtful, but her tone was cynical when she spoke. “I’ll have to pay for her protection, I’m sure.”

“Probably.” It seemed likely to him.

She frowned but pointed to the open trunk of Naari’s belongings. “I didn’t find anything new,” she said and judging by the shredded condition of what Llyr assumed was once a travel pack, she had been very thorough. “Checked the room too, just in case she stashed something somewhere clever I hadn’t noticed before. Nothing that I can tell—in the usual places. Or the unusual ones.” She held up what had formerly been a tome, but she had cut into the binding to check the spine.

He took it from her, vaguely curious. “The Talos Mistake?” he read aloud, frowning.

“No accounting for taste.” She gestured for him to come closer and slid a sheet of paper over so he could better make out its contents. It was covered in a delicate script that Llyr assumed to be hers. She was already making a go of the encrypted letter, but her attempts did not look promising. “Since I haven’t found an obvious key for the ring, I’ve started working down the first inlay. It’s going to take me an eternity and a day going at it that way, but…” She pointed to the top right corner of the original letter where a jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols was neatly inked in small and unassuming print: ttm:7|3|4|5::13|5|2|1. “If I could make sense of this—we might have better luck.”

Llyr looked it over. “It could be a date.”

“I thought so, too—at first—but it’s an odd way of putting it and too long.”

“And you found nothing else? Not even in her potion recipes, maybe?”

Raef shook her head. “There are none. She knows her poisons well enough to make them from memory. Going by the labels, looks like she purchased her other potions.”

Casting about for inspiration, Llyr began to go through the trunk. Raef had already gone through it all and tore apart most of it looking for more hidden secrets. The bedroll was in tatters and a few more sliced books lined the bottom of the trunk. “She likes to read,” he muttered absently, “The Art of War Magic, The Gold Ribbon of Merit, Killing – Before You’re Killed—should have done more practicing than reading that last one…” He looked up at Raef again who had gone uncharacteristically silent. Her face was screwed up with concentration.

“That’s odd, isn’t it?” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“The books.”

“How so?”

She stared at him. “Because they’re heavy.”

At first, he didn’t understand what she was getting at, but then it clicked. “She’s a ranger and an agent,” he said slowly, “Traveling as light as she can through Skyrim…”

“So why lug around another six or seven pounds of tomes even if she fancies a good read?”

He looked at the titles again. “The Talos Mistake,” he sputtered.

“Tee, tee, em!” Raef almost shouted which wasn’t terribly stealthy of her, but she was so excited she looked ready to vibrate right out of her chair. “Nocturnal’s dusky tits, it was right there is front of me the whole time!” She consulted the numbers on the letter again. “Page number, maybe?” she muttered to herself and flipped to the seventh page, “Line, letter?” Her finger started to skim along the words. “No, there’s an extra number…”

“Paragraph?”

Paragraph, line, letter…” She wrote down her result so she wouldn’t forget and quickly flipped through the book according to the second set of numbers, then she adjusted the cipher to match up. “Let’s try this again…” She began to translate the first few lines of text but stopped after a few words. “Nope. Still not right.”

“Damnit.” It took them a couple more tries to figure out it was page number, line, word, and then letter.

Llyr watched Raef’s quill scribble across the parchment as she diligently worked to translate the message, twirling the cipher around her finger gently so as not to upset the inlays. He watched over her shoulder as the letter revealed itself little by little. It was written in Aldmeris, so he read it aloud to her as she completed each paragraph.

Agent,

You have been selected to locate and recruit an asset recently in the hold of Windhelm. Target is considered dangerous, though to what extent is unclear. Do not use lethal force during retrieval. The asset is to be captured alive or not at all. Failure to bring her in unharmed is subject to punishment at Ω’s judgement.

Unfortunately, information on the target is limited, but sources within the city and Palace of Kings have provided a description and name (though it is possibly an alias.) See attached. Sources further indicate the woman in question is also pursued by Ulfric Stormcloak who has sent his own agent out to find and possibly bring her back to the Palace. Reasons unknown. If, during retrieval of the asset, you are able to discern why she is important to the jarl, you shall be provided a bonus. Other relevant information may grant further reward to be determined by Ω.

It cannot be overstated how important this mission is. Failure to complete it or discern any further useful information may result in severe punishment or death. Also, provided with the gold for your expenses is a permanent solution to imprisonment should you find yourself so unlucky as to be caught in enemy territory. You are advised to use it. Your fate will be the same amongst us as it would be amongst your enemies should you demonstrate such blinding incompetence.

Do not fail us.

Θ

Raef’s spine was razor straight when she finished transcribing the message. She stared at it, unblinking, in mild disbelief for several long moments as she slowly turned over each foreign word in her mind. It was a good thing Lonley-Gale could read Aldmeris or she’d still be separated from the information she needed. Taking another blank sheet of paper, she had him read it again and hurriedly scrawled his translation down. Meditatively, she tapped her fingers against the newest parchment. They don’t know about Sonja, she realized, No one knows why I was even there that night…That was good. That was very good. They only want me because Ulfric does. The fact that the Thalmor were willing to kill or abandon their own agents over her recruitment was less comforting, however. That was dangerous. “Raef?” her gaze darted up to meet Llyr who had knelt beside the desk to her eye level; his tone suggested he had said her name more than once already. “You alright?” She found his concern equal parts charming and unwelcome.

She waved him off, already hiding behind a smile. It was pointless to put on such airs with him, she knew. He’d already proven quite immune to her tricks, but it was a comfortable fallback and she used it like a shield specially crafted to her hand. “Just planning ahead, dear Captain,” she assured, voice not quite teasing but nearing it, “The Thalmor are not to be trifled with.” And yet, she was planning to trifle with them.

That was putting it mildly, in Llyr’s opinion. “At least their sources are not as well informed as they could be,” he pointed out, optimistically, “They don’t know about your sister.”

“True.” Though she doubted the Thalmor would know what to do with Sonja if they ever got their hands on her. That was a stubborn Ironheart if ever there was one. She tapped her forefinger against her jaw contemplatively. “I’ll have to make the most of it.”

“You have a plan?”

“It’s forming.”

He looked at her expectantly, but when it was clear she was not going to share any of her thoughts with him—yet, anyway—he straightened and reviewed the letter again, turning the parchment just enough in his direction to make it easier to read. “You and Sofie could return with me to Windhelm,” he offered, “Ulfric can protect you.”

She snorted, amused by his suggestion. “Ulfric can protect no one. He has spies in his midst.”

That was true, according to the now decoded message and the existence of a second sketch of Tyv. It was likely that Raef was safest where she was, hidden behind the anonymity of her new face and name. She just had to stay anonymous and that might mean Llyr couldn’t give Ulfric what he wanted. “You are right,” he said at length, “You must be careful even of Ulfric until he can weed out the traitors in the palace.”

“Are you telling me to keep him waiting, after all?” she asked looking thoroughly pleased with the suggestion.

“I’m sure you can get in and out of the Palace again—without drawing attention to yourself this time. If you were inclined.”

“You’re challenging me.”

“I might be.”

She scoffed. “I’ll think about it.”

“In the meantime, I must report the evidence we’ve gathered here to Jarl Laila,” he said, “But you should keep the page about yourself. She doesn’t need to know more than I’ve already told her.”

“And the drawing?”

“I have use for your likeness. It looks to have been drawn by the same hand that Ulfric commissioned the one he gave me.” He produced his journal from a large belt pouch and removed the drawing in question from just inside the cover, careful not to flash any of his notes to her observant eyes.

She checked it against the one they pulled off Naari. “Same hand, indeed,” she muttered as she studied telltale pen strokes. “But the artist might not even know who commissioned it.”

“Ulfric was clear only one was to be made. It’s a lead if nothing else.”

Reluctantly, Raef handed over both drawings. “Fair point, but I want them destroyed the moment they are no longer useful.”

“I’ll burn them, myself.”

She’d prefer to have them turned over to her to destroy personally, but Llyr seemed invested in her safety now that he knew it was more than just his jarl that took an interest in her whereabouts, so she nodded, as satisfied with the situation as she could be, and shifted anxiously in her seat. It was late; she needed sleep and time to think away from the Captain; and Sofie needed to know that she was safe. She stood. “Well, have fun reporting to the castle, but I think I’m done here. If you need me, you know where to find me.” And she swooped dramatically from the room—only to double back for her cloak and exit in a manner far less grand than before.

Llyr shook his head, bemused. What was meant to be a simple job had morphed into something far more interesting and dangerous. He wasn’t looking for this kind of trouble, but it felt good, in a way, to stretch those old muscles again. To live in the thrill of peril once more. As he gathered up the important pieces of evidence from around the room, he thought of how he and Raef met, how the spirits howled for him to save her, and wondered what path lay ahead for them both because, it seemed to him, that they were not yet through with each other—and perhaps wouldn’t be anytime soon, either. He didn’t know what to make of that. It was strange; spirits were stranger; and when he thought of her, this woman of many names who wore many faces, it felt a little like he was floating on the edge of a great sea, unaware of how deep it actually was or how far the current would take him because he was still too close to shore and had no concept of its vastness. He went to bed that night and dreamt of such drifting, Yiri’s sweet voice echoing over the waves like a siren’s call.


“There you are! We were worried!” Bersi exclaimed when he opened the door to The Pawned Prawn to allow Anja entrance.

Her brows shot into her hairline. “You were worried for me?” she asked incredulously.

The shopkeep almost blushed. “Well, Kit was worried, and I was worried for her…”

“Of course.”

He awkwardly cleared his throat. “So—how did it go at the keep? Did you tell the jarl about the docks?”

She hesitated. “I—didn’t make it to the keep today,” she admitted after an uncomfortable pause.

“No?” He was clearly disappointed, and it made Anja’s heart twist unexpectedly.

“No. Your hero, the Captain, found himself in a bit of trouble and I—helped him out of it,” she explained as vaguely as possible.

Bersi looked truly concerned now. “Is he alright? What happened?”

“It’s better that you don’t know the details,” she assured, “But he’s fine. And, clearly, I’m fine, too.”

“Clearly.”

“But first thing in the morning, I’m headed straight for the keep,” she promised and brushed passed him.

“There’s a bit of supper left over if you’re hungry,” he said to her back as she walked away, apparently satisfied with her explanation and assurances, “And Sofie’s gone to sleep already, I think. She went to read in the loft, but I haven’t heard a peep from her since.”

Anja paused behind the counter and turned to face Bersi again. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, shedding all pretense after the day she’d had.

“Doing what?”

“Putting up with me?” As far as she was concerned, she was certain she’d overstayed her welcome by now, and Bersi should be happy to see her gone, not saving leftovers for her like her mother never did. To be fair, Freydis was simply not that kind of mother.

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and shrugged. “I’m grateful?”

“You don’t sound so sure about that.”

“I am!” he assured.

She stared at him.

“A-and—you’re not so bad when you’re not thieving from me,” he admitted with an expression that looked caught somewhere between pained, confused, and afraid. It made him look somewhat constipated which would have been hilarious under different circumstances, but Anja couldn’t bring herself to find humor in his discomfort at that moment. “Besides—it seems to me that maybe—maybe you need it?”

Her expression flattened. “What? Someone to put up with me?”

“Well—aye…”

“I don’t.”

“Everybody does.”

“Not me.”

“I think—maybe—especially you.”

She blinked and opened her mouth to argue, but quickly shut it again. For a painful heartbeat, she just stood there feeling tired and hungry and just—thin. Eventually, she nodded and rubbed at the back of her neck. “Kharjo?” she asked, unable to confront any of what Bersi had said.

He looked a little relieved to have the conversation redirected to safer waters. “Had to go back to camp. Apparently, his boss told him he actually has to protect the caravan sometimes if he wants to get paid.”

Anja scoffed. It was probably better that way. She needed sleep, not distraction. Half-heartedly, she bid Bersi a silent goodnight with a dismissive wave of her hand before finding her way to food (cold, but delicious; Bersi missed his true calling as a chef), and then bed when she was finished. Sofie was already asleep in their makeshift bedroom, a book split open over her chest as it gently rose and fell with her breathing. The title declared it to be about whales. Anja silently plucked the book from Sofie’s lax grasp, marked the page, closed it, and set it aside before she slipped beneath the covers, herself, and finally, blissfully closed her eyes. It took longer than she expected or wanted, but eventually, sleep took her, too, and filled her head with dreams of drifting through the ocean, whale song resonating over her like a lullaby.


Life at The Pawned Prawn was really starting to feel domestic in a way that Anja both abhorred—as any respectable thief would—and for which she secretly yearned. So, of course, her default attitude was to appear annoyed with the rush of the morning in a home too small to contain all of its current inhabitants, though it was fairly obvious her grumbling lacked any real complaint. After she brewed a batch of potions to improve Drifa’s health as she had promised and ate the breakfast Bersi had made, she spent a half hour trying to braid Sofie’s hair better than she had the day before with limited success while the little girl told her all about the stories she had read in the book Bersi had given her.

Anja listened with a little quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth and responded with appropriate awe when it was solicited. Though usually the one seeking an audience for which to put on a show, she found it strangely satisfying to be the one entertained for once. And Sofie was very entertaining. She was sharp and funny and put on little voices for different characters, and by the end of her recollection, Anja felt as though she had learned a great deal more about the folklore of the Sea of Ghosts than she had ever or could ever possibly want. “You’ll have to tell me more when you finish the book,” she said as she tied off Sofie’s messy braid.

“I could read it to you if you want,” Sofie offered in a tone that was meant to sound uninterested.

“Tonight, after supper.”

“Really?”

“Sure, but you have to do all the voices, or it won’t be the same.”

Sofie poorly hid her excitement. “Deal.” Always a negotiation, though Anja thought she got the better end of the deal that time.

By midmorning, she finally managed to bolt out the door with Bersi’s voice calling after her, “Don’t forget to stop by Marise’s stall for a pheasant before you come back!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she mumbled as the door swung shut behind her. Bersi was turning out to be quite the mother hen. Worse than her own mother had been—though Freydis hadn’t set the bar terribly high in that regard.

Anja went around the marketsquare on her way to the keep, keen to avoid any errant members of the Thieves Guild, particularly Brynjolf. She had yet to follow up with them regarding her new face and she wasn’t looking forward to negotiating terms with Sapphire for her silence when Lonely-Gale had gone asking questions. She wondered how much of the heated conversation between the thief and the sailor Brynjolf had overheard. Does he know they were talking about me? If he hadn’t heard it for himself, surely Sapphire had told him. Why wouldn’t she? They were fucking, weren’t they? Or so she assumed. Brynjolf never corrected her. Never told her differently. If she had been in Sapphire’s place—I was once, and I told him everything…anything he wanted to know…She swallowed hard against the sudden knot rising in her throat and continued to the castle.

Inside, the jarl and her sons were still having breakfast—with a very familiar guest at the table. It took all of Anja’s self-control not to raise her eyebrows in surprise when her eyes alighted on none other than Captain Lonely-Gale. She ignored him instead and made a beeline for the steward who had apparently already finished her meal and was standing beside Jarl Law-Giver’s throne, ready to see to hold business while her jarl broke fast and entertained a guest.

Lonely-Gale, however, was less tactful, and though he managed to keep recognition from his expression, his eyes did linger longer than they should have. Luckily, the jarl only thought his gaze an admiring one and did not trouble herself to ask about the stranger arrived to do business with her steward. It seemed nothing out of the ordinary, after all. She did not notice Rahna’s response, however. The massive hound was curled behind her master’s chair, and the moment she caught sight of Anja, her ears perked, her tail wagged in recognition, and she panted happily at her recent ally. Lonely-Gale tried to avert her gaze with table scraps which worked rather well.

“Good morning,” the steward greeted when Anja approached, “Welcome to Mistveil Keep. I’m Jarl Laila’s steward, Anuriel.” She was a short mer with a burnished complexion and white-blonde hair bound tightly back in two little buns.

Anja smiled politely. “I’m Raef,” she replied, Nordic accent firmly in place.

“You’re new to town.” It wasn’t a question.

“Indeed, I am.”

“A traveler?”

“No, I’m looking to settle in this beautiful hold.” Anja suddenly became aware she had no idea how to have this kind of conversation with someone. It was decidedly different from manipulating the coin out of someone’s pocket. Be charming. That always works.

“Oh, splendid!” Anuriel seemed so pleased it was obviously forced, “We have several homes available for rent or purchase…”

Anja held up a hand to stop the Bosmer from running off to fetch her ledger; Anuriel was already half turned away from her, toward the back of the throne room before Anja managed to halt her progress. “Aye, that I know, and I would like to discuss taking up in one of those places, but there’s a bit of business I wanted to discuss with you first.”

Anuriel quirked her head, amber eyes suddenly growing guarded. “Oh?”

“Aye. It’s about the docks…”

“The Thieves Guild is just a rumor…” Both women stopped abruptly, having spoken at the same time, and processed what the other said. Anja tried not to laugh. The steward was definitely in Maven’s pocket. “The docks?” Anuriel repeated.

“I don’t know if you’re aware—but it seems Riften has a bit of a Skooma problem,” Anja elaborated, “And, if me and my little sister are going to settle here in this fine city…”

“The Skooma is coming from the docks?”

Anja really didn’t like being interrupted, particularly when she was trying to weave a believable lie, but the Bosmer steward clearly didn’t care what her personal reasons were for anything. Her expression flattened. “Aye.” So much for charming.

“How did you come by this information?”

Anja blinked. “You know you have people dying from the stuff, right?” she asked incredulously.

Anuriel had the grace to look chastened. “We are—aware—of the problem and the temple priests do what they can to help the suffering, but until now, no one has come forward with a lead on the situation,” she replied so apologetically her tone bordered on rehearsed, “Addicts aren’t willing to out their source until it’s too late and then…”

“They’re too dead to talk,” Anja finished, and the steward nodded, almost embarrassed by how horribly the situation had been handled. “Well, I have a way with people,” Anja sniffed, enjoying herself. It wasn’t often she held the moral high ground—moral anything, really—and she felt equal parts uncomfortable and vindicated by it. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of kindness buys you from the suffering…”

“They’ve done it to themselves,” Anuriel blurted, unable to contain her opinion on the matter.

Anja openly frowned. “There’s a lot of stupid things people do to themselves that lands them in the grave early and half of them won’t make a person half as happy as the sweetness caught in one of those little bottles. Looking for happiness in all the wrong places isn’t a crime—if it is, Oblivion, we’ve all been guilty of that one time or another. I’m not keen to judge.” Anuriel did not respond; she didn’t know how. It was clear they were not going to agree on the plight of the Skooma addict. Anything she had to say would only lead to further debate and she didn’t want that; she was trained not to argue. Instead, she stood there, looking incredibly uncomfortable as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Anja cleared her throat. “Like I said, I asked around and learned a few things I thought might help the guard finally raid the den they got going on the docks. That’s all.”

“Very well, I’ll send for the Captain of the…” the steward began, already raising a hand to gesture to a nearby guard, when she was suddenly interrupted by the only person in the room who had the right to interrupt anyone she wanted.

“What did you say your name was, stranger?” It was the jarl asking, now. She had caught one or two interesting snippets of their conversation. Anja didn’t think they were speaking loud or close enough to catch the attention of, she had hoped, a disinterested jarl. Besides, why would Laila intervene in something her steward was already handling? Ysgramor’s hairy nut sack, I just wanted to pass the guard a little information. Her posture stiffened slightly, and she mentally cursed herself as she slowly turned to face Jarl Laila Law-Giver who was twisted in her seat at the feasting table to better look at her. She did not look at Lonely-Gale, but she could see from the edge of her vision that he was engrossed in what was now transpiring.

“Raef Gray-Raven, my jarl,” Anja answered and quickly bowed her head and covered her heart with a closed fist as she had seen other Nords do.

The jarl hummed thoughtfully. “Your clan name is unfamiliar to me,” she said.

“Not much to us, I’m afraid, my jarl. Small family. Nobody left but me and my sister, now, in fact.”

“From where do you hail?”

“Originally? Markarth. But my grandda moved the family after the Forsworn Incident. We settled in Dawnstar after that. Been there ever since.” The jarl seemed to ponder this information. Anja cleared her throat nervously. “Worked as deckhands, mostly. Or in the mines. I worked odd shifts at the inn sometimes—thought, with ma and da gone, I could find better work down here on one of the farms—maybe even the meadery…”

“I’ve heard the name Gray-Raven before,” Lonely-Gale said suddenly and Anja’s eyes flit to him, sharp and untrusting, “Yes. I think one of your kin served aboard my ship before I retired.”

She blinked. “Maybe. What’s the ship called?”

Kyne’s Wrath.”

“Lofty name that,” Anja observed. A serious ship for a serious man. How fitting. “Don’t forget a name like that. Aye, it was my father who sailed with you. Bjorn.”

“Good man. I didn’t know he was dead.”

“Ataxia got him. Too much drink.” That was more truth than she meant to use, but what did it matter? They’d never know.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugged. “We all have our daemons. He had his.”

“And it seems you’ve stumbled onto one of Riften’s,” Jarl Laila interjected darkly, apparently satisfied with the legitimacy Lonely-Gale’s unexpected charade provided Anja’s alias.

“Aye. Da always said I had a nose for trouble,” Anja answered, shifting her attention back to the jarl.

“What did you learn?” Law-Giver prompted.

Anja wet her lips. “Quite a lot.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Momentarily, Anja considered asking if the jarl didn’t want to send for her Captain of the Guard, but decided it was best not to openly second guess the jarlessa’s wishes. “There’s five of ‘em in an abandoned storage shed on the docks,” she replied, matter-of-factly, “Two light-weights; one’s the dealer, don’t know about the other. Cooker, maybe? The other three are muscle. Dunmer. Not surprising this close to the border—and Morrowind’s the last non-Dominion territory to get any usable quality of moonsugar. They’ve done a bit of work on the shed, too. Reinforced the windows and doors so it won’t be easy to fish ‘em out once they’ve hunkered down, but surprising them might work. Oh, and they like to do their business after dark.”

Laila Law-Giver blinked and she momentarily looked to her steward for confirmation that she had not just hallucinated that fast firing of information from a stranger who claimed to be a part-time tavern girl. “That is quite a lot,” the jarl acknowledged when Anuriel just looked at her helplessly and shrugged.

“You have your father’s eye for detail,” Lonely-Gale added helpfully, his tone flat but his expression quite bemused.

“I’m clever,” she said with a slight smirk which Lonely-Gale surprisingly returned.

“Apparently,” the jarl commented dryly as she leaned back in her seat, the remnants of her breakfast quite forgotten. She grew pensive for a moment while everyone waited for her judgement on the situation. One of her sons looked quite bored and drank deeply from his cup, picking at the remnants of his breakfast. The other son seemed invested in conversation, but overanxious for his mother to act; he fidgeted in his seat, his eyes darting between the jarl, her steward, and Anja, herself. She purposely avoided making eye contact with him. Lonely-Gale, however, had given himself reason enough to take interest in anything to do with Raef Grey-Raven, so he openly caught Anja’s attention and offered a look of—encouragement? It somehow had the opposite effect, and Anja was silently cursing Bersi for sending her on this ridiculous errand in the first place. Jarl Laila, herself, glanced briefly at the Captain before finally speaking. “I am aware of the Skooma problem,” she said, “It seems what my guards were unable to discover for themselves, you unraveled very quickly during your short stay within my city.”

Here, Anja felt obligated to say something about the quality of Riften’s guard that was not insulting. “They’ve a war to worry about,” she said slowly, “Their numbers are fewer.”

“That is true.” The jarl nodded and glanced again to Lonely-Gale. “Recently, I was persuaded to accept the help of a capable individual to see to a matter of great importance for the hold. In these trying times, we do what we must.”

“My jarl…” Anja began, catching onto where Law-Giver’s train of thought was headed and not liking it one bit. She looked to Lonely-Gale whose expression suddenly became guarded once more.

“You are looking to settle in my city, are you not?”

I was…but Sofie’s need for a proper home was greater than Anja’s desire to tell a jarl to shove it. “I am.”

“You are clearly a skilled individual.” The jarl gestured to her well-cared for leather armor and ebony weapons.

“Expendable, you mean.” She sincerely regretted not wearing something more befitting a tavern wench from Dawnstar, but old habits die hard. Anja liked the safety of her armor and weapons. Sure, there were times wearing them were not appropriate for a job, but she hardly thought popping into the keep to tip off the guard as a job.

The jarl’s expression darkened. “I do not know you or your family and you are seeking to take up residence in my hold during wartime. In less suspicious times, I would openly welcome the arrival of newcomers. Clever ones, especially. But now, I must ask you to prove yourself: you want to live in Riften, show you are willing to protect it and its people.”

Fucking Nords, Anja thought bitterly. Her mother would have loved this kind of challenge. Sonja would have loved this kind of challenge, but Anja resented it. She hadn’t asked for the whole of Riften’s problems to suddenly become hers. She just wanted to rent a little shack on the east side big enough for her and Sofie to share. “Odds are still five against one,” she pointed out, expression now impassible and tone flat. Strength was likely the only way to handle a jarl like Laila. Anja could fake that.

Two,” Lonely-Gale interjected, suddenly, “I will go with you.” Anja was both grateful and resentful of his offer. On one hand, she was hoping to convince the jarl sending one woman into a Skooma den was a terrible idea; on the other hand, if she was going to have to walk into a Skooma den, a little company certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“Ah, there we are!” Law-Giver declared, gesturing to Lonely-Gale grandly, “The odds are already shifting in your favor.”

Anja’s eye twitched slightly. She suspected that was the jarl’s plan all along. No good deed goes unpunished, she thought darkly. It seemed her good work the night before with the Thalmor spy only stirred within the jarl an undo amount of faith in Lonely-Gale’s abilities—at her expense, no less. But Anja knew when she was caught between a daedra and the deep blue sea, sometimes a girl just had to learn to swim straight through to shore. Didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. So, she nodded once, curtly. “As you say, my jarl.” She bowed her head, covering her heart again, and barely waited long enough for Law-Giver to dismiss her before she strode swiftly from the hall and back out into the morning air, Lonely-Gale and Rahna on her heels.

He caught up to her just before the bridge over the canal. “I think you should start from the beginning, so I know what I’m getting into,” he said, clearly still lost in the particulars.

Anja glanced at him sideways. “Volunteered for, you mean,” she corrected grumpily.

“Would you prefer that I didn’t?” he asked, pointedly, “Besides, it sounded like a worthy undertaking.”

“Worried I’m having the jarl on?”

“No,” he assured, “But there’s more to it than what you told her.”

She snorted. “Never mind what I told her. What did you tell her for her to invite you to breakfast? Or did you spend the night in the keep after your report? Hmm? Did Lady Jarl Laila Law-Giver give Captain Llyr Lonely-Gale a little loving last night for your labors?” She lingered on the alliterative consonants as much as possible as she made her way back to The Pawned Prawn.

Lonely-Gale frowned. “No.”

She glanced back at him, saw the annoyance in his expression and sighed. “You’re no fun,” she accused and made a sharp detour to Marise’s stall to buy the pheasant Bersi had wanted which she already nearly forgot.

“You’re dodging the question. Again. As usual.”

She huffed as she selected which of the two birds the Dunmer stallkeeper had to offer amongst her trade and counted out the few coins for the exchange. “Thank you! Please come again if you require anything else!” Marise beamed and quickly pocketed the gold.

Anja mumbled something resembling a farewell before continuing toward the general store. “There’s nothing exciting to tell this time, I’m afraid,” she said once they were out of comfortable earshot of anyone noteworthy, “I told the truth this time—more or less.”

Lonely-Gale cocked an eyebrow and reached for the latch of the storefront before she could. “You encountered an addict, then?” he asked incredulously as he opened the door for her.

Anja’s expression tightened and she leaned far into his space. So far that Lonely-Gale had to fight the urge to step back with discomfort. “Yes,” she said softly, “But buying Skooma is just as much of a crime as selling it—so, don’t expect me to give you a name. It’s none of your business.”

He canted his head, slightly. “You’re protecting someone.”

“So what if I am? As long as the docks are cleaned up, it doesn’t matter.” She shrugged and then stepped passed him into the store.

He followed her in. “I agree.”

It was her turn to look disbelieving, but before she could respond, Bersi greeted them, sputtering in surprise. “Captain!” he exclaimed, “It’s good to see you again! How can I help you, today?”

Lonely-Gale looked to the shopkeep and nodded politely in greeting. “Good morning, Bersi. I don’t mean to intrude. I only have some business with Raef about the docks.”

“Oh?” Anja didn’t know Bersi’s voice could squeak that high pitched. She gave him a look, hoping he’d understand its meaning—Keep your mouth shut—and handed him the newly purchased pheasant.

“The jarl decided none of her guard could be spared to deal with the situation—so she tasked me to do it,” Anja said, feigning light-heartedness, “Of course the Captain, here, volunteered to help so I don’t go off to die alone…”

Bersi’s attention shifted and his expression was obviously guilty. “She what? But—just the two of you…?” His tone was despairing.

For nobody’s benefit but Bersi’s, she smiled and shrugged off his concern as if it was unwarranted. “I’ve had worse odds,” she assured, chuckling.

“But, I—I didn’t mean—I will go with you!” Bersi said and his hands tightened to fists on the countertop. His back straightened and he tried to make himself look taller.

Anja glanced at Lonely-Gale who seemed as surprised by his offer as she was. “No disrespect intended, dear, but do you even own a weapon?” she asked, skeptically.

The heat of embarrassment flooded the Bersi’s face. “Of course!” he snapped, defensively, awkwardly glancing at Captain Lonely-Gale, “I was not always a simple shopkeeper!”

“We could use the help,” Lonely-Gale pointed out, “Despite your—impressive—ambush tactics, it’s still five to two.”

“Exactly!” Bersi exclaimed, vindicated.

Anja rolled her eyes and glared at the Captain. He looked back at her, unblinking. Despite his suggestion, it was clear that he did not seem particularly invested in allowing Bersi to come along. She let out a sigh that came out more like a growl and swiftly strode around the counter, grabbing Bersi by the wrist and yanking him into the next room. He was surprised by her strength and stumbled to catch his balance when she spun around to close the door behind him. “Stay there,” she snapped at Lonely-Gale before turning to face Bersi again in privacy.

“What’s your problem now?” he asked, trying to take a hard line with her, but he could hear it in his own tone that he didn’t have the right sharpness.

“You can’t come with us.”

“Why not? I asked you to go on my behalf and now—Mara have mercy—the jarl is sending you to your death!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Bersi. That’s my job.”

“This isn’t you helping Drifa this time. You could die! The least I could do is go with you. Try to help…”

“And die, too?” Anja interrupted, “That’s stupid and you know it. What about Drifa? She’s just been through Oblivion and you want to make her a widow, too?”

“What does it matter to you what I do?” he retorted.

“It doesn’t.”

“Then I will go with you when you make your move on the den.”

“No.”

“You can’t tell me what to do…”

“Bersi…”

“I can’t stand back while you walk into danger…”

“Don’t…”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“Stop.”

“Riften is my home and these people poisoned my wife. I should go…”

“STOP!” Anja nearly shouted and Bersi abruptly fell silent, surprised by her outburst. She was seething, all semblance of her sly manner completely evaporated in the heat of her unexpectedly stoked anger. “I can’t have your blood on my hands. I’d be too worried about keeping you alive…” She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “You can’t come. If I have to tie you to a chair at your own kitchen table to protect you, Divines help me, I will, but you will not set foot on the docks.”

Bersi stared at her. “Your heart must be a burden in your line of work,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer right away. “It is.” And it was one of the most honest things she had ever said to another person who wasn’t Sofie.

He nodded. “I won’t go,” he relented.

Anja let out a long low breath and eased her anger back but couldn’t quite let it go. It simmered beneath her skin like hot coals: her inheritance from her mother. Agitated, she abruptly ended the conversation and whipped the door back. Lonely-Gale was examining a dusty rack of spirits when she reentered the room, Bersi behind her. “Still two to five,” she informed him.

He didn’t look surprised. “Probably for the best,” he agreed and plucked a bottle free from the rack, “This is a good year.”

“You can have it,” Bersi offered somewhat sullenly, “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

Lonely-Gale smiled politely but still produced an appropriate amount of coin from his purse and placed it on the shop counter. “I insist.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Quietly, he slid the gold into his lockbox.

Anja plucked the bottle from Lonely-Gale’s grasp and read the label. “It is a good year,” she grumbled and then grabbed two cups from a nearby set on display, “Come on, Captain. You want to know what I know? I’ll tell you.” And she slipped through the back door onto the small pier behind The Pawned Prawn. There was a small table near the edge with two stools. There she put the cups down and poured them both a drink.


Llyr listened carefully as Raef told him about Riften’s Skooma problem. Mostly rumors. A few dead beggars in the alleyways tragically no one cared about. One or two of the Argonians that worked the docks were known addicts, but the lizardkind had a natural resistance to such substances due to their natural connection to the Hist. Because of this, their habit could never be fully proven. Raef’s personal encounter with it happened on a job.

He didn’t know because she was suitably vague, but she alluded to her work at Goldenglow where she found a stash of the drug. She told him Kharjo sampled it and confirmed that it was tainted—but it wasn’t until she came across a dying addict in person that she felt truly compelled to help. “It was the poison killing her more than the moonsugar,” she said, “But the shakes weren’t helping. I didn’t mean to come across her—I just did…” She held back the particulars again, protecting the identity of this nameless woman, but he suspected she was important to Bersi, whoever she was. A daughter, maybe? Wife? Someone very close at least, judging by the shopkeep’s interest in the matter and how fast the color drained from his face when Raef informed him the jarl was sending only the two of them and not a whole contingent of guards to deal with the den.

“Sofie saw her and asked what we could do to help…” she paused thoughtfully, “And I couldn’t walk away. Not when I could do something. I’m a lot of things but I’m not a killer—and leaving her there like that would have surely killed her.”

She wet her lips and swirled the contents of her cup before she looked up at him. “When she was well enough, she told me all,” she concluded, “And I went to the keep only to pass the information along—maybe stop this problem from growing. Keep poison off the streets.” She sighed. “Now you know all I know—mostly. That worthy enough for you?”

Llyr hadn’t touched his drink the entire time she spoke. He was too absorbed in listening to every word, studying every expression, and hearing everything she left unspoken. By the end of it, he was certain of three things. First, despite her duplicitous nature, her true heart lay in all the mercies she performed, great and small. Second, she was a defender of those who could not protect themselves, of the weak, disadvantaged, and small, though she likely didn’t see it that way—her heart’s whim prompted most of her actions but it always knew what was right even if Raef didn’t know it, herself. And lastly, Ulfric Stormcloak severely underestimated her. For that matter, so did he. So, he cleared his throat and nodded. “It is,” he affirmed, “It will be an honor to fight at your side.”

Her brow furrowed. “No, it won’t. It’ll be a godsdamned disaster. You’d be wiser to walk away. This isn’t your problem.”

“It wasn’t yours, either, until Laila made it so,” he pointed out, “And though I cannot say I’m not a killer—I’m not a careless man. I don’t shed blood without thought. And walking away from you now when you need help would surely spill the blood of someone who very much deserves to live.”

She scoffed, but there was no real malice in it. “I do prefer to keep living,” she joked dryly.

“Then I will do my best to keep you that way,” he offered and extended his hand across the small table toward her. She hesitated a moment before she downed the last of her drink and slipped her small, clever fingers over the pad of his palm. They shook hands, hard. There was strength in her grip he had not fully expected, but he guessed he should have known better after what he’d seen her do to the Thalmor. Still, she was deceptively strong.

“So,” he said, releasing her hand and finally taking a sip of his drink, “What’s the plan? I know you have one.”

She smiled peevishly and poured herself more wine. “First, finish this bottle,” she said, sternly, “Second, even the odds.”

One of those things sound very reasonable to him. “What did you have in mind?”

Her gaze shifted, unfocused, to Rahna’s ear. “Ambush.”

“On the docks? Hardly enough cover for it.”

Her eyes perked back up to his and she grinned. “Then I’ll make some.” Admittedly, he was very keen to find out just how she intended to do that.


It was just after dark on the docks of Riften. The lone guard who patrolled the area was standing lazy sentinel by the heavy iron-fitted door leading back into the city. Anja and all her allies—one more hastily recruited than others—were gathered on a cross section of the planks, just out of sight of the abandoned storehouse. Maul leaned against another building, half shrouded in shadows, one of his usual haunts Anja had observed, watching the assembled group of oddballs with great interest, but he didn’t engage any of them. He just waited and observed. Anja wondered what Maven Blackbriar would make of the events about to unfold for Maul would surely tell her everything. Nothing happened in Riften without Maven knowing about it one way or another. Anja wouldn’t be surprised if that was precisely the reason why the burly Nord thug was there watching them now: because Maven had sent him.

Mjoll the Lioness held up a meaty fist within which the potion of invisibility Anja had given her moments before was clutched. “I don’t understand why we have to drink this before we attack,” she complained, “It doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”

Anja turned and thunked her head against the steel plate of Kharjo’s armor, exasperated. She had just finished explaining her plan of attack. The cloaked feline placed a consoling paw on her back and stroked her shoulder gently. “Kharjo understands Khajay’s plan perfectly,” he assured.

“The storehouse is fortified,” Lonely-Gale explained patiently so Anja didn’t have to, “If they see a group of warriors out on the planks waiting to attack them, they won’t open the door and we won’t be able to get in.”

“But Raef is not drinking one,” the beefy Nord warrior woman pointed out with an impatient toss of her thick auburn hair over her shoulder.

“Because I’m bait,” Anja said, her voice muffled from her angle into Kharjo’s chest.

Mjoll gave her a critical look. She was at least twice Anja’s size. An inch taller than Sonja and built heftier. Truly, an impressive specimen of power and strength. “It would be better for someone—sturdier—to go first, no?”

“No,” Anja answered flatly and then faced them all, “We’re talking up Skooma dealers, not breaching a fort. Look at the lot of you. What criminal would open the door to a Nord gentleman who looks like a guard in plainclothes?” She pointed to Lonely-Gale who was unperturbed by her observation. He was aware of it which was the only reason he agreed to her assertion that he could not be the one to knock on the door to feign the purchase of drugs. “Mjoll the fucking Lioness, the self-proclaimed protector of Riften?” She pointed to the impressive warrior who opened her mouth to object. “Yes, everybody knows it. You tell almost anyone who asks which is why I sought your help in the first place.” She considered Kharjo last. “And you’re not supposed to even be in the city.”

“Aye, about that—how did you get into the city?” Mjoll asked, eyes narrowing.

“This one is not in the city. This one is on the docks,” Kharjo replied matter-of-factly.

“He’s here to help. That’s all you need to know,” Lonely-Gale replied coolly before Anja could open her mouth to defend her friend, “Unless you think the presence of an honorable Khajiit warrior is more dangerous than a den of Skooma dealers?”

“This one is more dangerous than a den of Skooma dealers,” Kharjo added almost indignantly, “But yes. This one is here to help.”

Mjoll frowned but nodded, as satisfied with the situation as she could be for the moment. Still, it didn’t seem to Anja that she would let the matter lie for long. “Fine.”

“Good,” Anja said, “Now, everybody drink your potions and pull your masks up. Let’s get this over with.” As her group of random pains-in-the-ass seemed to dissolve into nothingness behind her, Anja made her way down the creaking wooden steps and over to the front door of the storehouse. She adjusted her new ebony knuckles in her right hand which she had retrieved from Balimund’s earlier, leaving only a payment and a note in their place instead of dealing with the blacksmith face to new face. Seemed easier that way. Besides those, she only carried her mace on her hip, having left her bow behind at The Pawned Prawn, but she tried to minimize its dangerous shape in the dark fold of her cloak.

When she reached the door, she knocked the coded rhythm Drifa had demonstrated for her, hoping her little team was in or near position. Briefly, she glanced over her shoulder and caught a distorted whorl of nothingness in the air where one of them must be standing and Rahna held her position around the corner, waiting for the whistling command of her master to leap into action. Her attention was jerked away, however, when the door cracked open and a gruff voice asked, “What you want?”

Anja cocked an eyebrow and pushed back her hood to reveal her face. In Dunmeris, she said, “A fix. I hear you have what I need.”

The door opened a little wider and she was able to make out a sliver of a countenance. “Maybe,” he allowed, responding in his native tongue, “What you need?”

“Something sweet.”

“How much you want?”

“A lot. I’m looking for a good time.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“I’m good for it.”

He considered her a moment and the door edged a little wider until he stuck his whole face through the opening. “I don’t usually sell big to new customers,” he warned. Good.

Anja pouted prettily at him. “Can’t you make an exception for me?” she pleaded.

“Maybe.”

“What will it take to convince you? I’ll do anything. I need a fix badly.”

Disgustingly, his eyes raked over her figure in the weak light of the crescent moon. Luckily—or disturbingly—he apparently liked what he saw because he opened the door even farther. “Anything, huh?”

“Anything,” she confirmed in her huskiest, most suggestive tone. Internally, she wanted to vomit. Invisible movement nearby tickled her senses and she fought the urge to look at the seemingly empty space beside the door where she knew Kharjo should be. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed that he was glaring menacingly at the Dunmer propositioning his Khajay.

“Alright, fine. Quickly, then.” He straightened and opened the door the rest of the way, revealing the dimly lit interior of the storehouse. Two larger Dunmer were immediately spotted playing cards at a table. They halted their game when their partner opened the door. That left another two unaccounted for—at least at first glance.

“One at a time,” Anja said as she started to step inside.

“You said ‘anything,’” the Dunmer reminded her, “You give us what we want, and I’ll give you want you want.”

Two more steps…Anja edged a little farther and sharply scanned the room. Another bodyguard stood in a far corner but the last of their number remained unaccounted for. As the door started to swing closed behind her, she suddenly stepped back and wedged her foot in the door. “I changed my mind,” she said.

The dealer laughed in her face. “Too late for that now, love,” he cooed and reached for her.

She punched him in the throat. He wheezed and sputtered in silence, and while the bodyguards slowly lurched into action, taken by surprise, she smashed several bottles of a dark gray liquid around the room, releasing furls of thick smoke and obfuscating the tight space. She broke the dealer’s nose with the door as she slammed it open, and the wind of several invisible bodies rushing inside blew by them, heralded by a sharp, commanding whistle. “Two ahead. One in the corner. One unknown,” she informed her unseen allies as their swift appearance swirled the smoke inside.

One of the bodyguards stumbled out of the nearest cloud, coughing, his drawn weapon clutched loosely in his hand. As the only visible threat, he tried for Anja, who was currently stamping on the dealer’s balls, but was abruptly stopped by a rapidly reappearing Kharjo who wrapped thick arms around the mer’s throat, swiftly cutting off his air supply. Beside him, the second bodyguard was forced to the ground, screaming as Rahna bolted through the smoke, a massive dart of white lightning, teeth bared and snarling. Mjoll rushed into the corner, losing her invisibility before she reached the dark haze. The Dunmer warrior charged her, tackling her, and the pair of them wrestled on the floorboards, but the Lioness was laughing, pleased with the challenge.

Lonely-Gale moved farther into the storehouse, searching for the last member of the den. He found a door cracked open beyond which lay a set of stairs to the lower level. The sharp, sweet scent of burning sugar filled his nose; he huffed it away and stepped through the door. That had to be the smell of the alchemy lab they used to brew the Skooma, he was certain. He took the stairs two at a time. What he expected to find was the last Dunmer, perhaps cowering in a corner or searching for a means to protect himself. What he was greeted with was two more bodyguards and the Skooma alchemist beyond them, sabotaging his laboratory.  Llyr didn’t have the chance to call for back up. At least not right away.

The two warriors rushed him, but it wasn’t the first time he was confronted two to one. It was all in the footwork and the sharp sway of his sword that made him seem everywhere at once, an impassable wall of steel and the cool flash of frost in his offhand. He didn’t often use magic offensively; his skill in the Destruction school was small, but nonmages didn’t know that. The spectacle served its purpose to push back his enemies with an unexpected chill of ice in their faces, perhaps not cold enough to cause severe injury but certainly cold enough to bite.

He held them off easily enough; they were no match for his skill, but the only way he was going to get the better of either of them was through deadly force—and Anja had been clear: no one dies if they can help it. They were criminals and to be apprehended as the jarl had ordered, but Anja was not about to play executioner, too. “I’m doing enough of her dirty work for her. Let Law-Giver mete out her own justice.” It was an admirable, if difficult, goal to strive for, one that he hadn’t expected from her—though, by that point, nothing should have surprised him about her unpredictable nature. He let out a sharp whistle over the tip of his tongue and the curve of his lips. If Anja wanted these idiots alive, he’d do his best to deliver them that way.

It was not Rahna who came shooting down the stairs at his call, however. Somehow, a swift shadow of whirling black fabric made it to his side before his four-legged campion did. Anja—or Raef as he knew her—seemed to fly down the stairway and alight with only the sound of her fluttering cloak. The two unfortunate bodyguards didn’t understand who or what they were dealing with immediately; indeed, it would have taken Llyr a moment to register her actions if it weren’t for the heavy thud of her fist-falls as she dipped beneath the arc of a sword and delivered sharp blows to the closest assailant’s elbow and knee.

The mer dropped his weapon and fell, his abused joints throbbing with shocking pain and instability. Another heavy blow across his temple from her elbow and he was out cold. Fast, efficient, and with barely a chance to react to any of it. Llyr was certain he’d never seen anybody move quite so fast—and neither had the other bodyguard who stood flabbergasted for the briefest of moments, no longer certain who the greater threat was: the Nord who was good enough with a sword to hold two of them off or the slight woman, he now realized, who struck like lightning with the apparent power of thunder. His indecision was solved by the hilt of Llyr’s sword as it struck him across the brow, rendering him senseless as well. Rahna arrived then, licking her chops clean of Dunmer blood.

Before Llyr could stoop to restrain either goon with the manacles Anja had taken from the guardhouse, she was already springing across the floorboards, eerily noiseless until she caught up with the alchemist who was scrambling to make his escape into the water below through a trapdoor. Llyr couldn’t see what happened next; they’d gone around a corner and were thus obstructed from his view, but it sounded as if she struck him repeatedly with the door, itself, until he stopped moving. Then there was a faint splash, not large or alarming enough to make him think a body had plopped into the dark waters, but he heard Anja make a sound of panic followed by the scrambling sound of her boots against creaking wood. “Llyr, help!” she grunted.

He was already sprinting toward her and, a second later, turned the corner to see what it was she was struggling with: the alchemist’s dead weight was threatening to tip him headfirst into the ripples below, but Anja was holding him back by his belt. Quickly, Llyr pulled back the door which seemed to be what was primarily giving her trouble, and helped pull the unconscious mer to safety—though he didn’t do much of the lifting, he was sure, and she wasn’t aware she was shouldering most of the burden alone. She leaned heavily against the wall for a moment once she was rid of the Dunmer’s weight and breathed deeply, steadying herself. Internally, she was awash with adrenaline and fear. That was the first real fight she had ever been in where she didn’t have Sonja somewhere in the thick of it backing her up. It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. “I’m not made for this kind of shite,” she said, her voice dangerously wavering somewhere between amused and petrified.

“There are three broken men who beg to differ,” Llyr stated.

Anja gave him a look that was first boastful and then disbelieving. “In my line of work, you ever end up fighting someone—anyone—like we just did, you’re not doing your job right.” She took a deep breath, but it didn’t do her any good. “Fuck!” She rubbed her face and Llyr saw that her hands were shaking.

His brow furrowed. “You’ve—never fought before?” Saying it aloud sounded stupid. Of course that couldn’t be the case. Not after he had seen the way she took out the Thalmor and these thugs.

She looked at him, a flippant remark poised on the very tip of her tongue, but she pursed her lips instead and gave one curt shake of her head. “Not like this,” she admitted quietly, “Sparring, yes. I had to learn. My mother was a Companion for Talos’ sake, it’s not like I didn’t pick up a few things, but…” She lived in a home of soldiers who thought her too delicate for physical conflict; there were few battles she had to fight in person, let alone—well, alone. And there were few situations which she couldn’t talk herself out of. Pretty smiles and breathy laughs went such a long way toward defusing high, easily stoked tempers. Thieving suited her, partly because of this and partly for her natural knack for the art of burglary. She felt out of her depth in the violence of the last few moments. Even if they were a bunch of poison peddlers. The power she felt at the end of her fist was a somewhat foreign one.

“But—you attacked Sapphire…the Thalmor?”

“Hardly what I’d call a fight.” She truly didn’t consider either circumstance to merit the word. All the fighters in her life taught her the quick jabs, the soft spots, the tender places to exploit when a larger opponent thought they could get the better of her. Moves designed to wound long enough for her to run away. Strike smarter, not harder. She’d had to use that knowledge plenty of times to escape groping hands or aggressive would-be lovers—of either sex—but not in real combat. Not the kind where someone was genuinely trying to kill her. Not even when the Elven Gardens District was burning, and she was searching for her brother. No one paid her any attention then, and she moved practically unseen through the chaos. Anything else had been ambush and retreat. Flight. Flee. Run away. Staying was stupid. Fighting was even worse.

Llyr’s expression shifted as he stared at her. He seemed to be making up his mind about something and then glanced back down the hallway to check on the two extra bodyguards. Kharjo and Mjoll were already coming down the stairs to see where the two of them had gone and if anyone needed help. “Khajay?” the Khajiit called, a purr of worry at the back of his throat.

“She’s here. She’s unharmed,” Llyr informed him and pointed to the unconscious bodyguards, “There were a couple more than expected, but we had no trouble with them.”

Kharjo spared the Dunmer a glance, intending to step over their motionless bodies and seek out Anja, instead, but Mjoll elbowed his arm before he could pass. “Help me tie them up.”

His ears flicked in minor irritation, but he acquiesced. Anja was apparently safe, and it was better to bind their prisoners before they regained consciousness and tried to fight them again. Llyr returned his attention to Anja. “Breathe,” he said to her in an undertone.

Her brow furrowed with confusion. “What?”

Breathe,” he repeated and then demonstrated with a healthy inhalation, “You look ready to faint away.” Her attempt was stilted. “Through your nose,” he coached patiently. “Your blood is singing and your heart pumping too fast. It will pass in a moment, and you will feel better.”

She corrected herself and though her breaths were uneven, she began to feel better. Tension she didn’t even know she had in her chest eased. Embarrassment began to edge into her thoughts, to tug at the corners of her expression. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine. Help the others,” she mumbled, still forcing herself to breathe slowly.

He didn’t bother to look back to Kharjo and Mjoll. “They’re fine. And I don’t mind.” He paused. “Unless you’d prefer me to leave you in peace?”

Anja shrugged, ambivalent. At the moment, she didn’t find his presence irritating, exactly. She just didn’t want anyone to fret over her unnecessarily. He reminded her a little of Sonja in his dry uprightness, but he wasn’t overbearing. There was space between them. He wasn’t like Kharjo, either. Clearly, the man’s heart couldn’t be tempted away from his wife no matter how charming she attempted to be. No, his concern came from a different place. Maybe it was precisely because they shared no personal relationship beyond a vague interest in keeping the other alive. Maybe it was something else she couldn’t name. “This ever happen to you before?” she asked.

He nodded. “Long ago when I was a brash young man throwing my first punch in a tavern after too much mead,” he said with a little smirk.

She laughed, already looking much better. Her hands stopped shaking. “I can see that.” She imagined him to look a lot like Thornir when he was young. But Thornir wasn’t the type to carouse and brawl; he simply had no interest in it. “Sailors are always a rowdy lot.”

“We are,” he agreed, “And I certainly used to be.”

“Until you met your wife, I imagine. And had to straighten up. Heard that story one too many times.” She rolled her eyes. The way some people went on about marrying, it made Anja wonder why anyone bothered to do it in the first place.

Lonely-Gale shook his head, amused by her words. “My wife—Yiri—was worse than I was,” he corrected, “All fire and song and laughter so bright it filled any room she walked into.”

Anja couldn’t help but genuinely smile at his description. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

“Mine, too.” His expression was sad, but loving, and his voice was a gentle hum of affection. Anja wondered if she had ever seen anyone so in love before. Her parents certainly hadn’t looked or sounded like that when they spoke to or about one another. Indeed, it seemed the Captain’s love was of a rare quality. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“I am. Thanks.”

Lonely-Gale merely nodded and then went to the unconscious alchemist to bind his wrists. Anja watched his skilled hands tie knots she’d never seen before and felt—not warm, exactly—but very much like he wasn’t such a nuisance, after all. That perhaps Ulfric sending this particular pirate hunter to deliver a simple message had turned out not to be such an inconvenience to her life in the long run. She was curious about him, but not in the way she was about Brynjolf or Kharjo. There was nothing romantically or sexually appealing between them. There was something, though, and it reminded her of the salty sea breeze he seemed to have brought with him when he arrived in Riften: something clean and sorely needed for one’s health. These thoughts were pushed aside, however, when Kharjo came around the corner, ready to sweep her into his solid arms.


“This one is not sure this a good idea,” Kharjo said, one of the seven drug dealers they’d just successfully ambushed draped across his shoulders like a pelt. Aside from the three downstairs, the others were in walking condition, but someone needed to carry the unconscious back into the city—which meant everyone but Anja, who claimed to be too small to manage it, had to shoulder a limp body.

“The jarl should know you helped,” Mjoll said, reasonably. Apparently, the heat of battle was enough to make her think better of her feline ally—that besides, Kharjo had helped her with the bodyguard who had wrestled her to the floor.

Anja pursed her lips, debating with herself. She didn’t want to put Kharjo in danger, but surely the jarl wouldn’t imprison someone who had helped rid her town of a Skooma plague—right? Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise her. Powerful people did all sorts of stupid shit when it suited them. Like sending pirate hunters to deliver a message. “I’ll protect you,” she offered, smiling gently, and touched his cheek.

“As will I,” Llyr added firmly.

“Me, too,” Mjoll affirmed.

Kharjo nuzzled into Anja’s palm, barely paying any mind to the other offers. “Do you wish it of this one?” he asked.

“I want her to know who really protected her citizens,” Anja stated firmly, “But I won’t ask you to walk where you’re not wanted if you’d rather not.”

He didn’t answer right away, seeming to delight in the feel of her hand on his face. “Then this one will go,” he said simply, shifting the weight of the body on his shoulder, and prepared to enter a city that had exiled his kind.


“Take your hands off of him, or I swear on all you hold holy, you will lose them,” Raef snapped at the guard who tried to stop Kharjo from entering Mistveil Keep. The guard hesitated, now torn between removing an exile from the city and dealing with a woman who just threatened a guard in no uncertain terms. Kharjo’s tail flicked with uncertainty between them, unsure if supporting his lover would make matters worse, but he certainly didn’t want to provoke her anger further by cooperating with the guard and leaving, either.

Llyr stepped forward to intervene. “You see we have prisoners for your dungeons,” he said reasonably, “We’ve taken care of Riften’s Skooma problem as the Jarl asked. This warrior helped. Allow him to finish what he started. Let the Jarl decide whether or not he has a place within these walls.”

The guard’s expression was hidden behind his face mask and visor, but the subtle tilt of his head indicated he was thinking about Llyr’s words. After another tense moment, he released Kharjo. “Anybody who protects this city when it needs it is alright by me,” he said, “But that’s the Jarl’s decision, not mine. Go on ahead. Quickly now before someone else gives you a bad time.”

“This one is grateful,” Kharjo said, nodding politely to the guard before following Llyr through the heavy, iron fitted doors.

Raef glared suspiciously but nodded her thanks before she pulled hard on the rope that bound the remaining four thugs together though their manacles, jerking them forward. They didn’t fight her too much. Mjoll brought up the rear and prodded them along, and they were keenly aware that they had been the lucky ones since the other two of their number that the little beauty had tangled with were currently little more than lumps of unresponding flesh flung over unconcerned shoulders. That and Rahna had already mauled one of them. No one wanted to be chased by that beast for a vain attempt at an escape.

Once inside the keep, bodies were dropped onto the floor that were once carried and other guards took possession of the new prisoners. They were not yet whisked away to the dungeons, however, and stood nervously beneath the piercing scowl of the Jarl Laila Law-Giver. Her sky-blue eyes passed over each of them, bound and beaten, before finally turning over to the four people and a hound standing before her throne. Her eyes lingered on Kharjo with some interest, but when she spoke, she did not address him. “It seems you were successful,” she said to Raef.

“Clearly, my jarl.”

“There are a couple more than you estimated.”

“It appears so, my jarl.”

Law-Giver paused. “When I sent you to the docks, I did not think you would—take prisoners.”

“It is not my place to judge your subjects, my jarl.” The irony in Raef’s voice was thick. Her tone could barely be considered respectful. Llyr glanced at her sideways with a warning expression she pointedly ignored.

The Jarl smiled. “No, it is not,” she agreed and leaned back in her throne, her expression storming. “But, it seems you found others to rally to your cause as well.” She nodded to Mjoll. “My thanks, Lioness. Your assistance is always welcome.”

“Always happy to aid Riften however I can, my jarl,” Mjoll replied, “But—truthfully—I did very little. Raef was responsible for finding a way into the den and—she took out most of the thugs, herself.”

Raef glanced sideways at her, unsure if she appreciated the warrior’s truthfulness in this matter or not. “I see,” Law-Giver nodded and her gaze shifted over Raef to finally rest upon Llyr, “It seems those of the Grey-Raven stock are truly remarkable, then?”

Llyr cleared his throat and straightened his posture. He didn’t regret his little lie earlier that morning. It had seemed to him at the time that Raef sorely needed a little bit of validation and his passing acquaintance seemed easy enough to give. Didn’t mean he liked having to perpetuate it, though. “Indeed,” he agreed, “In this, I think she surpasses what I know of her father. He was not half so skilled a fighter as she.”

“For a tavern girl?” the Jarl added, doubtfully.

Raef frowned. “Skyrim is a dangerous place, my jarl. Everyone must learn to protect themselves. Even tavern girls.”

Laila hummed, though it was hard to tell if it was in agreement or disbelief. Either way, it didn’t matter because her attention finally settled on Kharjo with the weight of a mountain behind it. “And you,” she said, her tone firm but not angry, “What is your name?”

“This one is known as Kharjo,” the Khajiit responded and bowed without breaking eye contact as was his people’s custom, but Llyr wondered if the jarl knew that or if she found his actions unnerving. Perhaps even disrespectful?

The Jarl watched him with some fascination. “Do you come from the caravans?”

“This one does.”

“How did you come to be involved in this?”

“I asked him to help,” Raef answered loudly.

Khajay—Raef is a friend to the Khajiit,” Kharjo explained carefully, “She was always kind to us when we camped outside of Dawnstar. When she asked for this one’s help, she could not be refused. And Skooma is sacred to the Khajiit. To taint it is a—how you say?” He glanced briefly at Raef. “Moraz?”

“Sin. Blasphemy,” Raef provided.

Kharjo nodded his thanks before continuing to the Jarl, “This one was happy to rid Riften of such a sin.”

The Jarl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I am aware of Skooma’s importance to your people—and you wouldn’t have anything to do with the supply of moonsugar to these poisoners in the first place?”

“How dare…” Raef began, stepping forward, very much prepared to have words with a jarl, but Llyr yanked her back by her belt in a move that looked a lot smoother than it felt doing it.

“My jarl, this honorable warrior fought at our side,” he said before Raef could get herself into trouble, “I believe his motives to be genuine. There were many reasons for Kharjo to refuse our request for his help and yet, he chose to act for the good of a city that does not welcome him or his kind.”

“Your confidence in him is noted, Captain. Now, let the Khajiit speak for himself.”

Kharjo’s ear twitched toward Raef. “No, Jarl. This one knew nothing of the den until Raef asked for the strength of his claws. Khajiit are not allowed inside the city, after all. This one would not defy you…”

“You’re defying me right now,” the Jarl pointed out, testily, “Standing not only within my city, but in my throne room, as well.”

Kharjo’s mouth shut very quickly with a faint click of his fangs. He didn’t want to dig himself into deeper trouble. The tension in the air was thick as everyone searched for words to either damn Kharjo or save him. Raef audibly breathed heavily, regaining her composure. Llyr felt her suddenly relax, the muscles in her back loosening against his knuckles where he still had his hand wedged in her belt. “We do what we must in these trying times,” she said, her tone suspiciously diplomatic, “You said so yourself, my jarl. This morning you ordered one woman into a den of seven. If I had gone alone, I would have died—even with all my tricks, sometimes a woman just can’t beat odds like that—and you’d still have a problem on your hands…”

“And what do you think I have on my hands, now?” Impatiently, she tapped her fingers against the armrest of her throne. “A hero Khajiit and more prisoners than my dungeon can hold?”

“An opportunity.” Raef gestured rather grandly as if she was presenting the jarl with a gift. Hesitantly, Llyr eased his grip from her belt, and she began to step idle, smooth, and seemingly without direction, but she was putting herself right between Jarl Laila Law-Giver and her Khajiit lover.

“Explain.” The Jarl’s expression looked caught somewhere between vaguely interested and thoroughly annoyed.

Raef shrugged as if it was obvious and casually gestured to the line of Skooma dealers at the door who nervously looked around the main hall. “No Skooma. For now. But there is an appetite for it here and a healthy one. This bunch of idiots isn’t smart enough to be the brains behind the entire operation. You’ll want their supplier if you want to put a more permanent end to moonsugar’s hold on your people. The two wiry ones…” She pointed. One was finally rousing from unconsciousness and the other was shifting gingerly, trying to alleviate some of the pain she had kicked into his groin. “Are the only important ones. Do what you will with the rest but ask the right questions of those two and they’ll sing.”

“Just like that?” the Jarl asked, clearly unconvinced.

“They’ll need proper motivation, of course,” Raef replied reasonably, “But—how many scruples do you think scum like them have?” She straightened her posture a little then, fixing the jarl with a piercing stare, and continued on before her rhetorical question could be answered. In a sterner tone that still managed to maintain its geniality, she said, “But you know this. You’re no fool, my jarl. Unraveling poorly constructed criminal organizations must be child’s play to a mind as keen as yours.”

“No need to blow smoke up my ass, young Grey-Raven…” Llyr choked back a laugh.

“Is not the Rift Jarl Ulfric’s strongest ally?” Somehow, she managed to politely interrupt the jarl. “Do you not provide the largest number of troops to the Stormcloak army second only to Eastmarch, itself? Have you not ruled your hold for decades with honor and dignity in times of both war and peace? I’m not blowing smoke up anyone’s ass, my jarl, only acknowledging what must be very clear to you.”

The Jarl was amused and vaguely intrigued, ego thoroughly stroked. Llyr was a little impressed. “Then where lies the opportunity you are proposing?”

Raef smiled conspiratorially. “In trade, my jarl.”

Law-Giver quirked an auburn eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Kharjo, out of all the holds in Skyrim, how many of them allow the caravan within their walls?”

“None, Khajay,” he answered slowly, unsure of where she was going with her line of reasoning.

“And what do you trade in?”

“Whatever Khajiit can,” he answered truthfully, “General goods. Sometimes special orders from the shopkeepers brave—or desperate—enough to do business since Khajiit are one of the few caravans that often travel between cities.”

“One of the few caravans that often travel between cities,” Raef repeated, pointedly, “Neutral. Unaffiliated with either side of the war…”

“Elsweyr is a Dominion territory,” Law-Giver objected.

“That is why Khajiit left,” Kharjo added, “The Dominion trade laws for merchants are—how you say? Droqo?”

“Horseshit,” Raef supplied. Kharjo stared at her; he knew what horseshit was. “Stifling,” she corrected, “It’s hard for the people of Elsweyr to get out from beneath Dominion control if they are too poor to do so.”

The Jarl’s brow furrowed, pensively. “Do they wish to?”

“What?”

“Free themselves from Dominion control?”

Kharjo hesitated. “Some do. Some do not. Like it is in your country: some wish to stay with the Empire and some wage a war to part from it.”

“And do you? Or do you not?” Law-Giver seemed genuinely curious.

Kharjo’s tail flicked nervously. “Kharjo loves his home, Jarl. Kharjo misses Elsweyr but cannot go back because the Dominion has no love for those who are not golden smooth-skins like them,” he explained, “Elsweyr is caged like senche tiger if only all Khajiit could see it.”

Laila pondered his answer as she leaned back in her throne. “Unaffiliated,” she declared after a moment, “And I’d wager they’d like to stay that way, so moving supplies to encampments is out of the question…”

“This isn’t an opportunity for your military,” Raef interjected, “But for your people.”

The Jarl canted her head. “Speak plain.”

“Your shopkeepers’ profits are small and dwindling, the inn is filled only with regulars and not with new travelers, the docks struggle to send purchase agreements to clients across Skyrim, this war—however necessary—is smothering Riften,” she stated firmly, “The Khajiit are a lifeline. They already walk dangerous roads between cities, welcome them, let them earn the trust of your citizens, and put coin back into the pockets of a desperate market.” Well, Llyr was convinced, not that he ever thought the Khajiit shouldn’t be allowed inside the city.

Laila Law-Giver stared at Raef for some time. “And if my people won’t trust them?”

“Show them that you do—or at least, can try,” Raef suggested, “They look to the throne of Mistveil for guidance. This you know. Be fearless and they will be, too.”

The Jarl pondered a moment longer before suddenly rising from her throne. Everyone held their breath as she stepped off the dais and leveled with Raef though she was at least four or five inches taller than her. “And what of Eastmarch?” she continued, “Ulfric will not be so keen to follow any example but his own.” Llyr was surprised at her tone; it sounded more as if the jarl was speaking with an advisor than a tavern girl.

Raef squared her shoulders and looked directly into the jarl’s eyes. “Ulfric also claims Skyrim is only for the Nords,” she said evenly, and her eyes briefly and pointedly flit to Anuriel, “Perhaps he needs a little persuading from an equal.” Jarl Laila Law-Giver smiled.

“And I would be willing to put a bee in his ear about this if it meant some relief for the people of Windhelm,” Llyr added helpfully, “Eastmarch has its struggles too. We are not so blessed with good farmland as the Rift. Fruits of harvest grow scarcer every day.”

“I was not aware things were so dire in the North,” the Jarl said, gravely, allowing her pleasure to be eclipsed by true concern, “Of course, the Rift will do what is within our power to help.” She studied Raef again for a moment and then gave a little nod as if making up her mind. “For your heroics, you are welcome in Riften, Master Kharjo of Elsweyr,” she said, addressing the Khajiit over Raef’s shoulder, “But it will take more for my people to embrace the rest of your caravan. Let me ponder the matter further and when I have come up with terms, I will humbly call on you again.”

Kharjo’s eyes widened with surprise and he instinctively glanced around to those surrounding him to be sure he had heard the jarl speak true. “Many thanks, Jarl,” he said, bowing again, “Kha’jay siirithse jer draqo. May the moons light your path.”

She nodded politely, unbothered by the use of his native tongue. Indeed, she hardly seemed bothered by his presence anymore. “And you, Grey-Raven,” she said, returning her attention back to Raef, “Are free to purchase whatever property you please in my city. May I suggest the Honeyside Estate? It belonged to a former thane of my court before his passing. A fine house—fitting of someone clever enough to perhaps take his place.”

Raef blinked several times. The jarl’s not so subtle offer piercing through her unexpectedly like an assassin’s arrow. She actually stuttered, stunned. “Th-thank you, my jarl,” she breathed, “I will think on it and make arrangements with Anuriel tomorrow.”

“Good.” Laila seemed pleased with herself, with Raef, with the whole situation, and regally dismissed them all. She ordered the Skooma dealers to the dungeons for the night until they could face summary trial and likely execution the next day, and her housecarl was instructed to spread the word to the city guard that there was at least one Khajiit free to walk the streets of Riften unbothered. The four of them and Rahna left Mistveil Keep silent and a little stunned, unsure of what to make of everything that had transpired that evening. Even Rahna seemed sobered, affected by the solemn nature of her company if nothing else.

At The Bee & Barb, they parted with Mjoll who heartily shook hands with each of them and openly offered her help again to any of them in the future should they need it. Then she went on her way, walking to the home she stayed in for the time being. “Good night,” Llyr said to Raef and Kharjo, “It has been an honor. Call on me in the morning should you need anything.” He started to walk away, Rahna trotting beside him, headed for the door of the inn.

“Wait,” Raef called, uncertainly before he could reach the latch. He turned to look at her. “You hungry?” He nodded, intrigued by what he sensed would be her next question. “Want to join us? I’m sure Bersi would love it.”

Briefly, Llyr glanced at Kharjo, halfway certain the Khajiit wasn’t particularly fond of him, but he only looked at him with a touch of curiosity as if he was trying to make out his character in return. “It would be a pleasure,” he accepted, and he walked with them back to The Pawned Prawn.

She was right, Bersi was ecstatic to have an unexpected houseguest. Llyr was honored to meet Bersi’s wife who looked a touch pale, but she had a warm smile—and he suspected he knew who Raef’s mystery Skooma addict was. It only reinforced the opinion he was already forming about the supposed criminal: thieving was only her profession, not who she was. They ate the pheasant purchased earlier that day, they drank Blackbriar mead, and laughed. Llyr even humored them all with a story or two about his adventures at sea, and then Sofie entertained them all with stories from her book by the fire while Rahna slept peacefully at his feet.

It made Llyr feel very warm, this unexpected evening amongst people. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed such company. He had been alone for so long, it made him ache a little for Yiri. She would have loved it there, huddled in the small sitting room of Bersi’s shop and listening to Sofie’s expressive voice deepen when she read the parts of Ysgramor. She would have sung songs and told jokes and probably make fast friends with Raef. That last thought made him smirk a little until he heard a sweet voice penetrate the fog of his memory. At first, he thought he was only daydreaming of his wife again as he was wont to do, but when he looked up, he saw that it was Raef singing a song about the golden hills on the coast of Anvil in Cyrodiil at whose request, he did not catch. At that moment, he understood why the spirits urged him so violently to save her life and it didn’t have anything to do with the possible dragonblood flowing through her veins. She was worthy enough without it.

Chapter 45: Risks

Summary:

Vilkas finds out Sonja is planning to go to Shalidor's Maze soon. Hera visits Farengar.

Notes:

Trigger Warnings: mention of the deaths of family members, themes of grief, implied suicidal tendencies.

PoV: Sonja, Vilkas, Hera

Also, this is a long one. A 30+ pager. Just a heads up.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sonja stood at her dining table, gaze cast down upon her alchemical notes and a slight scowl creasing her brow as she rubbed her sore hands. They were a little worse for wear that morning so she took the opportunity to free herself of the magical restraints for a while; both quicksilver beads glinted in the curve of the mortar where she had placed them for safekeeping. She flexed her fingers and frowned at one of her calculations on the parchment, certain her sums were wrong. Silverpaw purred and rubbed his little body against her boot as if sensing her dismay.

“How long did Belethor say it would take for the beds to come in?” Lydia asked, her expression tired as she entered the den and stretched her stiff back. She wasn’t fully dressed; still exhausted at such an early hour, she merely stuffed the tails of her tunic into the nearest, cleanest pair of trousers within reach rather than properly dress herself.

“Not ‘til next week,” Sonja answered without looking up, “Fastest he could get them.”

“I’ll double up on the bedroll, then,” the housecarl sighed.

“You could always stay with Farkas. I’m sure he’d be happy for your—company.”

Lydia chuckled, a fond smile on her lips for her lover. “Aye, but I am bound to you and your hearth. My place is at your side. Farkas knows that.” Sonja glanced sideways at her. She would never get used to that kind of devotion, she was sure, but she had given up challenging it. Lydia was there to stay. “Besides, it’s sleep I need, not his company.”

Sonja smiled, amused. “You could bunk with me, if you want,” she offered.

“I don’t want to impose.” Lydia tried not to sound too interested in the idea. Though it was certainly more appealing than sleeping on the floor, she didn’t want to crowd her thane’s personal space, especially when Sonja had been so respectful of hers.

“It’s no trouble.” Sonja shrugged, felt an uncomfortable twinge in her neck, and then rolled her shoulders, attempting to alleviate the discomfort. “It’s only for a couple of nights. Then we’re on the road again, huddled together in a tent for a week anyway. By the time we make it back from the mountains, you’ll have a bed to come home to.”

“And if you have company of your own?” Lydia teased, though she couldn’t imagine that ever being a problem. Sonja would just boot her out the door if she needed privacy to entertain a guest. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the mood.”

“I don’t bring company home,” Sonja assured, smirking, “There’s no need to worry.”

The housecarl tilted her head ever so slightly in surprise. “Never?”

Sonja shrugged again, unashamed. “No one likes to overstay their welcome when all the fun’s been had. I like to leave when it suits me,” she explained and rubbed the back of her neck, “Hard to do that when I’m already home—and—” she paused, brow tweaking toward a slight scowl before easing—“I like to sleep alone.”

Lydia scoffed. “Couldn’t tell with the way you like to pack us all into the tent,” she teased.

“For warmth!” Sonja declared, chuckling, “Mara’s bleeding heart, I’d rather snuggle up between a couple of cave bears than freeze to death! Of all the things my mother left me, I wish one of them had been her hardiness against the cold.”

Lydia laughed, but she felt a little bad for her thane. It was easy to forget she was only a half-blood and therefore strange to think that Skyrim could be dangerous to her in ways that were less severe for any other Nord. Even a drunken native beggar was better suited to spending a night out on the street than the Dragonborn. “Well, if it’s no bother to you, I would like to get off the floor,” Lydia confirmed.

“It’s settled.”

There was a sharp knock at the front door. Both women started with surprise and Silverpaw turned wide, glassy eyes toward the offending sound. “Must be Vilkas,” Sonja predicted because she expected no other visitors that morning—or ever—though it was earlier than usual, even for him. She immediately donned her magical restraints.

“He’s a little early,” Lydia grumbled and halfheartedly straightened her appearance in preparation of greeting a guest as she walked toward the door. Silverpaw prowled after her, apparently wary of the unknown visitor.

“He’s keen on his lessons.”

“His lessons or his teacher?” the housecarl snarked before she could stop herself.

Sonja did not answer right away, and Lydia was worried that she had spoken too familiarly, but when she turned to face her thane with an apology at the ready, Sonja didn’t seem upset by the comment or the implication, merely amused. “That’s how rumors get started,” she said, smiling faintly.

Lydia blinked. She had heard the rumors circulating around town about Sonja and Vilkas after the Great Hunt. It was hard not to. She even had to silence more than one gossip with an intimidatingly disappointed stare, but people tended to be better at holding their tongues around the subjects of scandal—especially when the subjects in question were the Master of Arms at Jorrvaskr and the Dragonborn Thane of Whiterun. Besides, Sonja had made no mention of the rumor whatsoever that Lydia had thought her thane to be unaware of the hearsay and hardly thought it her place to bring it up. True or not. Apparently, Sonja was much more aware than she thought, and found the gossip—amusing?

Before Lydia could respond, however, their early guest chose then to hammer away at the door again, louder than before. “I’m coming,” Lydia mumbled and tugged on the latch, swinging the door back to reveal an annoyingly bright-eyed Vilkas. “Companion.” Silverpaw offered his own greeting by way of hissing at Vilkas’ looming figure and then bolting through his legs out into the morning.

“What in Oblivion?” Vilkas stumbled away from the small white kitten to avoid stepping on him.

“A gift from Ysa,” Lydia replied darkly as she watched Silverpaw leap into the bushes near the Drunken Huntsman and briefly disappear, “I think he likes you.” Two little shining eyes appeared in the bush, watching Vilkas intently.

About as much as Ysa does. Vilkas’ expression flattened. “Aye. I could tell from all the spitting.”

Lydia smirked and stood aside with a welcoming gesture. When Vilkas stepped passed her, her eyes sank to the basket in his hand. It was covered, but the tantalizing smell of food wafted from beyond the fold of cloth tucked around the morsels inside. Breakfast. Strange alchemy, that. Instantly, the Companion and Dragonborn’s morning lessons were made cozier in Lydia’s head than she had originally thought them to be. She had the willpower to say nothing of it, though. Instead, she silently closed the door—then remembered Silverpaw was still outside and opened it again, leaving it ajar for his return.

“Apologies if I woke you, housecarl,” Vilkas continued once he had composed himself after his brush with small, fluffy fury, “I didn’t know you’d left Jorrvaskr.”

“What reason would I have to stay now that my thane has taken Breezehome?” she pointed out.

“Dutiful as always, Stormshield.”

“As I should be,” she stated, proud, and Sonja couldn’t help but smirk at all the Nordic nobleness flooding her den between the two warriors, “But you didn’t wake me. I was already up.”

“Was your thane stomping through the house?” he asked, his tone taking a stab at friendly which surprised both women.

Lydia chuckled, suspecting his effort to be congenial was more for his brother’s sake than for her own which was kind of sweet. “Like a herd of mammoths.”

Sonja scoffed. “Mammoths? Quieter than I expected,” she observed good-naturedly, now perched on the edge of her dining table, arms crossed over her chest as she listened to the Companion and her housecarl have a laugh at her expense. “I think the floor was more unforgiving. Lydia arrived before her bed.”

“Ah.” Vilkas passed Lydia what was possibly a very sympathetic look. It was only hard to tell because it seemed out of place on his typically stern features. “Shame.”

“My back agrees with you,” Lydia replied and tried to stretch her shoulders with a little shrug. Her spine popped audibly, and she made a face for which both Sonja and Vilkas winced in pity. “If you don’t need me, I’m going to lay down for a while,” Lydia breathed.

“Good idea,” Sonja agreed and then jerked her thumb toward the staircase, “Take the bed now. I won’t disturb you.”

Lydia grunted in appreciation. “Companion.” She nodded—or tried to nod through the rigidity of her spine—to Vilkas.

“Rest well, housecarl.”

When Lydia was gone up the stairs, Sonja turned her attention to her student. “You’re early,” she stated.

“I finished Tilma’s chores sooner than expected,” he explained, “I wanted to get a head start brewing the potion I butchered yesterday. I didn’t think…” He looked a touch embarrassed now that he realized the mistake of his enthusiasm. “It won’t happen again.” In hindsight, the only thing worse than an uninvited guest was an early one.

“It’s fine,” she assured, “I don’t mind. We don’t mind…” She vaguely gestured in Lydia’s direction through the floorboards. “Just knock softer next time. She’s not usually an early riser.”

“I will bear that in mind,” he promised and then raised the basket, “Hungry?”

“When am I not?” Breakfast with Vilkas was the best part of her morning as far as she was concerned. Because of the food, of course. Tilma was a great cook. No other reason whatsoever. “After you.”

Once in the kitchen, Sonja fetched the plates while Vilkas unpacked the meal. “Hmm,” he grunted mostly to himself than to her, but it caught her attention anyway as she set the table.

“Something wrong?”

“There’s plenty for Lydia, too,” he said.

“Doesn’t sound like a problem.”

“No, but I think Tilma did know she wasn’t in the barracks anymore.”

“She’s Matron of Jorrvaskr. She knows everything,” she pointed out with a little smile.

If only Sonja knew how much. “Aye. Everything.”

She set out two mugs near Vilkas’ tea things and then tore the remainder of Faendal’s bread into two hunks. After slathering an inappropriate amount of apple butter on one, she bit into it with an enthusiasm that rivaled that of a starving woman. “How’s your shoulder?” she asked through a mouthful of food. “Old man?

Vilkas scoffed. “Better,” he replied, then added after a brief pause, “I went to the temple last night.”

“You can take advice, after all,” she teased.

“When it’s sound.”

“My advice is always sound, Vilkas,” she insisted. The Companion hummed his disbelief. She let it pass, unchallenged. “It’s good you went.”

“As you said, it made me weak.”

She wanted to ask him more about it, bid him to share another story with her, but this one was—raw. Private, she could tell. It was in the way he held himself. The way his white-blue eyes cast furtive glances at her, waiting. After her conversation with Lydia the night before, she suspected it might have something to do with his fear of magic, but that was just a guess she had no real evidence to support. Regardless, whatever scars he was hiding hadn’t healed right in more ways than one. That was something to which Sonja easily and painfully related, so she swallowed her probing questions. “You were missed at supper,” she said instead and poured herself a little water from a jug to wash the bread down, “Danica take a lot out of you?”

His posture eased a little. “Aye and then some.”

“Sleep well, at least?” She slid the jug toward Vilkas so he could prepare the kettle.

“Like the dead should,” he said as if he had enjoyed the most satisfying experience of his life, then added, a touch more somber, “For the first time in a—very—long time.”

She hummed knowingly. “You’re practically chipper.” He cut a glance at her and grumbled incoherent disagreement as he fetched the heavy cast iron kettle. Vilkas did not consider himself to be ‘chipper’ in any sense of the word, even when he was in a good mood. Sonja chuckled at his indignity. “I envy your rest. I’d like to sleep long for once and not because I had too much to drink the night before.”

“You didn’t sleep well?”

She shook her head slightly and then winced at the movement. “Fell asleep at the table reading. Neck’s still sore.” She eased her head one way and then the other, rubbing at her spine; it wasn’t stiff, just painful. More like a bruise. Like she’d been struck or pinched or groped too hard. That thought made her scalp tingle, and the sensation of something like a hand snaking its fingers through her hair whispered across her skin. Not tangible, more like a memory—imagined—but it still sent a bone-chilling shiver through her body. She shuddered to shake off the feeling and twitched her head to look over her shoulder, half expecting to see someone or something looming over her. There was no one there, of course. She knew there wouldn’t be. It was all in her head. The only hand on her skin was her own scarred limb, but it had felt—familiar. She shuddered again.

“You alright?” Vilkas asked, paused midway through lifting the jug to fill the kettle, brow furrowed in concern for her sudden jumpiness.

Sonja forced herself to relax and gave a reassuring half-smile. “Aye, just—hurts more than I thought,” she lied, “It’ll ease eventually.” Chocking it up to the aftereffects of some recent nightmare, she put it from her mind. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Vilkas didn’t seem to notice her small dishonesty. “Arcadia makes a fine muscle rub. You could see what she has in stock later,” he suggested, resuming his task.

“I hope she has a lot of it on hand. Lydia could use it more than me.”

He grunted, agreeing. “Speaking of Lydia…” He stilled briefly, listening to the gentle settling sounds of Breezehome to confirm that the housecarl was indeed far from the kitchen at that moment. He heard no obvious movement; she was likely already happily snug in Sonja’s bed. “Does she know why I’m here?” he asked quietly and set the water jug aside.

Sonja did not look up as she served herself from the arrangement of food before her. “For lessons,” she replied.

“Nothing more?”

She glanced up, a forkful of ham halfway to her plate. “Is this about talk around town?” she asked, her face scrunched up in reluctance for a conversation she clearly didn’t want to have.

Vilkas felt all thought come to an abrupt halt. “What?”

“Guess not.”

He should have left it alone. Should have played dumb and stayed focused on his original concern. “You mean that we…?” His fingers flexed against the curve of the cast iron kettle.

“Aye.”

“No,” he said too quickly, “This—uh—isn’t about that…” He hoped he didn’t look nearly as flustered as he sounded.

“Clearly.” He did.

“I meant does she know about Kodlak?”

“Why would she? You asked for discretion and you have it,” she reminded him, “I gave you my word.”

“Housecarls are the exception to many rules,” he pointed out, thinking of Hera and Rengeir. The Circle hadn’t been pleased that she had shared a secret that was not entirely hers, but none of them had had to run alone before. Especially for so long. “It is difficult to keep secrets from someone sworn to you.”

Not for Sonja. “I say little. She’s used to it. She has no reason to pry.”

That was probably the best he could hope for: indifference. Unless Sonja volunteered an explanation, Lydia had no reason to suspect he had ulterior motives in seeking lessons—none that concerned Kodlak, anyway. He sighed, “I shouldn’t have doubted you, but I had to ask.”

“When it comes to family, doubt me always,” she said, “There are things—there are people too precious to be anything but cautious for.”

That was fair, and she knew that hard truth better than most. “You will be sorry you invited suspicion from me,” he warned her, “I am filled with it.”

The corner of her mouth quirked into a small smile. “Don’t worry. I can take it,” she assured, “If you can match my Dragon, then I can handle your wolf.”

There was a ringing in Vilkas’ ears, and his heart dropped into his stomach. “Wolf?” he repeated, his tone harder than he meant it to be. Surely, he’d misheard her.

She cleared her throat, mentally reviewing what she had just said. “Did I misspeak?” she muttered, self-consciously, “Is not the wolf the old Atmoran totem for Mara? I thought I read it in one of the books you lent me. That Mara is the She-Wolf, protector of Her mate and den. There is no stronger symbol of family and loyalty than that.” She fidgeted. “You remind me of a wolf in that way. That’s all I meant.”

Vilkas’ didn’t have a reaction to her statement that he wanted her to see, so he turned away, guarding his bittersweet relief and pleasure at her compliment behind the pretense of setting the kettle on the hook over the hearth. But he lingered too long, gazing into the flames and trying to collect himself. His heart was thudding a little fast at the mere thought that she might have known his secret for even a moment. Known the Circle’s secret.

“Am I wrong? Have I offended?” She really couldn’t tell, which was disconcerting. His reaction was a bit—strong, though. He seemed angry at first and then flustered when she made herself clear. Maybe? He turned away too quickly. That besides, she was worried that she had butchered some aspect of her Nordic heritage that she thought she had understood well enough, and she did not like feeling the fool.

“No. You’re not wrong,” he managed and swung the kettle over the fire. He felt like he’d dodged a fatal arrow on the battlefield. “I had forgotten.” He glanced down briefly to spare himself another moment, and his eye caught on something he had never seen before. Not in Sonja’s home, anyway.

She watched him stoop to the tinder box and remove the new flint and striker off the little hook on the side. He was still turned away from her, so his face was only partly visible in profile, his expression hard to read. “You’re angry with me,” she stated, disappointed.

“I am not. Truly,” he assured, finally turning toward her and thoughtfully tapping the tools against the blade of his forefinger, “But I had not thought of it that way…” And he was convinced neither would she if she knew what he really was. That was the most painful part. There was nothing noble about his ravenous Beast. No matter what the Dragonborn thought of the man, himself.

Sonja was genuinely puzzled by his reaction; especially when he had been in such good spirits only moments before. She glanced at his hands and the way his fingers worried over the surface of the flint, as perplexed by its presence as he was by her relation of Mara’s wolf to his character. “I thought it the reason for your and Farkas’ tattoos,” she admitted, “Why you chose wolves? A pack is the strongest family.”

It was. In a way. And he had alluded to such a comparison when he told her of it while they camped on the tundra, but that had not been the spirit with which a young Vilkas and Farkas had eagerly taken the ink. Mara’s noble heart had been the furthest thing from his mind. The Blood had left no room for it. He couldn’t tell her that, of course, so he grasped for another answer. “No. I…” And found none. He was growing tired of lying. Sighing, he looked down at his hands. “Is this your housecarl’s?” he asked and held up the flint and striker, intentionally diverting the conversation in the hopes of finding some momentary reprieve.

Sonja’s eyelids fluttered briefly, jarred by the change in subject and a little frustrated that, unlike his training, the man could be far less straightforward. “I’ve heard they’re useful things to have around the house,” she stated, tone just left of friendly and her brow too furrowed for her to look anything but concerned and—imploring. She was not so easily deterred and wanted his answer still.

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly.

“It’s a small thing,” she said and waved her hand dismissively, “It’s nothing.”

“Not to me.”

Her foot bounced nervously on the lowest rung of her stool. “I know.”

He slid onto his seat, and they sat in silence for a heartbeat before Vilkas finally set the flint and striker on the counter between them. “What you said was—kind. I hope to one day be worthy of such praise,” he admitted, reaching for a vague half-truth. He sounded nearly as uncomfortable as he looked.

Oh. She hadn’t expected that. To her, it seemed an obvious comparison to make. Jorrvaskr was more than just a home to Vilkas. It was his life, his domain, his den, and he presided over it like a protective spirit, doubtful and suspicious of newcomers who had not yet proven themselves brave and smart enough to join his family. His pack. He needed to know his loved ones weren’t in danger of stupid glory hounds too infatuated with the legendary reputation of the Companions to notice they were still flesh and blood warriors who still needed a proper shield-sibling watching their backs. That’s why he growled and snapped and bared his teeth whenever someone new wandered too close. Like any wolf guarding its den, it wouldn’t be easy getting passed him.

But apparently, Vilkas didn’t see it that way. So, maybe she was wrong—or maybe he thought lower of himself than he let on. Proud, brooding Vilkas of the Circle, Master of Arms at Jorrvaskr looked in the mirror like everybody else and saw fault in himself where others might find something deserving of praise. She frowned. “I think you worthy of it now,” she insisted, “But we often see ourselves differently than others do.”

“And what does the Dragonborn think of herself?” he asked, keen to redirect the conversation.

“That I’m the dragon, of course,” she replied grandly, but she wasn’t as happy with the idea as she pretended to be. He could tell. The ancient god of the dragon totem was a brutal, unforgiving force of destruction. A harbinger of death.

“Aye, when you’re trying to kill me in the yard,” he allowed, “But not always.”

“No?”

“You are the hawk,” he suggested, “Like Kyne. Proud, swift, and deadly.”

A smile bloomed on her face, but her tone was bittersweet. “Always a weapon. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Vilkas grunted in agreement. “It’s more than that. From the skies, the hawk sees much others cannot,” he continued, “Things hidden by hardships.” She had seen the merit in sparing Hera through her own rage and offended pride. “Things hidden in shadow.” Jergen was a pain he preferred to keep locked away in his heart, and she plucked it from him with so little effort. He didn’t regret telling her, though. Strangely. Not even for a moment. “Things others do not want to see—because they are afraid.” She stared down her own darkness and fire intermingled with sharp draconic desire every day. She had to.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, regretfully, “I’m often blindsided.”

“As mortals often are.” There was much he regretted, too. Especially of late.

Sonja rubbed the back of her sore neck pensively, pursed her lips, and nodded, but remained silent. Her fingers grazed over the tail end of the scar that ran across her neck and Vilkas’ eyes caught on the motion. He’d seen the scar many a time before; she did not do too much to hide it. Not that she could, really. Though a shade fainter than her other marks, it was no less grizzly. At most, she tended to arrange her hair a certain way or lace her cloak a little higher, but a person did not bear a mark like that without some ounce of resignation that it would always be there for the world to see and wonder.

And he did wonder. Now more than before when she had been just another Newblood to him, but his feelings had changed with his perception of her. Now, they were a constellation, a deeper narrative of so many things she left unsaid, and he found that he wanted to know what hands put them there and why and how dearly she had made them pay for it.

But he didn’t ask because there were some things that needed to be offered first. Instead, he slid his hand across the counter toward hers. Her index finger had begun to grind a groove into the wood. He didn’t reach for her hand, exactly, merely rested his fingertips lightly on her forearm, index finger grazing her wrist. A small, friendly gesture of comfort like she had bestowed upon him the day before in the yard—and yet, there was a mote of charged air beneath his fingers as he reached for her, a shock of anticipation before he touched her skin. He almost stopped himself because it flashed through his brain like a warning sign. Like danger. Like he was about to do something he shouldn’t. Or that he wanted badly. It was hard to tell. Either way, it was silly. He’d touched her before: training in the yard, applying her bandages, helping her from the dirt, cradling her head when she was dying, holding her hands in that strange, comforting darkness of their shared tent on the tundra. That last one might not have been completely innocent, but the point was he had no reason to feel like a schoolboy reaching for a sweetroll. He tried not to think about it, but his touch was enough to stop her fidgeting. She looked first to their hands and then at him. “I’m often blinded, too,” he offered. And often by her.

She smiled, small and reluctant but true. “Good to know I’m not alone in that, at least,” she said, “Even if it is the blind leading the blind.”

He let out a sigh closer to a growl and shook his head, withdrawing his hand. “Gods,” he lamented with a straight face, though his tone was warmer, “We’re doomed.”

Sonja snorted that alarmingly charming laugh of hers, jarring her from the seriousness of the topic and the things that she wished she could forget. “Doom-driven,” she agreed, “Might as well make the best of it.” And she aggressively pursued her breakfast; it was much easier to swallow than certain truths.


Dragonsreach was at its busiest in the early morning. Before the dawn, the kitchen was hot and glowing with fires for baking the daily bread and roasting the week’s meat. The cook and her maid bustled about the countertops, kneading in an orange glow of firelight and soft clouds of flour grown and milled on Battle-Born farms. The maid was new, and she burned herself often, but the cook was old and thought she showed promise.

At dawn, the servants began to stir. They bathed and dressed in cool, dim bedrooms lit by knobby, cheap candles before warming themselves in the kinetic storm of the kitchen. They ate little so early—sweetened porridge and strong tea—before sweeping through the rest of the keep, rekindling fires gone timid in the night, and lighting sconces in living spaces to make golden the gray hours of the morning. Then they moved, unnoticed and with single-minded purpose, through the halls to their next task: to clean, to tidy, to wash, to rinse.

A little while later, guards, fresh from the breakfast tables in the barracks, relieved their brothers and sisters of the night watch so they could finally eat and get some rest. The jarl’s hounds dozed in the heat of the great fire at the heart of the main hall, lulled by its warmth and their full bellies.

At one end of the feasting table closest to Farengar’s study, Hrongar and Proventus ate a silent meal. Neither had much to say to the other that wasn’t about the Civil War and what they thought Jarl Balgruuf should do about it. Such matters were not discussed at the table, however, so beyond the odd request to pass the butter or the salt, they held their tongues. A rare demonstration of restraint, particularly on the part of Hrongar whose passionate disposition often instigated a terse response from his Imperial counterpart—and all in the absence of Jarl Balgruuf, too, which only made their polite silence all the more impressive. As for the court wizard, himself, Farengar sat in his small room on the edge of his small bed dressed only in his smalls, squinted hard into the grain of his wardrobe against the opposite wall, and tried to summon the energy to face another day because he’d stayed up far too late reading the night before—again. He eventually succeeded.

It was into this sleepy quiet that was at once filled with so much movement and dreamlike sluggishness, that Hera and Rengeir walked when they entered the keep. The delectable smell of meats, pies, and breads delighted their noses, and muffled sounds from the kitchen coincided pleasantly with the crackling of the great fire in a gentle morning cadence. “Greetings, Firespear,” Hrongar declared when they reached the top of the stairs.

“Thane Ironheart, it is a pleasure,” Proventus added cordially. Hera nodded to each of them in turn.

“If you are here for my brother, he breaks his fast with his children this morning in his chambers,” Hrongar informed her as he refilled his cup of morning mead, “Unless he’s summoned you, I can hear your business in his stead.”

“I’m not here for Balgruuf.”

“Oh?” Hrongar set his cup down before he could bring it to his lips to take a sip, “What brings you to Dragonsreach, then?” His tone carried the barest hint of concern that would have easily been missed by any other set of human ears, but not Hera’s.

She noted his trepidation and inhaled heavily, scenting the air. Fear. How interesting. “Something wrong, Hrongar?” she asked, bluntly.

If Hrongar had been the type of man to sputter, he would have done so then. Instead, he shifted, nervously. “Nothing wrong, Firespear,” he assured, overtly guarded now, “Just thought—you might be here on behalf of your niece.”

Hera made a face. “What would Sonja want with any of you?”

Hrongar winced though he tried not to. “What, indeed?”

Ah. Hera shifted her weight, arms crossing comfortably over her chest. “So, you got your snowberries off with my niece and you think I’ve come to make sure you never touch her again?” she asked, her amusement painfully apparent as she cast a sideways glance at Rengeir who was doing his best not to look as close to chuckling as he actually was.

To his credit, Hrongar did not look nearly as humiliated as he felt, though he intentionally did not meet the gaze of a scandalized Proventus. “You are her kin…” he began.

Hera interrupted him with an impatient wave of her hand. “All the more reason to stay out of it,” she insisted, “I don’t care whose bed she breaks so long as I don’t have to pay to replace it.”

Proventus was the type of man to sputter. And did so.

Hrongar opened and closed his mouth once before finally answering, “No. Nothing broken.”

Beyond his pride. “Good.”

“You are here for something else, Thane Firespear,” Proventus reminded her, eager to move the conversation passed what he considered to be an indiscretion of Dragonsreach and thus within his purview to smooth over for the sake of his jarl’s family—and therefore his jarl’s—reputation. Bit of an Imperial impulse, that. A practical people, Nords were harder to scandalize in matters of sex unless an oath was broken somewhere along the way.

For Hera, the topic was easy to let go, and her eyes swept away from Hrongar with dismissive indifference as she glanced toward the study where she now heard a faint shuffling of feet. “The wizard,” she answered.

Both men glanced over their shoulders in unison and spotted Farengar slowly meandering toward them, yawning while rubbing his tired eyes with the ball of one fist and loosely clutching an empty tankard in the claw of the other. “Ah, here he comes now,” Proventus declared pleasantly as if Farengar did not look like death warmed over.

“Hurry along, spellslinger,” Hrongar urged, grumpily, “The Firespear requires your services.”

Farengar’s head perked up, first indignant at Hrongar’s tone, then intrigued by his words. He straightened his posture and lengthened his steps by the time he reached the main hall. Still looked like Oblivion, though, with dark circles under his eyes. It was clear the man had not had much sleep. “Greetings, Master Wizard,” Hera grunted.

“Firespear.” His tone was polite. He nodded, once and curt. “You have need of me?”

“I do.”

His dark eyes studied her and Rengeir with interest before he suddenly handed his empty tankard off to an unsuspecting servant who was passing by. “I’ll take my breakfast in my study,” he said.

The woman, though surprised by his sudden address, accepted the cup and mumbled, “Right away, Master Farengar,” before scurrying off to see his order fulfilled.

“Come with me, my thane,” Farengar invited and beckoned for Hera to follow him as he turned on his heel and strode back into his study. Hera gave an efficient, wordless nod in farewell to Hrongar and Proventus before she and Rengeir followed him.

The wizard didn’t immediately seat himself behind his desk, however. First, he went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and waved his hand at it with an impatient flick of his wrist. There was a soft click and the doors fell open, exposing the mess of its contents. All manner of potions, crystals, scrolls, and tomes lined the shelves without order, and yet Farengar immediately reached for a green potion vial without so much as a pause as if he knew precisely where it was. He popped the cork and downed its contents. There was a slight grimace, but then he huffed and faced his guests again. “Apologies, Thane Ironheart,” he said sounding much more awake, “I have had the pleasure of working with your niece on more than one occasion, but you and I have never had the honor.”

“We have not,” Hera confirmed, “I haven’t had much need for a wizard in my service to the hold.” In fact, she felt slightly out of place standing there in his faintly musty study at all.

“Until now,” he observed and clasped his hands neatly in front of him, “Though, I don’t know that there is anything I could help you with that Sonja could not. She is an—extremely—powerful mage by my understanding.”

Such things were not easily quantifiable to Hera whose extent of magical knowledge began and ended with a single fire spell. “It’s less to do with power than with knowledge,” she said, “I seek your insight.”

“Into?”

A slight pause. “Werewolves.”

His brow quirked with obvious curiosity. “Hircine’s bestial children,” he stated, intrigued, “Whatever do you wish to know of them?”

What a question. Hera’s eyes briefly darted over Farengar’s open, expectant expression and wondered if the mighty Companions had ever deigned to make the short walk up the stairs to Dragonsreach, whether the Circle might have learned the full truth of their dangerous nature much sooner. If it would have made a difference. If, just once in the few hundred years they had been tainted by the Blood, one past Blood-Brother or Sister had thought to stray far enough to ask someone who might know more of their Curse, would she be standing there now, soul-weary and guarded from years of fighting a Beast within her own heart?

It hardly mattered, she supposed. The reality was that no one had dared asked before now and wondering otherwise would only sour her already severe mood further. “Whatever you can tell me would be useful,” she answered, her tone affected by her musings but her naturally gruff character made it difficult for the court wizard to tell.

“It is a wide subject, my thane,” he pointed out with a sigh, wondering if he truly had the time or patience to educate her, “And—I’m sorry to say—not one that I would consider myself a master of. Dragons are my specialty.” He paused to take in her displeasure and rushed to continue, “But I can try. A starting point would be beneficial, however. Is there something specific you are concerned with? Have there been—sightings…?”

“Aye.”

Farengar stared at her, clearly expecting there to be more to the story. When she didn’t continue, he frowned and seated himself at his desk. “I’m afraid I’ll need more to go on,” he said as politely as he could—which took a tremendous effort on his part given both his prickly nature and lack of sleep.

“Sonja was attacked by a—pack—out on the tundra while she and her party scouted in preparation for the Great Hunt,” she explained reluctantly. As much as Hera didn’t want her niece even remotely involved with Circle business in any way, shape, or form, it couldn’t be helped. Sonja had been attacked. It wasn’t a secret even if her niece wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details—she had neglected to tell Hera what happened, after all; she had had to learn of it from Kodlak and Vilkas later, much to her irritation. More than that, it gave Hera a perfectly reasonable explanation for a sudden desire to know more about the monsters that had attacked her kin.

The court wizard didn’t react to her words right away. In fact, he sat so still, Hera wasn’t sure he’d heard her. He seemed a little—absent. She opened her mouth to repeat herself, but he suddenly raised a hand to stop her. “I heard you. I heard you,” he assured and then he smiled as the servant he had instructed to make his breakfast finally entered the study behind Hera and Rengeir. She was carrying a plate too full of meat and a fresh tankard of mead. “Tea too, please,” he said as she placed the meal in the only bare space she could find on his desk, “Strong tea.” She nodded mutely and departed for the kitchens.

He waited a moment, watching the distance between himself and the servant grow until he felt she was far enough away that he could again speak freely. “I met with her the morning after she returned,” he informed Hera, “She made no mention of an attack…” He trailed off, clearly annoyed that he had been unaware of something potentially important.

“What was she here for?” Hera asked, curious despite herself. It was really none of her business what Sonja wanted with the court wizard.

“She had concerns for her magic. I helped her,” he replied, distracted, and then his tone dipped lower, and he leaned forward in his chair, “You—you are not worried that she might—turn? Are you?”

“No!” she hissed back, a little insulted on Sonja’s behalf, “She took precautions and it’s been days. She is unchanged.”

Farengar visibly relaxed. “Good.” He leaned back in his chair again. “It would be a shame to lose the Dragonborn to a daedric curse.”

“Agreed.” That was a fate she could and would protect her niece from at all costs.

“But you have other worries?”

Hera nodded and briefly exchanged glances with her housecarl. “The attack was strange,” she explained, “Four of the beasts working together to ambush a group of five? At most, we hear scatterings of homesteaders losing livestock every few years.”

“And it’s usually just trolls,” Rengeir added.

Hera grunted, agreeing. That was the standard story the Circle gave whenever their services were engaged to rid the outer villages of a feral Wolf, anyway. Controlling the truth was the most important means of shaping a solid enough narrative behind which the Circle’s dark secret could hide. “They slew all that attacked that night. But with all of us out on the same grounds during the Hunt, I thought it best to stay vigilant.”

“Did you see anything?” Farengar prompted, brow furrowed.

Hera shook her head slightly. “Not hide nor hair, but we heard howling in the trees.”

“Could be simple wolves,” Farengar suggested, relaxing.

“I’d rather be certain.”

The court wizard nodded, pensively. “And you seek an advantage over your prey from me?” he surmised.

The corner of her mouth quirked. Reason enough. “Aye.”

“I see,” he sighed and leaned back in his seat, “Well, it’s probably nothing, but—better safe than sorry as the saying goes.” He wasn’t too worried at the prospect. He had bigger fish to fry, so to speak. Flying, fire-breathing, city-destroying fish. One old warrior’s vague suspicion that a couple of werewolves might be hiding in the Hold’s forests was not cause for too much concern in his book. Besides, on the off chance that it did turn out to be true, there was no one better suited to handling the menace than the Firespear Thane of Whiterun, herself.  “You’ve undoubtedly heard the common tales.” Hera nodded in confirmation. “For all the superstition, there is some wisdom in them. Silver and poisons are most effective, and lycanthropes are beholden to certain cycles of the moons. The full moon, of course, and the mystical Bloodmoon most of all.” He ticked off each topic on his fingers as he spoke them. “Beyond that, I believe the traditional solution is to stab it until it dies.”

Hera scoffed, annoyed. “Is that all?”

“You are a powerful warrior, Firespear. I’ll not insult you by assuming I know better how to kill anything. There are some tomes I could lend you, however. Bestiaries…”

“I’ve read Herbane’s.”

“Oh?”

“Probably have it memorized by now,” Rengeir added. Hera glanced sideways at him, shooting him an affectionate glare. The housecarl smirked.

“I see.” Farengar blinked, thoughtfully. “Physicalities of Werewolves is gruesome, but I doubt your sensibilities are so easily offended, and it might prove useful if you are seeking an—anatomical edge…”

Hera cleared her throat. “I’m familiar with it.”

At that, the court wizard was caught somewhere between flummoxed and impressed. “Then you know more than most about the bodies of such monsters,” he insisted, “I don’t know what else I could tell you.”

That was probably true. She knew more about the power of her Wolf than Farengar could imagine, but that wasn’t what concerned her now. “What I want to know,” she said, slowly, “Is there some means to—unmake a Wolf? Even for a moment?”

Farengar stared at her briefly, expression unreadable. “A cure, you mean?”

Yes, but no. A cure would solve a lot of troubles; it was what Kodlak desired most, after all, but it wouldn’t answer what happened to Aela, and she doubted Farengar just happened to possess such coveted knowledge casually. “I don’t know,” she admitted, “Maybe. At least something to—tame the beast for a time?”

The court wizard was quiet again, but this time Hera realized that silence was a sign that he was thinking. Deeply. She would have found it less annoying if he had at least prefaced the awkward stretch of aimless staring by telling her that he needed a moment to think instead of abruptly falling silent. Godsdamned mages. She exchanged irritated glances with Rengeir who gave her a look of encouragement in return. He wanted her to wait. He was right, of course, but Hera didn’t want to. She rolled her eyes at her housecarl in response and tapped her toe against the inside of her boot. Waiting. The servant came back with Farengar’s tea in the meantime. Hera impatiently watched what she felt to be an exceedingly long transaction to hand a man his drink. Once the girl was gone again, and the court wizard was taking careful sips from the dark contents of a stoneware cup, Hera prompted him, “Well?”

“I don’t know,” he answered after another sip, “I have heard of lucky souls who claimed they were cured of lycanthropy, but there is some debate as to whether those stories should be believed.”

That sounded absolutely ludicrous to Hera. “Why would they lie?” she pointed out, “It’s hardly something worthy of boast.”

Farengar shrugged. “Everyone has their reasons,” he replied, “I don’t pretend to always understand them.” He set his tea down. “Nor do I know the tales of their miraculous recoveries well enough to guess what might be gained by making such claims.”

“Why bring it up, then?” Hera growled.

“Because I have an associate at the College of Winterhold who might be able to help…”

“No. I have no interest in working with those spellslingers.” She hardly had an interest in speaking with Farengar at that very moment. Besides, College mages were a great and dangerous unknown; engaging Farengar’s help—if it could be called that; so far, he was proving rather useless—was a big enough risk on its own.

The court wizard’s expression flattened. “I didn’t mean to insult you by suggesting you work with colleagues of mine better suited to help you,” he said, tone hard and expression openly angry, “Mages and wizards who might one day become Sonja’s peers as well should she choose to seek out further instruction for her growing magical might.”

Hera’s eyes narrowed, her jaw set. “What do you mean by that, wizard?” she asked, aggressive but genuinely curious.

Farengar scoffed. “She has not told you?” he asked and then comprehension danced behind his eyes, “No. She did not even tell you why she had come to me after scouting the tundra.” He shook his head. “Perhaps she might have been more forthcoming if she thought she would not be ridiculed for her magic,” he suggested none too politely, “But what do I know? I’m just a spellslinger.”

Hera didn’t know which made her angrier: that Farengar dared speak to her that way, or that the man had a point. What motivation did Sonja have to confide in Hera? There was nothing but old grudges and broken family history between them, and even though she had agreed to help find Anja—a task she thought a little futile after so long—she still hadn’t been willing to do so on anybody else’s terms but her own. A stubborn, old warrior, indeed. And now here she was, rejoined with the Circle and embroiled in Kodlak’s quest for a cure, sticking her neck out for her Pack. Old history repeating itself. Still choosing the Blood she had taken instead of the blood in her veins.

Hera frowned. That was an ugly truth. Didn’t mean the little shit could get away with rubbing her shortcomings in her face, though. Even unknowingly. There were very few in her acquaintance who would dare to speak so sharply to her and fewer still who could get away with it. Surprisingly, Farengar Secret-Fire revealed he had the stones to be a part of the former, but he certainly was not one of the latter. “Watch that tongue of yours, wizard,” she warned, hotly, “Before you choke on it.”

Like most Nords, he ran hot. Even for a mage. Hera could see the glint of fire in his eyes. But he prized his rational mind far above his pride; so, though the spark was there, it did not catch and blaze. It cooled and hardened: a dead ember in an ash pit. The court wizard’s rage looked a lot like indifference. He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have time for this, Firespear,” he informed her, “I’m a busy man. I cannot give you what you want. I know someone else who can. Your choice is simple, I think: take what I can offer or don’t. You cannot squeeze blood from a stone.”

This was going nowhere productive. Hera’s eye twitched with irritation and she leaned so far over his desk, Farengar couldn’t help the impulse to shrink as far back in his chair as he could to get away from her. “I’ll squeeze your stones until your ancestors feel it,” she threatened, but—aside from a touch of worry that she would carry out such an act—his expression was largely unchanged. He wasn’t being obstinate for its own sake. There really was nothing more he could do for her, and despite her stubbornness, Hera knew it was pointless demanding something from nothing. “You truly think your associate can help?” she asked quietly, her tone dangerous enough that she didn’t sound as reluctant and chastened as she felt swallowing the lump of her pride like foul medicine.

Farengar was so surprised by her answer that he couldn’t even manage to look smug. “I think you can help each other,” he said, blankly, unsure of what tone to take with the woman looming over him, “Tolfdir is a Master of the Alteration School, a brilliant teacher—and a Nord, if that helps. He has studied all manner of ways bodies can change and the library at the College is vast. If anyone in all of Skyrim would know whether what you ask is even possible, it’s him.”

Hera didn’t know what all the School of Alteration included. It just sounded like a fancy title, and she certainly didn’t want to expose the Circle to someone who might be able to identify a Wolf no matter what form they took, so Farengar’s suggestion wasn’t sounding nearly as appealing to her as he was trying to make it. But…after so many years—decades of her own life and many generations of Companions past—Hera felt as though she were standing at a crossroads, ancestors in the Blood at her back, descendants ahead of her, and the intersect of all their bound together fates knotted at her feet. All she had to do was step forward and cross that threshold others before her had failed to. All she had to do was dare to trust. A monumental feat, indeed. Fear and hunger and foolish pride were as much responsible for the Circle’s plight as the deal Terrfyg struck so long ago. She didn’t have power over her daedric chains, but this—asking for help when it was sorely needed and accepting it—this she did have control over.

“Would I have to go to the College to speak with him?” she asked, noncommittally. Rengeir cast a sidelong glance at his thane.

“I’ll contact him, first. It may suit him better to write to you. Last I heard, he was in the middle of an excavation, but he will make time for you. He always does.” He paused. “Will this satisfy you?”

It had nothing to do with satisfaction. This is necessary. And if the College wizard couldn’t be bothered to take the time to come down from his icy tower or to entertain her there, well, so much the better. She could direct that focus, harness it, and make sure this Tolfdir looked nowhere else but where she wanted him to. “Send word,” she agreed, “Directly. I don’t want to waste time.”

Farengar continued to look gobsmacked. “I’ll let him know right away,” he said.

“Good.” Hera cleared her throat, straightened, and absently adjusted her bracers, feeling a myriad of emotions that jangled through her ribcage like so many discordant bells. She felt cut open and exposed. It was not a good feeling. “This Tolfdir better be as good as you say,” she growled, “For your sake.”

The court wizard’s expression flattened again, annoyed. “He won’t disappoint,” he assured.

She grunted her disbelief. “Good day, Master Wizard.”

“My thane.” And she turned on her heel and stalked out of Farengar’s study, Rengeir right behind her.

When they made it back out into the morning air and descended the stone steps from Dragonsreach, Rengeir muttered under his breath to his thane, “I thought we were just looking for information.”

“We are.”

“But a mage from the College with knowledge of werewolves?”

“Farengar was useless.”

“Damn Farengar and damn the College. You are my concern, and you make it damned hard to safeguard your life.”

“Nothing new there, friend.”

Rengeir huffed and shook his head, displeased, but said no more about it. She was right: trouble was nothing new for them. And it would take a lot more than the threat of a College wizard to tear him away from her side on Nirn or in the Hunting Grounds. Or, Talos willing, Sovngarde.


“Oh, sweet fucking Divines,” Sonja groaned into the grain of her dining table. She was seated on the bench, face down, with one hand vigorously massaging ointment into the muscular junction where her neck met her shoulders and the other loosely cradling the open jar she’d just purchased from Arcadia’s.

Beside her, Vilkas measured alchemist’s salts, but he glanced sideways at her when she let out a particularly pleasurable moan. “Need a moment alone?” he asked dryly.

“Maybe,” Sonja muttered into the table, “Are you sure Arcadia isn’t a mage? Because this feels magical.”

Vilkas didn’t associate magic with pleasure. He tried not to think of how she might. “A healer of a sort, for certain,” he replied vaguely.

Sonja peeked sideways at him just enough to catch his guarded expression. She stopped massaging her neck and sat up. “Mind your flame better this time,” she said, focusing on his lesson, “It got away from you yesterday.”

“And boil only a few moments before reducing to a simmer,” he said with an air of recitation, “I remember.”

“And finely powder the Blisterwort…”

“…so it binds better to the salt.”

She nodded, approvingly. “Keeps it from becoming…”

“Chunky?” His potions the day before could definitely be described as such.

“Spongey.” Same thing. No one was going to drink them. That was for sure.

He finished preparing his solution in a flask and set it on the burner. “Could you?” He leaned back, guarding a little with a raised hand, and nodded toward the cold apparatus.

She hesitated but only half a beat. Hardly noticeable. In fact, Vilkas wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. She poked her forefinger near the volatile surface of the oil contained within the well, the tiniest of flames flickering off the tip. It caught and the burner blared to life. She adjusted the knob to the appropriate level with some difficulty. Her hand looked a little swollen, but she withdrew before he could get a better look and immediately went about setting up for her own daily experiments. Vilkas idly studied the alchemical guidebook while he waited for his potion to start bubbling. “Did you need me to do up your bandages?” he asked without looking up from the page on Blisterwort.

He caught the slight shake of her head in his peripheral, though. “Trying something new today,” she explained, “To see if I can get by on just the spell alone. Better to find out here where it’s safe than out somewhere in the wilds where I’m fucked.”

He grunted in acknowledgement. “If you need my help, let me know.”

“Always.”

He did little to hide his pleased little smirk.

Much later, Lydia rejoined them, making her way into the den from the back hallway. She had gotten her extra couple of hours of sleep by then, bathed, eaten her share of Tilma’s breakfast, and was now dressed for the day. Curious, she hovered by the table as she secured the last strap of her bracer into place and observed the spread of flasks, fire, and fungi across it. Having no alchemical experience herself, however, she had no idea whether or not she should be impressed. There hadn’t been a single explosion all morning, so she reckoned that was a good thing. “Anything else you need me and Faendal to keep an eye out for?” she asked as she leaned over slightly to get a better look at Vilkas’ potion.

Sonja shook her head. “Just provisions and whatever else Faendal thinks might serve us out in the cold.”

Lydia nodded. “As you wish.”

“Going somewhere?” Vilkas asked and absently turned a page he had not actually read.

“Aye.”

“Not before the Harvest’s End?”

Sonja gave a disinterested shrug of her shoulder. “We’re not farmers,” she pointed out.

“You’re not, aye, but most of Whiterun is. The harvest day makes for one of the biggest feasts of the year.” Besides, the Ironhearts did own a farm that Hera leased out to a family willing and able to work the land, but it wasn’t his place to remind her of such things. It was Hera’s. He did take it upon himself to add, “With the recent Hunt, the Hunt Master will likely hold a place of honor at the Jarl’s table.”

“The Jarl hasn’t sent an invitation.”

All of Whiterun is already invited to the celebration. Make no mistake, he’ll greet you personally and bid you join his table.” Vilkas paused, thoughtfully. “It would be insulting if he didn’t.”

Sonja’s expression flattened and she looked again to Lydia who shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” she said, “Windhelm’s farms aren’t as prosperous.”

“No fruits of harvest worth celebrating up north?” Sonja asked.

“Fish.”

“How exciting.”

“In all its pickled glory.”

“I take it back.”

“I’m looking forward to the holiday this year,” Lydia admitted, “I haven’t been to a proper Whiterun Harvest’s End feast since I was a girl.”

“It’s been—quieter—with the war on,” Vilkas cautioned her, “But the Jarl does what he can to make the celebration at Dragonsreach worth it—even if there’s more ale than mead, and more bread than cheese. At least with the meat from the Hunt, there should be plenty of food this year.”

Sonja pensively chewed on the inside of her cheek and twirled the pestle between her thumb and forefinger. The Harvest’s End tended to be more enthusiastically celebrated in rural communities than in their urban counterparts. Having grown up in the Imperial City, she was more accustomed to merely showing up to the festival rather than actively participating in it. “I had no plans to leave before the fete, but I didn’t know I was to be a guest of honor. There something I should be doing to prepare?” she asked at length.

“You did it already. The Hunt did a lot for the city.”

She glanced back to Lydia. “I’ll ask Hera,” the housecarl assured.

“Don’t go out of your way. I’ll see her in the yard today.”

Lydia nodded and clapped Sonja on the shoulder. “Until later.” Sonja grunted a farewell as her housecarl swiftly left to go about her day.

“We could end training early if you need it,” Vilkas offered.

Sonja waved him off. “I’d prefer not to. We just started a new practice and I want to get it right. There’s so little time already, I don’t want to waste any of it.”

“You’ll be gone long?”

“About a week.”

He nodded. “Where to?”

“The mountains.”

“You go to the Throat of the World already?” He tried not to sound too incredulous or disappointed in case that was exactly what she was planning to do, but it came out anyway.

“No, to the north.” Sonja emptied the contents of the mortar into a wide-mouthed flask. “To the Maze.”

“The mage Maze?”

“Is there another?” she asked, truly not knowing. She was under the impression, however, that Skyrim, though easy enough to get lost in its wilds, reaches, and mountains, did not exactly contain a multitude of ancient, ruined labyrinths.

“Why would you want to go there? That place is only filled with draugr and frost trolls.”

Sonja looked at him, then. “You know it?”

“Aye. A little,” he admitted, “Not enough to be useful to you.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, so he elaborated. “Before the war, when there were more guards patrolling the roads, some of the bolder—or more foolish—merchant caravans sometimes braved the passage through there. It’s the only way through those mountains; otherwise you have to spend nearly a week getting around them. It’s the fastest way from the Old Holds, but it’s not for the faint of heart.”

“Good thing I’m not faint of heart.”

“That may be, but I’ve been paid to save more than one foolish soul from those ruins. Most of the time the only thing to make it home was a body for the pyre—if the trolls hadn’t already torn it to pieces. No one goes through there now.” He tapped his fingers against the guidebook, his studies forgotten. “Not enough guards to keep the roads safe from bandits let alone frost trolls or draugr.”

“That sounds like a better job for the Companions: easing the way for travelers instead of cleaning up the mess after.”

“If there’s gold in it. Jorrvaskr has to eat like anybody else.”

Sonja grunted and poured water from a bottle labeled ‘Purified’ into the flask with the ground up flowers. “It might be the Old Holds’ lucky day then,” she sighed, “I’ve got to go, so those trolls have to die.”

Vilkas didn’t think her incapable of dealing with trolls. Not now, after he had seen her deal with one out on the tundra, but the destruction of many was a dangerous task for anyone. Even for the Dragonborn. “There are other dangers in the mountains,” he said, “Like werewolves.” She would be traveling straight through his and his Blood-Siblings’ hunting grounds if she took the conventional route to Shalidor’s Maze. Dangerous territory any day, outright treacherous now with the ferals about. He didn’t like her crossing so close, brushing along the edges of the forest he was meant to be clearing nightly.

“I know. I’m mindful of that,” she sighed.

He still didn’t like it. “You said you’re staying for the feast, but when do you leave?”

“Morning after. Maybe the next day. Depends on how much we’ve had to drink.”

“You have a little time to prepare, then.”

“I’ve put orders in with Arcadia for poisons, and we still have Cure Disease potions from the Hunt.”

He nodded. “And silver?”

“Just what you gave me.”

“You’ll need more than that.”

“Silver is precious and expensive. I’m doing what I can.”

He didn’t doubt it. It was she who lay dying on the tundra floor the last time the beasts were encountered, after all. He frowned at the thought and tried not to conjure the bloody image to his mind. “What’s at the Maze that’s worth the trip?”

“I received information.”

“About your sister?” He hoped not because if she did, he had bad news for her about Anja. There was no way she could have survived that place alone.

“No. Markarth remains my best lead to find Anj. Something else. Something powerful at the labyrinth that could help me as Dragonborn.” She set the flask on the second burner, flame high for a rapid boil.

Vilkas blinked, confused. “At the mage Maze?” he repeated, still struggling with the idea.

“That’s what the letter said.”

“I don’t know of any stories linking the Dragonborn to that place,” he insisted, though he didn’t know much about the powerful sorcerer, Shalidor, after whom the maze was named, so that was no surprise. “Though…” His brow furrowed as he thought. “The larger tomb, Labyrinthian, is a ruin from many eras passed—back when Nords worshipped dragons.”

“The dragon totem,” she supplied, “Alduin.” She had jokingly claimed the dragon totem for herself earlier only because it seemed a natural choice. After all, if the Dragonborn couldn’t make such a boast, who else could? But the fearsome Nordic dragon god was no mere variant of the Divine Akatosh. He was “The World-Eater.”

Vilkas nodded. “Aye. The End of All Things. He may have been a powerful dragon. He may have been Akatosh, Himself. He may have been a story Atmorans brought across the sea. I don’t know. Even in Skyrim, those stories are hard to follow now, and most prayed to the Divines instead of our ancient gods since long before Tiber Septim formed the Empire. But if there is a connection to the Dragonborn, it might be in that.”

The World-Eater had been referenced in The Book of the Dragonborn. In the prophecy at the end. The one she didn’t want to heed. The one that foretold of the last Dragonborn. Doom-driven, indeed. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said distantly.

“You have some idea of what you’ll find there?”

“Not sure, exactly—but I think it’s a wall like the one Faendal and I found at Bleak Falls.”

“You never told me what you and the mer were doing at the barrow,” he pointed out, though he’d heard it referenced between the two of them once or twice. He knew that they had cleared the place out before joining the Companions. Until he’d gotten to know the breadth of their skill a little better, however, he had thought that claim little more than a bloated farse of heroism concocted by a couple of whelps.

“After we brought word of Helgen, Balgruuf thought Faendal and I could continue to be useful, so he gave us over to his court wizard.” Sonja started to assemble another alchemical apparatus with which Vilkas was unfamiliar with but had seen in Arcadia’s shop before. An alembic, he thought it was called. “I think Dragonsreach had already gone through a few mercenaries trying to run Farengar’s little errand. There was a relic rumored to be buried somewhere within Bleak Falls that he thought had something to do with the return of the dragons.”

“Did it?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know for certain. He’s still trying to decipher it.”

“But, you did find something, then? He wasn’t just full of Skeever shit?”

Sonja smirked. “Oh he is, just not about the barrow,” she assured, “We found what he wanted and a lot more. Bandits and draugr and big fucking spiders. And the word—the one I Shouted for the first time at the watchtower—was inscribed on a wall where we found the Dragonstone.”

He tilted his head slightly, curious. “What happened with the dragon—when you consumed…”

“Absorbed.”

“…Absorbed its…”

“His.”

“…His soul—did something like that happen when you found the wall?” He remembered some vague reference Faendal had made when they were all huddled around Sonja to see if she was hurt after the dragon fell at the watchtower.

Her gaze shifted as if she was watching events unfold again right before her eyes. “Aye. I can’t explain it, but…” Her brow tightened. “It started there, I think. The Dragon started breathing.” And she inhaled sharply, the rhythm of that single breath long and slow and effortless. It sounded bigger than her lungs should have been able to take. She exhaled and the moment passed; her breath evened out. Vilkas wasn’t sure she was even aware of what had just happened.

He gazed at her a moment, caught in the strangeness of her nature, but not put off by it. “And you think finding another word will help you with—the Dragon? With controlling it?” he asked at length.

“Aye—maybe. I hope so.”

“Who told you of it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she chewed on the tip of her tongue and looked back at her alembic. Vilkas sensed he would not like her answer when it came. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

You don’t know?

“The letter was sent by public courier. Signed Aan Fahdon.”

His brow furrowed. “Who?”

“It’s not important. I need to know what’s at the Maze.”

“A trap, from the sound of it.”

“The thought did occur to me.”

He stared at her. “You are determined to do this?”

“I am.”

Vilkas pursed his lips and shook his head. “This is an undertaking.”

“Don’t I know it,” she sighed more like a growl, “But, if it is a trap, then it’s a poorly laid one. There are closer and easier places to lure me to.”

“Doesn’t sound like it was difficult luring you halfway through a snow-covered mountain.”

“If I have an enemy, I need to know who they are,” she pointed out, irritated, “A hidden blade is the sharpest.”

“And cuts deeply.”

She glared at him. “You don’t think I should go.” It was not a question.

“I don’t. It sounds too risky.”

“It is a risk, aye, but one I must take. If it’s not a trap, if there’s another word there or something like it—I need to know.”

For all the similarities between his Wolf and her Dragon, this was where his understanding fell short. The needs of his Beast were far simpler than those of hers. Though violent and persistent and intense, the Wolf was not of him. It was separate. On good days he knew that and could feel it in every inch of his skin. Sonja’s very soul was that of a dragon. Its desires were hers. There was no distinction to be made. No line to draw between the woman and her monster. They simply were and forever would be. “And if it is a trap?” he pressed, concern clear in his tone.

“Then they are already dead and don’t yet know it,” she replied firmly, “Do you think otherwise?”

“No,” he relented; he thought Sonja rather efficient at dealing death to those deserving of it, “I’m more concerned the mountain will claim you.”

“Fair,” she acknowledged. That was a concern of hers, also. “But it’s not as if I go alone. Faendal and Lydia wouldn’t allow it.”

It was a good thing that the huntsman and housecarl were so devoted and determined to stick with her because it was unsettlingly easy to imagine Sonja marching off into the wilds with only her blade, spells, and stubbornness to guide her. “Faendal is a good hunter. Good head on his shoulders—and he’s brave enough to follow you around. If Ysa hadn’t already asked Anoriath, he would have made a better Pathfinder,” Vilkas praised, “Mind him out there.”

Sonja blinked at him for several moments. “I didn’t realize you thought so well of him.”

Vilkas cut a glance at her. “I recognize his skill,” he replied reasonably, “Or I wouldn’t have declared him worthy in his trial to join the Companions.”

Sonja suspected he’d never say any of that to her Bosmer friend’s face which was probably for the best because she didn’t think Faendal would know how to handle a compliment from Vilkas anyway. “Aye, Faendal has pulled me out of the fire before—literally on one memorable occasion. Between him and Lydia, hiking through the mountains will hardly be a trial at all.”

Vilkas scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far, but Stormshield lives up to her name. She’s good to have at your back.”

“Lydia’s better suited to standing in front of me,” she replied, dryly, then the corner of her mouth quirked, “Want to come along?”

He did not answer right away. “I do,” he admitted, “But I cannot. Not this time.”

She hid her disappointment poorly. “Your loss.”

“Farkas and I have a job,” he informed her, “I cannot abandon him.”

She made a face as if the very notion was ridiculous. “Of course not. Your brother and your duty come first.” He was grateful for her easy understanding. “What’s the job?” And then immediately resentful of her constant curiosity.

“Werewolves,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“Damn. I told Kodlak I wanted in on that if an offer ever came into Jorrvaskr.”

“He mentioned it.”

She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “You weren’t going to let me come along, were you?”

He shrugged, though the answer was a quite plain and simple ‘no.’ “You’re headed for the Maze now, so you’ll never know.”

She clicked her tongue at him. “You’re ornery when you’re not brooding.” Vilkas opened his mouth to argue that he did not brood, but then swiftly closed it. He didn’t have a leg to stand on and he knew it. Sonja smirked at her small victory. “But it seems I’m not the only one headed into danger,” she continued, “It goes without saying, but you and Farkas take care of each other out there. Have each other’s backs.”

“Companions always do.”

“Brothers, too,” she observed, “It would be a shame to come back off the mountain and find that I no longer had a teacher or a student to fight with.” She cleared her throat. “Besides, I think Lydia’s more than a little fond of your brother.”

Vilkas smiled, small and soft. “He’s fond of her, too.”

Sonja fidgeted and her eyes flit to something else. “Vilkas?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re burning your potion.”

He swore mightily as his eyes snapped back to the flask, the contents of which were bubbling aggressively. It was not yet burned, but fast approaching it. Swiftly, he reduced the heat, but it wasn’t enough. Before he could grab the calipers to safely lift the glass from the burner, Sonja was already reaching for it with her bare hand. Vilkas nearly swatted her hand away, but he felt the chill of her magicka radiating off her fingers at the last moment and stopped himself. Using a frost spell to insulate her hand from the heat, she safely removed the overdone potion and set it on a tray. Begrudgingly, Vilkas was impressed. “Careful. It’s still very hot,” she warned as Vilkas attempted to assess the damage, but her tone was on the verge of laughing.

“It’s not funny,” he insisted, grumpily.

“It’s a little funny.”

He frowned and snatched the rag from a far corner of the table so he could tilt the flask enough to check the thickness of the potion. “Always a distraction,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if his work was ruined or not.

“I’ve been called worse,” she replied, smirking, “By you, even.” He cut a sideways glance at her. He had the sense that she would make him regret every unkind epithet he ever uttered or even thought about her. There was something wickedly draconic about her little smile that made him certain of it.


When the Firespear was gone and he’d eaten his greasy breakfast and drank his scorched tea, Farengar once more went to the locked supply closet in the corner of his study. The doors fell open at his command to reveal the organized chaos contained within. It had order—to his mind, anyway. Sort of. Alright, fine, it was a complete mess, but it was his mess; he quickly found what he was looking for and plucked a petty soul gem from between a spell scroll and a bowl of fire salts.

It was his last and his stock of filled larger gems was shrinking, also. He’d have to do something about his dwindling supplies soon. It wouldn’t do if Jarl Balgruuf had need of his enchanting talent only to be denied for lack of materials. Sometimes he wondered whether it wouldn’t be worth it to take on an apprentice after all. To do menial tasks he couldn’t be bothered with, of course. Like keeping petty soul gems filled, brewing little potions, and keeping spell scrolls in stock. But then the thought of having to share his space with another person quickly drove the idea clean from his mind. Frowning, he left his study.

Ordinarily—in a time not so long ago, before the Civil War divided the land in two and dragons forced many fearful citizens to keep one eye on the sky—it was not often Farengar visited the tower of Dragonsreach. The door leading to it was located within Jarl Balgruuf’s personal chambers and he didn’t like to intrude on his jarl’s privacy. Men of power were afforded so little of it, and as an academic man who greatly prized his own solitude, Farengar was glad to extend such respect to the man who not only had dominion over his livelihood but who had also made his life and work thus far extremely satisfying. Jarl Balgruuf was an intelligent, practical, and open-minded man who was guided by tradition but not curbed by it. There certainly were worse courts to serve and that was a reality not wasted on Farengar who had to suffer for his pursuit of the arcane all his life as both a Nord and a wizard. But the war and the dragons had changed everything and now Farengar found it frequently necessary to stray into the corners of the keep he preferred not to wonder for tasks like the one he was about to perform at the Firespear’s behest.

The guards did not stop him when he reached the Jarl’s rooms. It wasn’t as if he was forbidden from entering. Any sense of trespass was wholly his own. Still, it was better not to linger if he could help it, so he hurried inside.

Jarl Balgruuf was not dressed in his fine clothes, but wore a comfortable robe over his sleeping attire, his hair unbraided, and his golden circlet absent from his head. He looked—smaller—dressed like that and seated at the little dining table with his children rather than upon his throne on the dais in the main hall. He seemed more like a man who could be just Balgruuf than a man who was Jarl. He ate the morning meal and chatted about whatever inanities children found fascinating.

His eldest, Frothar, was talking with great animation about wanting to start lessons in swordplay, occasionally interrupted by his sister, Dagny, who did not think him good enough to even try. The youngest, Nelkir, sat quiet and surly and poked at his food moodily, temper as sour as ever and completely uninterested in the conversation. Irileth was there as always, on guard as ever, but she was not quite at Balgruuf’s side. Even she seemed more relaxed in this familial moment as she leaned against the doorframe opposite the side Farengar entered. Eyes still sharp but laughing as she listened to the children bicker. It was a bizarrely cozy scene. One rarely witnessed. And one deeply precious to the Jarl, if the light in his eyes was anything to go by.

A light that nearly went out when Balgruuf looked up and laid eyes on Farengar. In an instant, he was Jarl again. And Farengar was interrupting. “Something wrong, Farengar?” he asked, his tone much harder than the one he took with his children.

“Apologies, my jarl, no,” he assured, “I only have need of the tower for a moment. To send a message.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Thane Firespear certainly thinks so.”

The Jarl canted his head. “Anything I should know about?”

“Not at present. The Firespear is handling it. Should that change, you will be the first to know.”

The Jarl nodded. “Very good. Carry on.” He dismissed him with a nod, and Farengar hurried to the tower doors and took the spiraling steps upward as quickly as he was able.

Once outside, he squinted against the morning sun. So much of his time was spent indoors bent over texts that daylight was sometimes quite the shock to his eyes. When he was adjusted, he moved to the balcony’s edge, facing north, and held the soul gem out in front of him. An incantation sprung to his lips in little more than a whisper and the gem glowed a kaleidoscope of blue, purple, pink, and white.

“Tolfdir, old friend, it’s Farengar,” he said, smiling though his colleague would never see it, “A thane of my hold requires greater knowledge of werewolves than I have to offer. Hera Ironheart the Firespear. If you can spare the time to write to her, it would be appreciated. And act with some haste if you can. She is a Companion short of patience for mages of any sort as a general rule. Be well, my friend. Magnus guard you.”

He felt the strain of the gem to contain his message. Perhaps he had gone on a little longer than he should have, and a larger vessel would have served better, but it would do—if only just. He spoke the final words of the enchantment. The gem flared brightly between his fingers, blinding him, and when it died down again, it was a gem no longer but a small bird of bright colored plumage. He launched it into the air and watched as it flew away, disappearing over the northern mountains, headed for the College of Winterhold.


“Faendal bought a pony,” Lydia informed Sonja as she stepped through the front door of Breezehome, laden with a mess of supplies in her strong arms, and Faendal on her heels notably carrying nothing but a small package. She unsuccessfully attempted to stop the door from banging against the wall with her foot.

“Not even a moment for me to tell her myself!” the Bosmer objected, clearly annoyed.

Sonja blinked, a vial of Vilkas’ rescued potion clutched between her fingers. She had been examining it before the abrupt arrival of her friends and still held it at eye level as she exchanged glances with Vilkas around the curve of the glass. “A pony?” she repeated, set the potion aside, and slung one leg over the bench so she could look at her harried housecarl without craning her neck.

“Good Skyrim mountain stock,” Faendal hurriedly explained, “Healthy coat, good legs. Not young but not too old either. Good disposition. Fair price.”

“So? Why on Nirn would we need one?”

He gestured to Lydia pointedly who was struggling to carry her load, not because it was too heavy but unwieldly. Vilkas suddenly shot up from his seat and went to help her. “It’s a long trek to Shalidor’s Maze. The pony would help make it quicker—unless you want to saddle up Lydia.”

The housecarl shot an ugly glare at the huntsman as Vilkas relieved her of several items, and Sonja thought Faendal might drop dead from the shear sharpness of it. “I’m sworn to carry your burdens,” she said begrudgingly to Sonja though her gaze still seared into the huntsman, “But they would not be so many if others helped to bear them as well.”

“Which is why we need a pony.”

Sonja tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh which, somehow, only soured Lydia’s glare to outright rancid, skipping well beyond mere stink-eye. Quickly, she, too, went to the aid of her housecarl and plucked several packages and sacks from precarious places. “She has a point, you know,” she said to her mer friend, trying to defuse the disagreement as she began plopping items into Faendal’s arms, “We all pull our weight, and it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Faendal adjusted to accept the burden she was placing on him without thinking. “The mountains are dangerous. It’s better not to be weighed down by our packs if we come across trouble—like frost trolls, cave bears, sabercats…”

“I get it. I get it.” She walked away from him, carrying things to the kitchen.

“Bandits, ice wraiths, wolves…” He followed her.

“Faendal.”

“Frostbite spiders! How could I forget frostbite spi…?”

Faendal!” She unceremoniously dumped everything onto the countertop.

“And werewolves,” Vilkas added, pointedly, reminding her of their earlier conversation as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen with Lydia right behind him. Housecarl and huntsmen fell silent a moment, unavoidably remembering the last time they encountered such beasts.

“I told you, we’re ready for them this time,” Sonja stated firmly, and she took items from Vilkas’ grasp to place them on the countertop as well, “We won’t be caught unawares again—and I won’t be half-dead from blowback.” She fixed him with a sharp look. “Besides, I’m not the one hunting them in the days to come. You’d do better to mind yourself and Farkas.”

“A job come in for Wolves?” Faendal asked with some interest.

Vilkas became noticeably unreadable, and he grunted in response.

Faendal nodded, barely concealing his annoyance for Vilkas’ reticence. “Not surprising. It’s unusual to come across one of the beasts let alone four.”

Behind Vilkas, Lydia loudly and irritably cleared her throat which caused him to jump as if he’d forgotten she was there; hurriedly, he stepped aside to allow her into the kitchen. She placed what remained of her burden on the island. “Farkas said nothing of it to me,” she commented, dryly.

Sonja’s gaze shot straight to Vilkas who looked a little like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. “It’s a new job,” he explained, hurriedly, worried he’d accidently caused conflict in his brother’s relationship. Lydia nodded mutely, still visibly irritated, though whether that was partly aimed at Farkas now in addition to Faendal was impossible to tell. “I’ll see you in the yard,” he said abruptly to Sonja and quickly left the house before she could respond.

Sonja smirked.

“He’s in a hurry,” Faendal observed.

“To warn his brother, no doubt.” She glanced sideways at Lydia.

The housecarl sighed. “I worry about them both. One beast is dangerous enough, but if they are to hunt more?” She frowned. “They’ll see it done. They are the best Jorrvaskr has to offer…”

“I’m worried too,” Sonja admitted, sighing, but she didn’t let her admission hang in the conversation long enough for either huntsman or housecarl to pursue. She cleared her throat. “Keep the damn pony. It’s a good idea,” she said to Faendal, “Lydia’s a housecarl. Not a pack mule.”

Faendal was torn between being pleased with himself and feeling bad for his treatment of Lydia. “Sorry,” he apologized to the housecarl, “But it truly is surprising how much you can carry.”

Lydia’s expression flattened. “I could break you.”

“Because you’re so strong!” Faendal flattered, “Truthfully, I’m jealous.”

The housecarl glared at him. It was a ridiculous comparison to make. He was a Bosmer several inches shorter and a whole other person lighter than she was. Of course she was much stronger. Still, appeals to her Nordic ego did ease her anger somewhat. So, she rolled her eyes and gave in, not one—barring any offenses made against her or her thane’s honor—to hold a grudge for long. “Don’t talk such rot,” she grumbled, “And help me with the rations.”

Practically forgiven, Faendal perked up and happily began sorting through a package of mammoth jerky. Sonja let out a huff of relief and sank into her usual seat, intending to help a little before she left for Jorrvaskr. Almost the instant she was comfortable, Silverpaw jumped into her lap. “Ah, there you are,” she greeted and scratched his little head with her index finger. He meowed softly in pleasure.

“Was he hiding?” Faendal asked.

Sonja nodded. “He doesn’t like Vilkas.”

“They say animals are good judges of character.”

The Dragonborn gave her friend a pointed look. Be nice. But that was all. Faendal smiled faintly and shrugged, unabashed. “Run into Hera while you were out?” Sonja asked, changing the subject and peeking through all the packages closest to her, looking for nibbles under the pretense of sorting.

“No…” Lydia said, but her tone made Sonja abandon her quest for snacks.

Both housecarl and huntsman had stopped what they were doing, exchanged glances, and then looked back to Sonja with mixed emotions. Lydia looked uncertain and uncomfortable but Faendal was a good deal more smug and knowing which made Sonja’s stomach hurt. She sensed she would not like what came next. “We ran into Hrongar in the marketplace,” the huntsman explained.

Sonja frowned. “Oh?”

“He was on his way here to deliver a message.”

“Must have gotten lost. He never made it.” Thank the Divines.

“I told him you were busy—I didn’t think you wanted to be disturbed,” Lydia added.

“You thought right. What did he want?”

“To officially invite us to Dragonsreach for the Harvest’s End feast on behalf of Jarl Balgruuf.”

“Vilkas said…”

“Vilkas doesn’t know what’s passed between you and Hrongar—” the housecarl paused—“Unless you’ve told him?”

Sonja pursed her lips and gave a curt shake of her head. “Could have just sent a messenger,” she grumbled and pet Silverpaw a touch too aggressively. The kitten mewed in protest but did not move away.

“Ralof. Now Hrongar,” Faendal teased, “What kind of witchcraft are you casting on these Nords?”

Sonja rolled her eyes. “The wrong kind, apparently,” she sighed, “Too bad it wasn’t cast both ways.”

Lydia snorted and Faendal chuckled. “Neither one spark an interest for you?” he asked.

“No,” was the automatic and immediate response.

“Not even Ralof?”

“He was better in the sack than Hrongar.” Enthusiastically considerate.

“Not what I meant.”

Sonja’s knee-jerk reaction was to change the subject or tell Faendal to piss off because talking sex was one thing, feelings were another. But then she thought of how open he had been with her about Camilla and his uncertain future. His fears. What she did or didn’t feel for a couple of men she spent a few heated hours with was a small thing compared to that. And Lydia—well, she was a great deal more straightforward about everything. Surely, Sonja’s personal preferences wouldn’t matter one way or another to her. “He has more to recommend him than Hrongar. We escaped Helgen together,” she admitted, shifting uncomfortably in her seat much to Silverpaw’s annoyance, “Good man. I like him—but not enough to make anything of it.”

She had been tempted, though. In different circumstances, she might have happily spent a few more nights in that shack with Ralof, enamored with the idea of a more committed arrangement. But that was a fantasy—an indulgence—and one she was only able to entertain because she did not really know Ralof well, merely the shape of his character as framed by a shared near-death experience. She had a soft spot for him. That was certain. Nothing more. Besides, relationships were hard, and she had little patience for them. Her last—and only—long term affair had not ended well. More for Corvus than for her. She was still alive—though he had made her wish that wasn’t so. Maybe she wasn’t so lucky after all. “Taking a lover for more than a night or two is—more investment than I can afford.”

“Oh? What can you afford, then?”

Sonja’s gaze bounced between housecarl and huntsman. “Just a little fun when I want it,” she said softly, and it felt like such a poor explanation of what she really meant, of what she was really feeling.

It was hard to tell whether Faendal and Lydia understood or were disappointed by her response. Possibly, they were merely accepting. Sonja didn’t know; she had a hard time not reading disappointment in faces where she thought it belonged, but they didn’t push the conversation further in a direction that was clearly uncomfortable for her. Lydia resumed her work on the rations as if Sonja had made some slight observation about the weather. Faendal nodded and then mercifully changed the subject much to Sonja’s relief. “Well—if we’re spending Harvest’s End at the Jarl’s table, we should look the part,” he pointed out.

“If you want to poke around Belethor’s, I’ll join you after training.”

“Belethor hasn’t had anything new in since before the Hunt. I was thinking—Ebonvale?”

It was Sonja’s turn to smile knowingly. “You’re thinking, alright. Of Camilla. And not with your head, either.”

“Not the one on his shoulders, anyway,” Lydia added.

Faendal had the nerve to look scandalized. “What does she have to do with…” but his vague attempt at an argument dissolved halfway through his sentence, “She’s never seen the inside of Dragonsreach.”

Both women laughed. “Do what you like but I can’t go with you. Too much to do in the yard. I’ll make due with what I have,” Sonja said and then caught Lydia’s attention, “You?”

Lydia shook her head. “I’ll be wearing armor.”

“To a party?”

“I’m a housecarl.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time,” Faendal added.

The Nord woman smiled. “No,” she agreed, “But I also have to be ready to gut the enemies of my thane at any moment. Believe me, that is a good time for a Nord.”

Sonja grunted. “Guess you’re on your own,” she said to Faendal, “Take your pony.”

Faendal liked that idea even if he was a little sad to make the journey alone. “Sooner I’m gone, sooner I’ll be back,” he declared and immediately left Breezehome to pack a few things for his little trip.

Both women watched him go. “That little shit left before he could help me with the rations,” Lydia observed.

Sonja nodded as she slowly inched off her stool. Silverpaw leapt grumpily onto the counter, now thoroughly done with his owner’s fidgety disposition. “What an ass,” she consoled without any vehemence, and then practically bolted from the kitchen and up to the second floor to change for training.

Lydia sighed as if greatly put upon. “Children,” she grumbled and went back to work, “Both of them.” Silverpaw meowed in agreement.


Afternoon training was largely uneventful. Sonja was concerned about her hands which continued to trouble her, but she was able to push through the pain. Even when Vilkas brutally parried one of her attacks, sending a powerfully unpleasant vibration through her arm. She did grow ever slower after that, however, her grip weakening on her blade with each successive attack. Vilkas noticed, of course, and pushed her harder as he always did. ‘That which does not kill you, makes you stronger,’ should have been carved into the stone steps of Jorrvaskr. It was good to see that his shoulder was indeed much improved from the day before, at least. Even if his renewed ferocity was particularly punishing.

She got the hang of what he expected from her, though. That was good. His instruction was beginning to take root in the memory of her muscle. It was a promising start to a practice she was looking forward to mastering. The shift in his attention to include her magical ability was a deeply appreciated one. Particularly after her conversation with Lydia the night before. Now that she knew there was likely more to his dislike of magic than prejudice and superstition, it helped her to maintain her patience when she otherwise would have lost it.

She was very close to losing it for another reason altogether, though. “I think I prefer laps,” she groaned into the ground where she collapsed after one too many push-ups.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Vilkas warned her as he deftly pushed through another set of the exercises beside her.

She made a face in the dirt. Her hands and arms ached. Her chest throbbed. Her gut—which she affectionately referred to as ‘table muscle’—hurt. Her shoulders burned. She was absolutely done pushing herself from the earth; it could swallow her up right then and there, and she’d be glad for it.

“Come on, pup,” Vilkas urged, “Just a few more. You’re almost done.”

“I won’t be able to lift a sword tomorrow.”

“You’ll manage. Come on. Get moving.”

With tremendous effort, Sonja forced herself into position again and tried to focus on anything else but the trembling of her arms as she completed her final set of push-ups. The last three were sloppy but Vilkas let it slide. It was obvious she was passed her limit. She collapsed again with a pained grunt when she was done. Vilkas sat back on his haunches and stared at the back of her head for a moment. She did not move. “Did I break you?” he asked, almost concerned that he really had been a little too hard on her.

“Not quite.” But she still didn’t stir from her facedown position.

“I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“Fiend.”

“I’ve been called worse—by you, even.”

She chuckled darkly and rolled onto her back. “You deserved it,” she insisted unapologetically and flexed her stiff fingers. They were swollen. She frowned and rested them against her chest which was covered in a sheen of sweat and caked in dirt.

“Those—restraints—are troubling you today.”

She tried to shrug, but her shoulders refused to move. “It’ll pass.”

Vilkas nodded, lips pursed, briefly warring with himself. “Do you want the salve now?” he asked.

She grunted in the negative.

“You’re in pain.”

“I’m always in pain. I’ve learned to live with it,” she replied cheekily, echoing his words from the day before.

His eyes narrowed. He did not like having his own words used against him. “Pup…” he said so gently that it gave her pause.

She glanced down at the sorry state of her fingers propped on the upper curve of her chest. They did look rather miserable. She sighed. “I’ll take a break from them tonight,” she promised then struggled to lift her head to deliver the most underwhelming glare Vilkas had ever seen, “After I kick your ass in tafl.”

He barked out a laugh. “We’ll see about that.” He jabbed a finger in her side. She twitched and groaned pathetically. “You can’t even get off the floor.”

“Bring the board to me.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Cock.”

He poked her again. She whimpered and tried to swat him away.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll get up,” she grumbled and rocked one way and then the other, trying to generate enough momentum to roll over. She reminded Vilkas of a mudcrab stranded on its back. On her next wobble, he took pity on her and pushed her the rest of the way over. She grunted a thanks, and then, with great effort, pushed herself to standing. He chuckled at her efforts; she made a rude gesture in response which did nothing to quell his amusement. “Our place after I wash up?” she asked as she made a vain attempt to wipe her hands somewhat clean on her dirty leathers.

He nodded. “Try not to drown in the tub, mmm?”

She winced. Her whole body certainly felt like lead. “I’m really going to enjoy beating your ass later,” she declared as she hobbled away, “Your king is mine!” Vilkas only laughed, eyes soft as he watched her round the corner and out of sight.


And beat his ass, she did.

Sonja leaned back in her chair, cocky grin firmly in place as she rocked against the exterior wall of Jorrvaskr. One hand was tucked behind the knot of her damp hair, the other clutched her half empty tankard of mead, balanced loosely on her knee. “Your move, but it would save us both a lot of time if you surrendered now,” she boasted.

It would be her second win in a row if he did that. Thoroughly breaking their tie in her favor, and Vilkas had no interest in awarding her that kind of satisfaction. He shot her a glare instead and then stared too hard at the game board, choosing his next move carefully. Damn but she’s good. A truly worthy opponent which he both relished and resented a little now that he was losing. He found his move and made it, expression lightening somewhat as a new path made itself clear to him amongst the black and white pieces. “Your turn, pup,” he said eagerly, anxious for the opportunity to stop his losing streak before it even had the chance to begin.

Sonja stopped rocking her chair, smile sliding off her face by degrees as she took in the new state of affairs shaping up on the table before her. “You little shit,” she breathed and tapped her fingers against her tankard as she planned her next move.

It was Vilkas’ turn to lean back in his chair now and happily observe her slowly simmering frustration. Which he did. And enjoyed. Thoroughly. He sipped his mead and watched the slow formation of that particular crease to her brow she got when she was very deep in thought. Perfect time to poke the dragon. “I was thinking…” he began, conversationally.

“Dangerous. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“…you wanted stories from me the other morning…”

She looked at him. “Have more to tell me?”

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “You owe me one.”

“By what logic?” she challenged.

“Fair’s fair if you want to hear any more from me,” he replied matter-of-factly. She scoffed and shook her head before turning her attention to the game board again. He tried prodding her. “Don’t be a poor sport.”

“I’m thinking!” she grumbled and sat upright, her free hand tapping against the edge of the table impatiently.

“One from Cyrodiil,” he suggested, “From your Fighter’s Guild days.”

She hummed again, thoughtful. “The werewolf contract?”

He gave a slight shake of his head as he idly swirled the contents of his tankard. “Kill one Wolf, you’ve killed them all,” he grunted.

“That’s right. You’ve killed one of everything in Skyrim,” she teased, “I’ve heard you tell the other Newbloods.”

“It’s true.” It felt less like a brag when aimed at her, though. She who slays dragons. What would it matter to her what met its end at the edge of his sword or sharp of his teeth?

“Hmm, ever fight a minotaur before?” she asked smugly, knowing full well the likely answer.

“They are not native to Skyrim.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask? Just tell the story.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Take away all my joy.” But her expression bunched up as she tried to remember the details. “Have you ever seen or read about minotaurs before?”

“Read about them. Seen the drawings.”

“The drawings are never enough for creatures like minotaurs—or giants and mammoths,” she commented, thoughtfully, “They’re always bigger than you expect.” She shifted a piece on the board, giving Vilkas’ king a clear shot to the edge and victory which was suspicious as all Oblivion. She was setting something up; he just didn’t see it, yet. “They’re huge. A Nord and a half over again, easily. And three times as wide. Nothing but solid animal muscle yoked to a man’s body. They stink of cattle and sweat and—sweet Colovian wheat.” She chuckled. “I think they make something of an ale out of it. I could smell it on its breath.”

“You’ve gotten close,” he observed, more than a little distracted by the thought as he tried to parse out her drift from the new arrangement of her pieces.

She nodded. “No choice with minotaurs. They charge.” Her brow furrowed tighter. “There was this one job outside of Chorrol, right on the edge of the Great Forest, a few farms were having trouble with raids in the night. They didn’t know what it was, only that the beasts were big and black and horned with flaming eyes…” She looked at him pointedly. “They don’t have flaming eyes, but the farmers were simple people, and they were scared. They didn’t know any better than their own fear.”

“The beasts of Skyrim are terrifying enough and we still get jobs to kill gruesome creatures beyond imagining only to follow the trail back to sabercats or cave bears,” Vilkas replied, sympathizing, “Fear makes people see strange things.” He made his move.

“It does, indeed,” Sonja canted her head to one side, trying to recapture the thread of memory she had been following, “Anyway, me, ma, and another member of the guild, a Redguard by the name Dajan, camped up in the trees until nightfall to catch the raiders in the act.”

Vilkas’ interest skyrocketed at the casual mention of Freydis. A tale of the Killing Frost beyond her days as a Companion was a welcome surprise. “Your mother was with you?”

Sonja nodded and made her counter maneuver against Vilkas with barely a glance at the board. “We often took jobs together. Ma didn’t trust anyone else watching my back and—and I felt the same way for her,” she explained and frowned.

Vilkas remembered Sonja’s first night at Jorrvaskr. Kodlak had asked how Freydis had died. She had gone out fighting, and for a Nord, that was a good death. But he could tell, even then, that Sonja hadn’t shared the sentiment. He was beginning to see why, sense the shape of the histories she left unspoken. “You weren’t with her when she died,” he said and immediately wished he hadn’t.

But Sonja, though still sad, wasn’t nearly as raw about her mother’s death as she had been about Thornir’s when Vilkas merely brushed against the edges of that story while out on the tundra. She only shook her head. “I—I don’t know why she went alone,” she confessed, “It was such a stupid thing to do. She could have waited for me. She should have waited for me.”

She huffed and threw up her free hand as if to dispel the moment. “But that was ma,” she sighed, “Like that night in the trees. She dropped down on the first minotaur she saw and nearly skewered herself on its horns.” Vilkas tried and failed to stifle a laugh, but he needn’t have bothered. Reminiscing about it made Sonja smile and snicker, too. “Divines, who am I kidding? I went right after her and I did skewer myself on one of its horns.”

She set her tankard on the table and stood, hurriedly tugging her tunic free of her trousers until it was fully untucked. Vilkas watched her, amused, and belatedly thought to tell her she didn’t have to trouble herself to show him any scars since he knew she did not typically like discussing them—she had been clear enough on that point in the yard to any of her shield-siblings who had asked—but it was too late. She held up the hem just far enough to expose the skin above the line of her trousers.

Sonja was soft around the belly; she had a solid core from the physical nature of her life so her stomach didn’t quite bulge so much as slope, but she was also a woman who liked her bread and ale. Her hipbones did not jut out, pointed through her skin. They were more a suggestion of soft light and shadows through the curve of her waist. And carving a slight indent above her left hipbone, was a large oval scar that was typically covered up by the higher waistline of her training leathers.

“Shor’s bones! You weren’t kidding!” he exclaimed and leaned closer, squinting at the mark in disbelief, “What did you do? Fall sideways on it?”

“Nearly,” she confirmed and turned to her right just far enough to show him where the exit wound had been: out her side, not straight through, “It’s a good thing I’m heavy and the minotaur wasn’t expecting it. He buckled and I slid off onto the ground another—six or eight feet? Knocked the wind right out of me.” She shook her head at her own stupidity. “I was damned lucky Dajan had more of a brain in his head than I did and distracted the beast, or it would have surely trampled me.”

“Still, that’s no small injury. How did you survive?” His hand flinched toward her skin. He wanted to touch the scar and was startled by how easy the gesture would have been, but he caught himself and flattened his palm against the table instead.

Sonja noticed. Her eyes darted from his face to his hand and back again. “Go ahead. I—I don’t mind.” There was a little chuckle in her tone, but it sounded more like nervous laughter. Vilkas didn’t deny her, though. Vaguely, he thought he should have, but his hand was already reaching to act out his previous impulse. She was warm and the evening on Jorrvaskr’s back porch was chilly; goosebumps covered her exposed skin and she shivered when he touched her. Because it’s cold, he stubbornly reminded himself.

His thumb smoothed over the edge of her scar and, when he angled his hand just so, his middle finger managed to graze the second mark. Sonja inched closer so he wasn’t reaching across the table. The scar felt exactly as one might expect a scar to feel: smooth and thick and raised. A pinkish smear against her darker complexion. Though, Vilkas suddenly became aware that he was touching skin that did not usually see sunlight. The line of her tan was several inches higher. He looked up at her. She was looking down at him. And the whole damn moment felt so much more intimate than he had meant for it to be. He cleared his throat. “Quite the scar,” he stated, lamely.

She smirked and hummed in agreement, turning just far enough to retrieve her mead without disengaging from his hand. “More luck, I guess.” She shrugged and took a large swig of her drink; Vilkas finally dropped his hand back onto the table. The moment passed. “You know what it’s like when your heart’s beating in your ears and there’s nothing but pain and the smell of your own blood driving your actions…” she trailed off, thoughtful, and dropped the hem of her tunic but did not yet tuck it back in, “Like time stands still.”

It was true. He did know the kind of blind instinct that took over in the height of battle, especially when brutally injured. His shoulder was not the only nearly fatal pain he’d experienced in his lifetime. But—it never felt quite like time stopped ticking. If anything, it seemed to slip by faster in a blur of too many moments slick with too much blood to hold onto. If she found some grain of clarity in that kind of panic that seemed to slow the world around her, that was not something he’d experienced for himself. “Lucky indeed,” he agreed.

She inhaled sharply, reorienting to the story, and sat back down. “It’s your turn.” She tapped on the game board with her forefinger. Vilkas moved a piece; she slid another out of the way almost immediately. He hesitated, perplexed. “I managed to gain a little cover in the trees and heal myself up before rejoining the fight,” she continued, “There was only two of them, so we were evenly matched. Minotaurs are strong but they’re slow. Not unlike the giants here. They rely on strength and a big fucking hammer. But we were faster. And ma was—ruthless.”

She paused, thinking on her own word choice and then gave a little nod, finally approving it. “That’s the word for it. Everyone here says she was unrelenting, unyielding, and aye, that she was, but she was ruthless, too. There wasn’t a lot of mercy in her bones. She was the kind to break or be broken before bending.”

Vilkas didn’t know Freydis like he knew Hera. All he had were the stories and Sonja’s tone went against the grain of reverence he was accustomed to hearing when anyone spoke of the Killing Frost. Not quite disrespectful. Just not careful. She carried her mother’s name in her mouth like her favorite expletive: as easily used for praise as it was for cursing. Familiar and fond. It was jarring to hear. “It’s what made her name well-known in Skyrim,” he pointed out.

“Aye, but it’s likely what made her dead, too,” she countered, “A sword without flex shatters.”

He wanted to say she was the same way. When he did not think about it deeply, that certainly seemed to be the case. Out of pure fearlessness, she mounted a godsdamned dragon to pierce its brain without so much as a stutter to her step. No hesitation. But she had yielded to Hera and sent the mammoth into death with a gentleness few others would have ever considered. She cared about giants, for Mara’s sake. Not like Freydis at all, by her account. “And warriors are often the same,” he agreed instead and moved to take one of Sonja’s pieces.

She tapped her fingers against the table, following Vilkas’ hands with her eyes as he removed the piece from the board. The second he was no longer touching the smooth black disk, she took his king. He stared at the game board, confounded. “Fight was over soon after that,” she said pointedly, smiling, “Always goes quicker than you think.” She leaned back in her seat again and kicked up her feet into the adjacent empty chair. “Victory was ours with only an ugly scar and a few bruises to show for it. Dajan was probably the least banged up out of the lot of us. Proper warrior, he was.”

“And the pair of Ironhearts were not?” Brow furrowed, Vilkas tried to replay the last few moves in his head to unravel where he’d made his fatal mistake.

“We were—I am—but Dajan was the kind that made an art of it.”

That drew his attention. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me the Killing Frost of Jorrvaskr was outclassed by some common warrior of the Fighter’s Guild?”

She smirked and shook her head. “No. Put them on any field of battle and ma would have come out the victor every time,” she said, sounding properly proud, “But her way with a blade—was raw. Crafted from need. It was a skill, not an art, and she was damn good at it. Tough. A survivor. Powerful. Like a landslide. Strikes like boulders tumbling down the mountainside.”

“Like giants and minotaurs.”

“Aye. Brute strength and a strong fucking shield.”

“And you? What were you like?”

“Can’t you tell?”

Then.”

Her brow tightened a little and she looked pensively into the remainder of her mead. “I was raw, too,” she said, voice like a breeze it was so gentle, “This was not long after pa died. We needed the coin.”

In that context, he saw Sonja’s story in a different light, and it suddenly seemed less amusing that she had heedlessly jumped out of a tree and onto the apparently massive horns of a minotaur—if the size of her scar was anything to go by. “I overstepped. I’m sorry.”

“No—I…” she chuckled humorlessly and set her tankard aside again, “I don’t mind.”

“You do.”

“I do.”

“I understand.”

“You often do.” The way she looked at him could be described no other way but fond, but it was brief. In the next moment, she looked off into an aimless distance and wondered aloud as if their conversation had not wandered, “Dajan was a good man, though. I liked him.” She had liked him between her legs to be specific. “I wonder if he ever went back to Hammerfell.”

Vilkas didn’t care if Dajan went back to Hammerfell or not. “You were right,” he said.

“Usually am, but what about?”

“You are a poor storyteller.”

Sonja chuckled and tossed a soft kick of her foot vaguely in his direction. “It’s not as if I didn’t warn you,” she reminded him, good-naturedly.

“It was a good story, though. Made up for your shortcomings,” he continued, teasing, “The scar helped.”

She grumbled incoherently to herself, but Vilkas was just able to make out the word ‘ungrateful.’ “See if I ever tell you another tale of my fighting days,” she snarked.

“Are they over already?”

“Hardly,” she agreed, “But you might want to think about retiring from tafl altogether.”

He clutched at his chest as if she’d wounded him—and his pride was a little more than bruised, if he was honest. “I don’t know what gambit you used there at the end, but it was a good one, I’ll give you that,” he grumbled.

She smiled odd. Something caught between pain and pleasure. “A friend taught it to me,” she said gently, “Only works once on clever players, but he—he used it on me all the time.” She pursed her lips. “Open your lines. Give your opponent the chance to win. They’ll either trust it or they won’t. It’s easier if they believe it. I—I always did.” Her last sentence sounded sour and Vilkas suspected that she wasn’t talking about tafl anymore. “But you can trap a cynic, too.” She looked him hard in the eye. “Like you.”

“You distracted me,” he accused, but he wasn’t angry; he’d invited it when he sought a story from her.

“Guess I’m a better storyteller than I thought.” She cleared the board with a sweeping gesture. “Come on, old man, I’ll give you a chance to win your honor back.” She set up the game while he fetched another round of mead inside. Thoughtfully, she turned the king piece over between her fingers and thought of Corvus. Of his wily tricks and deceit. He called that move the Lover’s Kiss and that was about the way of things with him: theatrics and poison. She was glad he was dead.

When Vilkas came back, he had a sweetroll sticking out of his mouth, and the image was at once so contradictory and endearing that it plucked her right out of her darkening mood. She made a grab for the treat when he served her drink, but he had anticipated her reaction and easily dodged away from her grasping fingers. “Don’t be stingy!” she chastised.

He rolled his eyes as he reclaimed his seat. “This is the only way I get one anymore,” he insisted, taking a big bite, “Tilma saves them for you every morning.”

Sonja did not usually pout. That was a ploy that better served the cuter, daintier Ironheart sister. But she let her eyes round a little. “Please?” she asked politely.

He stared at her, grumbled, and tore the roll in half. “Only because you’re going to lose this next game so badly,” he insisted and handed her the larger half.

She grinned at him and happily munched on the pastry. And that was about the way of things with Vilkas: sweetrolls and tafl. Much different from Corvus. Not that she was comparing them, of course.

Notes:

You would think with all the time I had/still have during the pandemic, that I would have cranked out chapter after chapter. Not so! In fact, all this crazy seems to have had the opposite effect. Sorry! Mental health is a tricky, tricky thing. Hope you enjoyed what I was able to post!

On a side note, one of the major changes I recently made that I decided to implement in this chapter is the timeline of events. There is a specific day that the Dragonborn arrives in Skyrim. I decided to change that slightly because of the holiday events that I have content for. Like Harvest's End, Tales and Tallows, and Sonja's birthday. All those things happen too close together for it also to happen shortly after her arrival, so I fixed it by deciding Sonja arrived in Skyrim a full month earlier than canon.

Also, I really do appreciate all your comments, lovely readers. You make me smile. I hope that I return the favor with each chapter I manage to post, even if it takes me weeks or months or YEARS to do it. Thank you for your continued support and patience. I love writing for you all. <3

Chapter 46: Responsibility

Summary:

Because of the much more temperate climate of The Rift, Riften enjoys a three day Harvest's End Festival, but thieves don't take holidays. Anja has a lot of business to attend to, both private and professional, and big decisions to make. Llyr and Rahna enjoy the day. And Jarl Laila Law-Giver tries to lay down the law with her son, Harrald.

Notes:

PoV: Anja, Llyr, Brynjolf, and Laila Law-Giver

Ta'agra translations are taken from The Ta'agra Project.

As always, to view English translations of words and phrases written in Ta'agra (language of the Khajiit), mouse over the text and the translation will appear in a window beside the mouse. Thanks.

Trigger Warning: reference to abandonment of a child, reference to violent death/murder, reference to torture, and depictions of grief/mourning.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I like Captain Lonely-Gale,” Sofie stated spontaneously at breakfast.

Bersi grinned. “He’s a fine man,” he agreed.

“Very charming,” Drifa added.

“Eh.” Anja shrugged.

“This one thinks that, perhaps, the Captain is—not so bad,” Kharjo admitted, pensively.

Anja’s eyes narrowed at the Khajiit, and she shook her head. Traitor. “He’s alright,” she allowed, “I like his dog—though she did try to eat me that one time…” Sofie laughed, and the married couple chuckled. “Always wanted a dog growing up, but da never let us have one.” At this random bit of personal history, Bersi cocked an eyebrow at her. “It’s why I turned to a life of crime,” she sighed. Bersi rolled his eyes.

“Can I have a dog?” Sofie asked hopefully.

“No,” Bersi and Anja said in unison.

“Aw.”

Anja smirked and leaned across the table to ruffle the young girl’s hair. “Not enough room here, Kit,” she pointed out, “Maybe when we find a place of our own, yeah?”

Sofie poked at her honeyed porridge. “I like it here,” she said softly. 

“And we like having you here,” Drifa quickly interjected, “It’s nice having company—specially a little one.” She smiled kindly, and Anja felt her heart twist because it was a bit odd that a couple as old as Bersi and Drifa was childless. She looked between the three of them and begrudgingly thought they made a handsome family. Better than anything I could give her… Bersi certainly proved to be a better mother. I’m not her mother, she reminded herself, I’m not–anything–to her…not really.

An unpleasant cocktail of self-loathing, doubt, and guilt roiled in Anja’s gut. She swallowed hard against a lump of porridge. Sure, Sofie had it better now that she was off the streets of icy Windhelm, but—how much did that really have to do with Anja when all she did was constantly leave the girl in the care of others better suited to guardianship than she ever was? She poked at the porridge in her bowl, too. “Drink up your potion so we can get going,” she said.

Sofie scrunched up her face. “It’s gross. I hate it.”

“I know, but you need it to get stronger if you want to learn how to swing that little dagger around properly.”

“Strong like you?”

Anja huffed out a humorless laugh. “Stronger,” she promised, “Not much to me, I’m afraid.”

Bersi scoffed. “Could have fooled me.” He flashed his wrist to her. The same one she had led him off by the day before when she was having none of his heroic bullshit. A clear bruise in the shape of her small hand encircled his forearm.

She blinked, brow furrowing as she leaned over to get a better look. “Shite, Bersi, I—I didn’t mean to,” she breathed, perplexed, “Must have been angrier than I realized…”

The shopkeep was a little taken aback by her genuine concern. “It’s fine,” he assured, “It looks worse than it is.”

She hummed her disbelief, but purposefully masked her expression to appear significantly less interested. Bersi thought it odd to see happen before his very eyes; she was usually much more sly with her tricks, but she seemed relaxed that morning so maybe she was just growing comfortable around them all? He didn’t know. “Sample one of your lesser healing potions,” she suggested, rising from her seat and stretching like a cat in warm sunlight, “Easy enough to brew a replacement later.”

“I’ll think on it.”

She shrugged and poked at Sofie’s head. “Ready yet?”

The girl blinked, surprised to be suddenly accosted. “No.”

“How about now?”

Sofie looked up at her incredulously. “No.”

“Now?”

This carried on for several moments until Sofie finally choked down her unpleasant medicine with the most exaggerated gagging and sputtering any of them had ever seen. “There, that’s done,” Anja declared, “Now let’s go break into some houses!”

Sofie perked up so much that she glowed like the sun. Bersi’s hand flew to his forehead with an exasperated smack. Drifa looked around bewildered, unsure if she had heard Anja correctly. Kharjo chuckled and tapped his dangerous claws against the table. “Khajay must forgive this one, but Jarl will not be pleased if Kharjo uses his new freedom to rob her people,” he pointed out.

“I didn’t say we were going to rob anyone,” she replied innocently as if she had not just suggested bringing a child along for a little breaking and entering, “But fair enough. Better not to poke the sleeping sabercat, hmmm?” She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Good luck with Ahkari,” she whispered more for the sake of intimacy than a need for privacy, “She will not be too angry?”

Kharjo’s ears twitched to catch her voice, and he reached up to stroke her arm. “Maybe at first,” he admitted, “But Ahkari likes a good deal. She will be more pleased with this one than angry.”

Sala kha’jay, ishana, ” she purred against his ear and then nibbled on the soft edge. Her affection earned her a deliciously frustrated growl as Kharjo attempted to grab at more than just her arm, but she stepped teasingly beyond his reach and wiggled her fingers in a playful farewell. He glared after her fondly as she and Sofie disappeared up the stairs. 

“Don’t forget to pick up my order from Bolli!” Bersi called after her.

Anja rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “I’m not a delivery service, Bersi!” she insisted.

But Sofie happily shouted back, “We won’t!”

The pair stepped out into the fresh, crisp morning air which was heavy with the saccharine smell of honey, maple candy, and baked apples wafting from the marketplace. Sofie’s eyes widened, eager to investigate the festivities already kicking off for Riften’s famous three-day long Harvest’s End Festival. She took a few steps toward the square before Anja caught her by the sash of her dress. “I want a honey-nut treat!” Sofie insisted, “I—I never had one before…”

“Don’t worry, Kit,” Anja consoled, tugging on the fabric until Sofie reluctantly acquiesced, “I’ll buy you one later—after you’ve earned it.”

Sofie’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Are we really going to break into someone’s house?” she asked, voice hushed.

Anja grinned. “Eager, are we?” she teased, “Come on, then. Let’s get started.”

The city guard rarely ever patrolled Plankside. The only notable things nestled in the walls of the canal and its Ratway were the lowest income housing and the Thieves Guild. Tragically, no one cared about the former. Undoubtedly, Maven paid or otherwise arranged for the protection of the latter. Together, these two realities made Plankside an ideal training ground for a young, aspiring thief—if Sofie could be called that. Anja was growing ever more reluctant to commit to bestowing such a title on the girl because, well, she thought Sofie deserved better. Just teaching her a few useful skills, she justified, Even Sonja can pick a basic lock—sort of. Usually, Sonja just kicked the damn door open. Still, some nefarious skills came in handy more often than one might think. Besides, Sofie had already proven a predilection for stealing. The least Anja could do was teach the girl how not to get caught.

Sofie stuck to Anja’s hip like a skittish sabercat cub, eyes wide and searching the shadowed, rotting planks of the walkway. Anja casually rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, both a comforting and protective gesture. They reached the first doorway with an unlit lamp and an empty front step. It looked abandoned, but Anja knocked anyway. “Blessings of Mara for the hungry,” she called just loud enough to be heard through the door. Then she waited a few moments, ear pressed against the warped wood, listening.

Sofie watched her with a quizzical brow. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Anja silently pressed a finger to her lips to shush her and waited another moment longer. Satisfied no one was inside, she turned to address her pupil. “Just because a place looks empty doesn’t mean that it is,” she explained, “Especially in places like this. You know better than most what it’s like to live on the street.” Sofie nodded, fully understanding; if there had been some conveniently empty home that she could have holed up in back in Windhelm to get out of the cold, she would have done it in a heartbeat. “There’s no guards down here stopping anyone from letting themselves in. I was checking for squatters so we don’t walk into a nasty surprise.”

Sofie’s brow furrowed. “But why say you’re a priest?”

“Well, if you were staying someplace you shouldn’t be, you probably wouldn’t want to answer the door to the guard or a debt collector—” she poked Sofie’s stomach, “You wouldn’t even help me until I filled your belly, proper.”

Sofie flinched away, tickled. “So, it’s empty? No one’s home?”

Anja nodded and then produced her ebony lockpicks. “Nobody home,” she confirmed, “Time for your first lesson.”

The locks of Plankside proved to be cheaper than the housing. With Anja’s coaching, Sofie got the door open on the third try. “Good job, Kit!” Anja praised and ruffled Sofie’s hair. The girl grinned smugly and held the picks out to Anja. “Hang onto them for now,” she insisted, “We got a few more to hit before we go Dryside.”

“Dryside?” Sofie repeated nervously.

“Don’t worry.” Anja smiled reassuringly. “I’ll do those. You can keep watch.” Sofie nodded, relieved. That was an arrangement with which she was more comfortable. 

Anja leaned on the latch and eased the door open as noiselessly as she could which was still rather creaky on little-used hinges. She made a face at the squeak and cast a cautious glance upward to see if there was a nosy passerby or an unusually dutiful guard taking a peek at Plankside from the upper walkways. There was no one, of course. Everyone was far more interested in the festivities brewing and baking in the marketplace. “A bit of oil on the hinges keeps them quiet if you’re up to no good in the middle of the night, but it’s noisy now. No one’ll notice,” Anja whispered as she beckoned for Sofie to slip inside, “Sight and sound are your enemies. Find ways to conquer at least one of them. Both if you can.” She closed the door behind them, and they gazed around the dank, gloomy, empty dwelling.

It was a small single room without a hearth. The floor was stone, cold and slick, and the air humid like a cave near water which the dwelling might as well have been, hidden behind the façade of a house with the convenience of a door. There was no ventilation aside from the front and only doorway, so everything smelled dank and musty. Anja squinted at one of the nearby walls. Is that—mold? It was. This will not do.

“Why are we here?” Sofie asked, looking around the dismal space and rubbing her arms to banish the creeping cold from the wet air.

“At this point? Practice,” Anja sighed. Plankside had not been an ideal place to call home, but it was close to the Ratway and she was sure she could afford to outright buy one of the shitty little residences in one payment, so she had thought it worth a look. Apparently, she was wrong. “Let’s go. Onto the next one.”

The next two homes were more of the same: gross and tragic. But, Sofie got quicker with each door. In fact, she popped the lock on the third and final residence on the first try—only to find a very large Skeever had died within. “Nope.” Anja snapped the door shut the instant the stink stampeded through the door and hit them both full force in the face. Both she and Sofie staggered away, coughing and gagging, and made a hasty retreat to the nearby stairs leading to fresh air and sunshine.

They came out near the orphanage which Sofie paused to stare at for a moment, frowning. A building unremarkable in appearance, Anja guessed it might have been a storefront before it was converted. There were no children playing outside or in the fenced yard around back. It was eerie and quiet and miserable like everything else no one cared about in Riften. Anja tugged on the end of Sofie’s braid. “Hey, come on,” she urged, “You don’t have to worry about that place.”

Sofie nodded, still looking sullen. “But the other kids do,” she pointed out, unhappily, “Everyone knows the lady who runs the place is a mean old witch.”

Anja cocked an eyebrow and looked back at the poorly kept front of the orphanage again. The windows were shuttered. It looked almost as abandoned as the homes on Plankside they had just broken into. But it has to be brimming with orphans, doesn’t it? With so many dead parents lost to the Civil War, it seemed odd that a place claiming to be a refuge for the forgotten, abandoned, and orphaned children of Skyrim felt so—hollow. Anja didn’t like it. “I think you earned that honey-nut treat you wanted,” she said, coaxing the girl away from her worries, “Maybe even two.”

Sofie forced a smile and bounded toward the marketplace, casting one last furtive glance at the orphanage before making a beeline toward one of the temporary stalls the farmers outside the city set up to sell treats crafted from the bounties of their harvest: honey-nut treats, pastries, breads, jellies and jams, baked buttered apples, hard candies, soft candies, and ciders. Not one much inclined to regulate indulgence, Anja dumped ten gold into the girl’s palm. “Have at it. Just don’t get sick.” Sofie made a comically happy noise before turning to browse the nearest stall with a critical eye.

While she shopped, Anja wandered toward The Bee & Barb to watch from a distance, making sure Sofie saw where she went should she need her but giving her enough space and freedom to buy whatever her little heart desired without influence. She glanced around for Brynjolf as she did so, noting his suspicious absence from his stall and worrying that it meant something was up at the Guild. She planned to return that afternoon and finally face the music, see what damage had been done when the Captain had provoked Sapphire, determine what price she had to pay, and find out precisely what Brynjolf knew about the whole incident. She was not looking forward to it. Silently, she leaned against the exterior of the inn, arms crossed, eyes on Sofie, and brain reeling with possibilities.

The girl was done with her shopping much sooner than Anja expected, returning with only the honey-nut treat and a greasy paper bag of candied nuts. “That all you want?” she asked, surprised.

Sofie nodded. “We’ll be back later, right? After the other houses?”

“Aye.”

“These are for you.” She offered up the paper bag.

“Aw, thanks, Kit-Cat.” Anja accepted the candy, genuinely touched. “That’s sweet of you.”

Sofie shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s your coin.”

“Less sweet, but thanks anyway.” She tossed a nut into the air with a casual flick of her wrist and caught it in her mouth with a loud crunch. Of course Sofie wanted to try the trick for herself upon seeing this, and the pair of them made a game of it as they walked toward the east side of town. Anja threw the candy higher and higher or farther and farther before catching it. Sometimes Sofie tossed a nut at her at odd angles just to make her contort into awkward positions in her attempts to get under it. She caught most of them, but there were a fair few that ended up on the planks and cobbles, unrecoverable.

“Alright, Kit,” Anja said, laughing and crumbling the empty bag, “Take a look around and tell me what you see.” She tossed her trash over her shoulder, heedless, and began to lick her fingers clean.

Sofie was still laughing too, nibbling on the sticky caramelized sugar of her honey-nut treat, but she looked around, curiously. Her eyes narrowed slightly at a cottage on the corner. Cold lamp out front, no light from within, no smoke in the chimney, a small garden plot overgrown with weeds. “Are we still looking for empty houses?” she asked.

Anja nodded, following her gaze and smirking. She was an observant little imp, that was for sure. Had to be, Anja guessed. “Atta girl,” she praised, “Let’s take a look before we let ourselves in, hmm?” Sofie nodded and glanced around furtively, still intently chewing on her candied treat, and followed Anja as she meandered toward the corner house.

Riften’s east side was much nicer than Plankside. To be fair, all of Dryside was much nicer than Plankside, but the east side had mansions. The Black-Briar mansion, most notably. And the Mercer estate. If Anja didn’t fear for her career or her life, she would have been sorely tempted to try her luck breaking into either of them just to see if she could. Bolli, the successful fishmonger and trader, also had a large home on that side of town. The Snow-Shod clan, proud and staunch Ulfric Stormcloak supporters, had lived in their east side family estate for generations. But there were smaller, more modest homes and a few downright humble dwellings in the streets behind the lofty mansions and Temple of Mara.

Anja was less certain she could afford to purchase a place free and clear in that part of town. She hadn’t had the chance to look over the listings yet, but she had a good sense for value, and it was telling her that renting was likely her only option. Even if the place was a dump. Better for Sofie than the damp and dark and mold, she reminded herself, Staying with a proper pair of parents like Bersi and Drifa would be even better. She pursed her lips and tried not to think too hard on that last thought as she casually peered into dusty windows and down alleyways to see if anyone was home or watching.

The little corner cottage was practically a whole magnitude smaller than the mansions two streets up, but Anja didn’t mind. She’d lived in a home scarcely larger with four other people back in the Imperial City for the entire duration of her childhood. Now, it was just her and Sofie, and there was a cozy little yard with a garden plot for alchemical ingredients. And it’s close to the graveyard… Easy access to the Cistern. Not bad. She slipped over the short, stone wall and slinked to the back door. Sofie kept watch for hardly a heartbeat before Anja had the door open. Needs a change of locks, she thought as she whistled for the girl to follow her in.

The home was much brighter and cleaner than the Plankside residences, but it was dusty enough to have been vacant for a long time. No furniture. An extra expense. And the hearth looked damaged. Anja didn’t even know who in town she would have to flirt with to get that fixed. Still, it was nice. Cozy. They could work with that. “What do you think, Kit?” she asked, squinting into the rafters and frowning. The roof might need a little work, too.

“Why are we breaking into empty houses?” Sofie asked, hardly looking around the place.

Anja turned to face her. “Well—I promised you could help pick a new place for us to live,” she said and gestured around, “So—what do you think?”

Sofie blinked but didn’t look away. “It’s kinda far from the Prawn,” she pointed out.

Anja sighed. “Just the other side of town. Riften’s not that big.” Sofie didn’t look convinced. “We can’t stay with Bersi forever, you know.”

“Why not?” Sofie challenged, straightening her posture, “They said they like having us there.”

“We’re sleeping in the attic on a lumpy mattress and some crates.”

“We could get a better bed up there. Kharjo could help us get it up the ladder…”

“Sofie…”

“…and—and then we could live there and have breakfast with them every morning and—read stories after supper and sing songs like you did last night—and…”

“Do you want to live with them instead?” Anja wished there hadn’t been a trace of hurt in her voice when she asked, but she could hear it plain as day. And so could Sofie.

The ten-year-old stilled. “What?”

“It’s alright if you do,” Anja rushed, “I’d understand. Bersi is a good man—Oblivion—he’s more than good and don’t you dare tell him I said so. And Drifa is sweet—and much better at braiding your hair than I am.” She laughed weakly, but Sofie didn’t respond, she just stood there, frozen to the spot, staring at her, waiting. “Better guardians than I can be, that’s for sure. You’d always be warm and safe and cared for. I’m just—trouble, Kit-Cat. Always have been. Always will be. And if you wanted to go…”

“Do you want me to go?” Sofie asked so quietly, Anja nearly missed it.

Anja didn’t like lying to Sofie. The girl was one of the few people she actually troubled herself to be honest with always, but she felt less certain in that moment. Of course she didn’t want Sofie to leave. But, if it’s what’s best for her… If lying to her would ease her way into a better home… I’m a liar. This should be easy. But it wasn’t, and it didn’t feel right, either. “I—I don’t know what the right answer is, here,” she admitted after a painful heartbeat.

Sofie’s big brown eyes instantly began to well with tears; she angrily threw her half-finished honey-nut treat onto the dusty floor and hastily tore out the ribbon securing her braid, pulling the strands loose in a wild mess with sticky fingers. “No!” she sobbed, “I don’t care about breakfast or stories or songs or—or braids! I d-don’t care about-t B-Bersi and Drifa! We can live here! We can live anywhere you want! Don’t send me away! Please! Don’t send me away!”

Gods. I’m a piece of shit. Anja dropped to her knees to level with the girl. “Sweet Mara, Sofie, no. I’m so sorry,” she said, straining against her own tears, “I don’t want you to go! Of course I don’t want you to go!” She held her arms out to the girl like someone trying to coax a wounded animal. “I just want you to be happy…”

Sofie flung herself into Anja’s embrace and bawled into her shoulder. “I’m happy with you!” she insisted, words muffled and halting between the hard gasps of her crying.

Anja prudently did not point out how contrary that was, given how hard the poor girl was currently sobbing. “Look, kid, I meant what I said,” she pushed Sofie back just far enough to look into her red, bleary face, “I have always been trouble, but the one good thing I ever did was take you home with me, and I don’t regret that for a moment.”

“And helped Drifa,” Sofie sniffled.

Anja blinked. “What?”

“That was a good thing, too.”

“Oh, well, Kharjo’s really…”

“And saved the Captain.”

“Uh…”

“And stopped those bad men on the docks.”

“You’re—kinda steppin’ on my point there, Kit.”

“Sorry.”

Anja marveled at the girl’s capacity to still argue with her even when she was distressed. “My point is—” she continued—“That the only way I’m letting you go is if you wanted to leave. I won’t stand in your way because I…” She stopped, choking on the word desperately trying to claw its way out of her grief-stricken, broken heart. “…Care about you. And I will absolutely stand between you and anyone else stupid enough to try to hurt you or take you from me. Do you understand?”

Sofie’s mouth was still a slash of hurt feelings. “Promise?”

“On Mara, Herself.”

Sofie looked at her skeptically.

“On all the gold I’ve ever or will ever earn—and my lucky lockpicks,” Anja amended.

Sofie was much more satisfied with that and flung her arms around Anja’s shoulders again, squeezing her tightly. “Anja?” Sofie sniffed.

“Hmm?”

“Are there other houses to look at? I don’t like this one.”

Anja chuckled and rubbed big circles against the girl’s back. “Yeah. There’s—one more I think you’ll like much better.” She just wasn’t sure if she was truly ready to accept all the strings attached to it.


Honeyside was the only large home on the west side of town, and it suffered for its odd location by way of a lack of space for proper grounds, but there was a small patch of garden that was still serviceable for that alchemy garden Anja was now fantasizing about. The exterior of the home was clearly well-maintained and easily competed with the larger east side homes for grandeur if not the mansions themselves. Two stories, from what Anja could tell, but the second seemed—from the outside, anyway—shorter so it was likely more of a loft than a whole other floor. Regardless, it was much, much larger than anything Anja had ever lived in before, and it was next door to The Pawned Prawn which was currently its most attractive attribute.

Sofie stared up at the grand face of the home and blinked slowly. “It’s big,” she commented, dryly.

“Yep.”

“Can—can we afford this?”

Anja partly shrugged her shoulders and made a head wobble that was somewhere between a nod and a shake. “Theoretically.”

Sofie looked at her incredulously.

“I may have gotten into the Jarl’s good graces after taking care of that nasty business on the docks for Bersi,” Anja admitted.

Sofie cut a glance at her. “Why did we even look at the other places?”

“Because it’s still going to cost a shiny Septim, Kit. Nothing’s free—just cheaper.” Hopefully. The Jarl hadn’t made any such insinuation, but why would she even mention the estate to a woman who had claimed to be a tavern girl? Then again, people accustomed to wealth were often painfully unaware or unthinking of such things, so maybe Laila had been careless with her offer. Anja didn’t know, but perhaps an arrangement could be reached if the Jarlessa was properly softened up with good deeds, sound advice, and compliments. Failing that, there was Aringoth’s nest egg in the vaults of Markarth’s counting house. She just had to go get it. And safely transport it back. Across all Skyrim. Alone. Without attracting dangerous, unwanted attention. Ideally, as quickly as possible. Simple. Don’t break a second story window when the front door’s unlocked, Dro’Kodesh used to say. Anja would cross that bridge when she came to it. If she came to it. “Well—should we check it out?” she sighed.

Sofie nodded and quickly looked up and down the nearby streets. Another bonus of the house was that it was situated on a busy thoroughfare in such a way that made it difficult to break into without being seen, and there was no access to the backdoor because it was built through the city walls and overlooked the lake. This was working against Anja at that moment, however. Luckily, this was one of the few things in life for which she had patience. It was all about the right moment: when she’d stood still and idle long enough to melt into the background, when she disappeared from the casual passerby’s notice, shapeshifting into something as common and unremarkable as a shadow. Sometimes, it didn’t take long. In a town like Riften where the Thieves Guild made its home and people were used to being robbed in the night or mugged in the street, it took much longer for people to dismiss her as harmless. But they did, eventually. And why wouldn’t they? A petite woman playing street games with a child, probably her daughter, and laughing like she hadn’t a care in the world; where was the danger in that?

The lock on Honeyside was much better than the one on the corner cottage, so Anja had to take a little extra time to finesse her way through it which was no small feat while doing it behind her back. It still took an impressively short amount of time for the door to give way beneath the clever, dexterous twist of her fingers, whispering her success with the softest metallic click. Sofie slipped in first, small and quick. Then Anja when space in foot traffic permitted.

“Wow,” Sofie breathed, looking around the space, mouth slightly agape.

“Wow, indeed,” Anja sighed with a lot less enthusiasm.

Honeyside was larger than it looked from the outside. It was wide and extended a good deal over the water with large windows overlooking the lake, sprawling porch, and private dock. And it retained most of the large furniture from its previous owner, covered in canvas sheets to protect it from the passage of time; small decorations and knickknacks were conspicuously absent, however. Anja wondered under what circumstances the former thane of Riften had died and why no family had come to collect what remained of his belongings.

Whatever the case had been, it hadn’t been long. The place wasn’t as dusty as the corner cottage had been. There were no dank or foul smells. Plenty of light filtered into the home which made it cozily warm even without a fire, and the view of the lake was quite pleasing. Especially with all the nearby aspens fading into autumn colors. Goldenglow was easily visible, too, now emptied of its mercenary protection. Anja wondered whatever became of Aringoth after she hit the place and robbed him blind—if he was still living after Maven learned the whole story. It was probably better not to know. 

She and Sofie wandered through the house, one searching for flaws, the other dreaming up a new life she never thought she’d have. The first floor consisted of only two rooms: a large den with a good hearth and a dining room with a long table and many chairs. Anja had been right about the loft, but it was spacious and had been used as some sort of study or library previously. The shelves and desk remained, but the liquor cabinet was emptied of its contents. The roof appeared to be in good shape, too. Downstairs, on the lowest floor which descended below street level, were the kitchen with a small oven and four bedrooms. Each bedroom retained its bed and a wardrobe, but Anja suspected new mattresses were likely in order, and the room meant to serve as the servants’ quarters could stand to be refurnished altogether as the smaller, cheaper beds did not withstand the vacancy nearly as well as the more expensive furniture.

Anja sighed. All signs pointed to Honeyside sitting well outside her ability to pay for it. Rental or otherwise. And if the Jarl meant to make good on her less-than-subtle offer to make her a thane…No, she chastised herself, Don’t be stupid. People like me aren’t made thanes. She wouldn’t even know what to do with the title—any title—once she had it. What kind of responsibility did that entail? What kind of perks? Would she have to do certain things? Attend—counsels or something? Dress and act a certain way? Could a thief like her maintain any speck of anonymity with a title slapped across her forehead? Worse, would she have to go legit? She frowned, hating the idea. What would she even do with her life if she wasn’t picking pockets or conning idiots? Honeyside seemed the kind of home better suited to Sonja who relished responsibility and wore it like her favorite cloak. She’d make a good thane, Anja thought miserably, I’d just make an ass out of myself.

But then Sofie bounded into the room, clearly already head over heels in love with the place, and Anja felt her heart clench painfully because that smile as good as sealed her fate: she was going to buy Honeyside. Somehow. Even if she had to rob another Jarl to do it. “Guess I better find out what the asking price is, huh?” she said before Sofie could tell her which room she wanted.

The girl beamed. “Can we really buy this place?”

Anja hesitated. “I’m going to try,” she allowed, “But I can’t make a promise on this one, Kit. Sorry.”

Sofie nodded, a little crestfallen, but understanding. “It is really big,” she said reasonably, “That other house wasn’t so bad…”

“We’ll call that one a backup plan, alright?”

“Deal.”

Anja nodded and looked around the master bedroom, hands on her hips. Gods, that special job in Windhelm better pay damn good.


Eight thousand gold pieces. That was far less expensive than Anja had been anticipating. She squinted at the listing, trying to figure out why the place was so suspiciously cheap. “Is there a problem?” Anuriel politely asked, hovering nearby, waiting for Anja to make up her mind. They were in her private office which was a tidy, small room just off the main hall.

“No. Just mulling over my options,” Anja assured.

“Do you have any questions?”

Anja glanced sideways at Sofie who was doing her best not to fidget in the seat beside her as she looked at the prices listed on the page. She’d learned some figures from Bersi, but she didn’t have a good concept of just how much gold eight thousand pieces really was, so she just looked up at Anja and waited for guidance on how to react. Anja winked; Sofie relaxed.

“The Jarl said the place belonged to a thane once before,” Anja replied as she began to casually leaf through the other property listings, trying to determine why Honeyside wasn’t so highly valued as the homes on the east side of town, “What happened to him?”

Anuriel hesitated. “Tragically, Thane Lake-Heart was waylaid on the road to Ivarstead,” she said in a tone that Anja suspected was intended to sound much more sincere than it actually did, “Bandits robbed and killed both him and his housecarl.”

Anja paused her investigation of property deeds long enough to quirk a gently accusatory eyebrow at the mer steward. “Really?”

The Bosmer forced a smile and nodded. “A great loss to Riften,” she said, tone closer to the mark that time. 

“Ah, so he was well-loved?”

“Of course.” Anuriel shrugged dismissively, then paused before adding, “Though he had his differences with other members of the court, he was a dear favorite of the Jarl.”

“Other members of the court?” Anja repeated, “I’m afraid I’m too new to Riften. Who else enjoys Jarl Laila’s favor?”

The steward nodded, her expression conflicted as she decided whether or not it would be worthwhile for her to fill Anja in. She wasn’t anybody important–yet. But she might be soon. “Undoubtedly, you’ve heard of Maven Black-Briar, matriarch of the Black-Briar clan and owner of the celebrated Black-Briar Meadery,” Anuriel said matter-of-factly, “Maven has served the hold admirably as thane for decades, now.”

It was better that Anja’s public alias remained outwardly unaffiliated with the Guild as much as possible, but she’d known about Maven already. Her role as a thane of Laila’s court was part of what made her such a valuable ally to the Guild in the first place. Always whispering in Laila’s ear…She was able to effectively hide the Guild from the jarlessa’s notice. “Aye. I’ve heard of Maven but we’ve never met,” Anja confirmed and tried not to smirk conspiratorially at the Bosmer.

“She’s a very busy woman,” Anuriel said, pointedly; ‘Far too busy for the likes of you’ remained unspoken, “Next is the Snow-Shod patriarch, Vulwulf, a veteran of the Great War who has served longer than Maven, I believe.”

Anja had heard of the Snow-Shods before but hadn’t had any direct contact with any of them let alone knew anything of their position in court. Couldn’t even pick any of the family out of a crowd if she was pressed. Stole some jewelry out of their home once on a job for Vex, though. Nice home. Cheap jewels. If their abode was anything to go by, they seemed the kind of old blood to be rich in reputation more than coin. “Old clan?”

“The oldest in Riften aside from Jarl Laila’s own family. Prolific in town, also,” Anuriel informed her, nodding, “Vulwulf’s younger son, Asgeir, is Maven’s brewmaster and business partner. The eldest, Unmid, serves as honorable housecarl to Jarl Laila, herself.” Anuriel’s tone changed when she mentioned Unmid, clearly harboring affection for the Nord. Anja wondered if it was reciprocated.

“Impressive.” It all goes back to Black-Briar somehow, doesn’t it?

“And, finally, the Jarlessa’s younger son, Harrald, has recently replaced his brother at court and serves as commander over the city guard.” It was clear Anuriel did not think much of Laila’s son.

The younger Law-Giver replacing the elder was noteworthy, but Anja didn’t know if she cared to pry into that family drama. She had enough of her own to last a lifetime. Uncharacteristically, she chose to hold her tongue instead. Besides, what really mattered was that she indirectly received an answer to her unasked question: who at court had a problem with Thane Lake-Heart? Anuriel had been intentionally and wisely vague, but now that Anja knew who all the players were, it seemed pretty clear that those ‘other members of the court’ beloved Thane Lake-Heart had trouble with were really just one person, and that person was likely Maven Black-Briar. Anja highly doubted the former thane had died an unfortunate victim of circumstance, and Maven was the only member of the court ruthless enough to arrange for the death of a rival which made Anja all the more nervous to tread anywhere near the possibility of replacing him. She cleared her throat. “Thane Lake-Heart must have made an excellent addition to such an honorable court, indeed, if he was ‘a dear favorite of the Jarl’ amongst so many worthy choices,” she pointed out, “How long ago did he pass?”

A small smile quirked at the edges of Anuriel’s mouth as she sensed Anja’s questions were getting at something she was not yet sure of. “Last winter,” she answered, “Before the Saturnalia feasting.”

“How sad. He leave any family behind?”

“He had no family of his own. Never married, no children. Only distant relations in Ivarstead, I believe, but they were not close—nor well off from what I understand.”

Then why was he on his way to Ivarstead during the holiday season when he was attacked? “Couldn’t afford the living?”

Anuriel shook her head. “They received their inheritance and took what they wanted from the house before returning to their private lives. I believe they wish it to remain that way.”

Anja hummed something close to disbelief but managed to swing it into something in the vicinity of acknowledgement. A bribe—or a threat. No one wants to end up on the wrong side of the Black-Briar family. She flipped through another page and her eyes caught on a name that jerked on her attention like an impatient rider with the reins. She looked at the other deeds to be sure that the narrative now forming in her head wasn’t a mistaken one, and then back to the Honeyside deed. Of the eleven properties for sale or rent in Riften, the Honeyside Estate, former residence of beloved and deceased Thane Lake-Heart, was the only one not owned by Maven Black-Briar. Explained why it was affordable by comparison. Maven jacked up the prices on everything else in the city. She’s a land baron, Anja realized, Of course.

It made sense. Though fear-mongering and a proper application of force went a long way toward coercing a community or keeping professional competition in line, an entire city required extra motivation because, simply put, there were a lot more people who hated Maven than wanted to help her. What was stopping them from banding together and righteously taking her head, especially in a country whose people prided themselves on their fierceness of spirit and strong sense of honor? The fact that she could literally turn them all out onto the street without a gold piece to their names certainly helped. Legally, too. She as good as owned them all. Maven could rob every citizen in Riften of their livelihoods, and the law would be on her side. And they call me a criminal, Anja thought darkly. Maven Black-Briar had the only kind of power that mattered to the common folk: the kind that rendered them little better than servants in their own homes.

And it pissed Anja off. If nothing else, she hated bullies, and Maven was queen of them, Thieves Guild patron or no. Never mind that she not only imposed unreasonable rates on her tenants, but she also paid her pet Thieves Guild by milking the same cow twice so every citizen was pinned between a steep rent and a ‘protection fee.’ That I helped collect, she reminded herself, guiltily. No wonder everybody was at the end of their rope. Too bad there isn’t enough to hang Maven with. She sniffed and stared too hard at the Honeyside Estate deed, wondering how the property ended up in the care of the hold rather than in Maven’s back pocket, a trophy for her victory over a rival. “I can pay you half now,” Anja informed the Bosmer, “Half after I move some assets around. That good enough for you?”

Anuriel blinked, clearly surprised that she was able to afford it at all. “O-of course!” she stammered, shocked, “How long will it take you to make up the second payment?”

“Few weeks, hopefully less,” Anja replied vaguely. She didn’t trust the mer as far as she could throw her.

The steward nodded. “I can draw up an agreement and release the home to you upon the receipt of payment in full,” she said, “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Briefly, thoughts of the argument she had with Sofie that morning flitted through Anja’s mind. Do the right thing… but she still wasn’t so sure binding the girl to her was the right thing to do. For either of them. I live in shadow… Anja gave a curt shake of her head. “That’s all,” she answered– Coward–“For now.”

“Then I’ll prepare the first receipt.”

“And we’ll retrieve the first payment.” Anja nodded to Sofie, and the pair of them quickly slipped out of the office and back out into the main hall of the keep. The moment they were outside again and clear of the courtyard, Sofie glared sideways at Anja.

“That was really boring,” the girl complained.

Anja snorted. “Oh, I’m sure. But, it’s done now.”

“Why were you asking so many questions about that thane?”

“Curiosity, mostly. Might be good to know.” It was a little more complicated than that, but she didn’t want to worry Sofie unnecessarily. “Did nothing of what the steward said sound fishy to you?”

Sofie hesitated, thinking, and then shrugged. “I dunno. People get killed all the time, but…”

“But…?” Anja prompted.

“I don’t think she cared much that he was dead, even though she was talking like it.”

Anja smiled and tweaked Sofie’s braid. “Catch onto that, did you?”

Sofie nodded. “Maybe nobody liked him as much as she said?”

“Could be. No one likes to speak ill of the dead,” Anja agreed, frowning, “Even if they deserve it.” Under normal circumstances, Anja would quiz the local innkeeper for more information on a local public figure, but Keerava and Talen-Jei hated her, so she didn’t think she’d get very far with either of them. Asking someone in the Guild was probably also an unwise decision due to the possible Maven connection. I wonder if Bersi knows anything. It was possible. Honeyside Estate was close enough that Thane Lake-Heart had been his neighbor. Anja hummed thoughtfully to herself.

“Does it matter?” Sofie asked as they neared The Pawned Prawn.

“If he was liked?”

“Aye.”

Anja gave a curt shake of her head. “No. Not really. Either way, we’re buying that house before the end of next month–provided everything goes according to plan.”

Sofie skipped a couple steps with excitement. “And we can really afford it?” she asked in disbelief.

“Luckily—unbelievably—strangely, aye. We can,” Anja replied, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel a little good to purchase something legitimately—even if her coin was the result of seedy employment.

“We’ll have a home.” Sofie still sounded like she couldn’t believe it.

Anja quirked a smile and rustled the girl’s hair again. “Aye, Kit-Cat. We’ll have a home.” It made her heart ache to say it. But in a good way. In the best way.


Unfortunately, the entirety of Anja’s day couldn’t be spent having fun with Sofie. There was still Guild work to be done, deals to make, prices to pay, and a Sapphire to appease. So, after she and Sofie made the first payment on Honeyside, bought another honey-treat on their way back through the market square, and Sofie returned to The Pawned Prawn—with Bersi's order from Bolli—Anja swiftly made her way to the Ratway. It seemed a safer bet not to stroll into the Cistern through the back door with a new face, so Anja went the long way around: through the Ragged Flagon. 

In the darkness of the Ratway, her unaltered silhouette and familiar armor caused several Guild members to do a double take. Especially Dirge, who was a bit slow, but before he could harass her for being a stranger, Delvin started chuckling obnoxiously loud and threw out both his hands wide like he was expecting an embrace. “Well, well, well,” he purred, “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, Tyv! Jus’ look at you!”

Anja smiled prettily at him and winked at Dirge who still looked a touch confused. “Face sculptor,” she clarified when it appeared he was still failing to understand. Comprehension dawned for him then and he let her pass. “Name’s not Tyv anymore, Delvin,” she informed the master thief as she took a seat opposite him.

“Right. What do I call you, then?”

She hummed thoughtfully, tapping an index finger against her bizarrely new chin. “How about Nix?”

Delvin made a face. “Too similar.”

“Fair.” She feigned further thought. “Vos?”

“Too Imperial.”

“Too true—letsee…” She took a deep breath. “Lori? Tessa? Claire?”

“You’re just spouting names, now. And no self-respecting thief would call ‘erself Claire.

Anja laughed. “Dace.”

Delvin hesitated. “Dace,” he repeated. She nodded. “Ain’t that a bloke’s name?”

She canted her head. “Is it?” she asked with obviously feigned ignorance, “I didn’t know. I just like the name.”

The old Breton shrugged. “It oddly suits you,” he allowed, “So, Dace , you here to acquaint your brothers and sisters with your new face?” He laughed at his own rhyme.

“One in particular,” she answered, scrunching up her nose at Delvin's joke.

“Brynjolf?” Delvin Mallory didn’t have an innocent bone in his body, but even still, Anja expected him to do a better job of pretending to pose an innocuous question.

Her eyes narrowed. “Now why would you say that?”

Delvin shrugged. “He’s been looking for you.”

“Oh? Am I in trouble with him, too?”

A vague attempt to suppress a smile. “Seemed more—concerned, actually.”

Anja snorted with laughter. “Brimming with worry, I’m sure.”

“Better go talk to the man. Put his mind at ease.”

She waved him off, feigning indifference. “If I have time,” she replied coyly, “But I was wondering if Sapphire was around?”

At the mention of the Thieves Guild’s most volatile member, Delvin quirked an eyebrow. “Aye, she’s around,” he said, “Wha’d’ya want with ‘er?”

“Sisterly bonding?”

Delvin scoffed, unconvinced. “Good luck.” He nodded toward the back.

Anja winked at him, rose from her seat, and swiftly headed for the door into the Cistern. Again, it wasn’t until she got close that the other members noticed she did not look like the person they had assumed her to be at a distance. As soon as she started speaking and a familiar voice passed her pretty lips, however, they put two and two together and relaxed. Rune, in particular, liked her freckles. “You’re so cute!” he teased and reached for her cheek for an ill-advised pinch.

“Ugh, I know!” she lamented, deftly swatting his hand away, “But cute isn’t nearly as distracting as I need it to be.”

Thrynn shrugged. “I like freckles,” he stated, bluntly.

Rune huffed out a laugh. “Distracting, maybe not,” he reasoned, tucking his fingers safely away in the loop of his belt, “But no one’s going to look at you and think ‘thief,’ either. That’s for sure. They’ll never see you coming.”

Anja grinned mischievously. “They never do.”

Her guildmates snickered appreciatively. “Brynjolf was looking for you earlier, by the way,” Rune informed her. His tone was too casual which would have been suspicious had it been anybody else, but Rune was—not quite harmless ; he was a criminal, after all, but as near to it as a thief could be: he was obvious.

“So I heard,” Anja sniffed, disinterestedly.

“Trouble brewing? Or opportunity?”

“They’re usually one and the same,” she pointed out and winked.

Rune scoffed, and Thrynn listened silently with a far more convincing expression of indifference on his face than Rune could manage, but he was curious; he’d be stupid not to be. Sometimes it paid off to scavenge for jobs at the feet of more successful thieves. Just not today. She might still be in hot water with Brynjolf, despite Delvin’s assurances. Besides, she was already throwing Thrynn a bone with the special job in Windhelm. Greedy. She liked that about him. “Sapphire?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Trying her hand at the locks, again,” Thrynn answered.

Anja frowned. “Oh good,” she sighed, sarcastically, “She’ll be in a good mood, then.” Lockpicking was not Sapphire’s strong suit. She was known to get regularly violent with the chests in the training area. Rune and Thrynn exchanged smirks as Anja reluctantly moved passed them in search of the perpetually grumpy thief.

She heard Sapphire’s grumbling long before she turned the corner to see her crouched in front of the dummy chest with the easiest lock, alone, jaw set so tight it had to ache, and brow furrowed. Sapphire did not hear or see Anja, however; she was too focused on what she was doing to notice the slight, smooth movement of a superior thief in her peripheral, and Anja was generally too good to be heard. It was easy to slip in behind Sapphire and watch over her shoulder as her inelegant fingers twisted futilely at her cheap, spindly lockpicks. She’s going to break them… Nearly as soon as the thought floated through her mind, did the thin metal snap beneath Sapphire’s white-knuckle grip. “Godsdamnit,” Sapphire swore and forcefully flung the ruined pick straight into the stone floor where a graveyard of others had formed around her feet. Sofie’s much better than this, Anja assessed, unimpressed with her fellow thief’s lack of finesse.

While Sapphire searched her pockets for a fresh lockpick, Anja sidestepped her and plopped down on the lid of the chest, scaring the absolute Oblivion out of the unsuspecting Nord woman. Sapphire swore again and fell backwards off her haunches in surprise. Anja caught her arm and pulled her forward before she landed on her ass. “Don’t touch me!” Sapphire snapped, recoiling and standing to her full, intimidating Nordic height. “Damn new recruits! Know your place!”

Anja cocked an unimpressed eyebrow and glared back at her. “This is why you have no friends,” she pointed out.

Sapphire blinked blankly as her expression turned through a series of emotions at the sound of a familiar, flippant voice: confusion, recognition, comprehension, before finally settling on annoyance. “Tyv.”

“It’s Dace now.”

With a vague shadow of curiosity, Sapphire’s gaze wandered over Anja’s new features before finally locking back onto familiar, brilliant, and mischievous blue eyes. “Have you heard the rumor about why the Face Sculptor ended up down here in the Ratway instead of prettying up Dominion faces back in the Summerset Isles?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and adopting her usual surly demeanor.

“Not interested.”

“Made a bloody mess of the wrong face,” she continued as if Anja had not objected, “Did alright with yours, though.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Unbelievably, something like the specter of a smile curled at the edges of Sapphire’s mouth. “I assume you’re here for a reason.”

“And I assume you know what that is.”

“Who was he?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. To Brynjolf.”

Anja barked out a humorless laugh. “You want me to believe you haven’t already told him? Hmm? Not even during a little pillow talk?”

Sapphire openly frowned and shook her head. “No.”

Anja hummed her disbelief, but she appreciated Sapphire’s flat statement. Made it practically impossible to determine whether or not she was lying, but she was convinced she was, regardless. She had to be. Why would Sapphire keep information like that from a guild master and lover? Anja sighed theatrically. “Well, the Good Captain is no one for you to worry your pretty little head about, jewel. He’s a friend.”

“Some friend. He didn’t seem to know too much about you.” 

Anja shrugged and leaned back on her palms, lounging, but didn’t otherwise respond. She had no intention of giving Sapphire more to use against her than she already had. “I’m a very busy woman, Sapphire, so I’ll get to the point,” she stated bluntly, “You did me a good turn. I want to know how much it cost me.”

“Look,” Sapphire said sharply, “I don’t have a problem protecting the Guild. This place is my home. And you’re—you’re part of the Guild now, so…”

“Aw, I didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

“…But I’m not a charity.”

“A girl can dream,” Anja lamented, “So, how much are we talking, here? Fifty gold?”

Sapphire scoffed.

“Fine. Twist my arm. Fifty-five gold?” She batted her eyes prettily at the other woman, wordlessly prodding at her.

“I don’t want your coin.”

“Why on Nirn not? Spends just as good. Thief’s honor!”

“I want in on the Windhelm job.”

Anja blinked. “Pardon? I think I blacked out there for a moment.”

“You heard me.”

“Don’t be stupid. Just take the gold. I’ll even play the part of charitable and double it.” Anja would rather pay a steep price than have Sapphire along on dangerous business. Her guildmate was moody and violent and a mediocre thief, at best. She couldn’t trust her as a person let alone as a professional. Sapphire would only get her and Thrynn killed; Anja was nearly certain of that.

“I. Want. In,” Sapphire insisted.

Anja groaned. “Name. Another. Price.” She could be stubborn, too. She was an Ironheart, after all.

The larger woman edged closer, towering over Anja’s far more petite frame. “I’m not stupid, you know…”

“Mmmm, your word, not mine.”

“…I know what you think of me—what the whole damn Guild thinks of me—but there’s a reason Delvin brought me into the Guild,” she argued, “I can do this. I just need a chance.” Her eyes narrowed. “You owe me.”

Anja’s forefinger tapped against one of the hinges of the chest as she regarded Sapphire. This is personal. It was unlikely that she was going to successfully dissuade her from wanting in on the job, no matter what she said. There was more to it than coin, and that was never a good thing when negotiating. How does one counter the value of something as variable as sentimentality? Besides, there was something familiar and desperate about the way Sapphire was pleading for someone to give her a chance that reminded her of—someone else—who just needed one person to try their luck on them. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, annoyed. “I have conditions,” she relented.

Sapphire’s mouth actually fell open in surprise. “I’m in?”

Fishing out her lockpick, Anja hummed an affirmative. “But if you want to make the most of this opportunity, you need to follow my lead,” she stated, “It’s me they’re asking for in Windhelm. Not you. Not Thrynn. And I need you both backing me up, savvy?”

Sapphire straightened slightly even as she rolled her eyes. “Aye. You’re in charge. Fine.”

“Good.” Anja nodded. “And I’m not paying you,” she added to which Sapphire’s expression instantly twisted into a snarl, “I’ve already worked out the split with Thrynn. It’s not his fault you’re weaseling your way into our arrangement, but you’re free to steal whatever you want in Windhelm. Just don’t get caught. I won’t come for your sorry arse if you find yourself locked up in Ulfric’s dungeons.”

“You came for Rune.”

“I like Rune.”

Sapphire sneered, “I still want a cut. Got to eat somehow.”

“There’s none left to give you.”

“Half of yours will do.”

Anja’s eye twitched imperceptibly. “Quarter.”

Sapphire wasn’t satisfied with so little, but it was better than nothing, and if she kept pressing the issue of her pay, it would become necessary to renegotiate terms with Thrynn. His involvement definitely wouldn’t work out in her favor since she’d be cutting into his profits, and she didn’t fancy arguing two against one. “Deal. Anything else?”

Anja smirked, fed her pick into the lock of the dummy chest, and lazily swirled it between her fingers. It clicked open. “Get better lockpicks,” she instructed, standing and kicking the lid back with a casual little twitch of her foot. Sapphire glared at her but nodded uncharacteristically mute. She must really want this. Maybe that wasn’t so bad in the long run. She was less likely to screw it up if she cared. “We leave after the Harvest’s End,” she informed her, “Bright and early.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“We’ll see,” Anja grumbled and slinked out of the practice room.

She hesitated when she returned to the Cistern. Brynjolf wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to go looking for him. She should , she knew. It was best to find out where exactly she stood with him. Delvin said he wasn’t angry–but worried isn’t always better. Sapphire said she hadn’t told him. But he was right there! He had to know or suspect something, regardless of whether or not Sapphire actually managed to keep her mouth shut. There was no other reason he’d give a damn about her otherwise if she wasn’t on a job. By all that was nefarious and profitable, she purposefully did not think about the kiss. He’s worried about the Guild , she concluded, Not about me . That had been his greatest concern the last time they spoke: if whatever she was running from was a danger to his home. A valid fear. One for which she could not fault him. I have to come up with a convincing story about the Captain. Sapphire’s questions were easy enough to dodge; Brynjolf’s wouldn’t be. He’d want more, and he was much harder to lie to.

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose to stave off an encroaching headache. She needed air and time to think. Quickly, she headed for the graveyard exit. Lost in her own thoughts, she managed to successfully leave the Cistern and weave her way through the tombstones toward the main road before a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. “Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying. Eh, lass?” Brynjolf drawled.

Anja stutter-stepped, nearly tripping over herself. Balls. She did not like being taken by surprise–or feeling graceless. “You say that to all the girls,” she accused charmingly and turned to face him with a particularly cheeky toss of her hair–the best use for long hair she’d come to find so far.

“Only the ones worthwhile,” Brynjolf said, smirking, “And the ones I have to recruit twice.” He stood beneath an archway in the wall of Mara’s holy temple, leaning lazily against an obliging pillar. In one hand, he held a greasy paper bag like the ones from the market. He selected a treat from its depths, crunched it loudly between his teeth, and licked his fingers clean. Slowly. Anja’s eye twitched. She could smell the caramelized sugar from where she stood. Candied nuts. Just like the ones she and Sofie were enjoying earlier that morning. She wondered if that was intentional or merely innocent happenstance. Nothing about Brynjolf is innocent…

She didn’t let her smile falter, regardless. “That why you’re out here lurking, Bryn? Looking to recruit a fresh face? Hmm?” She took a couple of steps in his direction, light, casual, controlled, but careful to maintain plenty of space between them.

Brynjolf looked vaguely affronted. “I don’t lurk.”

“You do and you are, but I get it, darling.” She winked. “I am well worth the wait, but there are easier ways to find me.”

He scoffed, tossed another nut into his mouth, and devoured it. “Aye, lass, that’s sort of the problem,” he said pointedly.

Well, shit. She pointed at her face. “Problem solved,” she declared cheerily, “New name. New face.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Aye. Galathil does good work.” She batted her eyes prettily at him as if to demonstrate his observation; he smiled in spite of himself, but he took an honest moment to really take in her new appearance. She fought the urge to squirm beneath his studying gaze.

Usually, she loved attention. The right kind. The kind she controlled. She was good at directing a mark’s gaze where she wanted it, wrapping up their senses in a haze of her particularly heady brand of allure. But the way Brynjolf was looking at her made her feel pinned down . Like those pretty moths and butterflies skewered with silver needles in alchemical shop display cases. A specimen trapped behind glass. She tried not to let her uneasiness creep into her expression as Brynjolf’s eyes traced over the resculpted contours of her cheek bones, the reshaped point of her chin, and the freshly carved slope of her nose. He lingered on her lips. She saw it. She felt the heat of his gaze, but he said nothing, merely wet his own lips and ate another candy.

“Well,” she said, sighing with relief to have the moment ended, “I might not be as lovely as before, but I’m certainly cute.” She grinned.

“You’re gorgeous, lass, and you know it,” he stated bluntly, “And, under different circumstances, I’d love to sit here and go rounds with you like we always do, but this is important.”

Anja sighed. “Spoilsport. It’s so unlike you to be direct. I don’t think I like it.” A guilty little part of her did, if she was being honest with herself which she wasn’t as a general rule.

“Lonely-Gale.”

She blinked. “Very direct.”

“He cornered Sapphire in the market, asking about you.”

“‘Cornered’ is a bit of a strong word, Bryn. Don’t be so dramatic. That’s my job.”

I was there,” he said, sharply, and Anja pursed her lips, “But you knew that already, didn’t you, lass?” She didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear; what answer would land her in deeper trouble. “Nocturnal’s ass, of course you already knew.”

“Does that really surprise you? I’m always ahead of the game, dear,” she sniffed, “Wouldn’t it be worse if I didn’t know about him until you told me? Surely, that’s not a better alternative.”

“He still got too close.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“He was in the Flagon. That’s too fucking close.”

Anja winced. The Captain was really too thorough for her own good. “Didn’t ask after me then, though. Did he?”

Brynjolf’s expression flattened. “What don’t you already know?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Let’s play a little game, shall we? Keep talking, and we’ll find out together.”

Obviously, displeased, Brynjolf gave a curt shake of his head. “No, lass, he didn’t even take advantage of his acquaintance with Delvin. But he paid Galathil a visit. Now, why would he do that, I wonder? The very same night you engaged her services, too.”

From his point of view, it definitely looked bad. Oblivion, from Anja’s point of view not long ago, it looked bad, and she still wasn’t particularly comfortable with it even now. She’d felt practically caught by Lonely-Gale when he’d dropped that damning piece of information on her over breakfast. She could imagine how skittish it made Brynjolf on behalf of the Guild. “My, my,” she sighed, stressing how unimpressed she was, “Someone was certainly a busy bee.”

“He’s a bounty hunter, Tyv.”

Pirate hunter, and the name’s not Tyv, anymore.”

He took a deep breath through his nose. “He’s bad news for the likes of us, lass. Delvin knows him from way back…”

“Delvin knows everybody from way back.”

“He’s not to be trifled with,” Brynjolf stated, his frustration with her dismissiveness growing more apparent, “A man like that? If—if he’s looking for you, he won’t stop until he has you. Like that damn dog of his, he doesn’t give up the trail. He’s done far worse to bloodier men. Better thieves than us have fallen to his blade…”

“There is no thief better than me,” Anja corrected with extreme confidence.

“Even the best have shit days.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed. She did not like having her own words thrown back in her face. “Mara’s bleeding heart, Bryn. I get it! But Lonely-Gale’s only concerned with me. He’s got no reason to go after the Guild…”

“The Guild?” he repeated, “I’m not worried about the Guild.”

She stared at him for several painful heartbeats as his undeclared ‘I’m worried about you’ hung heavy in the air between them. She cleared her throat. “Bryn…” she began.

“Why is he after you?” he demanded, interrupting her, “Is it to do with Windhelm?”

Anja’s mouth shut with a snap. Well, shit. It wasn’t as if she’d expected Delvin to keep his mouth shut about her little escapade through the streets of Windhelm, but she had just sat across from the man in the Flagon not a half hour ago, and he hadn’t given her the slightest indication that he’d told Brynjolf anything about it. Mephala’s forked tongue, the old rogue’s slyer than I give him credit for. “What don’t you already know?” she countered after a moment’s silence.

“Want to play another game?”

She breathed out a soft laugh. “No,” she refused because there was nothing Delvin knew that Brynjolf shouldn’t know. Though now she was growing ever more concerned about Rune’s ability to keep his mouth shut. “I think I’m done playing games for today.”

Brynjolf’s brow furrowed. “Now, lass…”

“Lonely-Gale’s not a problem,” she interrupted, “He and I have come to an understanding.”

“Oh?” Brynjolf looked skeptical. “Delvin didn’t think he could be bought.”

Anja shook her head. “No, no. He’s too honorable. His pride wouldn’t allow it,” she agreed, “So, I–heh–appealed to his honor, instead.”

He canted his head. “I don’t follow.”

It wasn’t strictly necessary for him to know how she and Lonely-Gale wound up ‘allies’ of a sort and, really, all it would do was lead to more questions, but if it could sate his curiosity enough for him to stop worrying about her, then maybe it was worth it. She calculated the risk and made her decision. “I saved his life,” she admitted, “Don’t make me get into it. It’s not important, anyway. Suffice it to say, that I could have let him die and–didn’t.”

“He owes you a life debt, then?” He looked vaguely impressed.

She nodded. That hadn’t been the goal when she chose to save the Captain’s life, but that’s how it all shook out and there were certainly worse outcomes.

“That’s a risk. It might not have gone that way.”

“I know. But…” she trailed off. There weren’t a lot of ways to end that sentence that didn’t make her sound naïve, and she wanted Brynjolf to think she was in complete control. Nocturnal’s dusky tits, she wanted to believe she was in complete control, too. “Honorable people are bound by their honorable rules,” she said at length, tone hardening, “A chain as good as any–especially here in Skyrim.” She gestured carelessly with a graceful wave of her hand. “A risk? Yes. But good odds.”

Brynjolf scoffed and moved away from the wall, leathers scraping against stone as he stepped out into the sun, smooth, cool, and detached. Like a snake. He was close enough to touch her, if he was so inclined, but he didn’t; the paper sack rustled in his hands like he was thinking about it, though. He looked her dead in the eye, a small smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. “You’re maddening. You know that, lass?” he muttered; she scoffed. “Of course you do.”

She could see the temptation in his eyes–not to ravish her (probably) though his proximity was certainly putting that idea into her head–but to pry. To ask what dangers she had faced to save a man who, as far as he knew, had come to rob her of her freedom at best, of her life at worst. To his credit, he held his tongue. Likely because he knew pressing her wouldn’t do him any good, but there was something like trust between them, too. Not the wholesome kind that warmed Bersi’s home; it was the kind with which professionals–masters of the craft–regarded one another. He could trust her skill, if nothing else. It made Anja nervous, of course; closeness of any kind always did, but if she had to choose, she preferred it that way. She wouldn’t know what to do or how to act if the more intimate variety blossomed between them. “You like a touch of madness in your life, Bryn,” she teased with more confidence than she actually felt, “It keeps things interesting. I keep things interesting.”

He hummed something like an affirmative. “That you do, little nightingale,” he sighed so heavily a soft growl issued at the back of his throat, “Alright. If you’re sure he’s sorted…”

“I am. He is. It’s handled.”

Brynjolf nodded. “Then–I’ll take your word for it.”

Anja smiled, pleased. “Good.”

He swayed forward slightly, head bent, and eyes glued to her mouth, but he stopped short several inches from kissing her. Anja debated whether it was wise to meet him halfway because she really wanted to. It was a foolish mistake last time. Don’t be stupid. Business and pleasure should NEVER mix. “I should go,” he stated so abruptly, Anja briefly wondered if she had spoken her inner struggle aloud. She hadn’t, but it seemed that Brynjolf might have been thinking in the same vein because his tone sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. “I should go,” he repeated.

“Aye,” she agreed, reluctantly, “You should.”

He huffed, disgruntled, through his nose, and handed her the candy. “For you and the bairn,” he said before stalking off toward the crypt entrance to the Cistern, “Since you enjoyed them so much this morning.”

Anja blinked several times, looking down at the bag in her hand, and frowned. It had been intentional after all. He’d seen her with Sofie in the marketplace. Maybe even followed her? She didn’t know. What she did know was she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him the entire time which was deeply disconcerting. Even the best have shit days, indeed. “See, this is what I mean about lurking, Bryn,” she said irritably.

He laughed, but didn’t stop or so much as look at her over his shoulder. “You two make a cute pair of troublemakers,” he said, “A lot of thieves get their start much the same way. Younger even.”

“Bit too young for recruitment!” she insisted, warning hot in her voice like molten steel.

The scrape of stone against stone as the hidden entrance into the Cistern revealed itself once more indicated that Brynjolf was already half gone; she doubted he’d heard her, but his head poked back out of the crypt doorway. “Don’t worry, Tyv. Your little one’s safe from me,” he assured her and winked before disappearing from view again.

“That’s not my name anymore!” she grumbled, but it didn’t seem Brynjolf much cared what her new name was as the sound of the secret entrance sliding back into place echoed forth again. Ugh. Delvin’ll tell him. She waved her free hand in the empty air before her as if to dismiss her thoughts of Brynjolf entirely and let out a long, low sigh of relief. Alone. Blissfully alone. “This is why I don’t have friends,” she muttered to herself and munched on a candied nut before trudging back toward The Pawned Prawn, ignoring how very untrue that was.


In the privacy of his bedchamber, Brynjolf poured himself a glass of fine wine. The same as the one he poured for Tyv–Dace, now, Delvin said–the night she came back from Goldenglow victorious. The night she was both the thief of the hour and the bearer of bad news. The night he purchased a little truth from her (at quite the premium!) and caught a glimpse of a darker edge to her pretty smile. The night she kissed him breathless and made him briefly forget his own name. There was no way he’d ever be able to drink that particular vintage again and think of anything but how it tasted from her lips. Beautiful Dibella have mercy on him and his frustrating, growing attraction to a lass so pretty no matter what face she wore and so very irksome in nearly everything she did.

And, boy, was she fucking irksome. Brynjolf was not a man whose feathers were easily ruffled. Especially by a woman. Sure, he’d indulge when he wanted to. Scratch that itch when the opportunity presented itself in fashion appetizing enough to whet his desires, but anything longer than a hot and heavy tussle in a rented room, convenient closet, abandoned alleyway, or dark corner was not really his style. There were only two women he’d paid the courtesy of spending an entire night with. They were the best of friends, apparently inseparable (not that he minded), and he hadn’t the strength to walk afterward, so–bit of a technicality, really. At any rate, he’d left them both behind when he returned to Skyrim, and enjoyed the company of many more conquests since; those beautiful Dunmer lasses were nothing to him now but a distant and pleasant memory. A very pleasant memory. To Brynjolf, women were a lot like the art that hung upon the walls of his bedchamber: pretty things to be admired and enjoyed, but difficult to maintain and dangerous to possess.

He turned to admire such a piece, his favorite–an oil on canvas of a Dibellan priestess dancing naked in a grove. A beauty perfect and unashamed, all youth unblemished by time or worry, slopes of her body soft and plump, eyes inviting and promising. He’d fallen in love with her instantly when he was in the midst of robbing a Breton lord in his youth and compromised the whole job just to successfully liberate her from her unappreciative former owner. Probably one of the most gallant things he’d ever done. Pity she wasn’t real. He used to jest with Delvin that until the Divines crafted a woman fairer than the perfect one lovingly depicted in the portrait, then no woman could possibly be worth the risk he had taken to secure her. He frowned and tapped his finger impatiently against the rim of his goblet; his painted priestess merely smiled back at him, demure and unconcerned as always. Without challenge. Without fire.

The problem lie not in how much he enjoyed Tyv’s–Dace, damnit!–kiss or the curve of her hips in his hands. If that was all it was, then everything would be much simpler. He’d seduce her if she was willing, have a wank if she was not, and move on. Done. But no, because the issue wasn’t merely that he wanted to bend her over the Guild’s treasure hoard and make her see stars; he actually liked her. Respected her, even. As a professional, certainly. As a person, surprisingly, the feeling was growing. One delightfully naughty romp in the shadows was not going to cut it. Oblivion, one kiss hadn’t been enough. It took all of his self-control not to kiss her again when he met with her in the graveyard, and he had been upset with her not two moments before. That was a problem.

Particularly in light of the bounty hunter business. Former Captain Lonely-Gale was a blade of a certain sharpness. He was not the kind to go after small prey, nor the kind to be hired to hunt it; that would be a waste of the man’s talents, according to Delvin. So, either someone sent a hammer when a dagger would have sufficed, Tyv–Dace, whatever –deeply pissed off the wrong person that much, or–most troubling–she was actually dangerous enough to merit such special attention. Previous to Windhelm and Goldenglow, Brynjolf would have chalked the whole thing up to some idiot noble’s wounded pride, but now he wasn’t so sure. She’s just that dangerous, he thought and felt it in his bones that he was right, And probably pissed the wrong people off into the bargain, too. Fuck.

Emotion of a–romantic–variety didn’t really serve a thief of any sort, let alone one of his caliber. And yet, it was growing evermore difficult to keep that in perspective when it felt like Dace–no–his little nightingale was born to get under his skin, and half the time, he wasn’t sure if he liked that about her or not. Brynjolf’s grip tightened on the goblet. The silver warmed beneath his fingers. This won’t do…Whatever he wanted, whatever was possible or wise or safe, his little nightingale was trouble. The good kind, the profitable kind, but still trouble of the highest order: chaos in tight leather with a shrewd business sense. His weakness if he ever had one. That was bad. That was very bad. That was–what got Gallus killed. He blinked, brow furrowing at the thought and a sharp intake of breath whistling passed his barely parted lips. That was a sobering thought.

Divines, I’m not falling in love with the lass! He reminded himself. Gallus had been deeply involved with Karliah for years before her betrayal ended his life. All Brynjolf desired was a very thorough and indefinitely repeatable tumble in the sheets. But the old Guild Master’s tragic story suddenly felt like a more immediately relevant cautionary tale than it ever had before. A thief can’t afford anything he can’t steal. Chiefly, honesty, loyalty, and, most importantly, love.

He exhaled long and slow through his nose, drained his glass, and poured another. There was nothing for it. He needed more information. His little nightingale was always two steps ahead, so he had to make the effort to remain a step ahead of her. Swiftly, goblet in hand, he strode straight to his writing desk to do a bit of correspondence. 

He’d given Tyv his word that she could remain ‘just Tyv’ within the Guild, that she didn’t have to reveal her past to him or anyone else, that he would respect her precious anonymity because–well–originally, he had really only been asking to sate his own curiosity and thought he would have plenty of time to charm the finer details out of her at a much more enjoyable pace. Maybe that was still true. Maybe another late night drink was the key to dispelling some of the mystery surrounding her, but he wasn’t going to leave it to chance anymore. The longer she remained an enigma, the harder she got to solve. Besides, she wasn’t Tyv anymore; never really had been by his estimation. She was Dace, now, with a new face to match. So what did it matter if he kept his promise to a woman who existed no longer? This was just smart business, right? Protecting his investment?


Llyr slowly made his way through Riften’s overcrowded market square. The place was alive with color and heat and delectable aromas. It was pleasantly noisy; the kind of din percussed from laughter and the boisterous shouts of eager, happy people. It made Llyr feel less alone, and when he had consulted the spirits of the air early that morning as to where he really wanted to be–back home in the frozen north, near the tomb of his dead wife or remain in Riften where he’d found something unexpected in the company of friends the evening before–the spirits very clearly declared his heart’s true desire, to his profound surprise.

He felt guilty at first. Like he was somehow betraying Yiri’s memory for wanting to stay in Riften, but the feeling lessened as the morning wore on, and the city slowly came alive for the festival. It warmed him. He likened it to breathing again after swimming beneath the surface for too long. Only, he hadn’t realized just how badly he had needed to breathe before; as though burning lungs and hazy, haloed vision had become normal. Desirable, even. He tried not to think too much about it, and let the pleasant chatter and movement carry him away, instead. A new current to drift on.

Around midmorning, he left the city to run Rahna. This time they walked along the shoreline of Lake Honrich and not too far from the assistance of a patrolling guard or the Khajiit caravan. Though he was reasonably certain he didn’t have two Thalmor agents on his tail, it was better safe than sorry and better allowed him to enjoy the lake. He was always drawn to the water. Even as a boy, the sea called to him. Lake Honrich was not the Sea of Ghosts, but it was big and crystal clear and rippled beautifully in the sunlight. And Rahna loved it. He laughed as he watched his massive canine companion splash in the shallows, nipping at the droplets of sunshine she made from stomping through the water.

Ultimately, he decided to fish for his afternoon meal and returned to town to stop in on Bersi at The Pawned Prawn to purchase or borrow fishing tackle if he had it. Raef and Sofie were out when he arrived, but the shopkeep was delighted to see him, as always, which Llyr found less annoying now that he’d gotten to know the man better. He was a well-meaning, honest soul and perhaps in need of a little male bonding now that he was outnumbered by Drifa, Sofie, and Raef. Not that it was a bad thing. Bersi’s home was full, and that was always a blessing. It was hard to come home to an empty house. Llyr knew that only too well.

Ever eager to please, Bersi tried to lend Llyr the fishing tackle straight off the shelf free of charge. Llyr had to put his coin on the counter and walk away from it to pay him for its use and the purchase of a few other supplies, he was so stubborn. Another admirable trait, in Llyr’s opinion. Put to good use, stubborn hearts loved fiercely and lived long. That was all anyone could wish upon a friend. “Give Drifa my best,” Llyr said in farewell as he backed toward the door.

Bersi nodded, still smiling though he was making a show out of grudgingly accepting Llyr’s money. “Do you have plans for supper tonight?” he asked.

“Just to enjoy the festival.”

“Good! One of the only good things about Riften: the Harvest’s End. You’re welcome to join us!”

Llyr smiled, hand poised on the latch, but he was genuinely pleased with the invite. “If it’s no trouble…”

“You’re never any trouble,” Bersi assured, “We’ll be taking supper at The Bee and Barb just after dark if we’re lucky enough to get a table. We’ll save you a seat.”

“I look forward to it,” Llyr said, and with a final nod of farewell, he slipped back into Riften’s city streets with Rahna on his heels. From the market, he picked up a couple of bottles of mead, a few delectable vegetables fresh from the farms just outside the city walls, and a small pouch of seasoning before meandering his way back out to Lake Honrich. 

He was unhurried in his pace and not too concerned with finding the best fishing spot, merely a nice shaded space to sit and build a fire. A spot presented itself a little close to the road to Ivarstead, but Llyr hadn’t seen much traffic coming or going, so he veered off the path, tamped the grass down, and made himself comfortable. Perhaps it was the act of busy work that he liked: a series of simple tasks that amounted to something. Even if that something was only building a fire, preparing his tackle, or roasting the garlic in the hot coals. It was meditative in its neatness. Comforting like the sunlight dappling the earth around him and the dozing shape of Rahna as she lulled in the heat from the fire. Small like the flutter of the breeze through the reeds and the grass or the leaves of the birch tree he leaned against. Everything fit together from the gentle ripple of the lake to the growing scent of garlic in the air and the cold mead leaning against his knee. Not even the sharp tug on his line broke the serenity of it.

Skillfully–for he had eaten many, many fish living and working on a coast for two decades–he gutted and cleaned the mid-sized but fat trout, tossing the guts to Rahna who gobbled them up with a snap of her sharp teeth. The iron skillet had already been warming for a little while so he checked its temperature with a splash of water across its surface. It sizzled, hot and inviting. He cooked the fish whole in butter, rubbed with the softened garlic, and seasoned with salt, frost mirriam, and sorrel. The way Yiri used to make it. There was a twinge of sadness at that thought, but he smiled too. It was comforting to know his hands were doing work she had done countless times before. He tended to his lunch diligently, careful not to overcook the tender flesh of the trout, and when it was near done, he added chopped leeks and green beans into the skillet to fry alongside it, softening and absorbing the savor of the fish. It smelled fantastic. It tasted even better. Yiri would have been proud.

Satiated, he tossed Rahna his scraps, opened the second mead bottle, and relaxed against the birch tree, thoughtful but not focused. The sun had traveled farther across the sky, painting the light in mid-afternoon colors: bright and golden. He let himself just live in it for a while. Alone, but not lonely. Not for the moment, at least. “I miss you,” he whispered into the wind because he did. Every. Damn. Day. But it felt less urgent on his tongue than ever before. He felt closer to her there by the lake and surrounded by so much beauty than he did in the cold, dark, and empty rooms of their home. If he spoke to her there, against that birch tree, maybe she’d hear it. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, “I love you.” If he was still in himself long enough, maybe he’d hear her answer, too. The wind fluttered passed, smelling of juniper. He smiled.


At the heart of Mistveil Keep there was a large, well-kept courtyard at the center of which was a small orchard of half a dozen apple trees arranged in a wide circle. Two gravel paths cut through the courtyard and its orchard from north to south and east to west. At the crossroads of these walkways was a large gazebo masterfully carved with Nordic knots and totems of Mara’s fierce and protective wolf, but the arches of each of the eight sides were too smooth to have been hewn by any mortal’s hands. They had been sung into place, a long time ago, by sacred Bosmeri songs. A gift for a service that long since passed from memory. Curtains of hanging moss delicately clung to the edges of the charred eaves of the roof, and climbing ivy peppered with white blossoms snaked up each post from the flower beds at its feet. 

The smell of apple blossoms, lavender, and mountain flowers permeated the courtyard in the warmer months. Now, in the fall, fat yellow apples hung heavy and ripe off the boughs of every tree, waiting to be picked. A few had already fallen to the ground, bruised and baking in the sun. The cook would send a kitchen boy or girl to pick them soon enough, and Mistveil’s dinner table would be graced with apple treats of every conceivable variety through most of the winter. All of it if they were lucky, if the harvest was bountiful, and the cook was careful.

There was a time, many years ago when Jarl Laila Law-Giver’s sons were young and innocent, that she would sit in the shade of the gazebo on the cushioned benches and watch the boys play hero with broken sticks amongst the roots of the apple trees. A time when she would pick the apples herself and slice them open with the knife off her belt for her children to enjoy in the autumn breeze. She had raised them in that orchard, played with them when they needed a beast to slay or a goddess to rescue them–wept with them when the man they knew as father passed away and all they had was each other. Those times were long passed, now. Her sons were grown, and Laila sometimes took war council beneath the shelter of the gazebo when the weather was fair.

She stood there now with her housecarl and youngest son, but it was not a private moment between family before the boisterous and public holiday celebrations rendered such a thing precious. They were meeting on business of the hold. Unpleasant business. “Report on the Thalmor, Unmid,” Laila instructed her housecarl as she sat upon her favorite bench and made herself comfortable.

Unmid Snow-Shod was not Laila’s first housecarl; he was scarcely five or so years older than her eldest son. She’d had two other protectors throughout the duration of her rule over Riften. Good, strong warriors all of them, but Unmid was probably her favorite. Partly because of his youth, but also his straightforwardness. He was blunt and passionate about his duty. She trusted him entirely. “The mer was out cold until late last night when the guard locked up that trash from the docks,” he reported, “Night guard said she wasn’t coherent, just sputtering in Aldmeris and groping around–probably for her weapons. This morning before I could check on her, she nearly broke the arm of one of the morning guard trying to make a grab for the keys.”

Laila frowned. The spy should have been handled differently; she never should have had the opportunity to grab at anyone for anything. The mer was too dangerous to be so lax around. She glanced briefly in Harrald’s direction; he was obviously seething. He was commander of the guard. A title and responsibility she regretted bestowing upon him more often than not. If there was a failure in the management of the dungeon, the fault likely lie with him and not Unmid. “No one was seriously injured?” she asked.

“None of our men. The mer, on the other hand–I had to call for a priestess again.” Unmid shrugged, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the nearest support of the gazebo. “Broken nose, lost a couple fingers, nearly lost an eye, but the priestess righted it.”

“She’s an asset,” she reminded him patiently, “We need her to talk…”

“Her tongue still sits in her mouth,” Unmid replied, smirking, “She didn’t lose anything she needs to tell us what we want to know.”

“Perhaps,” Laila allowed, “But it would be useless for her to feel greater pain before we started asking questions.”

“Aye. I know,” Unmid admitted and scratched at his jawline with a casual flick of his fingers, “That’s two fewer fingers to cut off if she gets stubborn. I’ll have to take them knuckle by knuckle instead.”

Laila clicked her tongue in disgust. She didn’t like discussing the details of torture. “Is she properly secured now? I don’t want her making another attempt on the guard.”

“I shackled and collared her to the wall myself. She’s not going anywhere.”

“She should have been chained sooner,” Harrald drawled, snidely.

Unmid was unbothered by the younger man’s comment. “And she would have, if I had been sent for the moment she woke,” he replied sternly, “As my standing orders instructed.”

“Orders,” Harrald breathed and rolled his eyes, annoyed, “My men already had their hands full with seven new prisoners. The only orders they take are mine.”

At that, Unmid’s brow furrowed. “Did you order your men to disregard my instructions?” he asked, tone sharpened like the steel greatsword on his back.

Harrald straightened his posture in preparation of an argument. “If they interfered with what I told them to do, then yes. I did.” 

Laila sighed, disappointed, and Unmid shook his head in disgust, but not surprise. “Listen here, pup,” he growled, ready to lay into the Jarl’s son without hesitation, but Laila raised her hand to interrupt. Ever obedient, he fell silent immediately, but continued to glower at Harrald.

“Unmid acts with my authority,” she said to her son in the same tone of voice she always used when the boys misbehaved as children, “To deny him is to deny me.”

Harrald pursed his lips, less enthusiastic about arguing with his mother than he was with her housecarl. “Forgive me, mother,” he muttered, “I did not mean to insult you.”

“It is not just me you should be apologizing to,” she pointed out, severely, and waited in expectant silence.

Gritting his teeth, Harrald turned his head just far enough to catch Unmid in his peripheral. “Apologies, housecarl,” he grumbled, “I meant no insult…” Both Jarl and housecarl waited for Harrald to add ‘to my mother’ since he was prone to such snide quips, but the brash little shit managed to shut his mouth and keep it shut.

Laila let out the breath she had been holding. “It is also a matter of priority, Harrald,” she began.

“Priority?” Harrald repeated, interrupting; his fragile ego easily bruised and anger easily stoked, “One measly elf against seven new prisoners? I hardly think it unreasonable for Unmid to get off his ass to check the state of his single, precious prisoner. I can hardly be expected to do his job and mine.”

Unmid straightened so fast from his position and took several steps toward Harrald that Laila hardly had time to intervene again before her housecarl struck her son. “That is enough–both of you.” She looked pointedly to her housecarl who begrudgingly relaxed his fist. “Harrald,” she made sure she had his full attention before continuing; he had scampered away from Unmid, cowering, “Do not interrupt me when I am speaking. And watch your tongue when you speak to or about my housecarl. Never forget that his job is safeguarding my life which is why he left standing orders with your men.”

“Mother, I…” Harrald fell abruptly silent again with a single frustrated glance from his mother.

“And that ‘measly elf’ as you call her?” Laila continued, “Is a Thalmor spy. She is undeniably more important and far more dangerous than a bunch of idiot Skooma dealers. I tasked Unmid with handling her personally because she requires more attention than the guard can give and still maintain control over the dungeon. His involvement is meant to relieve your men, not burden them.”

Harrald nodded curtly, expression sour. “I understand, mother.”

She doubted it, but she hardly had all day to sit and argue with her son, so she shifted her attention back to Unmid who was clearly still quite annoyed. He tried to appear less disgruntled when she caught his eye, though. “Now that she is secure, I want you to begin interrogation as soon as you are ready,” she commanded, “Use whatever tactics you deem necessary short of killing her.”

“It will be done, my Jarl,” Unmid said, inclining his head to her, fist over his heart. Laila nodded appreciatively, unworried about her housecarl’s feelings toward Harrald. He’d get over it. Unmid was quick to temper, particularly if he felt he was being insulted over a matter of honor, but he always put his duty to her first. She focused her attention on Harrald. “And, now,” she sighed, “Report on the scum from the Skooma den.”

Harrald didn’t do much to hide his displeasure as he began relaying his report as quickly as possible. “Nothing irregular to report. They’re idiots. They whine constantly about wanting food and water and needing to take a piss. It’s upsetting the other prisoners. I recommend immediate execution.”

Laila blinked. “How–succinct,” she said, “But I wanted to hear of the investigation of the den, itself. Did your men discover anything noteworthy?”

Harrald shrugged. “Oh, they’re guilty, of course. That pretty little tavern wench was right about that, at least. The den was littered with Skooma bottles and moon-sugar, a cheap but complete alchemical lab where they were brewing the stuff. Disgusting. I had it all destroyed.” 

“Surely that was not all?”

“We did turn up a poorly kept ledger of all the coin they made, but no names were listed,” he sighed, “Just aliases or nicknames–or pet names. ‘Sugar Tits’ appears an alarming number of times for it to be a single person, but she might be dead from taking too much of that poison by now anyway, whoever she was. Pity. I was hoping to make more arrests.”

“Even with the dungeon so full?” Unmid snarked.

“That’s why I recommended immediate execution,” Harrald replied through gritted teeth.

Laila cleared her throat pointedly. “Regardless, even if the ledger had contained the clan names of every single customer, the suffering and deaths of those who were–misguided–to buy from them is penalty enough for their crimes. There is no need to add a fine or imprisonment to that sentence.”

Harrald did not appear convinced. “If you say so.”

“Mercy, Harrald,” Laila said as patiently as she could, “It would do for you to learn mercy.”

“Mercy that is wasted here,” he pointed out, “The ledger reveals no one.”

Her expression flattened. “And what of the coin?” she asked, suddenly desiring a strong drink, “Did you recover that at least?”

Harrald shook his head. “No. They must have it stashed elsewhere. I suppose we could interrogate them about that before they go to the gallows.” At that, Unmid tensed again, desiring to interrupt. Surreptitiously, Laila waved him off with a small flick of her fingers.

“If that’s all you found, then…”

“There was one other thing,” he interrupted.

“What?”

He plucked a folded piece of paper from his belt and handed it over to his mother. A tad reluctant to take her eyes off of her petulant son and aggravated housecarl, Laila took her time unfolding the letter before she dragged her eyes away from both men to read its contents.

 

Sarthis,

Just got in a shipment of Moon-Sugar from Morrowind. We’re refining it now, and the Skooma should be ready by the time you get to Cragslane Cavern. Bring the gold or don’t show up at all.

Kilnyr

Laila hummed thoughtfully once she was finished reading it and thumbed the edge of the paper absently before holding it out to Unmid to read next. Harrald opened his mouth, perhaps to argue that the housecarl need not see it, but quickly and wisely shut it again. He focused on his mother instead and continued his report. “We have no need to keep any of them alive,” he declared, “I’m sure that girl, what was her name…?”

“Grey-Raven,” Unmid supplied, eyes still scanning the page, but brow growing heavier.

“Aye, Grey-Raven meant well, but she’s just a tavern girl. What does she know?” Harrald shrugged dismissively. “She’s not even willing to bloody up her blade for the hold. We have what we need: the supplier’s name and location. We can dispense with the rest.”

But Laila wasn’t so sure. Not only did she take Grey-Raven’s general assessment of the situation much more seriously than she did Harrald’s–the lass did accurately predict that their source of Moon-Sugar had to be coming from Morrowind, after all, and she was clearly capable enough to successfully bring all seven criminals into the keep with the aid of her companions–there was something still not adding up. “If they were receiving shipments of Skooma already refined, why did they have an alchemy lab?” she asked after a beat of silence.

Harrald blinked, confused. “I don’t follow…”

“They weren’t receiving raw Moon-Sugar,” she pointed out and gestured for the note again, Unmid supplied it without hesitation so she could reference it, “‘...the Skooma should be ready by the time you get to Cragslane Cavern.’”

Harrald’s mouth fell open slightly. “I–I don’t know,” he admitted, reluctantly, “Does it matter? They were selling the stuff regardless…”

“And where’s the coin? If they were keeping it elsewhere, where? Why? And is it guarded?” Unmid added, “There may be others involved that we don’t know about. Do you know which of them is Sarthis?”

“No, I…”

“Any report on who Kilnyr might be? Or where Cragslane Cavern is?” he pressed.

“No.”

Laila folded up the letter and tapped it against her knee, impatiently. “Harrald, these are questions I expect answered when you report to me,” she said.

He frowned. “I just don’t understand why it matters, mother. They’re a bunch of criminal scum. We have them. They’re guilty. They can no longer threaten our people. If we want to crush the source, we can. What does it matter if they were getting Skooma from elsewhere or brewing it themselves? They broke the law!

“I am well aware they broke the law,” she said, sharply, “They will be punished for menacing my city, but it is useless to cut out rot if it’s already spread. I want to be sure their foothold is dissolved before we dispose of them entirely.”

Harrald rolled his eyes. “Then what would you command of me, my Jarl?” he asked with so much sass Laila was ready to smack the smugness out of him, herself.

“Find out which of them is Sarthis and interrogate him,” she commanded, “Get some damn answers. Execute the rest.”

In clear mockery of Unmid–and her, at this point–Harrald covered his heart with his fist and bowed his head. “It will be done, my Jarl.”

Furious, Laila stood. “You may go.” She dismissed Unmid who was a heartbeat slow to follow her orders because she was so clearly distressed, but he knew better than to intervene in a family matter. Even if he would find it extremely satisfying to watch the younger Law-Giver get his ass chewed by his mother as if he was a little boy. Harrald made to follow him. “Not you, Harrald.”

Her son stopped, his back to her, weighing the benefit of ignoring her. Ultimately, he turned around to face her again. “You still have need of me, mother?” he asked, voice so tight his mouth hardly opened to speak the words aloud.

Laila reminded herself that Harrald was her son and that she loved him very much. “You were disrespectful in front of Unmid,” she stated, “To him.”

Harrald almost rolled his eyes again, but managed to stop himself just in time. “He’s a servant. What does he matter?” he asked.

“Unmid Snow-Shod is an honorable man and a true servant to the throne of Mistveil,” Laila interrupted, hotly, “And even if he had been a beggar in the street without name, title, or skill to recommend him, you do not speak that way to me! I am your Jarl! I am your mother! In that order! You are not a child anymore, Harrald. You cannot do as you like without consequence. If you cannot prove yourself worthy of the command of the guard, I will take it from you. Have I made myself clear?”

Harrald’s face was red with fury, his nostrils flared with the effort of matching his breathing to the quickening of his pulse. “You’re running out of sons, mother, if you take command from me. Who will you give it to next?”

“Command is not a gift. It is not some trinket I bestowed upon you for being a good little boy. It is a responsibility I placed on your shoulders. A burden I expect you to carry, and you have done nothing but demonstrate that you are unfit to bear it.” Laila wanted to scream at and strangle her son in equal measure. He was young, but even for a youth he seemed to have less sense in his head every day. “At least Saerlund understood…”

“Saerlund is a traitor!”

“What did I say about interrupting me?”

Harrald growled in frustration and threw up his hands. “Why must I receive lecture after lecture about how you expect me to act when you go easy on Saerlund for spouting his nonsense about the Empire?”

Laila’s eyes widened. “Go easy…?” she repeated in disbelief, “I stripped him of his duties and his birthright, Harrald. He has paid for his mistakes. And I will make you pay for yours if you don’t pull your head out of your arse!”

“He should hang from the gallows for treason and you know it!”

Laila raised a hand so suddenly, Harrald flinched, thinking his mother was about to strike him. “I will hear no more of this,” she stated, tone so fierce it scorched, and pointed at her son for emphasis, “He is your brother. And the matter of your disrespect has nothing to do with him. Don’t. Change. The subject.”

Harrald seethed, shaking his head. “I won’t stand for this…” And he turned on his heel and left.

Don’t walk away from me, Harrald!” Laila shouted after him, but it was no use. “Mara grant me patience before I throttle that ungrateful…ugh!” She growled in utter futility and sank onto the cushioned bench again, head falling into her hands.

She didn’t know how long she sat there like that before she heard the approach of footsteps. Looking up, she saw Anuriel approaching with Maven Black-Briar at her side. A genuine twinge of relief and joy lightened Laila’s heart to see her friend. Maven always had good sense in everything; surely she could set her heart at ease. Laila stood from her seat to greet the approaching women. “To what do I owe the pleasure, old friend?” she asked when they were near enough.

Maven smiled. A severe woman with strong, dark features, she had once been a beauty in her youth. Now, she was very stern but every bit just as sharp. “Do I need a reason to visit you, Laila?” Maven replied, teasingly, “It’s been too long since last we chatted, and what with the festival starting today, I thought now an excellent time.”

Laila sighed. “Truly, you’ve come precisely when you are most needed,” she admitted, “I am weary of the throne today.”

Maven nodded and then cast a side-eye at Anuriel. With a sharp nod she dismissed the Bosmer steward and stepped into the gazebo to level with Laila. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” she suggested, tone as sweet as the mead she brewed and bottled in her distilleries, “And I’ll give you what council I can.”

Notes:

Yeah, so long time, no post. Sorry about that. I'm struggling. It's not an excuse, just an explanation. I never forget about this work, though. Never. It's always banging around the inside of my head whether I want it to or not. I try to work on it as much as possible. I hope you lovely readers continue to enjoy it when I do crank a chapter out. I genuinely, deeply appreciate every kudo and comment. Even if I don't respond to all of them. I want to. Your words make me smile.

Also, side note, part of the struggle with this chapter in particular was that it was massive. 50+ pages massive. I decided to break it into two separate chapters to make things easier, so you'll have two Anja chapters in a row before I can finally get to Sonja. Sorry Sonja fans, but her story is coming, trust me. It's all I can think about in the shower these days. And at least now, unintentionally, the season in the story will match up with the season in real life! Bonus for atmosphere!

And, just some maintenance stuff, but I might be going back to edit old chapters I've already posted. I've been rereading my old content just to remind myself where the hell I'm at in the story and a few typos have escaped my fairly rigorous multiple-pass editing process. *gasp* So, I'll probably fix those occasionally when I come across them as well as rewrite a few paragraphs or sentences that sound a mess when I read them. Nothing major enough to go back and reread, but there will be tiny rewrites. I'll always announce it at the beginning of the chapter with an update if I do straight up change something, but it'll mostly be for clarity's sake and nothing major.

Chapter 47: i. Disclaimer: Not a Chapter

Notes:

Not a chapter. This is just a little section to get all the necessaries out of the way.

Chapter Text

 

Elder Scrolls

Bethesda Softworks, LLC owns The Elder Scrolls Series. I do not. All Elder Scrolls related content belongs to them. I am only playing in the universe they crafted, using characters and plot lines they created to satisfy my own overactive imagination.

There are only a handful of original characters I created to fit inside the Elder Scrolls universe that do not exist in-game, but they behave and react appropriately to Bethesda-created content. There is also a plot line I crafted to add on to the Companions questline that does not exist in-game, but it is designed to fit inside and mimic the Elder Scrolls universe.

Also, I play Skyrim on PC, so my game is shamelessly modded through Steam and the Nexus to within an inch of its life. Some items including armor, weapons, and spells that appear in my story come from additional content provided by mods I've added onto my game. Where possible, I will try to list names, author names, and links to these mods for your own viewing and gaming pleasure in the notes section preceding the chapters in which they appear. Check them out if you haven't already. Some of them are truly works of art that some very talented modders have worked very hard on.


Dragon Age

In far later chapters, there will be a bit of a EA BioWare Dragon Age: Inquisition cross-over. No one fell through a Rift and landed in Tamriel. I created Elder Scrolls-realistic characters based off of two Dragon Age: Inquisition characters (Solas and Cullen, because I'm hot for them both) and they retain their names. Obviously, there is some murky water there, but I'm gonna go ahead and give credit to BioWare and EA anyway.


Other FanFic Authors

There are a few chapters that borrow from other authors of Skyrim fanfiction. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, after all. I've read a lot of other fanfics and sometimes I'd read a plot line I really liked and wanted to work with. Other times, content came from a work I really enjoyed but was never finished and I needed closure! I will ask for permission from these authors before posting and will give credit where credit is due as well as provide links to the original works in the notes section preceding those chapters.

*Update [6.27.16]: I haven't received word one way or the other from authors I've borrowed from. If there's still no word when it comes time to post those chapters, I will simply rewrite them in a way that still satisfies the need for the plot and character development to move forward. It might just take me a little longer to write, edit, and post.


Other Sources and Media Content

Music, songs, and poetry are an important part of any culture, but are less fun to work into gameplay. As a result, there are lots of books laying around your player can flip through or the same effing four songs the bards sing over and over and over again. So, I added a few more. It had to be done. Sometimes, I've written them myself and other times, I used an already existing song or poet. I will give proper credit at the beginning of those chapters that such songs or poetry appear as well as provide links to websites or YouTube videos where you can read or listen to them for yourselves.


Largely, this work is shameless fantasy fulfillment. I will make changes to content where I see fit or desperately wished there had been another option in-game. So, read on. I hope you enjoy.

I will make additions to this page as the story requires it.

Series this work belongs to: