of Mer and Man

by sunsetsundae

Summary:

Skyrim is a cold and unforgiving province, especially the icy north edge of Winterhold. Hedgrod doesn’t mind the cold, likes it even. This tundra is home to him.

Athrar craves adventure. He wants to learn, and explore, his curiosities carrying him from one place to the next.

The two could not have been more different, but this is exactly what drew them to each other.

[ Retelling of the Skyrim main quest ]

Notes:

hello! this is an OC story based in the world of the Elder Scrolls! It takes place in Skyrim, however you don’t even really need a good grasp of the series to understand this fic.

the characters in this series are OCs, Hedgrod Merkiller and Athrar Riverpool! There’s a reference photo of each of them at the end of chapter one, or you can also click here

please enjoy, and say hello on tumblr!

Chapter 1: A Chance Meeting

Winterhold was home, in many ways. Hearths roared hot all night long and the warmth in the small town was noticeable despite the chill. The small population allowed for strong friendships and little crime, which made guard duty a breeze. 

The size of the town meant that every day was the same. Patrol the grounds, eat lunch at the Frozen Hearth, look out over the vast and mostly frozen lake over the cliffside. It was boring, but it was also safe, and assured, and it was home. 

The sameness of Hedgrod’s days would change however, on a particularly cold day in Last Seed. It was lunchtime, and many of the town’s guards were filling their bellies and warming their frozen fingers around the large fire in the center of the inn. 

Hedgrod’s conversation he had been making with his fellow guardsman was cut short when the door blew open, bringing with it some of the snowflakes from the outside. A hooded figure with a satchel came in and closed the door behind him, pulling the hood off of his head and the mask down from his face, which was flushed with the cold. His long, reddish hair fell past his shoulders. 

The stranger was an elf. A bosmer, specifically, though taller than how he was used to Bosmer appearing. He was donning a bow, as is typical of bosmer to be skilled in. Atypical of a bosmer, however, were the robes he was wearing, which indicated that he was a student of the large college on the edge of town. A mage in training. 

Hedgrod found himself staring as the newcomer blew into his hands and made his way towards the hearth, which was surrounded by the town’s guards. None of them paid him any mind nor did they make room for him, and he appeared visibly bothered by this treatment. Hedgrod moved over slightly from his perch on the hearth’s edge, making just enough space for the elf, who noticed this movement and blinked at Hedgrod. He nodded in thanks and stepped to the hearth, stretching his hands open toward it, his long nimble fingers outstretched. 

“Bit cold to be wandering outside of the college,” Hedgrod remarked neutrally as he finished off his tankard of ale. 

The bosmer turned and looked at him, regarding him with sharp hazel eyes that told Hedgrod nothing. For a moment it occurred to him he was wrong about this man attending the college, perhaps he was just a visitor to the town. 

This thought was shot down as soon as he could conceive it. He knew, as did the rest of the locals, that nobody came to this town save for those intending to enroll at the college or those who were already in attendance. There wasn’t much else left of Winterhold these days. His assumption was confirmed when the elf spoke.

“Yes, however I needed snowberries for a potion I’m working on.” His voice was warm, not matching the scrutinizing expression on his face. Hedgrod could imagine being the only mer in front of a group of rowdy Nord guards might have been a little frightening. 

Hedgrod nodded, not even trying to pretend he understood anything about alchemical ingredients, let alone potion mixing. His skills were limited to sowing a field and swinging a sword. 

“I see the best time to plan an attack on this town is whilst the entire guard is here having lunch,” the elf mused. The statement itself was threatening but the way he said it did not come off as such.

Hedgrod chuckled, and the stranger cracked a small smile. It suited his face very well, Hedgrod thought. 

“Well,” he continued, drawing his hands away from the fire and adjusting his satchel around himself. “I’d best get back to my studies.”

Hedgrod stood. “Let me walk you back to the college,” he offered. 

The bosmer quirked an eyebrow. “Do I come off as that defenseless?” He inquired. 

“Well, no,” Hedgrod replied, his cheeks hot. “But as you’ve pointed out, most of the town guard is here. I’m sure you aren’t the first person to form an attack strategy based around our lunch. What if today is the day that attack comes? Surely even a skilled archer could not fend off a group of bandits by himself.”

“You’ve got me there,” he replied, smiling again. His earrings reflected the flickering firelight, and the way it glinted off of his warm brown skin made him look like he was almost glowing. “Very well, Nord, I will allow you to accompany me on my walk up to the college gates.” He turned, not waiting for Hedgrod to reply, and started towards the door. 

Hedgrod quickly set his tankard down and grabbed his guard helmet, tucking it under his arm as he followed suit. The snowfall had slowed down a bit, but small soft flakes still danced through the air and crunched underfoot as the two men walked side by side through the town in the direction of the massive College. 

“Not much to guard here, is there,” The elf said as they walked, looking around at the small houses on either side of the path. 

Hedgrod shrugged. “Being a guard is better than farming. But, this is all I know. I grew up here.”

“Really?” the elf asked. “You haven’t traveled anywhere else?”

“I’ve been to Windhelm a handful of times.”

“Never more south than that?”

Hedgrod shook his head. 

The elf made a noise of disapproval. “Shame. Skyrim is beautiful. Such a diverse landscape. It’s a pity you’ve only seen the parts of it that are covered in snow year-round.”

“I suppose I don’t know what I’m missing. Where are you from?” He asked, changing the subject. 

“Cyrodiil originally. The Imperial City.”

Hedgrod let out a low whistle. He had seen the Imperial city on maps, and heard about it from travelers. It was the biggest city in Tamriel, home to the Emperor, and a hub for trade and commerce. The Arcane University was also in the Imperial City, which begged the question…

“So you’ve traveled all this way to study in Winterhold as opposed to the Arcane University at your home?”

The elf shrugged. “I had already traveled to Skyrim before I took an interest in magic.”

“What was the reason for traveling then?”

“To see the world. To meet new people and learn new things. To taste new dishes. To settle down, eventually, in a place that really feels like home, I suppose.” There was a faraway look on his face as he answered. 

Hedgrod nodded, though he had never had the same aspirations to travel the world or see new things. He could read about those things in books, and not have to worry about the days worth of travel to see them in person. There was nothing he was particularly in need of seeing in person in his lifetime, he thought to himself. 

Falling silent, the two men began ascending the concrete path up to the college. Hedgrod often made this trek to visit the Arcaneum. While not a member of the college, he enjoyed reading, and Urag gro-Shub, the librarian, allowed him to visit and read, so long as he returned the books in the same condition he took them in. He was careful with them, and had eventually earned the trust of the notoriously bad-tempered orc. 

His visits to the college were often short, however, and limited to just the section of the estate that contained the library, so it was no surprise to him that he had not crossed paths with the elf walking beside him before. Hedgrod was curious how long the bosmer had been studying at the college but had already asked so many questions, and did not want his curiosity to come off as an interrogation. He let the question tumble around in his mind as they neared the courtyard, where the massive statue of Shalidor stood proudly. Hedgrod craned his neck to admire the work, and the two men came to a stop. 

“Well, thank you for my personal guard escort. You’ve made me feel quite important,” the elf said, genuine but also with a tone of amusement. 

Hedgrod smiled at him and nodded in acknowledgement. “It was my pleasure. Good luck with your potion,” he said.

The elf waved, and turned. Hedgrod fitted his guard helmet back on as the sound of the massive college doors opening and closing boomed around the snowy courtyard. 

It was only after he had made his way halfway back down the stone path to the town, watching his fellow guardsmen pour out of the Frozen Hearth and begin to take up patrol once more, that it dawned on him that he had not gotten the elf’s name.

 

Chapter 2: A Warm Meal

It was nearly a week before Hedgrod saw the elf again. It was while he was off-duty, heading back home to his family farm. As he headed up the path he saw the hooded figure, and just as he had a week before he lowered his hood and face mask that protected him from the cold, flipping his long hair back out of his robe.

“It’s you,” Hedgrod observed as he drew closer, trying not to seem like he was too excited.

The bosmer smiled. “Indeed. I don’t leave the college much these days, and it’s quite hard to find you when all the guards look the same in uniform.”

“Good point,” Hedgrod noted, his helmet under his arm clanking against his armor. “Are you out searching for ingredients again?”

He nodded, and patted his satchel that sat at his hip. “I was on my way back in, though. I’m famished.”

“Would you like to come to mine?” Hedgrod offered.

There was that warm smile again. Hedgrod’s knees felt weak. “That’s kind of you,” he said. “Show me the way.“

 

Winterhold was a small town. It had been even more desolate many years ago, and before the Great Collapse was one of the jewels of Skyrim. Hedgrod could see that it was rebuilding itself, however, and there was a small collection of homes along the path leading to the college, many of them repurposed from rubble in the aftermath of the Great Collapse. One of these such homes was Hedgrod’s, and his alone.

He opened the door and the warmth was felt immediately, the hearth still going, although not as strong as when Hedgrod left that morning. He threw a few logs into the fire and opened the cooking pot situated above it, making sure it was empty.

“Cozy,” The elf commented.

“It’s not much, but it’s home. Sorry if it doesn’t fit your city boy standards,” he said, poking fun, smirking at the elf over his shoulder.

He shrugged. “It’s bigger than my dorm room at the college,” he said simply.

They fell quiet as Hedgrod worked to chop apples and cabbage before throwing them into the pot with a few other ingredients in an effort to make stew. It was always cold in Winterhold, which meant stew was always the perfect dish to warm one’s bones.

As Hedgrod prepared the food, the elf had sat down at the table and taken off his satchel, setting it carefully next to him and looking around the small room. It really was not much to look at, with a bed and dresser to one side and a small dining table and a few crates and such on the other side of the hearth in the middle of the far wall. There were fish hanging from a drying line, along with garlic and elves’ ear. There was also a small bookshelf next to the kitchen cabinet, donned with a few books that looked well-worn. At the far end was a staircase leading down to a small basement that used to serve as Hedgrod’s childhood bedroom but was now just for storage.

Hedgrod noticed his guest taking it all in. “Like I said, it’s not much.”

“It’s just you though, isn’t it? Seems like the perfect amount of space.”

“I suppose. It used to be my folks and I, so it’s much roomier feeling now compared to then.”

The elf said nothing, watching Hedgrod with a guarded expression as he served the stew into two small bowls and set them at the table. The expression changed to surprise when instead of offering or using a spoon, Hedgrod picked up the bowl and began to sip directly from it. Instead of saying anything, he mirrored the motion, not wanting to be rude after such a nice meal had been prepared for him.

“Thank you,” he said after they both drank in silence for a moment.

“You’re quite welcome. It’s been a while since I’ve had a guest. The other guards are pretty rowdy and I don’t think I’d like them in my space,” Hedgrod mused, looking at his stew.

“I see,” the elf responded.

“Oh!” Hedgrod suddenly exclaimed, looking up from his bowl and at the other across the table. “I meant to ask you the first time we met, but it didn’t occur to me since we were having such an interesting conversation—“

“My name?” The elf guessed, and Hedgrod nodded. “I was wondering the same about you. I’m Athrar. Riverpool.”

“Hedgrod.”

“Hedgrod,” he repeated, and his name sounded wonderful coming out of Athrar’s mouth. He swallowed. “Surname?” the elf inquired.

Oh. He was dreading this part. Especially with… what his new friend was.

“Er…” he mumbled, unable to look at Athrar.

“What?” the elf asked. “Why the hesitation?” He gasped. “What, are you a Septim?!”

“No,” Hedgrod said, scratching his beard. “Although that would be something.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“How can your surname be embarrassing?”

“Because you’re… uh…”

Athrar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m?”

Hedgrod breathed out and studied his stew intensely. “…it’s Merkiller.”

Silence.

Then, Athrar burst into laughter. “Oh, my god!” He said, doubling over. “That’s incredibly ironic.”

“Ugh, I’ve always hated it. I’m not a violent man, let alone someone who kills. And why Mer specifically?! It’s just… it’s dumb,” he said, exasperated.

“You’re not violent, yet you’re a guard?” Athrar asked, changing the subject.

“You’ve pointed out how quiet this town is yourself. I’ve never even had to arrest anybody.”

“Then why do you do it?” Athrar asked.

“It’s a job, and it pays. And the other guys are alright. Most of them are from Windhelm.”

Athrar hummed thoughtfully. “So what are you going to do if a bunch of bandits raid in the night? Ask them politely to stop?”

Hedgrod’s cheeks burned. “Well, no, I’d stop them of course!”

“But you’re not violent?”

“Yes, I mean, no, I don’t seek out violence, but I wouldn’t stand idly by while my hometown is attacked, Athrar, it’s very different!”

Athrar was chuckling again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you so worked up. It’s just such a dichotomy to me, and hilarious that you’re apparently destined to murder me.”

Hedgrod put his head in his hands. “I would never,” he stated quietly.

“I know that,” Athrar said, reaching out a hand and placing it tentatively on Athrar’s arm. “Unless I threatened your village of course.”

That got a laugh out of Hedgrod. “Right,” he said, looking up. Athrar’s hand remained on his arm, and he had no intentions to remove it, for it was a very comforting gesture.

“Well, Hedgrod,” Athrar said after a moment of silence, standing from his chair. “I’d better get going. Thank you for the meal. And the company.”

Hedgrod nodded, making no move to stand. He didn’t want to annoy his new acquaintance by walking him back to the college again, especially since the elf seemed to be the loner type. Instead he waved his hand, moving to pick up the bowls so he could dispose of the leftovers. Athrar seemed to hesitate at the door, but eventually pushed it open, a gust of cold air entering the small house.

“‘Bye,” Hedgrod called out, and Athrar smiled warmly as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the snow.

Chapter 3: A Question Posed

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, and Hedgrod watched it as he mindlessly stirred the stew in the pot, an open book laid on the stones next to him. It was early evening, and the light had long left the sky, typical of his far North hometown. Candles burned around his small house to light it, and his dinner was almost ready. The solitude was comforting, although he would be lying if he denied that there were times that he would prefer someone to share dinner with him.

Almost as if his mind was read, there was a soft knock on his door. His heart leapt in his throat, and he found himself across the room in an instant, hand on the doorknob. He hesitated for a moment to avoid seeming too eager, and then opened the door.

Athrar stood on his front step, his cloak over his head. His face cover was pulled down and his cheeks and nose were tinted red with cold. “May I come in?” he asked, and Hedgrod nodded, stepping to the side to let him enter. He pushed his hood off of his head as he walked across the threshold, small flakes of snow flurrying off of the fabric and melting onto the warm wooden floor.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Hedgrod asked, shutting the door and grabbing a second bowl of soup as Athrar sat down at the table. It was not often that his friend stopped in for dinner, but it had been more consistent as their friendship continued to grow, and Hedgrod found himself enjoying their evenings together more than those by himself. The bosmer always returned to the college long after the sun had set, Hedgrod usually walking him at least to the tall stone gates at the base of the bridge. Asking his friend the reason for the visit was no longer necessary, as it had become somewhat of a normal occurrence, although there was something about the set of the elf’s shoulders that told him this visit was different.

“Well,” Athrar said, accepting his bowl of soup with a nod as Hedgrod moved his own bowl to the table, his book forgotten by the fireplace. “I wanted to speak to you about an errand I have to run.”

“Errand?” Hedgrod echoed as he sipped his soup. “What kind?”

Athrar chewed thoughtfully on a chunk of venison. “I need to bring some ingredients down to Whiterun, and get some others for some potions I’d like to make. There’s an apothecary named Arcadia that lives in the city who should be able to help me with what I’m looking for.”

Hedgrod hummed to show he was listening, but he was not even going to attempt to say anything due to his lack of knowledge on the subject.

“As you know, it’s rather frostbitten this far north and there are a lot of ingredients that I simply would not be able to get without traveling. I figure since I’d be headed down that way anyways, I can speak with a better potion maker than myself, and maybe stay in town for a while. Get out of the cold.”

“How long will you be gone?” Hedgrod inquired, trying not to sound too crestfallen that he would be missing the company of his new friend for some time.

Athrar looked up at him, the side of his mouth quirking up. “I’m bringing this trip up to you because I would like to have someone with me. It’s quite the trip and I could use the company, and an extra person to watch my back should I come across some bandits or the like.”

That was when it clicked for the Nord. “You would like me to come with you?” He asked.

The smirk on Athrar’s face grew to a full smile. “Well, of course. Unless you can’t get out of guard duty.”

“Of course I can,” Hedgrod replied, “We’re both aware how quiet it is here. I don’t think anybody would bat an eye if I were to be gone for a while.” He smiled back.

“Well it’s settled then,” Athrar hummed, pulling his long brown hair up into a ponytail. “I’d like to set out tomorrow, if you’re able to do so.”

“Sure,” the Nord responded quickly, unable now to contain his excitement. He had never been that far away from home, but rather than being scared he was excited, eager to see more of the province that he had called home for his entire life but never had the drive to explore. And now he would be making the trip with his dear friend. It was an incredible opportunity, and the morning could not come soon enough.

Chapter 4: An Adventure Began

The sun had barely broken the morning sky as the two men’s boots crunched in the freshly fallen snow. The nights were long in Winterhold, and if one wanted to make good headway in daylight, they must begin before the sun wholly rose above the horizon. This was the case for the nord and bosmer as the town began to shrink into the background, the large stone College the only thing still visible as the trek went on. Athrar was in his usual dark green cloak, the hood pulled over his head and the black mask pulled over his nose to protect from the wintry wind. Hedgrod donned his guardsman armor as well as a large fur coat to keep him warm, his trusty steel sword on his hip with its sheath clanking against his armor as they walked. Athrar moved much more quietly, opting to wear no armor. His weapon of choice was a longbow and a quiver sat upon his back.

Hedgrod had not thought about how long the journey was going to be on foot. There was a stable in Winterhold, built somewhat recently, but it was difficult for horses to be kept available. They were often purchased by wealthy college attendees and taken when said attendees left the college and returned home or pursued their studies elsewhere. When the two men passed by the stable on their way out of town, it was empty, and even despite that fact the two of them did not have enough Septims to purchase one. Hedgrod made a modest salary as a guard and it usually went back into food and maybe things around his home. Athrar did not seem to have a source of income, but he had brought along ingredients in his satchel to sell. Hedgrod’s pack had various salted meats and a couple loaves of bread, hopefully enough to keep them satiated. The trek to the main central city of Skyrim on foot was going to take them roughly twenty hours, and even in the best of conditions they would likely not have the strength to make the trek without stopping.

Athrar knew of an inn in the Pale that marked the approximate halfway point from Winterhold to Whiterun. That was where the two men planned to stop for the night, and ideally with enough time to fill their bellies with food and mead before setting out the next morning. Athrar carried a map of the entire province of Skyrim, worn and dotted with marks and scribbles that seemed to be in his own handwriting. Hedgrod silently marveled at how many different places his friend had been to in his life. As the two walked on, he would occasionally pull out this map and consult it to try and track how far they were on the road. They would fall into pleasant, casual conversation as they walked, and it was a surprisingly quiet walk. The snowfall had ceased and the sun was doing its best to warm the ground, although there was still a chill in the air. Hedgrod’s face felt frozen after a few hours of walking, and he thought to himself how much he wished he had a proper face cover like his companion.

The road was long and winding, and due to the recent snowfall, it all looked the same around them. Smooth, white snow with the gangly trees stretching towards the sky, some of them bare and some of them bearing pointy evergreen needles. Athrar would occasionally stop and collect various berries and flowers, which Hedgrod knew nothing about but found endearing and quite impressive that Athrar could tell the plants apart and know off the top of his head what they were used for. He would carefully wrap them in cloth or deposit them into a small bag he kept in his satchel before pulling out a small field journal and scribbling. Hedgrod could merely guess at what he might be writing.

XXX

They made progress throughout the day, eating as they walked and not seeing another soul on the pathway. As Hedgrod was well aware, there were not many visitors to his hometown, and those who lived there rarely left. It was a simple and quiet life, and many who resided there did not crave anything more. Himself included, until now. They would occasionally fall silent and just enjoy the sights around them, and in what felt like no time at all they were coming up on the Nightgate Inn.

When the two men ducked into the small wooden building, they were met with warm air and the smell of cooked meat. Hedgrod found it was very similar to the Frozen Hearth back home, and he felt immediately at ease. The man behind the counter was a Nord like himself, with a long beard and a shiny bald head. He was drinking mead along with another man sat down at the bar, who had an angry looking face. Both turned to look at the newcomers. Their eyes rested longer on Athrar, likely due to the fact that not many Bosmer were seen this far north.

“Hail,” Hedgrod greeted. He stepped to the bar and brandished a few septims. “Might we rent some rooms for the night?”

“Of course,” The bald Nord responded, his voice gravely but not unwelcoming. “Anything else I can get you two? Mead?”

Hedgrod grinned. “Why not,” he said with a shrug, digging for a few additional septims as the innkeeper popped the cork on a fresh bottle and slid it over to him. He turned to Athrar, who responded with a quick shake of his head as he was pulling off his gloves.

“Well my friends, other than this room here--” he pointed --”Pick any. It’s yours for the night.”

Hedgrod thanked the innkeeper and nodded at the other Nord, who had not said a word but was studying them with the slightest bit of hostility in his gaze. Athrar followed him into one of the rooms and sat down at the desk as Hedgrod sat down on the large bed. It didn’t make him uncomfortable, per se, but he had not envisioned that they would stay in the same room.

“Everything okay?” Hedgrod asked his companion, and the elf looked up from his field journal to meet his eyes.

Athrar sighed. “I don’t know. It might sound ridiculous, but I feel kind of out of place here. I don’t like the way those men looked at me when we walked in. I don’t think it is something that you would understand.” His voice was low, the lack of doors separating the main inn room from their place likely the reason why. The other two men had returned to their conversation and Hedgrod could hear the hum, though not make out any specific words.

“Because you’re different?”

Athrar shrugged. “Like I said. Not something I think you would understand. Though I do not think necessarily they’re hostile, just likely to not have seen many bosmer in their lives. Or mer in general, for that matter…” He trailed off, his brow creasing. Hedgrod waited for him to continue. “I did not realize the amount of prejudice that was present in Skyrim before I came here. Though I suppose it should not surprise me.”

Hedgrod nodded, at a loss for words. “I do not understand, you’re right, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for, really,” Athrar said, standing from the desk and slowly pushing the chair back in. “I should go to a different room. I’m sorry to have intruded on your space.”

Before Hedgrod could protest or assure him that it was not a bother, his companion had disappeared out the door with a flurry of his cloak.

Notes:

the map i'm using for distance and travel times:
here

Chapter 5: A New City

Hedgrod woke to Athrar shaking his shoulder gently. “Hedgrod,” he said quietly, his voice lulling Hedgrod into consciousness.

“Hmm?” The Nord hummed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the blanket dropping and pooling around his waist. It was much colder without the cover on his bare chest, and Athrar seemed to start slightly when he realized Hedgrod was sleeping shirtless. “Is it time to go?” He asked.

Athrar nodded, averting his gaze. “Yes. I’d like to set out early so we can make it to Whiterun before sunfall.”

Hedgrod yawned, his eyes still closed. “Alright,” he mumbled, swinging his legs out of the blanket and letting his bare feet touch the cold stone floor. He stood and walked over to the chair where he had set his undershirt and armor, stretching his arms above his head as he did so, feeling the muscles in his back rippling. “Give me a moment to get dressed and we’ll get going. Do we have everything we need for the second leg of the trip?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

 

The air had a sharp chill, especially since the sun had not risen enough yet to begin warming the earth. The sky was pink as they made their way down the path, and when they turned at a fork in the road Hedgrod could see the valley as it opened up below them, the path they were on sloping gently out of the heavy snow and winding through green plains ahead. Dead ahead of them was a city, with strong stone walls and an impressively large castle stretching up into the morning sun. “Wow,” he breathed, momentarily pausing on the path and taking the sight in. It was rare for the snow to fully melt in Winterhold, and even in the times during Hedgrod’s life he had seen it, it had looked nothing like this. Having descended the mountain, the snow was dwindling and he could only see patches around the plains. The river in the distance was flowing quickly, and Hedgrod could imagine that it was actually pleasant to swim in, a far cry from the expanse of frozen ocean behind his hometown.

Athrar stopped once he realized Hedgrod had done the same. He turned to look at his friend over his shoulder and smiled. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” He asked before continuing his walking. Hedgrod closed his open jaw and started moving again, taking longer strides for a moment to catch up to his companion.

“That city is huge,” he remarked.

“The biggest in Skyrim, in terms of population,” Athrar replied. “Although it is nothing compared to my home back in Cyrodiil.”

“The Imperial City?” Hedgrod asked, remembering his first conversion with the elf.

“Indeed.”

They fell back into a comfortable silence, Hedgrod taking in the sights as they made their way down the path towards the huge looming city in the distance. “So, where are we going to stay when we get there?” He asked.

“There are a couple inns. The Bannered Mare is the larger of the two, but the Drunken Huntsman has less rowdy inebriated patrons singing into the late hours of the night. Ironic given the names of the establishments.”

Hedgrod nodded. “Both inns are within the walls of the city?”

“Yes,” Athrar said. “There are establishments outside of the walls, but they are mostly farms or small family homes. And, as you might imagine, the buildings that are located within the walls are usually larger and… nicer.”

“Ah, I see.”

They grew closer and closer, but Hedgrod could tell that they still had a ways ahead of them to walk. The lack of a snowstorm was allowing for much more visibility than he was used to, and no matter how long he spent staring at the landscape, he did not get tired of it.

As they walked, a rumbling sound began growing behind them. Athrar stopped next to him and turned, the arrows in his quiver clacking together as he did so. Up the hill was a covered caravan drawn by a horse following them. The two men on foot stepped out of the way as it drew near, and the Khajiit driving the horse brought it to a halt next to them.

“Greetings,” the Khajiit said in greeting. “You are traveling to Whiterun, yes?”

Athrar nodded. Hedgrod said nothing.

“As it happens, Ri'saad and his companions are traveling in that direction. Nord and elf feet must be tired from traveling on foot. Come and ride, yes?”

Athrar looked suspicious, but Hedgrod, sensing no danger from the caravan, walked around the side and climbed aboard, his elf friend at his heels. Inside the caravan were many crates of wares as well as a few other Khajiit, who regarded the newcomers with stares of curiosity. They spoke to each other in what was certainly Ta'agra, which neither Hedgrod nor Athrar could understand. Hedgrod could only speak the common Tamrielic, and while Athrar was able to communicate with both the common tongue as well as broken and unpracticed Bosmeris and Cyrodiilic as he had learned from his family, he had not made an effort to learn any other languages, especially that of the Khajiit. It had never crossed either man’s mind to visit Elseweyr, and Hedgrod had never even properly met a Khajiit before this moment.

They looked at each other as the Khajiit rattled on in their unfamiliar language, the caravan beginning to move again. Hedgrod was grateful to be off of his feet for the remainder of the journey, though he could not help being skeptical of the morality of the Khajiit he was sharing the space with. Their glowing eyes lingered too long on his sword, his coinpurse. He could only guess at what they were saying to each other.

After a while, the caravan came to a halt, the horse chuffing outside. The Khajiit stood, Hedgrod and Athrar following suit. The group exited the covered wagon and Athrar thanked the Khajiit that had driven the horse, and the pair was on their way. The path up to the city was cobbled and winding. Hedgrod remained in a silent awe as they made their way up the path away from the Khajiit who were setting up their tents. There were multiple guard towers lined up along the pathway, and Hedgrod felt secure seeing the men, not so different from himself, who were working hard to protect their homes. Athrar seemed indifferent to everything around him, though Hedgrod supposed it was because he had likely already visited Whiterun, and he also hailed from a city that was much, much larger.

Hedgrod fell into step behind his companion, who was clearly more familiar with the area or at least more confident in his step than Hedgrod was. He admired the elf’s sure footing and effortless glide of his arms at his sides. His cloak billowed around him, and Hedgrod realized a moment too late that he was staring when Athrar spoke up, looking over his shoulder and catching the Nord’s eyes. “Everything alright?” He asked.

“Yes,” Hedgrod responded. “It’s just… huge. The walls are huge. I have never felt so out of place before.”

The bosmer smiled at him. “Understandable. Don’t worry, I’m familiar with the city. Whiterun is also populated heavily by Nords. You’ll fit right in.”

This knowledge did not make Hedgrod feel particularly better. A lot of people in Skyrim were Nords much like he was. That didn’t necessarily mean that they were good folk. Hedgrod had met plenty of Nords who weren’t very nice. Worked with some, even. He dismissed his friend’s comment and fell quiet once again as they reached the gate at the end of the winding cobble path. A guard nodded at them as they approached and pushed the huge door back for them so they could enter. Hedgrod was in awe as they crossed over the threshold into the city, where the walkways were full cobblestone and large torches burned bright, so that a person walking the streets could see at any time. There was a hum as the general populous milled about, and Hedgrod could hear the sound of wood chopping and a smelter burning. The sun had reached the point in the sky that it was bathing the streets in direct light, and it was warm. Very warm. Much warmer than Hedgrod was used to. In the distance he could see the massive spire of the castle at the end of the city, which Athrar pointed to and informed him was called Dragonsreach. An interesting, and very fitting name.

“Now,” Athrar continued, dropping his arm. “Let’s make our way to the Apothecary.”

Hedgrod nodded, though Athrar was already turned away and walking, and the Nord started after him.

 

Arcadia and Athrar were engaged in a conversation about ingredients and potion making methods that Hedgrod did not understand, so he browsed around the shop as the two spoke. People came in and out and purchased goods from Arcadia around her conversation with Athrar, and one or two even took their purchased ingredients directly to the alchemy lab that was provided in the corner and began mixing away. It was a skill Hedgrod was impressed by, but had no idea where to start trying to learn. Not many ingredients grew up in Winterhold, anyways.

After what felt like hours, Hedgrod running out of things to look at, Athrar turned to him, fastening his satchel back over his shoulder, a smile across his features.

“Did you get what you came for?” Hedgrod asked as they ducked outside into the main square that was bustling with people shopping at various stalls. They weaved through the crowd, Athrar guiding Hedgrod with a hand on his elbow toward the street he wanted him to take.

“Yes,” Athrar said, his eyes glittering. “Arcadia is very intelligent. I have much I could learn from her. And she had almost every ingredient that I had set out to purchase. I cannot wait to mix some potions when we return to Winterhold.”

“That’s great news,” Hedgrod replied, trying not to focus on the elf’s hand on his elbow. “Although I can’t say I’m in a rush to get back home, at the moment.”

“Oh, really?” Athrar said, chuckling. “It’s almost as if the adventure I spoke to you about is as exciting as I claimed after all. There’s so much out here, Hedgrod. So much more than Winterhold.”

“Well, hold on,” Hedgrod said, feeling defensive. He stopped, despite the protest from people walking behind him, and Athrar pulled them both off of the pathway before dropping his hand.

“What?” The elf asked, genuinely confused.

“Winterhold is my home. I don’t appreciate the implication. I know it isn’t much, but it’s where I grew up.”

Athrar smiled at him. “I know this. I did not mean to offend.”

Hedgrod softened, suddenly embarrassed with how aggressive he might had just sounded. “Sorry, I just--”

“I understand. Come on, let’s go get something to eat,” Athrar said, grabbing his arm once more and getting them back into the crowd that weaved up and down the cobbled streets. Hedgrod let the elf lead him to a wooden tavern that was atop a small hill. The sign read The Drunken Huntsman. “This is the place I was telling you about, we can stay here for the night.”

When they entered, they were immediately greeted by the sound of jovial conversation and laughter. There was a fire pit in the center of the room, burning bright with delicious smelling stews cooking in pots on a spit. There were many men and women about the room, drinking from tankards or bottles and laughing and singing. There was a bard playing the lute, and the merriment in the air was contagious. Hedgrod found himself smiling as he observed people while Athrar led him through the crowd towards the counter, where another bosmer was standing, cleaning a tankard and watching the guests.

“Elrindir! Good to see you,” Athrar called, letting go of Hedgrod’s arm once more to reach across and shake the bartender’s.

“Athrar! It’s been a long time, what brings you to town?”

“Oh, I just wanted to visit. And I needed some ingredients while I was out this way. How is your brother?”

Hedgrod’s attention slid from the two bosmer chattering away back to the crowd. There were people of all races gathered in the tavern, but Hedgrod noticed that it was mostly Nords. He supposed he should not be surprised, as Athrar had mentioned that this was the case for Whiterun, but race wasn’t something he had paid much attention to until now. He supposed that it was because it was something that he had not had to pay attention to.

“Hedgrod,” Athrar said, snapping the Nord out of his trance. “Elrindir has a room for us. He doesn’t typically rent out rooms, but he is a friend, so we will stay here for as long as we are in town.”

“That sounds wonderful,” he replied, following Athrar through to the back room and up the wooden stairs. There were only two rooms on the top floor, and Athrar walked over to one of the doors and used a key that was likely provided by Elrindir to unlock the door. Once inside, Hedgrod noted that it was cozy. Very cozy.

“There is only one bed,” he noted out loud, his cheeks hot.

“Yes. I’m sorry. He would not have minded letting us use multiple rooms, but it seems there is a rich prick that has been staying in the other one,” he said, his voice low, eyes on the wall that they shared with the aforementioned rich prick. “So. If it makes you uncomfortable we can make other arrangements. The reason I prefer it here is because of Elindir, and as I mentioned since it is not a proper inn, and smaller than The Bannered Mare, it is typically much quieter at night.”

Hedgrod nodded but did not respond, listening but unsure what to say. He had walked further into the room and noted the desk, dresser, and chair that were the only other furniture items in the room save for the bed and a small side table with a candle holder on it. At least the bed was large enough for two people to fit comfortably.

“Back in Valenwood, Bosmer live very close to each other in huts and small dwellings. I grew up in The Imperial City, of course, so I am an outlier in that regard but I suppose that it is in my genes to be physically close to others.” He was rambling, he knew, but Hedgrod was saying nothing and he did not want there to be silence. It was a bad habit.

“I never would have known that,” Hedgrod responded. “Thank you for sharing. Seriously. I feel like there’s so much that I don’t know.”

Athrar couldn’t help but smile.

Notes:

Regarding their conversation about the size of Whiterun and the Imperial City, my own headcanons as well as lore research have kind of shaped the size of these cities in my story. It's common knowledge that the population of Skyrim and Cyrodiil are scaled down for the games due to technological limitations. I believe Whiterun to be the largest city in Skyrim, with a population around 80,000 and the Imperial City sitting around a million pre-Oblivion crisis (think ancient Rome) but sitting more around 500,000 at the time this story takes place since it is post-oblivion crisis and Cyrodiil does not have as much power in the 4th Era as it did in the 3rd.

Regarding Athrar not following the Green Pact because he harvests ingredients from plants, I am just thinking of it as he was not raised in Valenwood so he does not adhere as much to it as the Bosmer that live in Valenwood do. His love for alchemy is not typical of bosmer but hes just built different.

I'm not sure why I'm even going to the lengths to specify all of this because I doubt anybody who does happen to read this incredibly indulgent fic would even care to the lore of the city sizes as much as I do, but here it is anyways. Which, for those of you reading in general, thank you so much.

Chapter 6: A Hearty Drink

Athrar had returned to his field journal, bent over the desk with the single candle in the room burning next to him and providing light as the sun began to retreat behind the walls of the city. He had acquired a proper pen and inkwell and was scrawling in a loopy, cursive font that Hedgrod could barely make out.

Leaving the elf to his own devices, Hedgrod decided to leave the tavern and explore more of the city. He had never been in a town so big. Windhelm was larger than Winterhold considerably, but it was sparsely populated and saw fewer movement on the streets due to the biting cold. The weather in Whiterun was noticeably more pleasant, and Hedgrod found himself particularly enjoying the fresh air that had much less bite to it than the chilly air from home. It was still cold, but the sun made it bearable. There was a bustle in the streets, and Hedgrod found himself simultaneously overwhelmed and enamored with the way that the city moved. It was nothing like he had ever experienced. He wanted more.

He found himself back in the market district that he and Athrar had passed through previously, surrounded by stalls with merchants offering various goods. There were some with jewelry, armor, a hunter with fresh meat, a farmer or two with fruits and vegetables. He perused the stalls, not with the intention of purchasing anything but instead with seeing what the town’s marketplace had to offer. There was undoubtedly more variety in the crops, he thought to himself as he picked up a tomato, likely due to the warmer weather in this area of Skyrim. Eventually he paid the woman running the stall for an apple, and started back on his walk around the city as he sunk his teeth into the soft red fruit. It was delicious, and he didn’t even bother to wipe the juice that dripped down his chin into his beard.

Hedgrod continued to explore the city, from the town center with a massive tree and statue of Talos with a priest in front, shouting to a crowd of people that watched him with eager eyes; to the large residential district on the other side of town. He wandered the streets until dusk began to fall, and eventually he made his way back to the Drunken Huntsman, pleased with himself that he managed to not get lost in the city that was much, much larger than his hometown. Athrar was not in the main room when he entered, but it was suppertime and there were still plenty of people gathered around eating together and drinking mead. There was a small group of Whiterun guards sitting at the bar, their helmets laid in a line at the end. Hedgrod made his way over to the bar and requested a pint of mead from the bartender, sliding a septim across the wooden counter.

While he stood next to the guards waiting on his drink, he struck up a conversation with them, asking about their daily duties. Before he knew it, he was multiple pints of mead in, sitting at the bar with the guards, listening to their stories and being in awe at how much more they did than he.

“Aye, the wildest thing I’ve ever seen,” the Nord on the far end away from Hedgrod started, his blonde hair swishing around as he spoke and gestured with his hands. “This lad had come out from The Bannered Mare late in the night and started running’ towards the main gates. Naked as the day he was born! Naturally, I take off after ‘im, but the bastard was faster ‘n me by a longshot! Found out later it was some bet, and he was drunker’n a Lord. Hope his 200 septims were worth the night in jail!”

The other guards roared with laughter, and Hedgrod found himself cracking up at their stories. He felt upset that he did not have any to share, being from such a sparsely populated province, but his new friends seemed to understand.

“Quite an easy job you’ve got,” one of the men commented in his direction. He was an imperial, with long black hair that fell in a braid mid-way down his back, and a thick, wiry beard. A long scar crossed over his face and down his chin, but despite his scary look, he was the most soft spoken of the group.

“Indeed, it’s true. I don’t see nearly as much action as you lot,” Hedgrod replied, taking another gulp out of his tankard and feeling the liquid warm his belly.

“Must be nice,” the blonde Nord lamented, stretching his arms above his head. “There’s always some shit goin’ down here. Lotta drunks, beggars. Some thievery. We earn our keep, for sure. What I wouldn't give for a nice easy day. Although I can’t say I envy ye for havin’ to be out in that freezing cold all day!”

“It can get miserable, for sure,” Hedgrod replied. “But that’s what mead is for.”

His new friends hooted. “Cheers, I’ll drink to that!’ The imperial shouted, and they all clinked their tankards together before downing what was left in them.

Hedgrod was buzzing, literally and figuratively. The guys kept buying rounds of drinks, ordering for Hedgrod as well, and who was he to refuse such kindness? He supposed it had to do with the fact that he was a fellow guard, and he was enjoying the camaraderie. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get along with the boys back home, but there was definitely not as much to talk about in such a quiet town.

The drink and conversation continued to flow as the night went on, and eventually he found himself standing with them around the fire, all of them still with tankards in hand as the other men belted out the lyrics of songs that they requested from a bard, the same one that had been in the tavern for a while but had just decided to play his lute again after taking a break.

“Ragnar the Red! Ragnar the Red!” Odmis, the blonde Nord, chanted after the bard had finished drinking the ale that one of the men bought him.

The bard laughed heartily as he started up, the entire group of guards joining in, Hedgrod included.

“Ohhh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the red, who came riding to Whiterun from old Roriksteaaad!”

The whole bar joined in, laughing and shouting in between the verses. So much for this tavern being quieter, Hedgrod thought to himself.

“...When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!” the entire tavern shouted at the end of the song, raising their glasses with a roar of merriment. Hedgrod downed the rest of his drink after the toast, and set the empty tankard down on a nearby table. He was not as heavy a drinker as the Whiterun guards seemed to be, but he was having the time of his life. His new brood would clap him on the shoulder as he finished his drinks, and their conversations got louder and less coherent the more they all got further into their pints. At one point, two of the men in the tavern started a brawl, and instead of stopping them as Hedgrod thought they might, they started shouting encouragement, gesturing wildly with their hands and causing their drinks to slosh on the floor.

Hedgrod put a hand to his head and leaned back on the table, the entire tavern focused on the brawl taking place, the sound of yelling and blows landing echoing in his head. He closed his eyes to gain his bearings and tried to stop the world from spinning. After an indiscernible amount of time he felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes he saw not one of his new guard friends, as he was expecting to, but rather the hazel gaze of Athrar, who at some point had come downstairs.

“Hey,” he said, and Hedgrod grinned at him.

“Athrar! You were right. This town is amazing. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. Everyone is so cool!” His words were slurred, and his hands felt too big.

Athrar smiled back, close-lipped. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Hedgrod. Would you like to turn in for the night, though? You were looking a little sick there, for a moment.”

Hedgrod hummed, looking back over at the Whiterun guards, who were still engrossed in watching the brawl. The two men fighting were both incredibly stocky, and neither seemed inclined to give up. Their gazes were hard but not hostile, and it was clear that they were boozed up and enjoying themselves overall. “Maybe,” he mused.

His friend did not respond but instead began pulling him, and Hedgrod’s body moved in the direction that Athrar suggested, his feet clumsily pattering after the elf, who moved like water.

“Like water?” Athrar echoed.

“Did I say that out loud?”

The elf laughed. “Yes, you did.”

“My bad.”

“No harm done,” Athar replied, guiding Hedgrod in front of him and pushing him up the stairs toward the room they were renting.

“Why did you come down?” Hedgrod asked, his tongue heavy.

“Well, it was hard for me to concentrate on reading with how rowdy it was getting. I had thought about going out to look for you since you had not yet returned, and luckily I did not have to look very far.”

“You read?”

“Well, of course. I went out shortly after you to visit Dragonsreach and purchase some books to study.”

“You’re so smart.”

Athrar laughed, a warm sound that made Hedgrod’s chest feel funny. “Well thank you.”

Hedgrod found his way into the room that the two were sharing and sunk down onto the bed, looking at his feet. Athrar closed the door behind him, and the rowdy shouting from downstairs went down to a quiet muffle. Athrar moved to sit at the chair next to the desk, and Hedgrod noticed that his green cloak was draped over the back. There were only a few times where Hedgrod had seen the bosmer without his cloak on, and he could see a glimpse of the tattoo that Athrar had wrapped around his right arm. It was an ornate design that Hedgrod had only seen bits of, and he had wanted to ask about it before but had never actually spoken his questions out loud.

“What does your tattoo mean?”

He blinked, as if he had forgotten that he had permanent markings on his body. He held out his arm and twisted it around, and Hedgrod said nothing further. He instead watched, staring. It was an ornate, swirling design featuring what looked like leaves.

“It’s related to growth, and Y’ffre. Which I guess is kind of ironic, since like I’ve mentioned before I did not grow up in Valenwood.”

“Y’ffre?”

“They are the deity that Bosmer in Valenwood worship. They brought plant life, and Bosmer life, to Valenwood, and are the reason that many Bosmer do not eat or use anything related to plants. It’s complicated. It is most likely a story that is just told to Bosmer children. But it is one that has resonated with me.”

Hedgrod’s world was still spinning slightly, but he was entirely focused on Athrar, his eyes shining as he looked at his own arm.

Athrar moved to stand up and before Hedgrod could process what was going on, the elf was removing his shirt. He was lean, his reddish brown skin a little lighter where his clothes usually covered, which meant he had spent time in the sun consistently. With his same water-like movements, he folded his garment and draped it over the chair with his cloak, and as he moved Hedgrod could see more of his tattoo. It wrapped around the entirety of his arm from the back of his hand to his shoulder and upper chest, and as he turned the nord could see that it spiraled over his shoulder blade and down his back slightly as well. The bed sank as Athrar sat down next to Hedgrod, his tattooed left arm facing the nord. He held out his arm towards his friend, and without thinking, Hedgrod reached up and grabbed it, one hand at Athrar’s wrist and one below his elbow. Athrar audibly sucked in a breath and flexed his fingers, a movement that Hedgrod could not read. He traced his fingers over the ink pattern with one hand, holding his wrist with the other. He smoothed his palm over Athrar’s shoulder blade when his movements met no resistance, following the movement of the tattoo. “Incredible.”

“Thank you,” Athrar replied quietly, his eyes half-lidded and fixed ahead of him. Hedgrod absently traced back and forth for a few minutes until the elf pulled his arm away gently, not looking at Hedgrod as he stood from the bed and moved to sit back down at the desk, still without his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Hedgrod said, unsure if he did something wrong. His face felt hot.

“You have no reason to apologize to me,” Athrar responded, his back still to Hedgrod. He opened a large tome that was sitting on the desk and sighed. “Try to rest. You’re not going to feel great in the morning with the amount of alcohol it seems like you’ve had.”

Hedgrod grunted but had no proper response to that. He removed his own shirt and heavy iron-clad boots. Clothed now only in his breeches, he moved back the animalskin blanket upon the bed and made himself comfortable underneath it. When he closed his eyes the room was still spinning. Despite the heavy haze that had settled in his head, he slammed rather than drifted into sleep, and it was a deep and dreamless state.

Notes:

Lore Links:
Y'ffre
Tattoos/Body Modifications in TES

Chapter 7: A Dragon Slain

It was bright. Way too bright.

Hedgrod’s head was pounding, and his eyes felt sticky, and like they hadn’t been opened in days. There were two sconces on two different walls in the room they were staying in, and Athrar had evidently lit both of them at some point the day before. The desk candle was sitting on the nightstand, snuffed out, but there was still enough light in the room to bother Hedgrod as he was regaining consciousness.

He turned over with a sigh, and his arm hit something solid as he tried to tuck it under the pillow. Athrar was laying in the bed next to him, fast asleep, his dark hair fanned out across the pillow. He was facing the ceiling, hands folded neatly on his chest, as far away on the bed as he could comfortably get from Hedgrod without dangling off the edge. There was a serene look on his face, and his soft breaths could be heard as Hedgrod held his. Suddenly feeling very awake, the nord moved his hand away from Athrar’s bare shoulder, which it had made contact with. He still was not wearing a shirt after the tattoo inspection conducted the night before, and Hedgrod was bare-chested as well. It was an intimate moment, one that felt too intimate in how Athrar was still asleep. Though, he supposed, he had passed out the night before and Athrar had presumably climbed into bed next to him as he slept and shared this exact kind of moment. The thought did not ease the feeling he felt though, which was something adjacent to discomfort or embarrassment but not quite as unpleasant.

He retracted his hand back under his cheek, and remained laying down facing Athrar, watching his chest rise and fall. His own eyelids fluttered back shut, and when he woke again, Athrar was pulling on his cloak.

“Oh, you’re awake,” the elf commented. “I was going out to go look for some tundra cotton and lavender for some potions. Would you like to join me?”

Hedgrod sat up, bringing his knees up to rest his arms on them. “That sounds nice.”

Athrar nodded, and sat down at the chair, turning his attention to one of his books while Hedgrod busied himself with getting dressed and suiting up in his armor. He likely wouldn’t need it, but they were going to be out in the wilderness of Skyrim and there was no telling what they might run into.

Before long, the two men set off together, waving to Elrindir on their way out. It was midmorning, the sun high in the sky and warming Hedgrod’s skin as they descended down the incline towards the main gate. They walked side by side, and as they made their way towards the main entrance into the city, they couldn’t help but notice the large group of guards that was gathered there, listening to orders from a Dunmer woman.

“...what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?” she was yelling at the group of guards, who responded with an enthusiastic barrage of shouting.

“Let’s move out,” the dunmer concluded, and the soldiers assumed position and began moving out.

“Did she say… dragon?” Athrar echoed as the two of them stood by, waiting for the group of guards to move out before they could continue towards the gate.

“That’s what it sounded like,” Hedgrod replied, an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Dragons haven’t been seen in Tamriel since…” Athrar trailed off, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I think we’d better follow them and see what’s going on.”

“What?!” Hedgrod exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”

Athrar snorted. “I thought you were a guard?”

Hedgrod’s face burned. “Fine,” he said, his voice low. He didn’t like the idea of getting up close to a real, fire-breathing dragon, let alone intentionally doing so instead of avoiding it. But, he had agreed to essentially guard Athrar on his personal errand of collecting potion ingredients and information. He couldn’t very well leave him to his own devices in a situation as serious as this one.

They fell into step behind the Whiterun guards, who were following Irileth. One of them turned to see who was tailing them and Hedgrod recognized Odmis from the night before.

“Hey, it’s our new friend from Winterhold!” he shouted, and a couple more heads turned in their direction. Hedgrod noticed that it was the imperial and another nord from the group that had been at The Drunken Huntsman. They smiled and exclaimed various greetings, Odmis clapping him on the shoulder. “You taggin along with us?”

“I suppose so,” Hedgrod said, keeping his voice neutral.

“Well good. We need all the help we can get. Didja hear? A dragon!” He dropped his voice to a shout-whisper, nearly hissing in Hedgrod’s ear.

“I heard. Can’t say I’ve ever faced such a beast before.”

“Neither have we, lad. I’m a bit nervous to be honest with ya. Hey, who’s your friend?”

Athrar looked up from the fixed spot he had been staring at in front of them.

“This is Athrar. We’re traveling together. He wanted to gather ingredients for potions, and such,” Hedgrod explained.

“Can he fight?” Odmis asked, eyeing Athrar in a way that was more than slightly condescending.

“I’m skilled enough with a bow to take out your eye without puncturing your brain. Not to mention I’m focusing on the school of destruction magic.”

“Magic?” Odmis guffawed, “We’ll see how effective that is against a massive dragon, I suppose.”

Athrar said nothing, deeming it to not be worth it. The meathead Whiterun guards returned to whatever conversation they had been having beforehand, and Hedgrod looked over at Athrar with an apologetic gaze. The elf looked away, breaking their brief eye contact, and he decided not to press the issue. They continued down the cobbled path out of the city and down towards a large watchtower. Irileth crouched behind a nearby rock and the large group of guards filed in behind her.

She was giving orders to the group, but Hedgrod was more focused on the skies. There was no dragon to be seen, although from this distance to the tower he could see some small fires burning, no doubt from the beast’s flaming breath. It couldn’t be far.

The guards began to move closer to the watchtower, moving in different groups. Another guard came running out of the watchtower, his eyes wide and arms flailing. “No! Get back! It's still here somewhere!”

As if on cue, as soon as the sentence was out of the guard’s mouth, the sound of massive beating wings could be heard and Hedgrod’s heart caught in his throat as a massive dragon sailed overhead, circling around the watchtower and letting out a roar into the sky. It was real, and it was right in front of them, ready to move back in for another attack.

“Here he comes! Find cover and make every arrow count!" Irileth shouted, and the guards ran in all different directions, some of them readying arrows and some looking for cover as the dragon was no doubt going to rain fire down on those below. Hedgrod was frozen, but Athrar next to him notched an arrow and kept it trained in the direction of the dragon, one eye open. His hands were steady while Hedgrod’s were shaking, his hand on his sword hilt, watching the dragon circle in the sky as his veins filled with ice. This was definitely not how he planned on spending the day.

Athrar fired an arrow, and it seemed to land in the dragon’s left flank. It made a growling sound but did not slow in the slightest, and Athrar let out an agitated huff. “We might want to take cover.”

“You do not have to tell me twice,” Hedgrod replied, grabbing the elf’s hand and making a break for the watchtower. His friend was clearly startled but offered no resistance, and soon they were under the cover of the stone building, where other guards were huddled up and looking out of the small windows. Likely the ones that had been trapped during the dragon’s initial attack. Before Hedgrod could get a chance to ask his companion what their next plan of action was, Athrar was setting off up the spiraling stone staircase, and Hedgrod had no choice but to follow him.

The elf’s steps were sure and his longbow was still clutched in his hand, the arrows in his quiver clacking together as he marched up the stairs. Hedgrod followed along, still having yet to draw his blade, and secretly hoping that he would not have to.

Once they reached the top of the watchtower, the biting wind met Hedgrod’s face and he squinted against the midmorning sun. The dragon had landed, Irileth and her soldiers maintaining a distance while firing off as many arrows as they possibly could.

Athrar perched one foot on the ledge of the watchtower’s roof, notching an arrow and letting it fly. Hedgrod watched it bury itself into the dragon’s left eye, and it let out a screech so loud that they both winced. It flung its head side to side, backing up, and began breathing fire in every direction as it was trying to figure out what had just happened. The Whiterun guards took cover behind various chunks of stone that had been knocked from the tower as the beast’s flames flung through the air.

The dragon, once getting over initially being stunned, swung its great head around and looked directly at the top of the tower where Hedgrod and Athrar were standing. Hedgrod had no idea how it could tell where the arrow had come from, but he had no extra time to ponder this as the dragon crouched and then lifted off into the air, flying nearly straight up. The gust of wind it caused blew through the two men’s hair, but their feet were planted firm as the dragon made one circle around the tower and then landed on the edge across from them, its great clawed feet gripping the edge as it beat its wings to stay up straight.

It let out a deafening roar, and both men jumped in opposite directions as it blast a column of fire in their direction. Hedgrod was sweating, from stress as well as the intense heat, and he finally drew his sword as Athrar shot another arrow into the dragon’s other eye. Now entirely blind, it started shooting fire at random again, and Hedgrod felt searing pain as one of the flames licked at his shoulder. He fell backwards and made his way down towards the stairs, and Athrar followed him as the dragon took off and began to fly blindly, still breathing fire randomly as it did so. Athrar was looking at the wound on Hedgrod’s arm when the entire watchtower shuddered and the sound of crumbling bricks could be heard. It had slammed into the side of the watchtower. A loud boom followed, and despite his injuries Hedgrod started sprinting down the stairs, Athrar on his heels, yelling at him to wait.

Luckily, the injured arm was not his sword arm, and as they ran back out into the sun he could see the giant beast on the ground, blinded, stunned, but still very much alive. It shook off the rubble that had landed on it and started to stand up, but Hedgrod was running towards it, his feet working faster than the scared voice in his head could. None of the other guards as of yet had gotten close with melee weapons, but he recognized that with how desperate and unpredictable the blinded dragon was, it was now or never. As it raised its head toward the sky, ready to roar again, he plunged his blade into the soft flesh on the underside of its throat, and screamed as he sliced sideways across, blood spraying out into his face as he did so and the dragon letting out a scream to rival his.

It staggered backwards, the Whiterun guard moving backwards with it. They had ceased fire since Hedgrod had gotten in close, but it was clear that the battle was over. Blood was gushing onto the ground, quicker as the dragon got more terrified and its heart rate went up. Hedgrod wiped his face, breathing heavily and watching as the great beast fell onto its side, gurgling as its life force slipped away out of the hole in its neck, two arrows protruding from its blind eyes.

Heavy silence followed after the dragon let out its last, smoky breath. Blood dripped off of Hedgrod’s blade and chin, none of it his own. He was breathing heavily, from exertion as well as coming within an inch of his life. He had gotten up close and personal with a dragon, and he had won. It was largely thanks to Athrar’s expertly shot arrows, and he knew he should thank his friend, but he was too full of adrenaline to speak.

Nobody seemed to know what to do for a moment, which was fair considering that a dragon had not been seen in Skyrim for hundreds of years. Athrar placed a careful hand on Hedgrod’s shoulder, and he stood up straighter, still holding his bloodied blade pointed towards the ground.

What happened next was something that nobody could have prepared for. The dragon’s body, which some of the guards had moved towards to examine, had begun to burn and smolder, as if on fire from the inside. The curious guards, thoroughly spooked, gave the corpse some distance, unsure of what was going on. After burning for a moment, a bright light, or rather multiple ribbons of bright light, began swirling from the dragon’s body and after making some movements around it, it flew directly towards Athrar and Hedgrod, who started but did not move as the light moved through them.

Hedgrod’s stomach felt funny. When the light stopped, the dragon’s skin had dissolved, and sitting before them was instead a dragon’s skeleton, looking as if it had been dead for much longer than a few minutes. Hedgrod raised his hands and could see that he was still glowing slightly, and it was then that the bright light had been… absorbed, or something, by him and him alone.

“I don’t believe it,” one of the guards near him said. It was not one of the men that he had made friends with the night before. “You must be… Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?” Hedgrod echoed. “What is that?”

“That's right! My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself,” one of the other guards piped up, and then they began to chatter and argue amongst themselves about the old legends. Hedgrod turned to Athrar, who was looking at him with just as much bewilderment as he felt. The bosmer, judging by his expression, had also not heard of these legends. Hedgrod was born and raised in a small farm town, and his parents were simple folk, they had not shared with him the legends of old. He had no idea what the guards were talking about, he just knew that he had apparently absorbed the soul of a dragon and that his entire body felt kind of funny.

“Try shouting!” One of the guardsman ordered, and Hedgrod realized they were talking to him again instead of each other.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He turned towards the watchtower, away from the others, and took a deep breath.

The roar that came from his mouth and the word which he did not consciously speak ripped from his chest and made his entire body crackle with electricity. The sky, it seemed, also crackled, and a burst of energy shot forth from him and rattled the loose debris from the watchtower that he shouted in the direction of. He couldn’t believe yelling could have that kind of force, and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he did it in the direction of a person.

The strangest part of the ordeal was how instinctual it was. He did not consciously think about the word that he had uttered. But it was apparently the right one. Fus. Whatever that meant. It looked like he had some research to do.

“So the legends are true!” Odmis shouted, his face lit up in excitement. “You really are Dragonborn!”

Dragonborn. Hedgrod flexed his fingers, looked over at Athrar, who still had not said anything. The bosmer was instead watching him, his eyes calculating and rather cold. His bow had been returned to its place of rest upon his back, and he stood with his arms crossed, his cloak and hair ruffling slightly in the wind. Hedgrod shrugged, and Athrar shook his head and quirked an eyebrow. I don’t know either.

Irileth approached the newly discovered Dragonborn and his bosmer companion. “That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few. I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I'm sure glad you were here to help us. You better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here.” She nodded at them both, then began rounding up the guards with a commanding tone. They ceased their individual conversations and banter and stood at attention as Irileth ordered them back towards the city.

The guards and Irileth, satisfied with the job finished, started back up the path towards Whiterun. After wiping his sword in the grass and sheathing it, Hedgrod inclined his head in the direction of the city. When the elf nodded in response they started walking, trailing behind the guards, not saying a word. The whole ordeal had left them both in a state of shock, and neither knew what to say to the other.

Their pace was much more relaxed than that of the Whiterun guard, and there was considerable distance between the two companions and the group of guards by the time they neared the huge stone walls of the city. As they made their way up the gently sloping path, the ground began to shake. The sky seemed to crack in half with the booming sound, much louder than the dragon’s roar, which at the time was the loudest thing Hedgrod had ever heard. This was much louder, and seemed to rattle his very bones. It was like a crackle of lightning coming from inside his chest, and he was sure his heart stopped as he could make out words booming from the calamity.

DOH-VAH-KIIN!

“What was that?” Hedgrod asked, gaining his bearings and looking up at the sky, expecting a thunderstorm.

“I don’t know,” Athrar replied, shaken as well. “I think we’re both a little out of our element here. We’d better pay a visit to the Jarl.”

The two started again up the path, falling silent once more. Hedgrod felt like his head was buzzing. Only a few days ago he was a simple guard of a small town, and now was apparently some kind of chosen, special person. And now he had to figure out exactly what that meant for him, and for Skyrim. The dragons returning, as far as he could figure, was not a good thing.

XXX

Hedgrod was nervous, reporting to Jarl Balgruuf what had happened during the watchtower fight, after Irileth had given him the rundown of the fight with a dragon. His arm had been patched up by the some other members of Balgruuf’s court, and he was thankful for their assistance.

“So,” Hedgrod concluded, trying to appear less nervous than he was. “I’m not really sure what to make of this Dragonborn business, or the loud voices from the sky.”

Jarl Balgruuf was a nord, likely born and raised here in the heart of Skyrim. He stroked his goatee and nodded. “The voices were likely those of the Greybeards, the masters of the Voice that live atop High Hrothgar. Being summoned by them is a great honor.”

Hedgrod nodded, feeling again like there was some sort of mistake. He did not feel like he was the person meant to receive the title of Dragonborn, and he did not know how to proceed. Jarl Balgruuf thanked him and Athrar for their assistance in taking down the dragon, and informed them that they were always welcome to stay in Dragonsreach while visiting the city. Athrar was polite, but Hedgrod could tell from his body language that it was not an offer they would ever accept in the future.

His hunch was confirmed as they headed out of the large building and down the cobbled stairs.

“Now what?” Hedgrod asked, feeling numb.

“I guess we will travel to Ivarstead,” Athrar replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever been there. I’m excited to see what kind of ingredients grow out there.”

“You’re coming with me?” Hedgrod asked.

Athrar stopped momentarily, forcing Hedgrod to do the same.

“Hedgrod, you traveled with me to Whiterun just so I was able to gather some plants. Of course I will accompany you to visit the most powerful monks in Skyrim, who have summoned you for an ancient power that you have seemed to suddenly unlock. If you’ll have me, that is.”

“I’d love the company,” Hedgrod replied quietly, hiding his smile as he started again down the stairs. He walked slowly enough for Athrar to catch up to him, because he did not want to admit that he had no idea what to do now. Athrar took the lead, without saying anything, and they ended up back at the Drunken Huntsman, sat at the bar and asking for something to eat. Hedgrod didn’t notice how hungry he was until food was set in front of him, and he inhaled it, along with two tankards of mead.

“We’ll leave in the morning,” Athrar said in the middle of their meal. “I know we have not been here for long, but I think it best for us to head out as soon as possible so as to figure out what it is the Greybeards would like to speak to you about.”

Hedgrod nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of veal. “I am on board with this plan,” he replied, and Athrar nodded to show his acknowledgement that they were on the same page.

 

Athrar had long gone back up to their room by the time Hedgrod was feeling like he was a few too many pints in. His band of guard buddies had shown up again, which apparently was their custom, and after Odmis shared the tales of him finishing the dragon, they kept his mead flowing and told him he was not allowed to spend his own gold on a drop. Before long he was past his limit, and the volume in the bar was rising by the minute. Hedgrod’s face felt hot, and he thought to himself that he had drunk more mead and ale in two days in Whiterun than the last few months back home. It was more fun with a group, and he had connected with these guards much more than the boys back home. He felt like he fit in, and he was momentarily sad that he could not simply stay in Whiterun. Relocate and take up a new guard post in a bigger city. However, due to the Dragonborn business, he could feel that there was something huge looming before him, and that his life was not likely to feel “normal” again for quite some time.

Chapter 8: A Bad Dream

Warmth. From everywhere, and within. Hedgrod was laughing, cajoling, but he felt disconnected from himself. The room was spinning. Everything moved in slow motion. Mead, ale, more mead, offered to him by his new friends and who was he to decline such generous hospitality? They laughed, called him a hero, the Dragonborn, and he felt more and more loose as the alcohol worked its way through his limbs and turned them to rubber.

He was sweating, constantly having to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, and he wasn’t sure if it was from how warm it was inside with all of the people or because of the alcohol. Perhaps both. He found himself wishing Athrar had remained in the bar area with him, but he had learned by now that his friend was not particularly social, and did not drink very much, or at least not that he had noticed. This was not an issue for Hedgrod, but he found himself surrounded by people that did not have the same comforting aura as the wood elf possessed. This coupled with the fact that he was getting more and more inebriated made Hedgrod feel like he was missing something, though he could not place a finger on what exactly, and his ability to rationally think was quickly slipping through his fingers.

Odmis and the rest of the group were clearly better at holding their drink. They were carrying on and moving as if they were sober, though there was a telltale clunkiness to their movements and slur to their speech that gave them away. He could not keep up with them, he could not, and he found himself struggling to stand up straight.

It was hot, too hot, the fire at the center of the room was burning bright and keeping the area lit, and it hurt Hedgrod to look at, burning his retinas where he had been staring at it until he was clapped on the back by one of the guardsmen, and even then he felt like it was still burning, too hot, like the dragon he had faced with its breath of fire and his arm started smarting. He looked down at it, and it appeared fine but something was very, very wrong he thought as he lost his grip on his drink and it went tumbling down to the ground, splashing on his boots and making a noise loud enough for multiple people to notice, though they did not seem angry that he had just wasted drink they had bought him, choosing instead to tease him and tell him he had better maintain a better grip on his sword than he just had on his tankard.

Air. He couldn’t breathe. It was too hot. He felt like he was burning and as he pushed through the crowd he felt as if he was going to be sick. Hedgrod barely made it outside before he was so, emptying the contents of his stomach into the grass and feeling hot tears flow freely from his eyes, whether due to his gagging or overwhelm he was too intoxicated to discern. The night air was cold on his face, the wind had a bite to it even this far south. It was still Skyrim after all.

Wiping his mouth and falling back onto his folded legs, he took in a shaky breath. His stomach was empty but he still felt as if he could not stand up straight. He decided to make his way back in, picking through the crowd as best he could without bumping shoulders, finally refusing drinks that were thrust to him as he trained his blurred vision on the stairs towards the back of the tavern. He shakily made his way upstairs and nearly fell into his and Athrar’s shared room, startling the bosmer.

“By the nine,” Athrar exclaimed, looking up from his large dusty tome. “I thought you were someone trying to kill me.”

“Athrar,” Hedgrod slurred, falling against the door behind him and shutting it with his entire body. He sank to the floor and held his head in his hands. At least the light was much better in here. The two wall sconces cast a much softer light than the roaring hearth downstairs. He tried to concentrate on not vomiting again.

“Are you okay?” Athrar asked, seeming to appear next to him without moving.

Hedgrod said nothing but shook his head, using his hands on either cheek to facilitate the movement. He felt like he was on fire, and his eyes started watering again.

“Come,” Athrar commanded, grabbing onto Hedgrod’s wrists and pulling him to his feet, using his own body weight to pull him up and guide him towards the bed. Hedgrod obliged and let Athrar set him down. “Lift your arms up.” And Hedgrod did. Athrar peeled his shirt off of him and set it aside. He then leaned down and pulled off his friend’s boots. Hedgrod watched him do so, his eyes wide and tears still flowing from them.

“Athrar,” Hedgrod repeated again, his friend’s name the only words he had spoken for the last half an hour or so. His throat felt dry despite all of the drink.

“I’m going to get you some water,” Athrar responded, standing up. “Stay here.”

It was not a hard command to follow. Hedgrod felt more comfortable with his boots and shirt removed, and he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers to try and ease some of the tension he was feeling. Athrar returned, as promised, with a cup of water, and Hedgrod graciously accepted it and drank about half before setting it on the nightstand.

Athrar sat down in the bed next to him, his eyes trained on the nord’s face. He was not wearing his cloak, just an undershirt and trousers, his feet bare. Hedgrod could see his tattoo on his arm, and without thinking he reached out and touched it. Athrar did not protest, but instead lifted his arm to give him more access, and Hedgrod began tracing the vines and branches that the tattoo comprised, just as mesmerized as he was the first time, although he was likely more intoxicated.

“Athrar…” he said a third time. “I do not think I can do this,”

“Do what?”

“Be the dragonborn. I am just a normal person.”

Athrar nodded sagely. “I cannot understand exactly how you feel right now. But I am here, and you are not alone in your journey. How is your arm feeling?”

It was his turn to trace his fingers up the other’s arm, over the bandages that had already begun to show blood soaking through. They would need to replace them tomorrow before they set out.

“It does not hurt so bad now,” Hedgrod responded. “Although that’s probably because of all the mead.”

Athrar chuckled. “I think you may be right about that one.”

He stood and blew out the sconces, leaving the room dimly lit by the candle on the desk. Athrar removed his own shirt and set it carefully by his cloak. Hedgrod watched him the entire time, as he made his way around and climbed into bed on the other side, politely giving Hedgrod as much room as possible. “I think it’s best if we get some rest,” he said, propping himself up on his elbow and looking at Hedgrod.

The nord nodded, maneuvering so he was under the covers as well, and flopped down on the pillow much less graciously than intended. He laughed at himself and Athrar smiled. They found themselves laying down, just looking at each other. Hedgrod resumed tracing the tattoo on Athrar’s arm and wrist, and the elf eventually turned over and faced his back towards him, allowing him to trace the tattoo in its entirety, including the bit on his back and shoulder blade. It was comforting for both of them, they found, and not long after they both fell asleep.

 

Hedgrod’s slumber was fitful and full of images of fire, gnashing teeth and claws. He started awake, sweat all over his body, and still not entirely sober from his drinking escapade a few hours prior. His breath was coming in short gasps and before he could gain enough consciousness to realize there wasn’t another fire breathing dragon in front of him, Athrar had stirred beside him. The nord had his fists clenched, likely due to his distress or in some attempt to clutch whatever weapon had been in his hand during his dream. The elf spoke his name, but he was having trouble focusing.

Athrar took one of Hedgrod’s hands in two of his own and coaxed his clenched fist open. He traced his fingers across Hedgrod’s, making comforting gestures back and forth as Hedgrod’s breathing evened out. It was dark, and he blinked to try and get used to the low light. Athrar did not let go of his hand, even after his breathing had returned to normal. Neither of them said anything, and their hands remained connected. It was a comforting gesture, and Hedgrod’s breathing evened back out long before Athrar finally retracted his hand.

Chapter 9: A Toll Paid

“We should have invested in a horse,” Athrar grumbled as the two walked side by side. “This journey is going to be long, especially when we reach the foot of the mountain.”

“At least we are traveling in the southern part of the province, the weather is much warmer and more suited for travel,” Hedgrod replied, holding up his friend’s map and tracing their intended route with his finger. He shifted the pack on his shoulder, much larger than their previous satchels but was allowing them to carry around more goods, food, and potions. It seemed a worthwhile purchase from the general shop, but was now wondering if it might have been better to save for a horse instead.

“That is true,” Athrar agreed, and they fell silent once more.

They had been walking for a while, Whiterun far behind them, and they came upon two tall stone towers boasting a bridge that connected them over the river that ran along the cobbled path. A man clad in fur armor and wearing an iron helmet was leaning against the side of the tower on their side of the river, watching a fire crackle underneath a nearby cooking pot. Upon seeing the two men approach he stood up straight and walked out into the path, blocking their way.

“Halt!” He commanded, and both Hedgrod and Athrar did so, unsure of what to expect. “This here’s a toll road, see? Yer gonna have to hand over, say… 200 gold if you wanna use our road.”

Athrar stiffened. Hedgrod stayed quiet but he knew what they were both thinking. Between the two of them, they did not quite have that much gold. There were a few options for what they could do in an effort to proceed. They were already too far in the journey to turn back and take an alternate route to Ivarstead, if the map that Hedgrod had spent time studying over the last few days told him anything, it was that doubling back would make their long journey even longer. His eyes flitted to the tower, trying to discern if the bandit blocking their passage had backup. Movement in one of the tower windows confirmed that they were more than likely outnumbered. It was unlikely they could reason with him, although they could maybe offer him whatever gold they had left, it would not be a smart move considering they needed some to buy food when they stopped in town. Athrar glanced at him, and he knew they were on the same page.

“Well?”

Hedgrod straightened up, puffing out his chest and attempting to look as intimidating as possible. Athrar nodded, ever so slightly, his stance showing he too was ready for a fight.

“How about you let us through and we don’t kill you?” He countered, his voice full of bravado and making him seem much more confident than he felt. His healing arm throbbed under his bandages as his heart beat in his chest.

The bandit laughed a hearty belly laugh and drew his iron blade. “Hah! Tough talk for someone who’s about to have their guts spilled.”

He poised to move forward and strike, but Athrar was faster, his hand lighting up with a blinding glow as he cast a firebolt spell in the direction of their attacker. It caught him in the face and he screamed, dropping his weapon, which gave Hedgrod the opening he needed to lunge forward and sink his own blade into the man’s chest, ending his breathing in one swift blow, and his suffering from the burns he was sustaining to his face. The two men stood still for a moment, but the bandit’s cry of pain had alerted the others that were in the watchtower, if the subsequent yelling told him anything.

“Duck!” Athrar shouted, and Hedgrod did just in time, an arrow sailing through the air and narrowly missing the top of his head.

“Shit,” he muttered. “That’s not good.”

Athrar readied his own bow, expertly notching an arrow and letting it fly into the window that was facing them. He wasn’t sure if it landed, but it forced whoever was aiming at them to retreat momentarily and he and Hedgrod made for their only cover -- inside the tower.

It was a risky move, but it was likely the only one that would allow them to come out of this encounter in one piece. The two men moved as a unit, without saying anything to each other, Hedgrod barging in first due to his melee weapon and Athrar closely following him. The nord kicked the door in, splintering it as he did so, and brandishing his weapon. It was a narrow entryway, a staircase to their right, an empty bookshelf straight ahead. Yelling could be heard from the tower across the river. They were running out of time.

Hedgrod took the stairs two at a time and walked out through the doorway into the outdoors, climbing a wooden ramp that took him to the bridge over the river. There were two bandits halfway across, running for the two of them. Athrar notched an arrow and let it fly at the bandit taking up the rear. It landed in his knee with a soft thunk and he yelped in pain before losing his balance and toppling over the side of the bridge and into the water below. The bandit in front was wielding a claymore, and had the advantage in terms of melee range. Thinking fast, Hedgrod pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it. He was not the best shot but by some chance of luck the dagger found its home in the bandits’ neck, his fur armor doing little to stop it. He gurgled wetly as his throat began gushing blood. He removed the dagger, which was the wrong move as the blood began draining faster. Clearly startled, he lost his footing as he was trying to gain his bearings and slipped sideways, his head cracking on the stones as he went down awkwardly, creating a red puddle in the river below. Athrar caught up to his companion and yanked him back by his arm as another arrow flew through the air, missing him, even closer than the last one.

He did not have time to notch an arrow, and instead used his free hand to cast firebolt across the river, hoping it would hit the archer. It did not, and when Athrar gained his bearings and looked across, there was a small fire burning in the grass from where his spell had struck, but no archer.

“I’m going to fall back and try to get a better vantage point atop this tower,” Athrar said as they retreated slightly back into the doorway.

“I’ll proceed across the bridge,” Hedgrod replied, gripping his sword tighter.

“Are you sure? You will be incredibly exposed.”

“I have a skilled archer-slash-mage backing me up. I am not worried.”

Athrar smiled, and gave him one nod before turning on his heel and bounding up the wooden platform, heading back into the watchtower, towards the higher level. Hedgrod waited a few beats before walking back up to the level of the bridge, scanning the shores on the other side of the river for the hostile archer. When he saw none, and heard the creaking of floorboards in the watchtower above him, he felt confident in crossing, knowing Athrar had his back.

He moved swiftly, hoping to catch whoever was in the second watchtower off guard. He heard the whizzing of air overhead and hoped it was Athrar firing an arrow. He made it into the second watchtower and headed up another immediate flight of stairs. Once making it up and out the door, he found the area where the bandit archer had been set up, and where Athrar’s firebolt had landed, now a smoldering patch of black grass. There was no living soul to be seen, and Hedgrod continued back around the watchtower where another wooden platform led to a higher level. He emerged into a room where a camp had obviously been set up. There were bedrolls on the ground and food on a table next to lit candles. He held his breath, wondering where they had gone.

The slight grunt behind him alerted him to the presence of another just in time, and he dodged sideways, rolling and turning at the same time to gauge his attacker. It was another bandit, this one clad in steel armor head to toe. Hedgrod’s own guardsman armor was chainmail, and not as heavy, proving as an advantage for mobility but not as protection. His attacker brandished an iron shield where Hedgrod’s was simply reinforced wood, and the bandit was bigger than Hedgrod. He stood, ready to take him on, hoping that wherever the archer was, Athrar was able to take care of him, otherwise his favor in this fight could turn very quickly.

The brute swung his mace again and Hedgrod jumped out of the way. He had overestimated his swing and the iron lodged itself in the wooden floorboard with a splintering sound.

Hedgrod’s head was spinning. His brain decided this was an opportune moment to replay the dragon attack again, for whatever reason. But instead of the main fight, it was the conversation between the guards afterwards, and his newfound power. He steeled himself and took a deep breath.

Fus!

There was not a considerable amount of power behind his ability, since he still had no idea what he was doing, but it was enough to knock the bandit over and he made a sound of disbelief, unsure of what had just happened to him. In the process he dropped his shield, which Hedgrod kicked out of the way without a second thought.

He advanced, brandishing his own shield and sword, as the bandit stood back up with his mace, now angered, and without his shield.

They danced around each other in the small room for a moment before the bandit lunged at him, evidently feeling confident in his heavy armor. Hedgrod used the shield to bash his head, and he stumbled. The nord used his foot to kick his attacker over, and while he was on the ground he trained his sword at the gap between his armor near his abdomen before piercing his sword in. The bandit cried out, his arms flailing but gaining no purchase, as Hedgrod had put his foot on his shoulder. He dug the blade in deeper and twisted it around, trying to ignore the strangled cries from the bandit beneath him as he did so. A dark pool of blood was forming under him, and he eventually stopped thrashing about. Hedgrod removed his sword, breathing heavily, and stepped away from the bandit, trying not to be sick.

He moved up the stairs to a large bedroom, with a chest at the end. He knew there would likely be valuables in there that would be beneficial to him and Athrar on their quest, but his vision was blurring, and he wanted to be sure that all of the bandits were taken care of before he went treasure hunting. He looked up, the remaining stairs leading to a small platform. He stood still for a moment and just watched, but a lack of movement told him that there was nobody up there. He took the opportunity to sheathe his weapon and open the chest, taking out the gold that the bandits had stashed as well as a dagger. Perfect to replace the one that he had thrown at one of their attackers. He quickly put these items into his pack and set off to find Athrar, giving the body of the bandit in steel armor a wide berth. When he got out to the lower level again, he could hear strained breathing. Upon investigation, it was not Athrar, but the hostile archer, propped against an ore deposit in the side of the cliff behind the watchtower. He was wounded, with an arrow lodged in his chest, right below his shoulder.

“Please,” he said weakly. “No more. I yield.”

Hedgrod grimaced, and said nothing. He left the archer and headed back across the bridge to look for his friend.

“Athrar?” he called, looking up at the top of the adjacent tower as he walked back across the bridge. The lack of response concerned him. His heart rate sped up and he hurried the rest of the way.

Athrar was just inside the watchtower on the original side they had approached from, the floor they were on resembling another camp area with bedrolls and a table and shelves of food. Athrar was sitting at the foot of the stairs to the next level, holding his hands to his abdomen, concentrating hard as his fingers glowed with faint and flickering yellow light.

Hedgrod rushed to his side. “Athrar!” he cried. “You’re hurt.”

The bosmer was staring at his hands, but upon hearing his name his gaze turned upward to his friend. “Hedgrod,” he said, his voice quiet. “I need to borrow some of those extra bandages we had packed for your arm. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” Hedgrod snapped, dropping to his knees and opening his pack, digging around for the bandages. He helped Athrar to sit up against the wall and remove his shirt. An arrow had clearly grazed him, a small hole in his flesh seeping blood into the fabric, whatever magic the elf had attempted to fix it clearly not strong enough. “We need to wash it.”

Athrar whimpered in pain occasionally but did not protest as Hedgrod helped his friend down, the elf leaning on the nord for support, his arm over his friend’s shoulders. They made their way down to the White River. He laid Athrar down and used the river water to wash away as much of the blood as he could. The bosmer was visibly sweating, but was doing his best to not audibly show how much pain he was in.

Hedgrod cleaned the wound and dressed it as fast as he was able while still being confident he had done a decent job. When the elf was ready, he helped him back up the bank and into the watchtower, setting out both of their bedrolls from his pack in the room on the second story. It was not ideal to use a bandit camp as a place to rest, but it seemed they would have no choice. Plus, he reasoned, there was already food and a roof here for them. They could rest for a day or two. He set his pack below the staircase, tucked next to some barrels that he assumed had more food stored in them. He maneuvered to lay out his bedroll, next to Athrar’s. The elf did not protest. He did not say much of anything, in actuality, as it appeared he was more focused on keeping his breathing even. His hazel eyes stayed trained on Hedgrod as the nord worked and walked around the room, then finally as he grabbed a forgotten plate with two wedges of goat cheese, left behind by the bandits they had stolen this place from.

“Eat,” he suggested, setting the plate in the narrow area of floor in between their two bedrolls. Athrar did his best job to sit up slightly as he graciously accepted one of the wedges of cheese. Hedgrod took up the other and they ate in silence by candlelight. They had not even noticed the sunset outside, and dusk was already setting in. It looked like they had no choice but to camp, at least for the night, but judging by the wound in Athrar’s side from the bandit archer, likely longer.

“I’m sorry,” Hedgrod said quietly after they finally both lay down, the room lit dimly by a few candles left on the table.

“What are you apologizing for?” Athrar asked, his voice low, his breathing strained slightly.

“For letting you get injured. This is not your quest, it is mine.”

Athrar breathed out, slowly. “It was a risk that I accepted. And I am still alive. We can stay here for a day or so. After that I will be ready to move again. Unfortunately, my skills are not in restoration magic.”

Hedgrod nodded, though it occurred to him that his companion likely could not see the motion in the dark, so he uttered a quiet “okay,” aloud as well. They fell silent, and the night grew cold. They had a roof over their heads but the watchtower was not as well insulated or warmed as a tavern.

“Hedgrod?”

“Hm?”

“Would you… move your bedroll closer? So we can preserve body heat,” Athrar said, sounding funny. “It is quite cold.”

“Yes. Of course,” Hedgrod said, scrambling to get up and move their bedrolls closer. They were overlapping by the time he laid back down in his. Their shoulders were touching. Athrar let out a breath, and was soon fast asleep, no doubt exhausted from the altercation with the small gang of bandits. Hedgrod was also feeling considerably run down, and eventually closed his eyes and let sleep take him as well.

Chapter 10: A Comforting Touch

The watchtowers served as a fitting camp for a couple of days. The bandits had a decent bit of food stored, and Hedgrod mentioned to Athrar that there was an alchemy table in the other tower, though he was not keen on revisiting the room containing a body. Athrar was content to go by himself and, using ingredients he had collected in their travels, concoct a few potions to speed up both of their healing. They sipped on them, along with venison stew that Hedgrod had cooked in the cooking pot just outside the main door, watching animals roam about the plains and wander to the river to drink. It was serene now that the bandits had been taken care of. They sat on the same side of the table on the second story, their shoulders touching.

“What became of the other archer?” Athrar asked.

Hedgrod set his bowl down gingerly. “One of your arrows landed in his shoulder. He asked me for mercy, and I obliged.”

Athrar turned to look at him. “You let him live?”

“Well, yes,” Hedgrod said, baffled by how icy Athrar’s tone was. “I did not see a reason to kill him.”

“He will tend to his wound and then return to kill us. He is a bandit.”

“We have no way of knowing if that is true,” Hedgrod retorted. “Who are we to judge what choices led him to this lifestyle? Maybe he was looking for a way out.”

Athrar fell silent, his expression softening slightly. Admittedly, he had not considered this. Perhaps his past, and his travels, have made him ruthless. Hedgrod did not push the issue further, and both men returned to their meals. It seemed there were things that they did not agree on, but it did not overall affect their view on each other. Hedgrod could see Athrar’s point of view on the topic, but he knew that he was not the kind of person to be okay with violence when it is avoidable.

XXX

During the days that the two men were staying in the watchtower, the archer did not make an appearance as Athrar had feared. His body was nowhere to be found, suggesting he was able to move and get somewhere else. Hedgrod was not sure if he would have actually survived or not, but he hoped that he had, and that their altercation would convince him to change his lifestyle.

Athrar was feeling better, and had regained a lot of his mobility. It was due to this that they decided to get back onto the road, rolling up their bedrolls and packing as much of the stored food as they were able to fit in Hedgrod’s pack and Athrar’s satchel. They set out on the road, feeling well rested and energized, and ready to make the rest of the trip.

Over the days of their journey, they took in the sights of the area. As they headed down into The Rift, the air got much warmer and the trees were multicolored, something Hedgrod had never seen before. The trees boasted orange, yellow, and red leaves, and there were many many alchemy ingredients growing everywhere, which Athrar wasted no time in collecting. The town of Ivarstead was a small one, and before long they were off of the main cobbled road and were following a dirt footpath. This told Hedgrod that they were getting close, likely by the end of the day they would have arrived and would be able to rest in a proper inn.

Hedgrod’s hunch was right when the town came into view, and the large farms on its outskirts. “We’re here,” he breathed, and as he relaxed he could finally feel how weary his limbs were from their longer than a week journey from Whiterun to this small farm town. He was ready to rest, before they made their way up High Hrothgar, the massive mountain of which he could see from their current position. It stretched up high into the sky, disappearing into a white blur of clouds and snowcaps, and Hedgrod knew that it was going to be another challenge getting to the summit. Estimating roughly, it would take them an additional two or three days. He hoped the Greybeards were a patient bunch.

“Thank the gods,” Athrar mumbled, but he smiled at Hedgrod as they quickened their pace slightly.

The Vilemyr Inn was small, which was to be expected. There was a bald Nord behind the counter, chatting amicably with another Nord woman with a lute on her back, and a wood elf. They were all drinking and chatting merrily like old friends. Hedgrod could imagine that a small town like this was similar to his own, although it seemed most people were farmers instead of college attendees.

Upon Hedgrod and Athrar’s approach, the Nord behind the counter nodded in their direction “Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn. If there's anything I can get you, just let me know.”

“A room, please,” Athrar requested, opening his satchel and fishing around for some septims. The Nord accepted them.

“You fellas headed up to High Hrothgar?” The woman, a bard, asked.

“How can you tell?” Hedgrod asked, distracted by the fact that Athrar had only requested one room.

“We don't get many visitors through here unless they’re headed up,” The innkeeper responded, then gestured towards a on the left to indicate that it was theirs.

“I see. Well, yes, we will be heading up after we rest for a day or two.”

“Well, enjoy your stay. And, if I were you guys, I'd keep away from the barrow on the east side of town... it's haunted,” he said, the last part coming out in a whisper, and his two companions nodded in affirmation.

“Thank you for the advice,” Athrar said, waving them off and heading towards the room that the Nord had indicated to, and Hedgrod followed behind him.

“Why did you only ask for one room? It does not seem that there are many guests here, we can have our own.”

Athrar shrugged. “It is cheaper to share.”

Hedgrod opened his mouth to mention that they had taken the loot from the bandit camp, but thought better of it and said nothing. The room was small, with a bed and a dresser. No desk. Athrar sat on the edge of the bed and opened his journal and map, scribbling away as Hedgrod removed his armor.

“I think we should rest for a day or two, then head up the mountain,” he said.

“Sounds good to me,” Athrar responded, not looking up from his notes. “Recharging is necessary before such a hike as High Hrothgar. Maybe we can go check out that barrow as well.”

“The haunted one? That the innkeeper said to stay away from?”

Athrar looked up, a smirk on his face. “The very same. Why, are you scared?”

“No, but I do not think delving into a haunted burial tomb is my idea of a good time.”

Athrar laughed, but said nothing, and Hedgrod sat down on the bed next to him. It was nice to be sitting in a proper bed, after sleeping in a bedroll for over a week. He found himself missing his own bed as well, though he knew by looking at Athrar’s map that he was well across the entire province from his home. They sat there for a moment, Hedgrod looking at the map as Athrar continued to scribble away in his journal.

“I’m going to get a drink. Would you like anything?” He eventually said, and Athrar shook his head, still not looking up.

Hedgrod headed back into the main room. The wood elf that was at the bar prior had left, but the two Nords were still there, looking at each other with soft expressions. Hedgrod did not want to interrupt whatever moment they were having, but luckily the woman turned and walked towards the fire in the center of the room, where it seemed she was cooking something. Hedgrod smiled at her as she passed him and approached the counter, sitting on a stool and requesting a drink, passing septims over in return as the innkeeper popped the bottle open.

“Where are you two from?” The innkeeper asked him as he took a drink from his own tankard.

“I’m from Winterhold. My friend is from The Imperial City.”

“Wow, total opposites,” he commented. “Winterhold is smaller than Ivarstead, isn’t it?”

Hedgrod nodded. “They are relatively the same size, but Ivarstead has more farms. Winterhold owes most of its size and inhabitants to the college.”

“You don’t look like a magic user,” The innkeeper said, his gaze flitting to Hedgrod’s sword on his hip.

“No, sir,” Hedgrod replied. “I’m a guard.”

The bald nord nodded slowly, his eyes having moved to the nord woman, who’s cooking smelled particularly delicious. “That’s great, son. Strength will come in handy for your journey up the 7,000 steps.”

“I hope so,” Hedgrod said. “How is Ivarstead? You grew up here?”

The nord nodded again. “Grew up here. Own the inn. It’s quiet, and I like quiet.”

“I understand that, for sure,” said Hedgrod, smiling slightly. Once his drink was finished, the bard woman had finished the stew she was making, and after placing a bowl in front of the innkeeper asked Hedgrod if he and his friend would like a bowl.

“Sure, it smells delicious. How much?”

She waved him off. “No charge. I do not cook for money.”

He thanked her for her generosity, and headed back to the room to deliver Athrar’s bowl to him. The bosmer was still writing in his book when Hedgrod entered, and he couldn’t help but wonder how his friend had so much to write down. He set it down as Hedgrod entered with the stew, and graciously accepted the bowl. Hedgrod explained how the bard woman had cooked it, and offered it to them for free.

“That’s kind of her,” Athrar said, and after taking a sip he hummed. “It’s delicious.”

Hedgrod mumbled his agreement, drinking out of his own bowl. It had been a few days since they had had a warm meal, and he wanted to savor it, but it was so delicious he finished it very quickly. Athrar did the same, and his friend held out his hand to take the bowl before standing and walking out towards the bar to give them back. He could hear music start drifting from the main room, the bard woman plucking her lute.

Curious, and wanting to listen to her play, Hedgrod stood and made his way into the main room, where Athrar was already sitting at a table, his eyes trained on the bard woman as she tuned her instrument.

“Any requests?” She asked as a small audience began to form. Hedgrod spotted the wood elf from earlier, and a few other patrons of the inn, drinks in hand.

The bosmer suggested a song Hedgrod had not heard before, and set down a few septims in an empty tankard she had set next to her stool. She began plucking the song, and Hedgrod found himself enjoying her soft voice as she sang. Athrar seemed to be enjoying himself as well, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his eyes trained on the bard. The atmosphere overall was quite comfortable, and the other patrons seemed to enjoy the bard’s music considerably, and between songs she chatted with them, hinting to Hedgrod that they might be regulars. He noticed that she would occasionally look over at the bar and make eye contact with the innkeeper, who smiled at her with that same soft expression that Hedgrod had seen earlier. He thought to himself that they would make a lovely couple, and wondered if they were already one or just fancied each other.

As the tavern continued into the night with the lute playing and friendly chatter happening, Athrar noticeably grew more and more tired. His eyelids were heavy and Hedgrod kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Not long after, the elf’s head lolled onto Hedgrod’s shoulder, and he stiffened, not wanting to move and disturb him. He waited until the bard had completed her current song, followed by polite applause and a few people putting septims into her cup. Hedgrod decided that it was time for them to retire to the room, and he nudged his friend, who was clearly exhausted. He assisted Athrar in standing and led him to their shared room, sitting him on the bed and removing his boots and shirt, as the elf had done for him back in Whiterun. Athrar thanked him quietly before maneuvering under the fur bedcovers. Hedgrod removed his own garments aside from his breeches and got into bed next to his friend. Athrar immediately moved to grab Hedgrod’s hand, and they linked fingers. The elf sighed contentedly and then his breathing evened out. Hedgrod laid, eyes open, comfortable and listening to the music floating in from the main room until he drifted off himself.

XXX

When Hedgrod woke, he was facing Athrar’s back, and his hand was draped over the elf’s waist. He retracted his hand, slowly so as not to wake him up, and shuffled to sit up, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Much like Whiterun, he was eager to look around. Ivarstead was a farm town, a small village that reminded him a lot of home. The main difference being that Winterhold was covered in ice and now, but there were all kinds of color in Ivarstead. The trees, the foliage, even the clothes that people seemed to wear. They were not limited by having to bundle against the harsh cold, and Hedgrod found himself comfortable strolling around in his undershirt and breeches, his sword at his side like always. It was early, but it seemed that quite a few folk were already awake and beginning morning chores. Feeding the chickens, watering the crops. The sun had barely broken the horizon, a time when Winterhold was usually still frostbitten and silent, but Ivarstead was full of life, and Hedgrod found himself energized.

He recognized one of the patrons to the inn as he walked, the wood elf who had been at the counter when they first entered. He was chopping firewood, already noticeably working up a sweat even though the morning was still cool. Beyond the lumber mill that the elf was chopping wood at was a man fishing at the edge of the river that ran on the edge of the town. When he walked down to the surface of the water to wash his hands, the fisherman spoke to him.

“Don’t suppose you’re heading up to High Hrothgar soon?”

Hedgrod straightened up, rubbing his hands together and flicking the water off. “Yes, my companion and I were summoned by the Greybeards,” he answered simply.

“I have a favor to ask. I run supplies up the mountain for them, but those 7,000 steps feel longer each time I make the journey. I have a pack of supplies that is almost ready for delivery, I don’t suppose it would be too much to request you take it up to them on your way?”

Hedgrod nodded. “Of course. I can do that for you.”

The nord smiled, and extended his hand for Hedgrod to shake. “Klimmek.”

“Hedgrod.”

“Where are you from?”

He answered the same questions that everyone in town seemed to want to know, although it did not bother him to repeat himself. They fell into an easy conversation and eventually the fisherman mentioned that he was going to take a short break from his work to eat breakfast. Hedgrod mentioned that he should be getting back to Athrar anyways to discuss their departure, so the two men returned to the Vilemyr Inn together. They shared stories as they ate, sitting at one of the tavern’s tables. During their meal, Athrar emerged from the room they had rented, purchasing his own chunk of fresh bread from the innkeeper before joining the two men at the table. Hedgrod introduced Athrar to Klimmek and explained that he had a pack of supplies for the Greybeards that they were going to take with them on their journey. Athrar was receptive to the idea, of course, and offered to be the one to carry the supplies since Hedgrod’s pack was much larger. The conversation went back to what it had been before, Klimmek informing Hedgrod on everything Ivarstead related, and talking about his job as a fisherman. He was older than Athrar and Hedgrod, and had stories of journeys he had made around the province, mostly to Riften but to visit other cities as well, ultimately settling down in Ivarstead.

When he had finished his meal, he said goodbye to Athrar and Hedgrod, asking them to drop by his house for the supplies before they headed up.

“I would like to go out and collect some ingredients. I had hoped there would be a table for me to put together some potions in this town, but it appears I am the only person here who has a passion for alchemy,” Athrar said, sounding downtrodden.

“Let’s go. And I’m sure we can find the tools we need for you to brew some potions soon. Maybe we can head to Riften after this business with the Greybeards.”

Athrar nodded thoughtfully. They headed south out of town, across the cobblestone bridge that spanned over the river. The forest was lush around them and Hedgrod spotted plenty of wildlife milling about. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for brown bears, which likely populated this region due to the warmer weather. Athrar would stop occasionally and pick a flower, or a sample from a plant. Hedgrod had no idea what any of them were, or how the elf could tell by looking at certain plants what purpose they served alchemically, though he supposed that knowledge was in the tomes that the elf had with him.

After a while of trekking, Hedgrod noticed a structure. He elbowed Athrar and pointed, and they stopped walking briefly to regard the shack that had come into view among the trees. They paused, listening for any movement but aside from the whispering of the leaves above, it was quiet.

The next reasonable option was to enter the shack, of course, which made Hedgrod nervous but Athrar was already moving, and he had no choice but to follow, unsure of what they would find. Coming closer, he could see that there was a small garden, and there were various herbs growing. Next to the garden was a small wooden deck with a table, various beakers and containers that Hedgrod could recognize where used for alchemy. Athrar audibly gasped, and Hedgrod looked over at him quickly, fearing that something was wrong or he had spotted a threat. On the contrary, the elf’s eyes were sparkling, and a grin was spreading across his face. “Jackpot,” he said to himself as they entered the shack’s garden and Athrar approached the table.

“This is beautiful,” Athrar said out loud, more to himself than to Hedgrod. He traced his fingers over the series of glasswares that Hedgrod imagined were for concocting alchemical brews. There was a mortar and pestle atop the table as well, clearly containing remnants of something that had been crushed up. While Athar crouched down to examine what was growing in the garden, Hedgrod rounded the corner and entered into the shack. It was cozy, but cold. There were candles on the table, but they were not lit, and the breeze was carried in through the now open door. There was a small bed in the corner, and a bedside table with a lantern. Taking up the rest of the space on the wall was a shelf crammed with books, various dried plants and other ingredients, as well as some dried meats and other foods. Hedgrod turned his attention back to the table, where there was an open journal next to an inkwell and feather. He was tempted to read the journal to get more insight into who owned the shack that they were currently trespassing in, but he felt like it would be a breach of privacy.

Athrar joined him inside shortly, and his gaze was drawn directly to the journal atop the table. Seemingly having much less reservations about reading somebody else’s journal, Athrar immediately picked it up and his eyes began flitting around the page. “This last entry was written over three months ago, and it looks like whoever was writing it had left mid entry to do… something. It ends mid-sentence, in fact. Kind of harrowing.”

Hedgrod made a noise of interest, but still felt weird about reading a stranger’s journal. Athrar closed the book and returned the dried plume to the inkwell, taking in the rest of the shack. “We should have stayed here, instead of paying for an inn.”

“What?” Hedgrod balked. “You want to stay in a dead man’s house?”

“You do not know that he’s dead,” Athrar said.

“You do not know that he’s not,” Hedgrod countered. “Plus, this bed is quite small.”

Athrar smirked, shrugging. “I did not think that the size of a bed would be an issue for us.”

Hedgrod felt his face heat up. “What are you implying?”

The elf shrugged again, the smirk still on his face, but said nothing. Hedgrod looked away and walked out of the shack, surveying the area, half expecting the owner to return any moment, demanding what they were doing in his house. No such man appeared, and the only sounds were those of wildlife and the whistling of leaves. Hedgrod could not deny that it was incredibly serene, and perhaps in another life he would enjoy living in a place like this. However, his newfound title of Dragonborn was looming over his head, much like the large mountain that he and his companion were going to have to climb.

When Hedrod got tired of surveying the sights around him, he turned back to the shack. Athrar was once again on the side porch, emptying his satchel of some of the ingredients he had recently collected, empty bottles from the inside of the shack moved to the table to hold whatever potions he created. “Would you like me to collect you some water?” Hedgrod asked, wanting to do something more helpful than standing on a potentially dead man’s lawn.

Athrar nodded, already engrossed in what he was doing, flipping through the pages of his field journal. Hedgrod picked up a bucket that was sitting near the porch and headed in the direction of a stream they had come upon shortly before the shack. Upon filling it with the icy water, he returned to the shack and set it down on the table, which Athrar had covered with his ingredients and his journal, already crushing something in the mortar and pestle, his eyes alight.

“What are you making?”

“A potion of magicka fortification. It will briefly boost my magical abilities, which will come in handy for me during combat.”

“What combat do you expect to encounter in a place as quiet as this?”

“Not here,” Athrar responded. “Though there is always the possibility of an angry bear. I was speaking more about our trek up the mountain, where I am almost certain we will run into a frost troll or two.”

Hedgrod shuddered. He had never seen a troll in real life, and had not ever particularly expected to.

“You are lucky I am accompanying you,” Athrar continued. “Frost trolls are particularly weak to fire, the magic I happen to specialize in.”

“I am very fortunate to have you indeed,” Hedgrod said softly, and Athrar paused his crushing for a moment before continuing. His face was hidden from the Nord, and he swallowed down the fear that he had just offended his friend. He returned to the inside of the shack to retrieve a snack, choosing some dried meat and chewing on it thoughtfully, still feeling slightly weird about eating a likely dead man’s food.

Athrar returned almost half an hour later. Hedgrod was reading one of the books on the shelf, a book titled Thief. It was an interesting read, and he had not noticed how much time had passed before Athrar came back inside, toting multiple small bottles that now sloshed with liquid, which he proudly held up. Hedgrod gave him a thumbs up in response.

“Would you like to stay here for the night and set out for the Greybeards in the morning?” Athrar asked, and despite the weird feeling Hedgrod still had about this shack in the woods, he nodded his head.

It was definitely a tight fit, the bed. Clearly intended for one person and one person alone, it was not even big enough for the two men to sleep on their backs side by side, but rather both of them on their sides. Athrar did not seem to have an issue with this, as he burrowed his nose into the crook of Hedgrod’s shoulder, letting out a sigh as he did so. Hedgrod of course did not mind the physical contact, as Athrar had become a source of comfort for him over the past few weeks of traveling together. They spoke for what likely amounted to an hour before Athrar eventually stopped responding, clearly asleep.

Hedgrod was reliving the memories over the last few days, letting them play out in his head like a movie, when he too drifted off, seamlessly into a dream. The dream featured him and Athrar traveling, not very different from the memories he already had, until a dragon descended down upon them as they were traveling across a field, nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The dragon was much stronger than the two of them, and Hedgrod could only watch helplessly as it grabbed his dear friend in its strong jaws and shook him like a ragdoll, flesh tearing and blood spraying as Hedgrod opened his mouth in a silent scream. He was frozen in place, and after the dragon had destroyed his friend’s body it let out a roar, coming towards the frozen Hedgrod and finally unleashing a plume of fiery breath directly at his face.

He woke up in a cold sweat, hyperventilating, still feeling the nonexistent fire burning his cheeks. He reached up to touch his cheek and realized he was crying, and he tried to slow his breathing. Athrar wrapped his arms around Hedgrod. The nord was not sure if it was a conscious move or not, but it was comforting either way. He turned and buried his face in the other’s neck, and the elf’s nimble fingers came up to run through the hair at the back of Hedgrod’ head. It was a soothing motion and he found his breathing slowing considerably quickly, the memory of the horrific dream still fresh in his mind. He did not fall back asleep, but instead listened to the breathing and the beating heart of his companion until the morning sun began to shine through the open door of the shack. They were going to have to set out soon.

The light continued to get brighter, and Hedgrod could eventually not put off the task of rising from bed any longer. He disentangled himself from Athrar’s limbs and shook the elf’s shoulder gently to wake him.

“It is time to begin the trek up the mountain,” Hedgrod said as the elf opened his hazel eyes, fixing his glazed look upon the nord in front of him. Hedgrod sat up, stretching his arms and swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Athrar shuffled next to him, letting out a soft groan of protest.

“But I was so comfortable,” he mumbled into the pillow. “You are quite the source of heat. You radiate it like some sort of… heat radiating object.”

“A what?”

The elf just laughed. “Never mind.”

Hedgrod pulled on his undershirt as the elf sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and finger combing his hair. They did not speak to one another as they got dressed, likely both still tired, but Hedgrod knew that they needed to get an early start to make good headway. If they kept a brisk pace, the journey would only take them two days. Hedgrod, his armor on and pack on his back, sat outside on the outdoor porch as Athrar debated whether or not to ransack the place of ingredients.

“We have already disrespected this man’s home enough,” Hedgrod called inside.

“Oh, I feel as though we could have done worse. It is not like we set it on fire or anything,” Athrar responded from indoors.

Hedgrod rolled his eyes, and a moment later Athrar joined him outside, his satchel visibly stuffed and bottles clinking in his satchel. He gave Hedgrod a thumbs-up, his face deadpan as he did so, which was such a funny image that Hedgrod couldn’t help but chuckle out loud. With that, they both set off back in the direction of Ivarstead and the base of the mountain path. Arriving into town, they sought out Klimmek, who led them to his house where he finished putting together the pack of supplies for the Greybeards.

“Thank you again for your help, boys,” he said as Athrar put the pack on. “My age is definitely making it harder to get up the mountain.”

They waved him off and started towards the bridge on the edge of town that would lead them up the mountain path, bedrolls clipped to their packs. With the addition of Klimmek’s supplies they were carrying more than they had been, which Hedgrod hoped would not limit their mobility too much.

Athrar pulled up his face covering and secured his hood over his head, effectively hiding his long ruddy hair. Hedgrod did not have such a face covering, but having grown up in such a cold climate all his life, he knew it would not affect him too much. He also knew, however, that High Hrothgar’s altitude dwarfed that of his home village, and the temperatures were more than likely to be even lower than he was used to. For this, he had his cloth scarf should he need to wrap it around his neck and head. Both of the men were also wearing gloves, not that Hedgrod did not wear them usually. Wielding a sword usually meant wearing bracers already, to protect one’s arms and prevent hurting one’s hands as well as providing more friction to lessen the chances of dropping one’s weapon. Athrar was wearing gloves as well, though they were more for warmth than for wielding a weapon. Hedgrod wondered if they hindered his magical ability.

They trekked in silence, stopping once to read inscriptions on a stone wayshrine that was placed on the side of the path, telling the story of the Greybeards and the Way of the Voice. The journey up the steps was clearly a pilgrimage for some, a fact that confused Hedgrod.

“What do you think about this? The legend of the Dragonborn?” Athrar asked after they had continued walking again.

“I can hardly believe that it applies to me. I am from a small, frozen town. I am hardly qualified as a guard, let alone a great warrior honing the power of the dragon tongue…” Hedgrod spoke quietly, and he thought for a moment that Athrar did not hear him on account of the wind whipping around them.

After a moment the elf said, “I can believe that it is you.”

“Why is that?”

“You have an incredibly courageous heart and pure spirit.”

He said it nonchalantly. It was a very kind thing to say, and Hedgrod was speechless. They continued on in silence, the path in front of them getting colder as snow began to fall. The only sound to be heard above the wind was the noises of the items in their packs moving and settling, making rhythmic sounds matching their gaits. Silence was often uncomfortable, but Hedgrod found silence a comfortable thing with his companion rather than something to feel awkward about.

Their stopping point was made just at the fifth wayshrine, which a pilgrim they had passed at the fourth informed them was the halfway point, as there were ten in total. They had in fact kept a pace quick enough to make the trek in only two days. They set up camp underneath a rocky outcropping that sheltered them from the falling snow and wind. Athrar gathered kindling and such while Hedgrod set up their bedrolls. Luckily they were still below the treeline, meaning there were trees to provide fodder for a campfire, although it was likely that soon they would be above this line and there would no longer be trees. Their next place of warmth would have to be the monastery of the Greybeards.

Hedgrod had gotten the bedrolls set out and was choosing a dinner for them when Athrar returned, a bundle of sticks tucked under one arm and an entire rabbit carcass in the other, a huge grin across his face and a wild glint in his eye. He was usually so reserved when it came to his emotional expression, so Hedgrod froze when he saw him, his eyes widening.

“Fresh catch for dinner,” Athrar said, setting the rabbit down before getting to work on setting up a good structure for a fire. “I saw it eating some berries and was lucky enough to be able to notch an arrow and let it fly before it noticed me. Instant kill.”

“Impressive,” Hedgrod said, taking out his knife.

He put his hand on the rabbit’s body and murmured a thank you to it for allowing them to consume it. He was truly impressed, as he had never actually killed an animal himself. He would often purchase chickens or deer from hunters, which is where he learned how to skin an animal and prepare it for cooking, but he was not skilled with a bow in the same way. He began the process of cutting it as Athrar got the fire going, and before long they had the meat cooking, Hedgrod using his knife tied to a stick as a spear with which to hold the meat above the flames and cook it.

“I have a rather personal question,” Athrar spoke suddenly as they both chewed on the tender hare meat.

“What is it?” said Hedgrod.

“I was curious about your belief in the divines. I do not think we have ever discussed it before.”

Hedgrod swallowed his bite, sighing deeply as he lowered his meal away from his mouth. “I have given up on the gods.” Athrar made a face of concern, but said nothing, so Hedgrod continued. “When I was young, my parents both fell ill. Very ill. I took care of them for months as they grew worse, and thinner as they were less and less able to eat. I prayed to the divines every day for their blessings, to heal my parents. I made offerings, despite having almost no money to even feed myself. I did everything I could think of to call upon them for help. In the end, my parents both died a slow and painful death, and I cursed the gods. They do not care about us.” His voice had become quiet by the end of his monologue, and his eyes were fixed on the fire.

Athrar said nothing, but put one of his hands atop the one Hedgrod was not using to hold his meat. Their hands sat on his knee, unmoving, for a while. Athrar looked thoughtful for a few moments, then finally spoke.

“I am dearly sorry about your parents, Hedgrod.”

Hedgrod nodded, remaining silent. He knew if they stayed on the subject for too long he would cry. It used to be that any mention or thought of his late parents would cause this reaction, however the years have numbed the pain to a dull ache in his chest whenever the subject came up. It was not something that he spoke of out loud often, and never to anybody who did not already know his parents beforehand. However, he found comfort with Athrar, a comfort he had not found in anybody since the departure of his parents, his only family.

This comfort he found with Athrar was different, but not in a bad way.

The elf laid his head on Hedgrod’s shoulder, and it was not an unwelcome gesture. In fact, Hedgrod thought it quite nice, and he found himself leaning into the touch. They both seemed to enjoy physical contact with each other, without looking too much into the implications of the nature of the contact. Rather they did not speak on these things but enjoyed them for what they are, and the feelings they brought. Hedgrod finished eating and set down his makeshift spear, feeling warm and full.

Chapter 11: A Quest Accepted

Notes:

I haven't updated this in almost a month whoops my bad ;~;

When they woke, the fire was out, and it seemed to be even colder than it had been the day before. Snow swirled violently, allowing for even less visibility, and Hedgrod shivered. They packed up their bedrolls and any other supplies that they had taken out and set off, moving at a slower pace due to the lack of visibility. At one point, Athrar stumbled, one of his footfalls not landing not where intended, and Hedgrod reached out and grabbed his companion’s arm, holding onto the crook of his elbow to stabilize him. He decided not to retract his arm after the incident, rationalizing that they probably needed to hold onto each other anyways because of the danger of the climb, certainly not just because he liked to be physically close to him. Moving forward they were in constant contact, whether by one holding onto the arm of the other or their hands laced together by their icy cold fingertips.

Their breaths puffed out in the air as they continued upward, the air thinning as they went and only making breathing more difficult and short breaks from walking more necessary.

They had just passed the eighth wayshrine — nearly there — when Athrar stopped suddenly. Hedgrod faltered and then stopped as well, turning towards the bosmer. He opened his mouth to question why he had stopped but the elf held up a finger to his lips to keep him quiet, then pointed. Ahead was a rocky bridge of sorts over the path, and underneath it, slightly off to the right of the path, was a large hairy beast, crouched over and feasting on what looked to be an elk.

It was undoubtedly a frost troll, though Hedgrod had never seen one before. It was huge, standing at least a foot or two taller than them, and had large hands and teeth with which it used to tear the flesh from its meal, the white fur around its face tinged pink. Hedgrod shivered, not from the cold. The beast had not noticed them yet, and Athrar was silently notching an arrow. Hedgrod removed his sword from its hilt.

The arrow flew and lodged in the beast’s shoulder blade. It let out a roar that chilled Hedgrod to his bones, then turned to face them. Athrar was already ready for him, bow in one hand, thrusting the other forward as a blast of fire erupted from his palm and shot towards the troll, catching it directly in the face. It’s fur began to catch fire and it let out a strangled cry, smacking itself in the face and then shoving it into a nearby snow bank. Athrar did not let up, firing off a few more fireballs and then letting more arrows fly. Hedgrod wanted to help but he didn’t want to step into the line of fire, not to mention the elf seemed to have it under control. Patches of the troll’s fur were on fire and it had multiple arrows sticking out of it at different jagged angles, like some sort of morbid porcupine.

“Finish it off?” Athrar asked, finally putting away his bow.

Hedgrod nodded and approached the beast swiftly, while it was on its knees trying to put out the patches of smoldering fur. He drove his sword into its face as it looked up at him to roar, and the blade cut it short as blood spurted and poured from the wound. He turned the sword for good measure, eliciting a wet noise followed by a gargled rumble, and the beast fell forward on its face, parts of it still smoking from Athrar’s fireballs.

“Wonderful,” Athrar conceded, clapping his hands together. Hedgrod wiped his blade on the snow, watching the sticky red blood turn pink in the ice. He put the weapon away, feeling adrenaline still coursing through him.

“We got lucky, surprising it like that,” he said, and Athrar made a noise that sounded like agreement, sounding nonchalant for having just faced such a beast. He was level-headed and had clearly seen more than Hedgrod, who was still in shock and staring at the great lump of fur in front of them.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it. Athrar gave him a small smile, then a nod, and they were off again.

 

High Hrothgar was a sight to behold. The massive building stood atop the mountain peak, looking like a fortress of solitude and power. The large tower in the middle stretched towards the sky and faced back down the mountain as if it was looking over skyrim. There were two spiraling staircases around it leading up to the doors, and Hedgrod was glad that they were almost finished making the trek. His legs were burning, and the air was much thinner than both men were used to. They were ready to take a break.

The large doors opened with a clang, and the immediate enveloping warmth was more than welcome. Sconces burned along the walls, but the large hall was otherwise silent, the two men’s footsteps echoing as they walked.

As they emerged into a main room full of candles, they spotted a man descending an opposing staircase, wearing long flowing robes and — to neither of their surprise— sporting a long grey beard.

He introduced himself as Arngeir and warmly welcomed both men, though he was clearly more interested in Hedgrod, and the fact he was apparently Dragonborn. This attention made the Nord feel slightly uncomfortable and wonder again, why it had to be him.

The next moments were a blur, meeting the other greybeards and demonstrating his Shout. He was stunned to know that these men had spent their entire lives trying to learn how to do what came naturally to Hedgrod. They informed him— well, Arngeir did, the others didn’t seem able to speak normal tongue any longer— that they intended to guide him on how to use his Thu’um, as they called it. They taught him the second word of a three-word pair, to follow the word he already managed to learn instinctually from absorbing a dragon soul. He used this newfound word, the same but different, more powerful. The stones in the wall shook, and when his eyes found Athrar’s before anybody else’s, the bosmer was smirking at him, a spark in his eyes.

After an exhausting trek and tons of new information about his supposed destiny, Hedgrod was beyond tired. The greybeards were kind enough to offer the men beds and food and told them they were welcome to stay as long as they needed, and train to learn new Words of Power to hone his new skill. Hedgrod wasn’t sure how much he actually would use these words of power, and he was feeling more and more nervous by the moment about what all this new power meant for his desired quiet life. He mused over these thoughts as they ate fresh cheese and berries, from the supplies that they had provided to the greybeards.

“You are in a position that many likely would like to be in. The kind of power you wield is not something that is seen in many peoples’ lifetimes,” Athrar said thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the wedge of goat cheese he was holding.

“I know. I do not mean to sound ungrateful. I just do not know why it has to be me. I have never been special. I… I do not know what will be expected from me now.”

Athrar nodded. “I don’t suppose anything, at the moment. The thing most threatening to Skyrim now is the Civil War…”

Hedgrod hummed agreement. “I do not wish for any of those on either side to get word of my power. They will wish to use it against each other. I do not want to get involved in such a fight.”

“Growing up in Cyrodiil, I do not have much of an opinion on it either,” Athrar admitted. “So I understand where you are coming from.”

“I do not know why this power has been given to me. All this talk of destiny…” his voice wavered, and he trailed off. Athrar reached out and put his hand over Hedgrod’s. The gesture was comforting, and more than welcome.

The room they had been allowed to stay in had two large beds, but it was not even a spoken agreement that they shared one. Neither of them still had yet to acknowledge out loud the uptick in their physical intimacy. Hedgrod did not want to draw attention to it and potentially break the spell or make things awkward, so he opted to remain quiet as they blew out the candles that had lit the room and lay tangled together, his fingers raking through the elf’s long ruddy hair. Athrar’s face was pressed into his neck.

“Where are we going to go next?” the elf asked, his voice muffled.

Hedgrod shrugged slightly. “I suppose wherever you’d like. Unless my being the Dragonborn has implications that I will have to complete an important quest of sorts.”

Athrar breathed out. “It is possible. Very possible. I cannot imagine that the sudden dragon attack at Whiterun is a good omen. The question is why are the Dragons suddenly making an appearance…”

Hedgrod felt cold, his hands clammy. “I don’t think I want to talk about this now.”

The bosmer hummed in affirmation and they fell into silence instead.

 

XXX

 

Their stay at High Hrothgar was shorter than anticipated. Hedgrod learned as much as he could from the grey beards, but Arngeir informed him that it would likely suit his ability to absorb dragon souls better if he were to venture out and slay them. This, coupled with his final trial to prove he had completed his training. He was to retrieve a trophy of sorts — the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, an artifact of the founder of the Greybeards.

The prospect terrified him, but he did his best not to show it. Athrar was more than ready to leave, which came as no surprise to the Nord. They packed rations for the trip back down and set off down the snowy trail.

The sky was incredibly clear, easy to see while they were above the treeline, the full beauty of the sunset and following sunrise on display as the two men made their trek back to town.

“I suggest that when we return with the horn, we get a horse to make the climb,” Hedgrod suggested.

“A-ha! I told you so,” Athrar quipped, pointing a finger at Hedgrod’s shoulder as they walked side by side. “You should know by now that I am always right,” he said smugly.

Hedgrod rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The trek down had been much easier, less of a hike, and seemed to pass by faster. They went without stopping and made it back to Ivarstead in the dead of night, exhausted but glad to have the hardest and coldest part of the trip over with.

The inn was quiet, the hearth reduced to embers smoldering. Hedgrod approached it and extended his hands, palms facing the orange glow to try and garner some warmth to his frigid digits. The innkeeper seemed to have turned in for the night, and with Ivarstead being so small it came as no surprise to Hedgrod that there was nobody to man the counter at night. The two decided to eat from their previously packed rations and take the same bed they had on their previous visit, with the intention of paying in the morning.

Hedgrod was exhausted down to his bones, and he could tell by Athrar’s weary expression that he was feeling the same. It was not long before they were both fast asleep.

All too quickly it was morning, and Hedgrod rose to pay for their room. The innkeeper waved him off. “Klimmek paid for your room. Well, not directly, but he left this here for you two. I just took out ten for the night,” he said with a wink, pushing a small coinpurse across the counter. Hedgrod accepted it graciously, then returned to the room to rouse the still sleeping elf.

Athrar was clearly tired, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and making a facial expression like he was in pain. His movements were sluggish as he pulled on his shirt and cloak, a far cry from his usual swift nature.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s early. I want to catch a carriage ride.” Hedgrod said.

“Is there a carriage here?” Athrar asked, blinking slowly.

“Not that I can tell, at least not at this moment. Luckily Riften is close, and they will surely have a carriage we can take up towards Ustengrav.”

Athrar nodded once but said nothing more. He pulled on his satchel and let his arms fall to his sides, looking up at Hedgrod.

It was a small movement, but one that filled him with a bit of unease. This had begun as the elf’s quest, an adventure to gather ingredients so he could better his alchemy skills. At some point it had become Hedgrod who was leading the mission, his tasks dictating where they were off to next. He felt a pang in his chest that he could only akin to homesickness, maybe mixed in with anxiety about what was to come. He had a feeling it was more treacherous than anything he had dealt with as a guard. He shouldered on his pack, then took up his shield, the Winterhold crest on it cracked and faded.

He had never felt so afraid.

Chapter 12: a Den of Thieves

Riften was a reasonable distance from the tiny village of Ivarstead. Athrar woke up more as they went. Hedgrod was used to early mornings, as many of his patrols were in the chilly mornings before the sun rose. The elf, however, was clearly affected by all of their recent early morning treks. Soon, though, he was alert and picking ingredients, carefully storing them in his satchel as he went, occasionally writing something in his field journal. Hedgrod smiled, his chest warm. He liked The Rift, liked seeing his friend get so into his craft. By the time they made it to Riften, his satchel was nearly bursting, full to the brim with flowers and berries and roots.

They approached the front gate of the walled city, where Hedgrod could see a stable as well as a carriage waiting for anybody who might need to travel. He started towards it, but a hand on his arm stopped him. Athrar had gripped his limb just above the elbow and pulled back slightly. The Nord turned to look at him.

“Wait,” he said, his tone clear but not urgent. “Could we perhaps stop in the city? I’d like to see what their Apothecary may offer.” His eyes were shining, a small smile playing on his lips, and even if the idea had bothered Hedgrod, which it didn’t, he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to say no to that face either way.

“Of course. It would probably be wise to look for something to eat as well before we set out.”

As they approached the front gate, one of the guards stepped forward. His arms were crossed, his face obscured by his helmet.

“Hold there,” he said gruffly. “Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor’s tax.”

“What’s the tax for?” Hedgrod asked, more confused than angry.

The guard scoffed. “For the privilege of entering the city. What does it matter?”

Hedgrod looked to the other guard, an equally large and gruff man who stood back a few paces, holding his stance and eying the newcomers quietly.

“A hundred gold,” the guard barked. Hedgrod didn’t move, unsure of what to say. He had never heard of a tax to get into a city, but he was also kind of a country bumpkin. How would he know what the protocol was for these larger cities? Even so, he was getting a bad feeling about this guy, and the situation. He wanted to say something but his mouth felt too dry. But, he didn’t have to.

“This is obviously a shakedown,” Athrar snarled, stepping forward, his body language strong and his hands sparking with a bit of flame. He was clearly angry, and clearly had less reservations about opposing these guards.

“Alright, alright, keep your voice down. I’ll let you in. Just give me a second to unlock the gate.” He grumbled to himself, clearly irritated that his plan didn’t work, but since he was so easily deterred Hedgrod guessed that it was not an official tax, but perhaps one that he and his other guard buddy were taking from unsuspecting visitors and splitting. How foul. It was his first run in with such corruption in a guardsman. The thought had never occurred to him before — as a guard himself, and thinking of his friends he shared the job with, he would never think to take advantage of those who he held power over. It was despicable.

Athrar still looked enraged, and was glaring daggers at the two guards as he brushed past them into the opened gate. Hedgrod followed, still having not spoken a word since asking what the money was for. He was slightly stunned, and glad that Athrar had been able to avoid them having to pay. They needed that money for food and ingredients, and maybe some new clothes.

Once in the city, they fell into step side by side. It wasn’t as impressive as Whiterun, Hedgrod thought as they made their way over cobbled streets and a bridge over a canal below. It had a charm about it, but it was missing the wonder and warmth of Whiterun. It was kind of… grey here. The fog was likely due to the large body of water nearby, but it still gave everything a kind of hue that made it seem almost eerie. They wandered more, past various buildings and houses, until they came into the center of the city, where a bustling market was taking place. There was what looked to be a well in the middle, and numerous stalls set up all around. It was similar to the one in Whiterun, and Hedgrod wondered if all large cities had local markets such as this one. He had never experienced anything like this back home, where buying goods was more direct. He knew who in town were hunters and sold fresh meat, or which of them had goats and made cheese, and of course when the caravans came from the south offering fresh produce, he could never pass it up. But the stalls set up were of a different feel. These folk were earning their keep, selling their goods and contributing to a flourishing local market.

Near the edge of the city center was a covered wagon manned by a Dunmer woman wearing plainclothes. She was sitting upon a crate, watching a rowdy group talk -- or argue? -- nearby, but when Hedgrod and Athrar approached she turned her gaze to them. She did not smile or offer any other kind of welcoming gesture, but simply asked, “Some fresh meat to fill your belly, perhaps?”

Athrar shook his head, and she shrugged and went back to watching. If they were going to eat, it would likely be in a local tavern. No sense in buying raw meat and having to find somewhere to cook it.

The group of people she was watching were getting rowdier, and Hedgrod turned his attention towards them. They were on the outside of the city center, one of them sitting on the barrier and the other two standing and facing each other, their shoulders tense. The man sitting was a Nord, his ruddy blonde hair whispering over his shoulders in the breeze. The two arguing were a Redguard woman and a Breton man, both clad in full armor with weapons on their persons, though luckily neither of them had brandished them at the other. From where Hedgrod was standing, he could see the Redguard woman’s face, which boasted several gangly scars, one of which cut down through her left eye, leaving the eyelid drooping and the iris discolored. She had what looked to be a large battleaxe on her back, and her dark hair was pulled up into a ponytail. It was clear she was ready for a battle, though against what, Hedgrod had no idea. At the current moment she was beginning to yell at the Breton in front of her. Clearly they were angry at each other, but the Nord who seemed to be with them was unfazed, perhaps used to their behavior.

Hedgrod looked to Athrar, who was also watching them intently. They made eye contact and Athrar shrugged, his gaze sliding back over to watch as the Breton began yelling as well.

“Never! Absolutely not! She’s too weak! Brynjolf, this is absurd,” he was turned towards the Nord now, but the Redguard woman still had her sights on him.

“Weak?” she growled through clenched teeth. “I’ll show you weak, you filthy man-mer!” She reached above her shoulder and with one arm swung, what Hedgrod could now see was in fact a battleaxe, around to her front, catching it with her other hand and holding it like she was going to lop the Breton’s head off. The Nord still looked unfazed. Athrar was watching with an unbridled fascination, but Hedgrod did not want to watch this man’s head roll across the cobblestone.

In two steps, he was upon the Redguard woman, who was rearing above her head to swing, and with one arm stopped the movement, causing her to stumble, anger flashing in her eyes at the sudden outsider making himself known to their conversation.

The Breton also looked unfazed, his hand gripping a sword on his hip, which Hedgrod could see was now one of two. His face was streaked with dark red war paint, making his sinister glare only that much more sinister.
“What in oblivion are you doing?” The Redguard hissed at Hedgrod, her face inches from his as he held fast to her weapon. She was strong, no doubt, but he was much taller than her, and his arms were about twice the size of hers around.

“I couldn’t let you take his head off,” Hedgrod replied simply.

The Breton scoffed. “Hah! As if you could, you cur.”

The Redguard’s eyes flashed again, but she couldn’t move her battleaxe, thanks to Hedgrod’s hand on it. The Nord sitting on the wall looked bored, his eyes volleying around to whomever was talking.

“Wait,” Athrar’s voice cut in, and Hedgrod’s grip on the battleaxe loosened. The Redguard woman ripped it from his grasp but made no move to put it away, standing a few paces back now. Other people around the bustling city center were watching. “I know you,” the Bosmer continued, pointing a finger at the Redguard.

Her face softened a bit. “Huh. Yeah. You look familiar. Have you been to Riften before?”

Athrar shook his head. “I think I met you in the Imperial City,” he said.

Recognition spread across her features. She straightened, putting her battleaxe away. “Oh, that’s right. I think we met in a tavern. I was there on… business,” she said, her tone guarded, her gaze flitting to the Nord, who still looked rather bored.

“Business?” Athrar wondered aloud, before his eyes widened. He took in the appearances of all three of them, before looking to Hedgrod. “I think we should leave these nice people alone.”

Hedgrod opened his mouth to protest, but the Nord laughed, a hearty sound that caught him off guard. When he spoke, it was with a heavy accent. “It’s not like we’re going to kill you, lad. That’s not how we operate.”

The three of them were staring at Hedgrod and Athrar now. The color had drained out of Athrar’s face, but he offered a small smile. “Still. I’d prefer not to get in your way. I apologize for my friend’s interference in your… discussion.”

The Redguard woman smirked. Hedgrod still felt like he was behind, but he couldn’t ask any more questions, because Athrar suddenly grabbed him by the arm and tugged him in the opposite direction, walking a little too fast.

“Athrar,” he protested, but the elf said nothing until they had rounded a corner and found a sign for a tavern called The Bee and Barb, and pushed his way inside the wooden doors before finally letting go of Hedgrod’s arm. “Who--”

“Shh,” Athrar hissed. “We will talk about this later,” he said in a low voice. Hedgrod didn’t like being told off, like he was a child. He felt like part of the reason he didn't know what was going on was because he had grown up in the uppermost edge of the coldest province in Tamriel, where nothing happened. He knew nothing, and it was only due to his own lack of desire of doing anything else with his life (until now, that is).

Despite his feelings, he kept his mouth shut as he followed Athrar to the bar, where they took seats next to each other and ordered food and drink. Athrar carefully counted out the Septims with his slender fingers as the bartender opened a bottle of ale for Athrar and filled a tankard with mead from a large barrel for Hedgrod. As they waited on their food, they sipped their drinks, Hedgrod relishing in the cool feeling of the liquid in his throat.

Not long after, an Argonian much like the barkeep came out of what Hedgrod presumed to be where they prepared the meals, carrying two steaming bowls of soup, which he set in front of the men.

“Welcome to the Bee and Barb, milords. If I can interest you in one of our special drinks, you let me know,” he said, his voice gravelly. Hedgrod didn’t see many Argonians up in Winterhold, since they were reptiles and all. Despite the novelty of speaking to two, let alone one, he didn’t feel uncomfortable by their presence or looks.

“Special drinks?” Athrar asked curiously.

“Three in fact. They're my own recipe. Brought them over here from my days as a bartender in Gideon.” He looked thrilled to have been asked, and began pulling different sized and shaped flagons from under the bar. “First is the 'Velvet Lechance' which is a mixture of blackberry, honey, spiced wine and a touch of nightshade... perfectly safe, I assure you.” He set a white flagon in front of them, and Hedgrod could hear the liquid sloshing. “Second, we have the 'White-Gold Tower' which is heavy cream with a layer of blended mead, lavender and dragon's tongue on top.” He pulled out a second flagon, about the same size as the first, but with a darker color to it, the liquid inside sounding thicker. “Last, and only for the bravest of souls, we have the 'Cliff Racer' which is Firebrand Wine, Cyrodilic Brandy, Flin and Sujamma.” The flagon for the final drink was a dark red color.

“I’ll try a White-Gold Tower,” Athrar said, pointing to the flagon that contained it, his ale forgotten.

“Certainly. Let me pour it for you,” the Argonian said, his tone pleasant. “Name’s Talen-Jei. I suppose you two are from out of town?”

Hedgrod nodded. “I’m from Winterhold, and my friend here is from The Imperial City.”

Talen-Jei sniffed. “The big city, eh? Can’t say I’d prefer living there to here. Riften is a nice size, and I like to know my patrons by name,” he said pointedly as he slid the tankard over to Athrar.

“Athrar Riverpool,” the Bosmer said, reaching for the Argonian’s hand rather than the tankard, shaking it firmly.

“Hedgrod… Merkiller,” Hedgrod muttered, shaking Talen-Jei’s hand next. The scales were cool to the touch, but surprisingly soft.

“Pleasure to meet you. Thank you again for stopping by. Keerava and I own and operate this tavern, and proudly so.” His dark eyes slid to the female Argonian, who was chatting up some guests sitting at a table. There was an unmistakable twinkle in his inhuman eyes, and Hedgrod could tell that he loved her.

“You have rooms for rent as well?” Athrar asked, spooning a bite of soup into his mouth.

Talen-Jei snapped out of his stare, looking back to Athrar with a sharp nod. “Of course. Ten gold a night.”

“Done,” Athrar said, sliding the appropriate number of Septims across the counter, along with payment for the other drink, and a generous tip, eliciting a toothy smile from the Argonian.

“Upstairs, first door on the right. It’s yours for the night.”

Hedgrod let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He didn’t know if Talen-Jei would have an issue with them sharing a room, but it didn’t even seem to be something crossing his mind, and shortly thereafter his attention was fully moved on to Keerava, who was moving back behind the counter towards him. He pondered how they had not spoken about staying the night in Riften, though he liked the idea of supporting a business with such a friendly owner, and assuredly would take the chance at more rest.

A tap on his arm. Athrar was holding out the tankard containing the White-Gold Tower drink, the liquid frothy and light. “Would you like to try?” He asked.

“Sure,” Hedgrod replied, taking the tankard and tilting it into his mouth. He didn’t think until he lowered it that he had just put his mouth where his friend’s had been moments before. His ears felt hot. He handed the tankard back without a word. Athrar didn’t seem to notice, or care, and Hedgrod felt even hotter when the Bosmer took the tankard back from his outstretched hand and sipped from it again. He cleared his throat.

“Good, right?” Athrar asked, smirking.

Hedgrod nodded, mortified at the realization he hadn’t even tasted it, too busy focusing on other things. Athrar’s smirk stayed on his face, his eyelids drooping. “You’ve got a little…” he trailed off, pointing to his top lip. Hedgrod swiped his tongue across his upper lip and the elf’s eyes widened, tracking the movement. Was he imagining the burn to his cheeks? Maybe. Athrar turned back to his soup without another word.

The chatter in the tavern suddenly came to an abrupt halt as the doors burst open. Hedgrod turned to look over his shoulder and was surprised to see the Redguard woman from earlier, her eyes blazing with fury. She scanned the patrons, then her eyes landed on Hedgrod. “You!” she cried, pointing with a finger as she briskly walked across the floor to him. “You stole my necklace!”

“Whoa,” Hedgrod grunted. Her finger jabbed into his chest and he stumbled back, grabbing onto the bar to steady himself. “What… what are you…”

“Don’t play dumb,” she hissed, her one good eye boring into his soul. “I had it before you stepped into business that wasn’t yours earlier.”

“How do you know that that Breton you were arguing with didn’t take it?” Hedgrod asked, his voice sounding small when compared to her shouting. Everyone in the tavern had fallen silent, staring at them.

“Because, you idiot,” She barked, then grabbed him by his scarf, yanking his face inches away from hers. “He wouldn’t steal from another member of the thieves guild.”

“The…” Hedgrod trailed off, his eyes widening. Athrar put a hand on her shoulder. He had stood up at some point.

“Forgive me, what was your name? I can’t remember it.” His voice was calm, meant to soothe her, but she wasn’t so easily placated.

“Kouria,” she growled, her eyes never leaving Hedgrod’s. He was genuinely afraid this woman was about to punch him in the face right here in this tavern.

“Kouria, maybe we should all calm down for a second. Hedgrod wouldn’t have taken your necklace. He’s the most forthright person that I know,” Athrar said, a hand still on her shoulder.

“No matter how virtuous he may appear to you, that still doesn’t explain where my necklace went.”

“Let us help you find it,” Athrar suggested.

Finally Kouria let go of Hedgrod’s scarf. He leaned away from her, trying not to rile her up. He was not keen on being violent towards women, no matter how aggressively they may be coming at him.

“If you don’t produce it by morning, things will not be pretty for your friend,” Kouria gritted out through clenched teeth, finally turning to look at Athrar.

“Why don’t you search… back home, in the meantime,” Athrar suggested.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she scoffed, but turned on her heel anyways and was out the door before Hedgrod could catch his breath.

“After our meal we should go up to the room and set our belongings down,” Athrar said after a beat, sitting back on his barstool and returning to his soup and drink.

“How… can you be so calm after that?” Hedgrod asked, turning back as well and trying to ignore the fact that half of the tavern was still staring at him, heads bowed and soft murmurs being exchanged. He was shaking slightly, his hands trembling as he wrapped them around his tankard. A thought occurred to him, sour and sharp. How am I going to fulfill my destiny as this… Dragonborn, if I can’t even deal with a normal confrontation? He cursed himself for being so weak.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Athrar said, leaning in close. “I can see it in your face.”

“I’m just… really not sure I’m cut out for all of this,” he said, waving his hand vaguely.

“Hedgrod, it’s okay to have different strengths. You’re compassionate and slow to anger. Those are great traits to have,” he said before picking up his soup bowl and draining it. “Let’s go find our room.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me we were in the city of the Thieves Guild?” Hedgrod asked Athrar. They had put down their packs and heavier weapons, and were now roaming the dark streets of Riften, searching for any sign of a necklace that might belong to the feisty Redguard.

“Keep your voice down,” Athrar warned. “I didn’t want you to panic. Riften is such a nice city. And typically, if you leave them alone, they will not feel the need to bother you.”

“So much for that,” Hedgrod groused. Athrar shrugged, and they fell into silence as they continued looking.

Returning to the city square, they both hunted around where they had been earlier, and where the fight had taken place. Nothing. Hedgrod was looking around some crates behind a stall when he noticed a woman watching him. She sat cross-legged on a piece of linen on the ground, wearing rags and looking gaunt, no more than skin and bones. Hedgrod might not have noticed her, she was so still, save for the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Even when he looked up at her, she continued to stare directly at him.

“Can I help you?” he asked, straightening.

She smiled, and showed a row of teeth that ranged from rotted black to missing. Hedgrod was still a few paces away from her, but imagined that if he was much closer, he could smell her.

“Depends on how much you are willing to pay. I know you two are not light on coin.”

Hedgrod looked over his shoulder to where he thought Athrar was, but the elf was nowhere near him. Likely gone down an alley or somewhere looking for this fabled necklace.

“I’m sorry?” Hedgrod asked, looking back towards the woman.

She reached into her rags against her breast bone and produced a necklace, featuring a snake curled up and eating itself. It looked like…

“This is what you’re searching for, right? Ugh, I can’t stand that Thieves Guild lot. And that Redguard is one of the worst of the bunch, so loud and rude and never spares me even a glance. All I ask is for a few Septims, so I can eat!” She held the necklace against her. “She’s angry at you, isn’t she? She thinks you stole this from her? Hmm? Well, pretty Nord boy, how much are you willing to pay to save your own hide?”

Hedgrod clenched his fists. He didn’t like hurting any feeble people, but especially not emaciated old beggar women who were sleeping on linen bedrolls in the middle of a city. “Milady, I would really appreciate it if you gave me that necklace.”

“Hah!” she cackled. “And I’d really appreciate owning the Black Briar Meadery. But we can’t all have nice things, now can we?” She held the necklace up and let it sway back and forth. “Sure would be a shame if this fell in the canal. I don’t think you’d see it again.”

“Please,” Hedgrod said, holding up a hand in a stop motion. “Just… tell me what you want.”

The beggar clicked her tongue. “I want your gold. How obvious do I have to be?”

“Okay, okay.” Hedgrod pulled out his coin purse and walked towards her. She held the necklace back, guarded, and swiped the small linen purse from his hands, opened it and peered in, then finally handed him the necklace, which he immediately pocketed.

“Hmph. I was hoping you would have more,” she lamented, then tutted. “No matter.” She turned over like she hadn’t just blackmailed Hedgrod, and began counting her coin, pretending like he was no longer there. Hedgrod turned away without another word and rushed off to look for Athrar.

He located him down a set of wooden stairs, on a dock near the canal. There was a wooden door set into the wall, and he was picking the lock on it.

“What in Oblivion are you doing?” Hedgrod demanded.

Athrar looked up at him briefly, then went back to the lock. “This is the entrance to the tavern, and I think by extension the Thieves Guild hideout. I heard some locals talking about it earlier. Did you find the necklace?”

“I did. Crazy old beggar had it. She wanted all my money in exchange.” He produced the necklace from his pocket to show it to his friend.

“Did you give it to her?” he asked, in regards to the money.

“Well… I gave her a small coin purse containing the thank-you money from Klimmek.”

Athrar stopped fiddling with the lock and turned to look at his friend, his smirk back. “Well I’ll be damned. Smart thinking.”

Hedgrod kept his mouth shut instead of telling him that it was more along the lines of he panicked and gave her the first thing his hand landed on in his pockets, anything to stop her from throwing the necklace into the canal. The rest of the gold, from which they had looted from the bandit lair, was safely tucked away in their room at the Bee and Barb.

The lock made a clicking noise, and Athrar made an exclamation of happiness. “We’re in. Come on. Let’s return that necklace.

 

The trek to what Athrar said was a tavern underground was not a fun one. Being underground in a wet environment meant that it was musty, humid, and full of Skeevers. The oversized rats fell to Athrar’s fireballs or Hedgrod’s backup dagger easily, but that did not mean that they were not a pain to deal with. The air smelled stale, and Hedgrod wrinkled his nose.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to just… break in here?” he asked.

Athrar shrugged. “It’s the Thieves Guild. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Hedgrod grunted, but he wasn’t so sure.

Eventually they made their way to a large open cave area where a pool of water sat, lapping lazily around. The air was better here, and Hedgrod looked around. The space was mostly empty, but lantern light indicated where there was clearly a bar, across the room and up a short set of wooden steps. Athrar pressed on, and Hedgrod followed.

The wooden step up towards the bar area was blocked by a large, hulking man standing with his arms crossed. “Vekel doesn't like strangers snooping around the Flagon,” he said, his voice low.

“We mean no harm,” Athrar said, offering a small smile. “Just wanted to return something to a guild member.”

“Oh. You’re the idiots that stole Kouria’s necklace.” Word traveled fast in the guild, it seemed.

“We didn’t steal it,” Athrar sniffed. “But we found out who did.”

“Whatever,” the Imperial said. “Just give it to Tonilia, the Redguard. She’ll make sure it gets back to Kouria.” He stepped aside and the two travelers pressed on.

They approached the Redguard, who was sitting at the bar and laughing with the bartender and a few other patrons. When the two strangers approached, they fell silent, regarding them warily.

“If you're looking for conversation, The Flagon isn't the place,” the Redguard, Tonilia, said icily.

“I just wanted to return this. I managed to get it back from the thief who stole it,” he said, offering the necklace.

Tonilia’s eyes softened, but not by much. “I see.” She reached out and took the necklace from him. “We may be a faction of thieves, but we still have honor. Whoever stole this from Kouria is not a member of the guild.”

“I don’t think she’s a member of anything,” Hedgrod remarked offhandedly.

Tonilia narrowed her eyes. “Edda. That crone. We’ve been over this with her. You can’t help people who don’t want to help themselves,” she said cryptically. With a sniff, she turned back to her drink, pocketing the necklace. She didn’t spare them another glance or so much as a thank you. The bartender was giving them a look that said buy a drink or get out.

“I guess our business here is done,” Hedgrod said. Athrar nodded, and they made their way back out of the Ragged Flagon.

 

Once back out on the city streets of Riften, Hedgrod let out a shaky breath. “Did we just make enemies with one of the most influential factions in Tamriel?”

Athrar shook his head, his brows furrowing. “I think it is clear we did not steal the necklace. We located it and brought it back. If anything, they should be ambivalent to us. It will do us good to keep it that way.”

“I hope so. I do not like having to hurt people,” Hedgrod said quietly, barely audible over the sounds of their shoes shuffling over the cobblestones. “In fact, in some situations I do not know if I could.” He was wondering aloud at this point. Athrar was focused on the road ahead, silent.

Later in the night, Hedgrod was woken again by dreams of flame and gore. He was sweating, his breaths coming fast when he woke, the images fading as he blinked hard in the dark room. Athrar shuffled next to him as he tried to breathe deep.

“Another nightmare?” the elf asked, his words slow and soft.

Hedgrod nodded, feeling foolish and weak. Regardless, the elf moved closer and lifted a hand to Hedgrod’s cheek, warm and soft. He caressed his fingers through Hedgrod’s mussed hair and then back down through his beard. He continued this motion as Hedgrod’s heart slowed. “I’m sorry to wake you like this again,” he finally said when he felt as though he had caught his breath.

“It’s alright,” came the whispered reply. “I get them as well.”

Hedgrod huffed a humorless laugh. “If they do not affect you as much as me, you must be more resilient than I am.”

Athrar hummed. “I would not say resilient. Just more used to unfavorable dreams, I suppose.”

The thought had never even occurred to him. After all, he didn’t know much about Athrar’s past, or any tribulations he may have been through. All he really knew was that he did not grow up in Valenwood, and at one point had lived in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil, and was now in Skyrim. He felt a pang of regret for not taking more time to get to know the man that he had been traveling with.

“Better? Would you like me to fetch some water?” asked the elf in a sleepy voice.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you, Athrar.”

Hedgrod found that his eyes were full of tears.

Chapter 13: a Carriage Ridden

When he awoke, having had no more dreams plaguing his sleep, Athrar was still curled around him. The elf’s long ruddy hair tickled his face, and he brushed it off softly so as not to wake his sleeping friend.

He disentangled himself from the elf’s arms and got out of bed, pulling on his undershirt and making his way downstairs. The female argonian — Keerava, Hedgrod recalled — was manning the counter, cleaning tankards likely left over from the night before. Hedgrod bid her good morning, bought a few wedges of cheese and an apple, and made his way back upstairs. He checked both their waterskins, which could stand to be filled, and made his way out to do so, allowing Athrar a little bit more sleep.

The lake was calm and clear, and the early morning light cast a glow upon its surface. Hedgrod made his way around the city walls and along it until he found a stream that fed into the larger body of water, from which he filled the waterskins as much as possible. After his task was completed, he sat in the soft grass off the path, simply marveling at the lake.

Footsteps behind him. Quiet, nearly imperceptible, but there. A shift in the wind. Hedgrod turned. A hooded figure was making their way down the path. He recognized the armor, however. It was the Redguard woman that Athrar knew. What was her name again? “Kouria?” he said aloud.

The thief stiffened, evidently not prepared to be recognized. She turned towards him and he could see the glint of her nearly white eye in the morning sun. Her countenance was unfriendly, more of a snarl than anything.

“Nord,” she replied simply.

“I see that Tonilia got your necklace back to you.”

She sniffed, her eyes still locked on his, unmoving, feeling him out.

“Are you from Hammerfell?” he tried again.

“That’s not particularly any of your concern,” she said, voice tight.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry. I mean no harm. Just making conversation. You see, this journey my friend and I are on is my first outside of my hometown. I have not been able to meet many kinds of people before, and it interests me hearing about others’ homes and stories.”

“I do not have a home, and my story is of no importance to you.”

“Is the Thieves Guild not a home?”

“The Guild is how I survive. It is a family, in a way, but far different than any home you’re familiar with. Unless you’ve lived in a cistern underneath a city,” she said with the faintest hint of amusement in her tone, the corners of her mouth tugging up ever so slightly. “I apologize for accusing you of stealing,” she added quietly, her eyes moving away from his and to the lake behind him.

“It’s all right. I can imagine that it is very important to you. I was happy to locate and return it,” Hedgrod replied.

Kouria sighed, the tension in her shoulders lessening slightly. She stepped off the cobbled path and joined him on the grassy hill, sitting and admiring the sunrise. They did not speak for a moment, before Hedgrod’s curiosity got the better of him.

“You said you have met Athrar previously?”

She nodded, folding her arms on top of her knees and resting her chin. “I was sent to aid the Cyrodiil brand of the Guild, along with a few others. They were having issues operating with the Imperial Guard sniffing around and needed support to maintain their strength and influence in the province.”

Hedgrod listened intently, surprised that she was sharing so many details of what was no doubt a secretive guild. Honor among thieves seemed like an oxymoron to him, but the woman sitting next to him did not give him the uneasy feeling that, say, bandits did. She was collected, driven. Maybe there was honor in it after all.

“I was staying at the King and Queen Tavern in the Imperial City Elven Gardens District. Cheapest inn in the city, so as not to draw attention, you understand.” She looked at him sidelong, a glint in her eye. “Your friend was a regular there. He would get lunch, or dinner, and sit and scrawl in that journal of his for hours.” At some point the Redguard had pulled out a small dagger and was balancing it on her finger, pointy tip down. The sight made Hedgrod’s skin crawl, but she didn’t seem bothered.

“That sounds like him,” Hedgrod said, his eyes fixed on the weapon. She balanced it with ease, then flipped it upward and caught it by the hilt, much to Hedgrod’s impress.

“Truth be told, I assumed you two had stolen from me because I stole from him,” she admitted.

“What?”

Her face broke into a wry smile, stretching the scar that wove its way down her cheek. “Yes. I stole his coinpurse. I thought him much richer, like a court wizard or some such. When he recognized me, I thought he put two and two together since I am in the Guild.”

To Hedgrod, it did not seem far fetched that Athrar would have noticed. Exacting revenge, though? Hedgrod could honestly not say if that was something his friend would do or not. He thought back to the archer who he left alive, and Athrar’s disappointment that Hedgrod hadn’t finished him off. Still…

“I do not think he would seek out revenge in such a way.”

Kouria shrugged. “Maybe I am simply used to everyone around me being a little more cutthroat. You two are good men. Next time you are in Riften, let me know and I’ll give you a bed to sleep in, free of charge.”

Hedgrod smiled and they lapsed back into silence as the sun crept upwards above the horizon.

 

Athrar was awake when he returned. The Bosmer was standing at the bar talking with the Argonian woman Keerava, his face hidden from Hedgrod as the Nord entered the Bee and Barb. He walked up next to him and extended the elf’s waterskin, now full. Athrar turned his head, his expression morphing from politely interested in whatever Keerava was saying to delight when his gaze connected with Hedgrod’s. The Nord was rendered speechless at the gleam in the hazel eyes locked on his, so he offered a small smile.

“Thank you,” Athrar said simply, accepting his waterskin. Their fingers brushed and Hedgrod felt a jolt from where the contact was made travel from his hands up his arm and down his spine. He turned away, feeling hot all of a sudden, and greeted Keerava instead.

“Can I get you two anything for the road?” she asked. They both made purchases, flank steaks and slices of cheese and Hedgrod even opted for a small bottle of mead. Why not, he reasoned, they had the gold to spare.

“Where did you run off to?” Athrar asked as they packed their rations away and began gearing up to leave.

“Well, I wanted to get us some fresh water, and then I ran into Kouria.”

Athrar stilled for a moment, then resumed pulling his arm through his sleeve. “The Redguard thief?”

Hedgrod nodded, tightening the straps on his bracers. “She’s actually quite pleasant when she’s not yelling in your face,” he said lightly.

His friend did not seem amused. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to get tangled up with the Thieves’ Guild. We brought her necklace back, and that's that.”

“She said if we were ever back here in Riften she’d have a bed for us free of charge.”

“I would not accept such an offer,” Athrar said plainly, his tone even but his eyebrows drawn slightly.

“Why not? Is this because she stole from you?”

“She what?” he said, eyebrows drawing together even more. He began rifling through his bag, but Hedgrod waved the action off to stop him.

“No, no, I meant back when you first made her acquaintance.”

“I’d hardly say we were acquainted. We exchanged very basic pleasantries and perhaps one conversation over lunch.”

“Well, either way, in the Imperial City, she said she stole a coin purse from you.”

His cheeks reddened, and he shook his head. “I suppose that checks out.”

“You didn’t know?” Hedgrod asked as he shouldered on his packsack.

“No, I assumed I dropped my coinpurse at some point in the Market District or some such way. It’s a busy city. I never realized she had taken it…” he tsked. “Should come as no surprise to me. Dirty thieves. I knew something was amiss with her when we met. Her reasons for being in town were so… vague. Even the innkeeper didn’t know, and the innkeepers in The Imperial City are the biggest gossips you’ll ever meet.”

Hedgrod sighed. “Well, she apologized. And thought her necklace going missing was your way of getting back at her.”

The bosmer scrunched up his face. “I would never do that.”

“That’s what I said.”

“It would be foolish to steal something from someone who is obviously a member of a guild, while in their city.” Not that it was wrong. Just that it was foolish, Hedgrod couldn’t help but note.

Hedgrod nodded his agreement and they fell silent, Athrar shrugging and continuing to get his things together. The last thing he packed was his worn field journal, his nimble fingers gently tucking it on top of his other belongings before securing the satchel over his shoulder.

“Shall we?”

The carriage ride to Morthal was a long one. The carriage driver didn’t seem to mind, provided he was paid his fifty Septims accordingly. It was roughly a day’s travel time depending on how fast the horse was able to go, and how long they camped. They made conversation with the Nord driver, Sigaar, and learned of his travels. Being a carriage driver meant that in his day he had seen many things and met a lot of strange people, and seemed to have a never-ending repertoire of funny stories and interesting tales he had picked up from those he had given ferry to.

He hardly received any stories from his current passengers, who were more than content to listen to his tales and enjoy the passing views. Hedgrod, in particular, was still enchanted by the beauty of Skyrim, especially since he and his companion had now spent a few weeks traveling in the regions that were not covered in snow year-round. Athrar was also content to listen, being much more of a listener than a speaker himself, so the ride was pleasant all around. Occasionally a rogue wolf or bandit would forestall their progress, but Athrar would often take care of the threat with a swift and deadly accurate arrow shot from his bow. Only once did Hedgrod actually need to exit the carriage and brandish his weapon, when a gaggle of three bandits tried to rush them. With an arrow quickly finding its way into the neck of the archer and Hedgrod’s sword nearly decapitating another simultaneously, the third bandit dropped his mace and fled from which he came, much to Sigaar’s delight.

“You know, my favorite patrons are those that can fight. It can get a little tedious when I transport families or couriers and I’m the one that has to do the defendin’. Tell you fellows what, when we camp for the night, each of you gets a pint of ale on me.”

Sigaar made good on his word when they stopped, and the three were full of ale and food when they fell to sleep around a fire, their bedrolls warm and comfortable even on the rocky ground they had set up at.

 

At dawn’s first light they were back on the road. The three men were not as chatty in the early morning hours, still groggy from their rest the night before. Athrar was scribbling in his field journal once again, and Hedgrod was switching between watching the passing scenery and watching his friend’s face as he concentrated on his words. The elf’s expression was neutral, not revealing his thoughts in the slightest, and stray strands of his hair ghosted across his face in the breeze. At one moment his eyes flitted up to meet Hedgrod’s steady gaze. “What?” he asked, though his tone conveyed he was not particularly bothered that the nord was watching him.

Hedgrod shook his head, still embarrassed at being caught regardless, and turned to look at the scenery once more.

As they neared the north end of the province, the land once again became laden with snow, the white powder covering everything in sight. It was less interesting to look at now, certainly, but it was comforting to Hedgrod in a way. He felt a dull ache towards his home, but Athrar touching his wrist softly melted it away.

“Once you’ve seen what else the province has to offer, this looks quite barren, doesn’t it?” the elf asked playfully.

“Perhaps,” Hedgrod conceded. “There is beauty in the snow, though.”

“Aye,” agreed Sigaar from the front, keeping his eye firmly on the road. “I grew up in Shor’s Stone. The Rift is undoubtedly the most beautiful province in all of Skyrim. I can not imagine living underneath snow every day.”

“It’s not so bad,” Hedgrod said, Athrar’s eyelids dropping in a whatever you say expression.

“Where do you hail from?” Sigaar asked Hedgrod, looking over his shoulder. Hedgrod was amused that their journey was nearly over and this was the first time the chatty carriage driver had asked either of them about themselves.

“Winterhold,” Hedgrod responded. “I’m a member of the guard there.”

“What’s a Winterhold guard doing all the way down in Riften?”

Hedgrod opened his mouth to reply, but Athrar beat him to it.

“I hired him. He’s my bodyguard. I’m on an important mission, and I need the extra strength on my side.”

“Mission?” Sigaar asked, curiosity more than evident in his tone. Hedgrod shot his companion a confused look, but Athrar pressed a finger to his smiling lips to keep him from speaking.

“Yes. You see, my mother was a valiant and rich woman, married into a noble family, though I am the bastard son of her and a prominent bandit chief. She left her most prized possessions to me. We’re on the hunt for them at this very moment.”

Sigaar turned around fully, his eyes wide. “A hunt for treasure?”

“Essentially,” Athrar lied smoothly. “I’ve no idea where she stowed it, and she left me only an old journal that appeared normal at first, but the more I pored over it, I realized it was written in code. She’s trying to lead me to something, I know it.”

The carriage driver looked smitten with the tale, his eyes twinkling with wonder. “How fascinatin’. See, I told you boys, there’s something about my carriage that attracts those with the most interestin’ stories.” He turned back around and grabbed the horse’s reigns, shaking his head to himself in wonder. “Treasure!” he exclaimed under his breath. “I’ll be…”

Hedgrod raised his eyebrows at Athrar, who was physically stifling laughter with a hand over his mouth. Once he regained his composure he beamed at Hedgrod, who shook his head, amused.

 

XXX

 

Morthal was coming into view shortly thereafter, Sigaar depositing the two passengers at the entrance to the city. Athrar paid him, in addition to a hefty tip, spewing some haughty nonsense about how he’d have riches beyond his imagination soon anyway and could afford to give. Sigaar led his carriage back up the road with a smile on his face.

“That was something,” Hedgrod said as they walked the snow-covered cobbled path towards the inn, their legs aching from how long they were seated. “I don’t need to ask you to confirm that it was entirely fabricated.” A fact that only made him wonder even more what his true story was. Had they known each other long enough to ask? Would he even answer?

Athrar shrugged, smiling slightly. His hood was pulled up over his head against the cold. “I could not help myself. Did you see his face?”

Hedgrod snickered, and soon both of them broke out into proper laughter, some of the locals looking at them as they walked into town, likely looking like madmen. The air was chilly and both of their cheeks were stained red as they made their way to Moorside Inn, a humble establishment not too different from Hedgrod’s favored Frozen Hearth back home. There were a couple patches of a lichen plant that Athrar harvested on their way in, much to Hedgrod’s amusement.

“I don’t know how you can be picking plants right now. I’m ready to be next to the fire,” he remarked as he waited on the porch of the inn for his friend.

“These are great for magicka restoration potions!” Athrar protested as he jogged up the steps and past Hedgrod, opening the door. The warmer air could be felt immediately, and upon entering Hedgrod already began to feel the fire’s warmth seeping into his skin and fur lining his boots and gauntlets.

The inn was quiet, a Redguard woman on the far end sweeping the main sound that could be heard. An Orc bard was sitting at one of the tables, tuning his lute, his face looking gruff. The Redguard paused her sweeping and straightened when the two men came in, offering them a small smile.

"Welcome to the Moorside Inn. If you need anythin', I'll be 'round. Good to have a customer."

“Feels great in here,” Hedgrod commented, unfastening his bracers so he could feel the warmth of the fire on his hands more directly. The Orc looked up at the newcomers as well, his face stretching into what very well could have been a grimace or a smile, it was hard to tell what with his large tusks and underbite.

"A new face! Such a welcome sight in dreary old Morthal. Welcome, friends, welcome!"

They exchanged pleasantries as Hedgrod made himself comfortable next to the hearth, opening his pack to withdraw some dried jerky.

“Is there a story behind that burned down house?” Athrar asked the innkeeper as he approached the counter to purchase a room. Hedgrod had noticed the house as well -- it was up on a hill, hard to miss, with the rubble and noticeable soot sitting on all visible surfaces. He had not thought much of it, truth be told, for his own hometown still had many houses that were no more than just rubble, thanks to the Great Collapse shaking the very foundation of the town, and nobody willing to repair or clear some of the ruins that were too far gone. Athrar was incredibly aware of his surroundings though, so it did not surprise him that his friend had picked up on the rubble and wanted to ask a local about it.

The woman’s eyebrows raised. She set her broom against the bar and crossed her arms. "Hroggar's house? It burned down not too long ago. It's a real pity about his wife and kid. The screams woke half the town. Most folk won't go near it now for fear it's cursed."

Athrar nodded solemnly. “How did the fire start?”

“Hroggar claims it was a hearth fire. Some folks say Hroggar started it himself…”

“With his own wife and child inside?” Hedgrod piped in, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“That's what they say. See, he's living with Alva now. That started the day after the fire. It ain't right, movin' in with a new love the day after your kin die like that.” Her face was scrunched up in disgust, though it seemed she enjoyed speaking with them about the town’s affairs. Hedgrod knew from experience that any scandal in a town as small as this one was likely to be gossipped about for weeks; whispered, shared and spread, until everyone in town had the story, or at least a version of it.

“And of course they can’t prove he murdered them,” Athrar said, his tone dark.

“Aye. Our Jarl would sure like to know if he did though. Might even pay to find out,” she hinted, her expression back to being pleasant.

Seemingly reminded of the idea of payment, Athrar continued pulling out his coinpurse and offering her a handful of septims for a room, as well as some warm food and a few small bottles of ale.

The two men retreated to their rented room, closing the door softly behind them.

They would remain inside for only about half an hour however, the curiosity of the burned house on the edge of town getting the best of them, and taking precedence over a good night’s rest.

Chapter 14: An Investigation Underway

Masser and Secunda were high and bright in the sky, flickering and casting a silver glow over the sleepy town of Morthal. The snow glistened in the moonlight, a phenomenon that made Hedgrod feel like he was close to more familiar lands, but the feeling of homesickness was still settled in his gut. It was an interesting feeling, but he pushed it down as he followed behind his friend.

The wood was charred, at least what remained of it, and it was clear even covered in snow that the house had burned. It was eerily quiet, and as they crossed the threshold into what was once the main room, Hedgrod felt a full body shiver, and not from the cold.

“Athrar, I think we should—” he cut himself off when he caught sight of a soft blue glow peeking around the corner. His eyes focused and slowly made out a hand, then a face— both translucent, and unmistakably that of a child. He gasped and Athrar’s head turned towards him, then snapped to where he was looking. With two sets of eyes on her, the small ghost retreated, evidently spooked.

Hedgrod himself felt spooked, never having seen a ghost before, and was more than ready to turn tail back to the warm inn and call off this investigation altogether. Athrar, however, had other plans.

“Hey!“ he called, moving in the direction of the ghost. Hedgrod watched the blue, glowing spirit cheerfully run away, her giggling echoing off of the snow, making his skin crawl. She disappeared behind the house and Athrar went to follow closely on her heels. Hedgrod had no choice but to pursue them, not wanting anything bad to befall the elf.

When they crested the hill, both of them stopped short. They caught sight of the ghostly child hovering over her grave before she disappeared. Standing just off to the side was a Breton woman in dark robes, her face pallid, the silver moonlight only making her features more gaunt. She seemed taken aback at the two men’s arrival and drew her blade, her other hand radiating a dark red magic.

“Vampire,” Athrar said, drawing his bow.

Hedgrod did not have time to react before the Breton activated her spell directly at Athrar’s chest, which caused him to collapse in a fit of breathlessness. Seeing the look of pure terror on the Bosmer’s face was enough to move his leaden feet, and he charged at the vampire, sword drawn. Before she could move the spell to him, or make use of her dagger, he was driving his steel blade into her left shoulder, turning it as he pushed all of his body weight into the stab. She shrieked, and the sound was so piercing that Hedgrod would have covered his ears if not for the weapon he held so unyieldingly in his grasp. As she began to fall back, he swiftly pulled the blade from her shoulder. She hit the ground, but using her still-good arm attempted to get up again, her eyes glowing a deep shade of red, her pointy teeth bared in a snarl.

As she moved to cast a spell, Hedgrod reared back his arm. Before he struck, though, an arrow lodged into her eye, her face flashing briefly with shock before she collapsed back onto the ground, now dead, blood slowly seeping into the snow beneath her.

Athrar was breathing heavily, still on his knees, his arm holding the bow wobbling. He dropped the weapon and nearly fell forward before bracing his body with his hands against the ground. Hedgrod dropped his sword and moved to lift up his friend’s torso, the elf leaning against his shoulder. He was pale and his breathing was shallow, but otherwise he looked fine.

“What in Oblivion was that?” Hedgrod asked.

“Drain health spell,” Athrar said weakly, seeming barely able to hold himself up. “I’ll be fine.”

As they sat in the snow together, Hedgrod’s arms wrapped protectively around his companion, the young ghost girl reappeared, her form flickering. There was a smile on her face.

“Thanks for finding me before her,” she said quietly, her voice seeming to echo. “She was forced to burn down the house. It wasn’t her choice. She tried to turn me before I died, but it was too late.” She looked back towards what was clearly the grave for her physical body. “I’m tired. I need to sleep now.” With that, she was gone in a puff of white.

Hedgrod was speechless, and Athrar was in no shape to respond either. He got to his feet, collecting their weapons from the snow before pulling his friend up, putting Athrar’s arm around his shoulders so he could support his weight, and slowly they began making their way back towards the inn as Hedgrod tried to process what they had just unearthed.

 

Hedgrod tenderly laid Athrar down on the small bed. The elf’s eyes were half-closed, but he lifted his hand to his own chest, a faint yellow light emanating from his palm. He seemed to breathe a little easier after the healing magic worked its way into him, but Hedgrod already knew from their shared travels that Restoration was not Athrar’s strong suit, and in fact was a school he has confessed was something he struggled with, much to his frustration because of its usefulness.

Whatever healing magic he was able to muster evidently gave him a little relief, because once the light diffused from his palm he closed his eyes with a sigh. Hedgrod stood at his bedside, fidgeting as he tried to digest what just happened and watching the Bosmer with concern.

Athrar shifted, his eyes opening back up briefly. He held up his tattooed arm to Hedgrod, palm up, and Hedgrod slid his hand into his friend’s gingerly. It was warm, maybe from the spell he just cast, and Hedgrod’s fingers tingled at the contact. The elf pulled gingerly, weakly, but enough for Hedgrod to get the message. He toed off his boots and climbed into the small bed next to him, encircling him in his arms. It was late, their journey was long, and once they were finally in bed Hedgrod realized how exhausted he truly was. Still, he was trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

“So she…” he started quietly.

Athrar made a soft groaning noise, shifting, his face pressed into Hedgrod’s chest and his right arm draped loosely over his hip. “We can figure out what happened in the morning,” he muffled.

“Fair enough,” Hedgrod replied, blinking in the darkness as Athrar’s breathing evened out. He finger-combed the elf’s hair, listening to the soft exhales for a while, until he finally let the exhaustion take hold.

 

Before they could talk about it, or even properly wake up, there was a commotion in the main inn of the room. Hedgrod could hear the raised voices through their closed door, and he moved to try to hear better, still moving slowly so as not to disturb Athrar. He recognized the voice of the Redguard innkeeper, and an unfamiliar male voice that sounded distressed and was getting louder. Hedgrod sat up, pulling on his shirt and walking out into the main room.

A blonde Nord was talking to Jonna, animatedly waving his arms around, his pale face red with exertion.

“Thonnir!” Jonna yelled over him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Calm down. What happened?”

The Nord, Thonnir, let out a sob. "Laelette! She's dead! Ysmir's beard! She's...she was a vampire!”

“What?” Jonna said, her eyes wide as saucers. “What do you mean she was a vampire?”

“I found her body this morning. An arrow in her face, a stab wound on her chest… And fangs. Fangs, Jonna. She was cut down, slaughtered. I thought she left to join the Stormcloaks. Ah! My poor Laelette!” He dissolved into sobs, and Jonna rubbed his arms in a matronly gesture of comfort.

Hedgrod silently backed away and slipped back into his and Athrar’s room, trying to digest the information he indirectly received. When he got back inside, he saw Athrar sitting up, tying his hair back behind his head in a ponytail, still without a shirt on.

“What was that about?” he asked, and Hedgrod moved to sit down on the foot of the bed, pulling his boots on.

“That was the husband of the… the vampire that we killed last night,” he said in a hushed tone, trying to make sure that nobody else heard his words.

Athrar blinked at him a few times, then furrowed his brow. “What?” He whisper-screamed. “She was married?”

“Evidently, before she was turned,” Hedgrod replied.

“So then…”

“...who turned her?” Hedgrod finished, and they looked at each other for a moment.

“There must be another vampire in town,” Athrar said with a grimace. “What should we do?”

Hedgrod felt a connection to this town. So much like his hometown, just a small frozen town with simple people. If there was a vampire that was terrorizing it, ordering their underlings to burn down houses and kill families, he felt honor bound to help. It was the least he could do, since he and Athrar seem to be the only ones that have seen the ghost of the daughter, and heard her side of the story. Laelette, as she had been called, was doing someone else’s bidding. Had been turned by another vampire. The issue was going to be finding that vampire before it found them.

Chapter 15: A Nest of Undead

Shortly after they were sure that Thonnir had left the Inn, Hedgrod and Athrar suited up against the cold and made their way out into town, with the mission of gaining more intel from the inhabitants to try and sniff out the vampire.

Morthal was home to an iron mine—their first stop. Though intrigued at the way Laelette’s mysterious death had played out, they were reluctant to talk to the two outsiders, which Hedgrod couldn't blame them for. Upon seeking out and talking to Hroggar, the father of the ghost girl, they found that he had a staunch indifference towards the new findings. He sat on the porch of a house they discovered to be Alva’s after chatting with him, but his gaze was cold and unwelcoming so they eventually had no choice but to retreat.

When they returned to the inn, Thonnir was there again, slowly chewing on his lunch and staring blankly at the wall. Hedgrod felt his chest ache for the man, so he bought a drink from Jonna and made his way over to him. The Nord looked up at him with a wary look on his face. Athrar looked on with trepidation.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hedgrod said, taking a seat next to Thonnir and folding his arms.

“I don't think I have seen your face around here,” Thonnir said after a beat, his tone flat.

“My name is Hedgrod. My friend Athrar and I are passing through. We heard about what happened,” he said softly, dipping his head slightly.

Thonnir sniffed and nodded, popping the cork on the ale that Hedgrod had offered and taking a long swig. Hedgrod saw Athrar retreat to their room out of the corner of his eye, likely not wanting to appear like he was eavesdropping.

After exchanging mild conversation about their professions and other mundane topics, Thonnir eventually began to open up on his own about what had happened, though Hedgrod already knew more than Thonnir thought. This made him feel slightly queasy. He felt like he was lying to the man sitting beside him, who still mourned the loss of his wife. But, he reasoned, he was trying to help.

“Did you notice anything strange before she… left?” he asked softly when there was a break in Thonnir’s ramblings.

He thought for a moment. “She began to spend a lot of time with Alva. Yet just a week before, she despised her. In fact, the night she disappeared, she was supposed to meet Alva. Alva told me later that she never showed up... I never got to tell her goodbye.” His eyes welled with tears and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Hedgrod laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping he wasn’t overstepping.

“I think… they may have met after all,” Hedgrod suggested quietly.

Thonnir’s head snapped up to look at Hedgrod. “You think Alva...but that means... Ye gods! You think Alva is a vampire?”

“I think it is a possibility we cannot ignore,” Hedgrod replied.

“No! You're wrong. You must be wrong. Laelette may have met her fate out in the marsh. I refuse to believe Alva had anything to do with this. There is no way you can convince me without proof.” He stood, slamming his empty bottle down, and gruffly left the Inn. Hedgrod felt bad for striking a nerve. He noticed the innkeeper staring holes into him, likely trying to discern if he was going to make a habit of harassing her patrons. Hedgrod laid a few Septims on the table and retreated to his and Athrar’s room.

His elf companion was sitting on the bed, his cloak folded neatly on the table, eagerly waiting to hear what had happened. So Hedgrod obliged.

“Hm… Well, I guess we need to break into her house then,” he concluded after Hedgrod had finished speaking.

“What?” Hedgrod laughed humorlessly. “Are you kidding? Not only is breaking and entering against the law, Athrar, but if she is indeed a vampire, we might get killed.”

Athrar shrugged, unbothered. “Then I guess it doesn't have to be ‘we’ who breaks in,” he said, air quotes around “we”. “I’ll go. You keep watch. I’ll be in and out before anyone notices. We’ll do it tonight.”

Hedgrod crossed his arms. “This is a bad idea. What if they see you?”

Athrar smiled, one of the rare wide ones that stretched across his face, although this one was more sinister than any Hedgrod had seen from him before. He grabbed his satchel from the floor and rummaged in it before pulling out one of his potion bottles.

“What is that?” Hedgrod asked.

“Invisibility potion,” Athrar said in a sing-song voice, his grin steadfast and impish.

Hedgrod sighed but said nothing. He supposed there was nothing he could say to dissuade him. He was about to become an accessory to his first crime against someone who might be innocent after all.

 

XXX

 

“I still do not think this is a good idea,” Hedgrod said under his breath as they crouched in the bushes opposite Alva’s house.

Athrar pressed a finger to his lips, his hazel eyes swimming with intensity as they bored into Hedgrod. The Nord rolled his eyes but said no more.

They were watching the chimney, which was still smoking, as an indicator of whether everyone in the house was asleep yet. It was a chilly evening, which Hedgrod was used to, but he couldn’t help but notice Athrar shiver occasionally, though he thought to himself that there was a possibility it was from the nerves (or more like excitement, in his case).

When the smoke stopped billowing from the chimney, Hedgrod stood, but Athrar pulled him back down by the sleeve of his furs, shaking his head. “We need to give it about ten more minutes. Give them time to fall asleep.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Hedgrod said, at this point just wanting to get it over with so they could go back to the inn.

When Athrar deemed it time to go, he did a thumbs up, and then pointed to Hedgrod’s feet. Stay put. Hedgrod nodded. The Bosmer crept across the snow-covered path and to the front door, pressing himself against the side to make himself less noticeable as he picked the lock with nimble fingers. As soon as there was a faint click, he withdrew his lockpick, smirking. He took the potion off from his belt and held it up in Hedgrod’s direction in a cheers motion. If the situation weren’t so serious, Hedgrod might have laughed.

The more of the potion he drank, the more translucent his form became. When he polished off the bottle, the last thing Hedgrod saw was him lowering the bottle and swiping his tongue over his lip before he became entirely invisible. With that, the door slowly creaked open and back closed. He was in. Hedgrod held his breath.

Each minute felt excruciating. The town was quiet, again reminding Hedgrod of his own home, but he was still on edge, worried a guard was going to come around the corner and wonder just what in Akatosh’s name he was doing squatting in a bush and staring at a house. Not to mention, he was from out of town, which in a town as small as this he knew would make the folk that lived here wary of him. It was a good thing he brought a drink from the inn, if just to have something to do with his hands. Athrar’s idea for a distraction if Alva or one of the guards showed up was to pretend he was a drunk. Hedgrod wasn’t so sure he could pull that off, but he drank some of the wine anyways, figuring he might as well in a situation as stressful as this one.

Soon the door opened and closed again, with nobody there. Hedgrod’s heart hammered in his chest and he stood, but of course he could not see his companion. “Athrar?” he whispered. No answer, no sound. He strained his eyes and could see footsteps forming in the snow, slowly, coming towards him. Hedgrod’s shoulders relaxed. “I can see your footprints, you know,” he said, unable to contain his smirk.

Still no response, but suddenly the footsteps were coming faster, and he could hear them now, coming straight towards him. What in Oblivion?! He thought to himself, unsure whether to draw his blade, before---

The wind was knocked from his lungs as the invisible force slammed into him. He hit the snowbank behind him with a poff, and could feel the weight upon him, could feel the breath on his ear. Then, he could hear the laughter. Light, warm, and definitely Athrar’s.

He shuffled, bracing his hands in the snow to hold himself up. As he laughed, he became more and more visible; first translucent, like he was a ghost, then solidifying as the effects of the potion wore off. He was evidently pretty pleased with himself for tackling Hedgrod, laughing merrily. The sight was enchanting, his facial expression rendering Hedgrod unable to move. It was one he saw from him so infrequently. Unbound and unfettered joy.

Athrar eventually calmed down, wiping a tear from his eye, before seeming to realize he was in quite a suggestive position with his Nord friend, whose hands were on his hips.

“Uh--” they said at the same time, and then Athrar rolled sideways so they were both on their backs in the snow.

“Sorry,” the Bosmer said. “I was just… I don’t know. I thought it would be funny.”

“You certainly got me good,” Hedgrod said, trying to lighten the mood, his cheeks and ears burning and no doubt bright red. His wine had spilled into the snow during their roughhousing, but he found he didn’t care. He wasn’t sure what he did care about, in this moment, he only knew that his brain felt foggy and muddled and his heart was racing.

Athrar sat up, snow covering the back of his green cloak. “Back to the inn?”

“Are you going to tell me what you found?” Hedgrod asked, accepting the hand outstretched to him so they could both stand.

“No,” Athrar said, reaching into his cloak and pulling out an old, worn journal. “I’m going to show you.”

 

When they were back in their room in the inn, Athrar described in a hushed voice the basement area of the house, which contained a coffin, empty, more or less confirming that Alva was a vampire, and Hroggar had become her thrall. The journal was the physical evidence they needed. It was small, with neat writing, which could be compared to other notes or letters Alva had written if they sincerely doubted it was hers, but the words inside were incriminating enough, Hedgrod thought. Detailing how she had seduced Hroggar, turned Laelette and bid her to kill his family, and their ultimate plans to use the entire town of Morthal as human cattle for their bloodthirst.

“This just keeps getting more interesting,” Athrar said, his eyes shining. “Our next goal is to figure out where this Movarth character is.”

“You want to walk right into the cave of a vampire?”

“Well, how else are we going to kill him?”

“Athrar, it’s one thing to break into a house that contained one maybe-vampire. But going into a cave of what is more than likely multiple vampires who know we might be coming?” This was not just speculation. The last line of Alva’s journal, seemingly written more recently than the rest, read “There are two strangers in town, looking into the fire. I'll have to be careful.” She was aware of them snooping, and soon would no doubt alert the rest of her brood, especially if she noticed the journal missing.

Athrar rubbed the small patch of hair on his chin. “Hm. You have a point. I think we should bring this to the Jarl. Maybe we can get them to send some soldiers with us, and we can clear them out together. I mean, it is in their best interest. These vampires clearly intend to enslave this village and turn them into livestock.”

Hedgrod was much more fond of that plan. There was safety in numbers, assuredly. “I think you’re right. We can take it to the Jarl in the morning. For right now, though, I’d like to get some sleep.”

The Bosmer nodded. “Good idea. Now that my adrenaline has worn off I am quite tired myself. Did you see how well my invisibility potion worked, though?” he asked, cracking a smile. Hedgrod grinned too, but shook his head.

“I just wish you wouldn’t have had to use it for something so dangerous.”

“Well, it made it much less dangerous, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

 

 

The two arrived at Highmoon Hall shortly after eating breakfast the following morning. The longhouse was larger than any other house in town, but still did not boast too much size. The Jarl, sat upon her chair and speaking with two of her court members, was an elderly Nord woman with long black hair and deep wrinkles set into her pale face. When the two strangers entered, she cut herself off mid sentence and turned to look at them. “I was wondering when you two would arrive,” she said, her voice croaky, but sweet. Her smile made her crows' feet crinkle. “So, life has brought you to Morthal, and to me. What purpose this serves, we will no doubt see.”

Athrar bowed stiffly to show respect before producing the journal from his satchel and speaking. “Jarl, we apologize for intruding so early into the day, but this matter is of the utmost importance.”

She waved casually before folding her hands in her lap. “No, please, tell me what is on your minds.”

“It’s about… Hroggar’s family. The burned down house,” Athrar continued, and the elderly Jarl continued to wait patiently for him to speak. The Bosmer took a deep breath, then blurted their findings. “Alva set the fire. She's the murderer.”

The elderly Jarl looked surprised, her eyebrows rising. “Alva? Didn’t think she had it in her…”

“Actually, she's a vampire. She planned to enslave the town,” Hedgrod added, and Athrar nodded in affirmation of his statement.

“I assume you have proof? Can't go making accusations like that without proof.”

Athrar stepped forward and presented her with the journal that he had been holding. She opened it and began flipping through the worn pages, her expression becoming more and more sour as she did so. “So it's true. That traitorous bitch!” She snapped the journal shut and looked up at Athrar and Hedgrod once more. “Morthal owes you a debt. Here. This is a reward for solving the crime.” She waved to who Hedgrod assumed to be her housecarl forward, and he ran off before returning with a small coin purse, clinking with gold.

“Thank you, but--” Athrar started.

“I need one more favor from you,” she cut in. “Morthal is still in danger. The journal mentions Movarth, a master vampire I thought was destroyed a century ago. I'll gather together some able-bodied warriors to clean out Movarth's lair. I’ll have them gathered outside at noon. Would you be able to go with them?”

Hedgrod wanted to refuse. Did this town not have guards? Why was she enlisting the help of two strangers? Perhaps because Hedgrod was wearing guard armor, and they clearly cared enough to bring this forward, sure, but Hedgrod still had reservations about barging into a lair of a vampire that’s -- did she say a century old?!

“Absolutely, that’s just what I was going to suggest,” Athrar said, clearly happy for having gotten what he wanted. Hedgrod stifled a groan, and with that they retreated back outside, their business done, at least until noon.

“I do not understand why she wants us to join this group of people raiding the vampire nest,” Hedgrod grumbled as they walked to check out the shops in town in the meantime.

“Come on, Hedgrod, she’s asking us for help. It’s the least we can do, we have already come this far.”

“I guess you have a point,” Hedgrod conceded. Morthal did remind him of home. Surely he would not leave his home in a state of near peril such as this. It was the right thing to do, and he had to admit having a band of men going with them to the nest did make him feel a little bit better about the entire situation. “Alright. Let’s get rid of those nasty things, then.”

 

 

The Jarl made good on her word. At noon, there was a crowd of men and women in front of the Longhouse, wearing armor that they likely smithed themselves or wore on long-since past adventures. Hedgrod recognized Thonnir, who was fully suited in iron armor. He was shouting, getting the group ready for battle. “They will not beat us down! I'm going to Movarth's Lair to kill that monster. Are you lot with me?”

A chorus of “Yeah!” “Kill the vampire!” and “Destroy him!” were heard before they all began to march towards the exit of town, in the direction of the vampire lair. Hedgrod and Athrar quickened their pace to catch up and fall into step with them.

When they approached the cave, the tune of the mob changed drastically. A blonde Nord woman was the first to pipe up. “Um… this place looks dangerous.”

“Yeah,” agreed a bald Nord man with a thick brown beard. “Kind of scary too.”

“And it's full of vampires?” Asked another clad in steel armor.

“Cowards!” Thonnir cried, apparently not happy with their conversation. “We must kill the vampires. We have to make them pay!”

The group, however, did not seem particularly convinced anymore. None of them moved, and Thonnir visibly shook with anger. His gaze landed on Hedgrod, who was standing next to Athrar at the end of the group.

“You!” he said, his tone forceful but his face full of relief. “I am glad to see you. Morthal is full of cowards,” he spat at the crowd, who looked as if they were ready to bolt back towards town at any moment. “Let’s go kill that monster.”

Athrar grabbed his bow from his back. “You’re a brave man. Let’s go,” he said.

 

They descended into the cave, which admittedly was a bit of a reprieve from the cold wind outside. This was its only saving grace however, as there was an unmistakable stench of blood and death hanging in the air. Athrar could smell it too, his nose screwed up in disgust, and Hedgrod touched his arm lightly to say let’s press on. Thonnir was right behind them, putting on a brave face but Hedgrod recognized the fidgeting in his hands that gripped his axe, the whites of his eyes visible with how wide they were.

(It was not as if Hedgrod wasn’t scared himself, but for some reason he felt calm, and his heart rate was surprisingly slow.)

They pressed on slowly, quietly, not wanting to alert anything lurking within their presence. The cave got darker, and Hedgrod was thankful that Thonnir had brought a torch, which dimly lit the way in front of him as he held it above his head.

A scratching sound. From the darkness. They all froze in unison. Was it aware of them? Was it a vampire?

Silence for a beat, then two. Athrar’s hand erupted in flame just as a skeever leapt out of the darkness, its maw open, jagged teeth on a beeline for the men. Thonnir shouted. The firebolt that Athrar cast had impeccable timing, hitting the creature square in the face and throwing off its arc. It hit the ground in front of them with a thump and an ear-piercing shriek as its fur was enveloped in flames. Hedgrod drew his sword and cut off its head at the base, silencing its screams.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling his sword from the body with a wet squelch. “Well, if they did not already know we were here, they do now.”

Athrar breathed out, flexing his fingers. “I’m glad I hit it before it latched onto my leg and infected me with Ataxia or some such.”

Hedgrod nodded in agreement. Thonnir said nothing, clearly embarrassed about his reaction to the rodent. He looked harrowed, visibly shaking now.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay behind? Return to safety?” Hedgrod asked quietly, not judgemental, just worried.

Thonnir exhaled a shaky breath, chuckling humorlessly at the end of it. “I’m not a fighter. But I… I have to avenge Laelette.”

Hedgrod put a hand on his shoulder. “My friend and I can handle this. We’ll make sure her death was not in vain.”

The blonde Nord’s eyes filled with tears, but he nodded, his face set. “Aye. I owe you two a great deal,” he said quietly, and with a nod towards Athrar he turned back and headed back the way they came.

It got darker as he retreated, so Athrar cast his fire again, keeping it in his hand so it would light their way but not fire off a bolt. It was a little dimmer than the torch, but it would do. They continued on, not talking now that it was just the two of them. Athrar held out his left hand, the fire spell lighting their way, and his right found Hedgrod’s in the semidarkness. They linked fingers as they continued, Athrar’s spell at the ready, Hedgrod’s sword in hand and shield on his back should he need to brandish it.

Eventually the cave opened up into a larger room, multiple large torches burning to keep the room lit. Athrar put his arm out to stop Hedgrod, keeping it across his chest as he extinguished his flame and pointed to a tripwire that was stretched across the path. They stepped over it, crouching low as the rumble of voices could begin to be heard. So the vampires hadn’t heard their scuffle with the skeever after all, Hedgrod thought with relief.

Athrar breathed out slowly through his nose, drawing his bow and gripping it tightly. Hedgrod still had his sword drawn from the skeever incident, and he knew he was going to need it soon. They crept around the corner, sticking to the shadows, until the room came into better view. There was a throne, and upon it was a bald Nord with dark red eyes, his sclera the color of fresh pools of blood with glowing yellow irises. He had a nasty scar on his face, and appeared to be in his forties, though Hedgrod knew that he had to be much older. He was clad in simple armor, a single sword on his hip. There was no doubt that he had to have also been a magicka user. Hedgrod looked out of the corner of his eye at Athrar, who stood still as a statue.

As they were watching the vampire converse with his associates, there was a moment where he froze and looked straight in their direction. Hedgrod felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Could they see him? Did vampires have heightened vision? He realized he had never actually been this close to one before. He had no idea what they were getting into.

“Well, are you going to stay in the shadows, or are you going to try to overpower me? I’d prefer the latter, as that means I’ll have a warm meal in my belly within the hour.”

Hedgrod held his breath. Athrar shook his head and started to nock an arrow, but the vampire didn’t seem to notice. His sinister smile curled wider, his blood red eyes flashing.

“I can smell you, you know,” he growled. Athrar let the arrow loose and it sailed through the air. Movarth dodged at the last second and it lodged itself in the rock behind him. He turned back in their direction and clicked his tongue as if he was disappointed. “That’s all you’ve got?” he taunted.

“Shit, this isn’t good,” Athrar said under his breath as Movarth’s lackeys started in their direction.

“Hah,” Hedgrod said, I told you so on the tip of his tongue, but Athrar elbowed him in the side before straightening up and readying another arrow.

This one hit one of the vampires square in the chest, but he barely looked down at it before ripping it out and continuing onward, his casting hand glowing with a sinister red energy as his fresh wound dribbled blood.

“Hedgrod,” Athrar hissed, and the Nord straightened from his crouch, grabbing his shield off of his back and holding it out in front of him.

Athrar cast two fireballs in quick succession and Hedgrod took that as his moment to charge forward at the vampire with the chest wound. Distracted by the fire, he was able to drive his sword in a downward arc, headed directly for his face. The elf snarled at him, its canines elongated, eyes glowing red, and lifted a hand to stop the blow. Hedgrod was strong, however, and the sword cut through the vampire’s wrist, causing a spray of blood to erupt and the thing to start shrieking.

“You filthy little imp!” He roared, raising his other hand with that dark red spell again. Hedgrod raised his shield to block it, knowing more than likely it would do nothing, but a burst of what seemed to be lightning hit the vampire square in the face, causing him to seize up for a moment. This hesitation gave Hedgrod the time to swing again, taking off the creature’s head. He barely had time to celebrate though, as another was upon him, this time a Breton woman, her face twisted in an angry grimace as she charged him with both hands glowing with spells ready to be cast.

Athrar came to his aid again, shooting off an ice bolt that hit her square in the jaw, nearly knocking her off of her feet. She clearly was not as strong as the male that he had just cut down. Hedgrod hesitated as she stumbled, and he heard Athrar grunt in frustration before four firebolts in quick succession hit her, and her dark robes caught fire. She screamed in pain, unable to get up, and Hedgrod watched in horror as her flesh began to char as she flailed, trying to extinguish herself.

“Hedgrod, what in Oblivion are you doing?” Athrar shouted before drawing his bow again and firing a few arrows into the vampire woman to keep her down. She was screaming so loud. Hedgrod knew she had been human once, felt awful for the pain she was in, and wondered how easily it could have been avoided.

“Move your ass!” Athar growled through clenched teeth as he shouldered past his friend to get a good vantage point on Movarth, who was still at the throne a few feet below. There was a wooden ramp to their right, but Athrar stayed at the top of the higher level, notching his bow again as Movarth cackled with what appeared to be glee.

Athrar charging forward broke Hedgrod from his trance. He couldn’t sit back idly and let his friend face such a powerful vampire on his own. He charged in as Movarth raised his hands and aimed the drain health spell directly at him.

It hit his chest and immediately knocked all of the air from his lungs. He stumbled, resisted the urge to collapse as his heart began racing, the very blood in his veins aching as his life force was drained by the vampire’s gnarled fingers.

Movarth laughed again, a grating sound that made Hedrod grit his teeth and grip his weapon harder, fighting through the haze, the edges of his vision going black. He raised his sword and swung, moving forward into the blast of magic, but Movarth dodged easily, clicking his tongue as if Hedgrod was a misbehaving dog.

An arrow lodged in his neck with a wet thump as he was occupied with Hedgrod, and in surprise he ceased to cast his spell, giving Hedgrod a reprieve. He felt sluggish, fatigued, like he had been sick for a week, but with the spell not actively impairing him anymore he felt as if he was coming up for air after being underwater. Movarth pulled the arrow out of his neck with a squelching noise, the wound healing literally before Hedgrod’s eyes. He was clearly a powerful mage, and his vampiric abilities no doubt added to his regeneration and magicka strength. Hedgrod knew he had no time to waste, and despite protesting muscles he lifted his shield and threw himself at the vampire, bashing it straight into his face in an effort to stun him and give Athrar more time.

It worked. However briefly, Movarth was knocked off balance, and in the moment it took him to plant his feet and right himself, Athrar had released a volley of fire bolts directly at him, catching him in the face and chest. He let out a guttural roar, more beast sounding than man. While still visually appearing human, Hedgrod knew that the creature before them was so twisted and vile, there were likely no actual shreds of his humanity left. He shoved Hedgrod back and lifted an arm towards each of them to cast his spell, but since Hedgrod had a moment to gain his strength back, he was faster, slicing at the outstretched hand. Movarth once again tried to dodge, but slower this time, and Hedgrod felt the sharpened edge of his blade go through two of his fingers, severing them, earning him a spray of blood and a defiant growl. At the same moment, Athrar let loose another arrow, which found its home in the soft flesh of his upper chest, cutting through the leather armor with ease.

“That’s enough!” Movarth roared, clenching his hand that now sported only three fingers. “I’m done playing with you two. Now, you die.”

He cast a purple spell at the wall, and from the portal emerged a flame atronach, ethereal and deadly.

Chapter 16: A Vampire Defeated

“Fuck,” Athrar exclaimed, and Hedgrod knew that was not a good sign.

Hedgrod had seen atronachs and other lesser Daedra drawn in a book before, but seeing one up close -- and one that was bent on killing him instead of defending him, no less -- was terrifying. He wasn’t even sure if his sword would do any damage to it, so he raised his shield.

Athrar growled in frustration and cast a few ice bolts at it, succeeding in drawing its attention his way. It advanced on him, and they danced around each other as Hedgrod focused his efforts back on Movarth, who he found retreating from close combat. Hedgrod tried to pursue him and continue cutting him down, but Movarth was fast, and shot a shock spell at him as he dodged one of Hedgrod’s swings. The spell hit him in the chest, bouncing off his armor but punching him all the same, singing the hair on his arms. Movarth followed with an ice blast, which knocked Hedgrod to the ground. The rocky cave floor was cold, and the shock of the fall stunned him for a moment. He scrambled to get back up, grabbing the sword and shield that he’d let go of in his fall.

His eyes focused just in time to watch Movarth hit Athrar -- who was tangled in a deadly, sidestepping dance with the flame atronach -- with the drain health spell. Just like how it’d happened to him, Hedgrod watched Athrar crumple beneath the oppression of the spell, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe. The flame atronach took advantage of his hesitation and did a flip midair, catching Athrar with its legs. He was knocked to the ground, his robes singed, and Movarth did not let up, drawing closer to him as he continued to sap his life force. These things happened so fast, and, though Hedgrod’s limbs were heavy, he scrambled to his feet.

“Athrar!” He shouted, charging for Movarth. He wasn’t thinking, just desperately wanting to help his friend, and the only thing he could think to do was to tackle the vampire, throwing his whole weight at him. They crashed to the ground, Movarth’s head hitting the rock with a crunch, but he was not so easily deterred. He snarled at Hedgrod, his fangs bared, and grabbed his throat with one massive hand. Hedgrod mirrored the motion, grabbing Movarth’s throat with both of his hands as spots danced in his vision. Movarth surged forward, flipping their positions and pressing his full weight onto Hedgrod, keeping the one hand on his throat and using the other to pry Hedgrod’s hands off by his wrists, easily doing so as Hedgrod’s strength dwindled due to lack of oxygen. His mind was going haywire. All he could see were Movarth’s bright red eyes, and tendrils of black that licked at the edges of his vision as consciousness slipped away from him, like the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora himself. His mouth gaped, desperately trying to breathe to no avail.

Until the pressure suddenly lifted from his throat and he managed a gulp of air, spluttering and coughing. Movarth had let go, rearing back as Athrar twisted the sword in his neck -- Hedgrod’s sword -- then pulled it back out to raise it above his head and swing it back down with a roar. He did not possess the strength to behead the vampire entirely, but the spray of blood that coated all three of them gave Hedgrod indication that it had been enough. Movarth fell to the side, his weight falling off of Hedgrod, and Athrar stabbed the sword down into his chest for good measure, his eyes wild, face contorted in anger. Movarth gurgled, then fell still.

Hedgrod rolled over, the cool stone floor of the cave against his cheek, and coughed a few more times. His breath came in and out raspy, but at least his vision was clearing. Athrar was on his knees next to him in an instant, more of a fall than an intentional sitting down, but there he was nonetheless. He laid a hand on Hedgrod’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

When he tried to respond, Hedgrod found he couldn’t speak quite yet, so he just nodded. He felt Athrar wipe his face with the edge of his cloak, felt the blood that was there smear. He was coated in it, from when Athrar had cut Movarth’s neck. He was too busy being grateful that he was alive to be disgusted, but Athrar seemed keen on cleaning it off of him as soon as possible.

His eyes slid to his friend, as opposed to blankly staring at the wall opposite him, and he saw the charred fabric of Athrar’s cloak and undershirt, the sheen of sweat gleaming on his face, the nasty burn scar on his neck oozing puss. Despite this, he seemed more fixated on Hedgrod than his own injuries. When he was done wiping the vampire’s blood from his face, he brushed Hedgrod’s sweaty hair from where it had stuck to his forehead and gotten in his eyes.

“Can you sit up?” Athrar asked softly. Hedgrod braced a hand against the floor and sat up, his other hand on his neck. Athrar’s eyes tipped downward, and he visibly cringed.

Is it that bad? Hedgrod wondered to himself. Athrar pressed his hands to Hedgrod’s chest, gently, and his palms glowed with his healing magic for a moment before sputtering out. He cursed under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Hedgrod, I’m really drained. That damned atronach took all I had. Thank the gods for your sword.”

Hedgrod breathed out a shaky breath. The drain health spell surely made him still feel fatigued and sluggish, like he needed to sleep for about a day, but it was his throat that was truly bothering him. He spoke, his voice soft and raspy. “It’s okay.”

Athrar shook his head. “Don’t speak, I worry that you could hurt yourself further. Let’s get back to the inn and get you a warm drink.”

“Your… neck,” Hedgrod rasped, raising a hand to point at the burn. Athrar shrugged one shoulder, brushing it off. He slid his arm under Hedgrod’s to help him to his feet. He was reminded of the last fight they’d been in, not even two days prior, and how their positions were flipped. He leaned on Athrar as they retreated out of the cave, slowly but surely.

Once Hedgrod had a moment to regain his bearings, he could walk on his own. He disentangled himself from Athrar, who looked briefly disappointed but said nothing. His shield was on the elf’s back, his sword and scabbard there as well. He was literally carrying his burdens, and Hedgrod felt a surge of appreciation for his Bosmeri companion.

 

Back in town, their first task even before tending to their wounds was to report to the Jarl what had happened. The elderly Nord woman was happy at the news and made quick work of obtaining healing potions for the two of them. They assured that the news would be passed to Thonnir, and with that she sent them to rest at the inn as long as they needed, promising to arrange with Jonna the payment for their stay.

Hedgrod did not waste a moment as they left the Jarl’s longhouse, popping the cork on the healing potion she had so kindly given them and taking a large gulp. Immediately the pain in his throat dulled, and his limbs felt a bit stronger. Athrar, however, waited until they got back to the inn to administer his own. Hedgrod watched from his spot on the bed as the elf poured a small amount in his palm and massaged it directly on the burn wound on his neck before drinking the rest. The burn was visibly less irritated, but Hedgrod wondered if even potions and magic could heal wounds entirely, especially those that took off a few layers of skin.

He had laid down without taking off his armor, but unfastened his bracers as Athrar set his sword and shield down and took off his cloak to inspect the burn damage. He was silent as his fingers gingerly traced the scorched fabric, his back to Hedgrod.

“We can look for a new one?” Hedgrod suggested, his throat still hurting as he formed the words.

Athrar shook his head, setting it down gingerly. “I cannot replace this.”

Hedgrod wanted to ask why, reminded again that he had questions for the elf about his past, but again this moment did not seem entirely appropriate. Athrar removed his undershirt, also damaged from the flame atronach, and set it on top of the cloak on the desk. He shucked off his boots before turning to make his way to the bed, wearing only his trousers.

“Come on, let’s get you out of this,” Athrar said, touching Hedgrod’s shoulders. Together, slowly, they removed his chainmail, leaving him in his undershirt. His boots were already discarded on the floor, and with his armor off he felt much better.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Athrar winced, climbing into bed with him and pressing a finger to Hedgrod’s lips. “Stop,” he said, his voice devoid of aggression. “You’re going to cause further damage.”

Hedgrod sighed, but complied as they settled in together. It was still early afternoon, but a fight with a den of vampires was exhausting, not to mention both of them were still feeling the effects of the drain health spell, even with the healing potions they’d both taken.

They lay facing each other, Hedgrod’s hand tracing Athrar’s bare shoulder where his sprawling tattoo was visible. Athrar was staring at Hedgrod’s neck, no doubt surveying the bruising that had to have been darkening by the moment, if the still-there pain was any indication to Hedgrod.

Athrar ghosted one of his hands on Hedgrod’s neck, barely there, and that familiar glow came again, a little stronger this time. The spell offered Hedgrod some relief, causing a warm sensation to course through his veins, radiating from his neck and moving to the rest of his body.

“You saved my life,” he said softly, his voice a little stronger as Athrar’s restoration magic worked its way into his bruised throat.

“I… I was worried I was not going to get there in time. By the time I killed the atronach, you looked on the brink of death.” Hedgrod said nothing, solemn. He thought for sure he was going to die as well. “But,” Athrar continued, “you saved me too. If you hadn’t tackled Movarth, the flame atronach -- or his draining of my life force -- surely would have been my end.”

His restoration magic flickered out, his expression of intense focus falling with it. “Sorry. I do not have the strength to continue right now. I hope that helped, if only a little.”

Hedgrod could not speak, though for a different reason than his throat hurting. The restoration magic had worked through his body in an interesting way. It was more tingly than the health potion, of which he had taken before, but he had never been the recipient of a healing spell so the feeling was foreign to him. It lingered, even after the spell had stopped, and his whole body felt warm from within. He breathed out shakily, and their eyes met, Athrar looking slightly concerned. Hedgrod continued to trace his tattoo before brushing his fingers over his side, squeezing his hip.

Athrar shivered at the contact on his bare skin, or maybe the chill, Hedgrod wasn’t sure. The elf’s hand had still been on his neck, but he trailed it down to Hedgrod’s collarbone, maintaining eye contact the entire time. He exhaled and his lips parted, and Hedgrod was mesmerized. He was probably looking too much into the motion, the healing spell making his head feel light, but Athrar’s pupils were blown so wide, his breathing shallow. His hand trailed down Hedgrod’s chest and then back up, over his shoulder, into his hair.

The bosmer’s eyes were cloudy, half-lidded. His nimble fingers combed through Hedgrod’s hair, tangled by the base of his skull. Hedgrod’s hand on Athrar’s waist squeezed, and then Athrar was pulling him forward by the back of his head.

The kiss was soft, unsure. Hedgrod’s heart was racing and he felt like he was on fire. He pulled Athrar’s hips forward and the elf made a noise of surprise before their lips slotted together again. Athrar was pulling on Hedgrod’s hair, making his scalp tingle, eliciting a heavy exhale through his nose. He rolled, not breaking the kiss, until he was above Athrar, pressed together as they continued exploring each other with soft touches.

It wasn’t as if Hedgrod had never done this before. He had a handful of previous partners back home, mostly short-lived. But all of them had been women. He had never cared enough to investigate his attraction to anybody that deeply, and as he and Athrar had gotten closer it wasn’t a particularly worrying revelation to feel so drawn to him. But as they continued, and the warmth in his body turned to a raging inferno, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Or if that was something Athrar even wanted.

He broke away, trailing kisses across Athrar’s jaw and down the unburned side of his neck and collarbone. The elf’s skin was salty, still covered in sweat from their battle, but Hedgrod didn’t care, was floored by it even. He bit down on the soft skin in between Athrar’s neck and shoulder, and the noise that came out of Athrar’s mouth in response shot straight to his groin. His tongue smoothed over the spot he had just abused before he leaned up to kiss Athrar again, more insistently this time.

Athrar’s hands returned to his hair, his nails raking over Hedgrod’s scalp, before trailing down and hitting-- hitting his--

“Agh,” Hedgrod cried with a jolt backwards, his hand flying to his bruised neck. Athrar gasped, his hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“Hedgrod, I’m so sorry, I got a little carried away, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s okay,” Hedgrod whispered, still unable to speak very loud. “Maybe we should just… go to sleep.”

The elf below him was a sight. He was usually so put together with such a guarded expression, but in this moment was anything but. His hair was fanned out on the pillow, his cheeks flushed, breath coming short and fast. The spot on his chest was already blooming a deep red, and from Hedgrod’s current position, he could physically feel how much both of them wanted this. But, with the healing spell having worn off, his neck and throat were aching, and he was still in a relatively constant state of lightheadedness that he knew would persist for a little while as he healed.

Athrar’s head fell back and he looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah. Sorry. I guess I chose a pretty bad time for this,” he said, not making eye contact. Hedgrod moved to lay down next to him and they assumed a position that had become normal for them; facing each other, with Athrar’s face tucked into Hedgrod’s neck. But things felt different now. More serious. Heavier. Hedgrod didn’t want to think about it, not right now. They’d have to discuss… whatever this was, later.

Chapter 17: A Nighttime Stroll

Terrifying dreams woke Athrar in the dead of night.

He’d sustained less injuries than Hedgrod, and the sleep he’d gotten melted the fatigue from the drain health spell away. His neck itched, the healing potion having sped up the skin mending itself. He would likely heal without a scar, if not a faint one. He looked at Hedgrod’s neck—at the dark purple bruising that covered it. Those clear handprints. And he heard the Nord’s breath. It came soft and shaky, inhale and exhale stuttering as his windpipe worked. With the help of potions and perhaps another attempt at restoration magic, he would heal faster than without, but seeing the bruises that had darkened overnight solidified how close his dear companion had been to Sovngarde.

The Bosmer shook his head, not wanting to think of such things, and turned sideways, disentangling himself from Hedgrod’s gentle hold. Leaving the Nord still sleeping soundly, he slipped on his shirt and cloak, frowning again at the places where the fabric was blackened, and made his way out into the cold night.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, or where he was going, but when the nightmares woke him he often found it impossible to sleep. Instead of tossing and turning and waking up Hedgrod, he thought it better to take a walk.

Morthal was an interesting city. Frozen, covered in snow, but on the water. There was a section of the city with cobbled paths and solid ground which made way to piers as walkways over the murky water. Athrar was reminded of Bravil, though it was much colder here than there.

He brushed snow away from the wood at the end of one of the docks and sat down, his feet dangling just above the surface of the water.

The fatigue was gone, and with the wind chilling his bones he was wide awake. But there was something else. Something in him he couldn’t describe. A foreign feeling, like something alive inside of him. A pulsing, burning need for what, he didn’t know.

And he was overcome with a strange thirst.

Chapter 18: A Strange Thirst

Hedgrod peeled his eyes open, feeling like he was rising from the dead. His whole body sported a dull ache, and the pain of his bruised throat and neck was at the forefront. He sat up, gingerly touching the sides of his neck with his fingers, and his eyes found Athrar, who was sitting at the desk on the far end of the room, blankly staring at the floor. His hands were folded neatly on his lap, and his face was neutral, but Hedgrod could feel waves of nervous energy coming off of him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice still hoarse, and speaking painful.

Athrar shook his head slowly, still fixated on the floor. “You shouldn’t speak, your throat is healing.” He looked up at Hedgrod, then stood abruptly. “I’ll go get you some healing potions from the shop here in town.”

Hedgrod pushed himself out of bed and put his boots on. A silent I’ll come too. Athrar didn’t protest, again blankly staring in front of him. Something was wrong, Hedgrod could feel it, but he didn’t want to say anything. Didn’t even know what to say.

Their actions the night before loomed to the forefront of his mind. Is that why he’s so quiet? Does he regret what they did? He also wasn’t in bed, instead opting to sit in the chair and just… stare. What was that all about? Hedgrod tried not to let his thoughts run haywire, but once he pulled his shirt on, Athrar headed out of the door, barely even giving him time to follow.

Once outside, they fell into step. The sun was making its way up, but it was doing little to warm the air, fresh snowfall from the night before still sticking to the ground. Athrar kept his arms folded, his cloak pulled tight around him, his hood up. Hedgrod walked quietly next to him, maybe a half step behind, and they did not speak. The tension was palpable.

They made their way into the Thaumaturgist's Hut, the apothecary that also served as the only shop in town. Morthal did not have so much as a general goods store, which might come as a shock to those who were used to larger cities, but not to Hedgrod. He could remember when Winterhold’s general store had been built — he was a boy, and it had been exciting to be able to go and buy honey nut treats and sweetrolls from the husband and wife duo who ran it. His memories gave him a rush of homesickness, and a bit of pride for how far Winterhold has come in its effort to rebuild. With the college being a long-standing fixture, it was inevitable that it would eventually become a bustling city again, despite the biting cold. Morthal, however, didn’t seem to have much going for it.

The door creaked as they entered, but the interior of the small shop was warm. The fireplace was cracking softly, being tended by a blonde Nord woman. She looked up as they entered and her face brightened. “Oh, do come in! I hope I have what you need!”

She hurried behind the counter where the shelves were stocked with bottles as Athrar requested a few healing potions. He counted out the Septims and handed them to her, then hesitated as he reached for the bottles she set on the counter.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any potions of cure disease?” he asked, his voice so quiet Hedgrod nearly missed it.

The shopkeeper frowned. “I’m sorry, my dear, I usually do, but I sold ‘em just recently. One of the residents near here had a skeever problem, he and his apprentice got a nasty case of Ataxia. He bought all my stock.”

Athrar looked stricken, then rearranged his face to look more neutral as he collected the healing potions he had already paid for.

“Oh, I have a recipe for it though,” the shopkeeper said, seeming to remember. She rummaged below the counter for a moment. Hedgrod heard paper shuffling. He was growing more curious by the moment.

“Here,” she said, handing him a folded piece of parchment.

“How much?” Athrar asked, pulling his coinpurse back out of his satchel.

The Nord waved him off, looking sad. “Take it. I, well, I hope it can be of use to you.”

Athrar nodded, thanked her, and turned. He looked at Hedgrod and nodded his head towards the door. It was the first time Hedgrod had gotten a good look at his face in proper lighting since the day before. The mer’s eyes were dull, with bags underneath them, like he hadn’t slept, and Hedgrod was struck by the pallor of his face, made all the more noticeable against his otherwise rich, brown skin. And, Hedgrod thought, he was asking about a cure disease potion. Did he not feel well? Had he come down with something? Maybe from the dankness of the cave? Maybe from…

Hedgrod stopped in his tracks. They had started to walk again, in no particular direction, just around town, but moving back towards the inn. Athrar stopped too, turning around with a puzzled look on his face but saying nothing.

“Did you…” He asked, still finding it hard to speak.

Athrar looked away, his expression unreadable. “I think so,” he said, not wanting to say it aloud either.

“And they didn’t have…” Hedgrod coughed, and Athrar reached out to put a hand on his arm.

“I know,” he said, his voice slightly tremulous. It was the only thing that gave Hedgrod any indication of what he was feeling right now. His face remained a blank mask, but he knew. “Hopefully we can find this stuff before…” he trailed off, holding the piece of paper in one hand, the other still on Hedgrod’s arm.

The Nord grabbed his free hand, lacing their fingers together. “It’ll be okay,” he said, hoping he wasn’t overstepping.

He felt relieved when Athrar’s gaze softened a bit, but still the elf disentangled their hands before he started back towards the inn.

 

“Vampire dust,” Athrar mumbled, his eyes poring over the piece of paper that the alchemist shopkeeper had given him. “Ironically, that’s the easiest thing on this list to obtain. We’d just need to go back to that cave. As for the other stuff on here…” he sighed and let his head fall into his hands.

They were sitting side by side on the bed, still fully dressed, like they were about to leave. Which, Hedgrod supposed, they were. Either to find the Horn, which was their original reason for being here in the first place, or to cure Athrar’s sanguinare vampiris.

“I feel foolish. This would not have happened if I hadn’t decided that we needed to investigate that damned house. We’re deviating from our mission,” Athrar said, mirroring Hedgrod’s thoughts, though blaming himself for the setback, which wasn’t even something that had crossed the Nord’s mind.

Hedgrod put his palm on the Bosmer’s knee, trying to comfort him. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. He was more worried about his companion being okay. He was aware of the disease, and knew that they only had a few days before it progressed to vampirism. If Athrar’s reaction was any indication, he did not want this to happen. Hedgrod didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to have to feed on people to survive.

Athrar picked his head back up and folded his hands in front of his mouth, his lips pursed in thought. “What happens if we can’t cure it in time?” He wondered aloud. He turned to face Hedgrod, his expression gravely serious. “Would you take issue with me being a vampire?”

Hedgrod wasn’t sure what to say. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Vampires were evil, creatures of the night who killed innocent people and fed on their blood.

Athrar’s eyes were off to the side as he thought. They snapped back to Hedgrod’s again. “Would you slay me if I was one?”

That was one thing he was sure of. He shook his head no. Over the two months or so they had known each other, and the weeks they had traveled, Hedgrod had grown quite fond of the elf sitting next to him. Living and working in such a small town meant that everyone back home was friendly and knew each other, but Hedgrod could not remember the last time he had someone so close to his heart.

Athrar visibly relaxed after Hedgrod shook his head. Then he seemed to remember what they had gone out for and rummaged in his satchel for one of the healing potions. He popped the cork off and offered it to Hedgrod, who drank it without hesitation. It offered relief to his throat, and he found it a little easier to breathe once he had finished off the small vial.

“Can I also…” Athrar asked after Hedgrod had set the empty bottle down on the nightstand. The elf’s hands were half raised, palms towards Hedgrod, his face unreadable.

Hedgrod felt his cheeks heat up, but he nodded. It was just healing magic. Athrar was clearly practicing so he could get better at it, not to mention Hedgrod’s neck was still bruised. He wanted to help, that was all. Athrar moved closer, softly putting his hands on the sides of Hedgrod’s neck. The contact made him shudder, which he tried to cover by shuffling to move closer.

The elf’s hands were light on the sides of his neck, barely touching, and after a moment he felt the familiar warm tingle that was his healing magic. Athrar was staring directly at his throat, his eyes not moving as he worked. The magic made him feel the same as it had the previous day, floaty and a little lightheaded. It was a good feeling, really good, and he couldn’t stop staring at Athrar, looking so determined, mouth parted. Wait, mouth parted?

Shit, Hedgrod thought to himself. Their proximity was starting to become distracting. He lifted his hands, which had previously been folded in his lap, and laid them over Athrar’s. The motion made the elf finally look up from his work to meet Hedgrod’s gaze. The expression on his face was so tantalizing, his eyes flashing with something dangerous.

Hedgrod leaned forward and kissed him, moving his hands down the elf’s wrists before moving them instead to the sides of Athrar’s face, his neck, his hair. Athrar kissed him back, which made all the worry he felt about overstepping melt away. Athrar’s hands were still on the Nord’s neck, but the spell had fizzled out. Hedgrod paid no mind, didn’t even notice any pain, the healing potion dulling any that might have been there. Still, the elf gently moved his hands instead to the Nord’s broad chest.

A sharp pain in his lip made Hedgrod gasp, barely registering that Athrar had bit him before the elf deepened the kiss. The way he tasted made Hedgrod’s mind fog, unable to focus on anything else, any of the pressing matters they had to attend to. Instead he just wanted to be right here, doing this. His hands moved to slender hips, fingers brushing underneath Athrar’s shirt to caress the warm skin underneath. He dug his fingernails in, and Athrar groaned into his mouth before they broke apart, Athrar pulling back for just a moment, pushing his hands against Hedgrod’s chest until he hit the pillow.

Noises Hedgrod couldn’t ever remember making before spilled softly from his mouth as Athrar kissed his neck, avoiding the ring of bruises, and his hands raked down his sides, the blunt fingernails not causing pain but rather leaving fire in their wake.

“Divines,” Athrar said, his voice muffled against Hedgrod’s skin. “You smell so good.”

Hedgrod didn’t think much of the comment, too preoccupied to care. Athrar bit his neck, softly at first but then with growing insistence, his breathing hard.

He pulled himself back, breathing heavily and looking down at Hedgrod. “I think we should stop,” he said, disappointment evident in his voice.

“What happened?” Hedrod breathed, finding it a little easier to talk now, though his voice was husky.

“It’s this… thirst,” Athrar admitted, sitting back on his heels on the far edge of the bed. Hedgrod raised himself up onto his elbows so he could look at his companion, but the elf would not make eye contact. “It’s getting worse. I can’t control it. I think we need to cure me before this progresses. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly, finally looking back at the Nord, his eyes sincere and full of genuine concern.

“I understand,” Hedgrod said.

“I’m sorry,” Athrar whispered, moving back over to him and planting a soft kiss on his mouth. “It’s not that I do not want this.”

“I know,” Hedgrod assured, and Athrar’s eyes softened.

“You look quite nice when you’re all flustered,” the Bosmer added, and Hedgrod looked away, embarrassed, though he could not deny that the compliment made his heart flutter.

 

XXX

 

As Athrar had predicted, returning to the now-empty vampire cave and retrieving some dust was the easy part. It was obtaining two other ingredients on the list that would prove a challenge.

“Charred skeever hide, hawk feathers, or mudcrab chitin?” Athrar read aloud on their way back out of the cave. “Ugh. So we either go find another cave to dive into and look for rodents, traipse along Morthal’s bog to find a nasty crab, or go hawk hunting.”

“Didn’t the shopkeeper say something about a man who had a skeever problem recently?” Hedgrod asked.

Athrar stopped, his eyes widening. “By the Nine, you’re right. I’m so happy you remembered that. I was so preoccupied with my own worries during that conversation.” He looked up at Hedgrod, grabbing his face in both hands and planting a kiss on his mouth before he could even react. “You’re the best. Let’s go,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving Hedgrod in a brief shock before he snapped out of it and followed his companion.

 

They spent the rest of their day tracking down the Redguard mage who had the skeever problem, locating said skeever carcasses, then going down the river in search of a mudcrab. When they found and killed one, the sun was beginning to set.

“Well, I guess let’s get back. We’ll have to char the skeever hide and then I’ll have to… figure out how to make this potion I suppose.”

“How are you feeling?” Hedgrod asked as they walked, hand in hand.

Athrar stared straight ahead. “If I do not think about it so much I feel fine. Better as the sun goes down. But the sunlight seems to also keep the blood thirst away.”

“So you feel it more now?”

“Yes,” Athrar said, soft. “It’s definitely getting worse.”

“How long does it take to progress?” Hedgrod asked, unable to remember.

“I don’t know. A couple days? I think it’ll be fine. I just need to not fuck up the potion.”

Athrar wasn’t one to curse. It gave Hedgrod pause. He must be stressed, he thought, and wished there was more he could do to help.

“I’m sorry this is putting your quest on hold,” Athrar said.

Hedgrod squeezed his hand. “No matter. The world can wait.”

“Can it?” Athrar asked.

He didn’t know the answer to that. He did know, however, that he cared more about the elf’s wellbeing than some dusty old horn in a crypt.

“It’ll all work out,” he said.

Chapter 19: A Set of Armor

The only alchemy lab in town was at the shop they had gotten the recipe from. It was getting late, but Athrar assured the shopkeeper they would be fast. She waved them off, assuring it was no problem. “Please, take all the time you need,” she said warmly, going back to cooking her meal on the fire.

Athrar retrieved all of the ingredients from his satchel, as well as the recipe sheet, which detailed exactly what to mix in which amounts to properly make the potion. Hedgrod sat down at a table nearby, not wanting to get in the elf’s way as he went to work. It seemed laborious, crushing the ingredients into fine powders, and with the situation being what it was, Athrar seemed on edge. Even more than usual. Sweat beaded on his brow as he began to combine the ingredients, adding water from his waterskin as he went.

“Well,” he finally said after about fifteen minutes, holding up a small vial of liquid. “Let’s hope it’s potent enough to cure me.”

He drank the whole of it, then scrunched up his face in disgust. Hedgrod and the shopkeeper looked on with interest.

“How do you feel?” Hedgrod asked.

Athrar exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “Much better.” He smiled, and Hedgrod practically saw the stress roll off of him. He cleaned up the alchemy lab, taking great care to make sure that he left no residue or mess behind. They thanked the shopkeeper, who assured them it was no issue. Athrar returned to her the potion recipe and they stepped back out into the cold air.

“Alright,” Athrar said, energetic. “Let’s go get that dusty old horn!”

Hedgrod laughed. “Not so fast. I don’t know if venturing out into the wilderness in the dead of night and then delving into a cave is a great idea. Let’s wait until morning.”

Athrar spread his arms out. “I have already wasted us enough time with this sanguinare vampiris nonsense. We should not keep the Greybeards waiting.”

“True,” Hedgrod conceded. “But you also need armor. And the blacksmith seems to be asleep.” He pointed at the house that was fitted with an outdoor forge, dark and quiet as the evening set in.

“Armor?” Athrar scoffed. “I’ve never worn armor.”

“Okay, but have you ever ventured into a crypt before?”

Athrar sniffed, turning away from him as they continued back towards the now familiar inn.

“You know there are stories of undead in Nordic barrows,” Hedgrod continued. “I read about it once.”

The Bosmer waved him off. “Those are just fairy tales. Surely there’s nothing scarier down there than a bunch of skeevers.”

“Even so, a skeever can sink its teeth pretty deep in your arm. You at least need bracers and a chest plate.”

Athrar sighed. “Fine. We’ll see what the blacksmith has in the morning, and then we shall go to Ustengrav, and you’ll see that you are worried about nothing.”

Hedgrod smiled to himself. “Whatever you say.”

 

XXX

 

Jonna had made a few roasts for dinner, the regular evening revelers in their seats around the room. Hedgrod and Athrar purchased their own helpings, along with some spirits.

The meal was incredible, one of the best Hedgrod had in recent memory. The meat was tender and the leeks she’d grilled on the side paired well with it. He felt like he was in heaven, and it was especially nice to sit and have a warm meal by the fire after the disastrous last couple of days. The Orc bard they’d met on their first day in town was in attendance, playing some of his own original songs. He may not have been the most talented bard, but he clearly had passion for what he did, and Hedgrod could respect that.

Athrar finished off his drink before leaning against Hedgrod’s shoulder, more or less laying on him. He had eaten much faster than Hedgrod, who instead preferred to savor the flavors. After a moment of lounging, he got up to get them both more drinks and tip the Orc bard, who thanked him profusely.

The Bosmer returned with two tankards overflowing with ale, sloshing a bit onto the table as he sat down. Hedgrod made a noise of surprise and Athrar laughed before leaning forward to kiss him quickly.

Hedgrod smiled back, his heart blooming with something light and fluttery. Athrar’s face was flushed. His color had started to come back after he took the potion, and the alcohol had added even more color to his cheeks.

“You’re breathtaking,” he said, and the elf somehow got even redder.

“Wow Hedgrod, how forward of you,” he said, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. With the strands secured, his hand found Hedgrod’s thigh and he squeezed softly.

There was a lot of merriment in the tavern around them. With Movarth dead, the town felt the need to celebrate for a few nights in a row. Not that Hedgrod could blame them. The two outsiders were in their own world, however, entirely wrapped up in each other and hardly paying attention to the clamor of voices and song around them.

Once Hedgrod had finished his dinner and both of them had had a few more drinks, they were joining in with the revelry, singing and generally having a good time. Athrar was getting into it as well, which was a bit of a surprise to Hedgrod since the elf was usually more reserved. He supposed he had his own thing to celebrate though, and couldn’t find reason not to revel himself as the Bosmer would grab his wrists and direct his hands to his hips, urging them both to dance in the firelight.

As the night progressed it occurred to Hedgrod that Athrar could hold his drink surprisingly well, especially considering how lean he was. Hedgrod, despite being a Nord, had never had much of a penchant for drinking himself into next week. Back home, during his guard duty evenings, he’d always preferred to enjoy about a tankard or so of mead before calling it a night. Of course, if there was anything to be celebrated, he would imbibe a little more.

He recalled the birthday of one of the other guards, a strapping young lad who everyone in town knew. The entirety of Winterhold was crammed into the Frozen Hearth. Hedgrod had been a few years younger at the time, a fresh-faced guard. He attended the party and got far too drunk, he recalled, waking up next to a woman whose name he couldn’t remember.

The memory made his face flush, and he looked down at Athrar, feeling guilty that his mind was on another, however briefly. The Bosmer met his gaze with a look of confusion, locking their fingers together.

“Is everything okay? Do we need to go sit down?” Athrar asked.

Hedgrod shook his head. “No. I’m all right. Just got reminded of a time back at home is all.”

Athrar smiled softly. His eyes twinkled in the firelight. Hedgrod was struck again by how ethereal he looked, and felt there was no other proper thing for him to do in that moment than lean forward and capture the elf’s lips with his own. Athrar returned the gesture twofold, pressing back against Hedgrod and swiping his tongue over the Nord’s bottom lip.

The movement was quick but it made a shiver go up his spine, prompting Athrar to grip his hand tighter. Hedgrod slid his own free hand up to cup the other male’s face, tasting the sweet honey wine on his tongue. They were a little sloppier now, both fairly drunk and running on pure instinct.

Athrar was the first to break away, trailing his fingers up the side of Hedgrod’s neck. His hazel eyes were dark, swirling with something primal.

 

Hedgrod wasn’t sure at what point they had gotten back to their room or where his shirt had gone but he was sure of the fact that he wanted more, his mouth on Athrar’s chest, the elf’s fingernails digging into his back. Needy.

Fingers tangled in long red hair, pulling, yanking. The noises both of them made, he wasn’t sure which came from who. Fervent kisses, everywhere he could reach. Hedgrod’s skin was burning, his soul was on fire, he wanted more.

He pressed soft brown hands into the bed, hips moving in tandem, short breaths, more more more.

Athrar was loud as they connected, a nonsensical stream of words bubbling from his mouth like a creek, his cheeks the color of his hair. Hedgrod kissed him, moved his hips again.

The noises became louder, more insistent, the Bosmer tearing his hands away from where they were held against the bed to dig once more into Hedgrod’s back, long slender legs wrapping around him, driving him deeper, more, impossibly more. Then the dam broke and the elf was moaning so loud Hedgrod briefly worried that others in the tavern might hear them, but the feeling of tight muscles becoming even tighter around him was his undoing and in a moment he was thinking of nothing at all.

When they lay tangled together a few minutes later, sweaty and catching their breath, Hedgrod’s head was still spinning with the daze of alcohol. Athrar was laying flat on his back, Hedgrod resting his head on his chest. The muffled sound of the patrons in the tavern could still be heard, although from this side of the door their panting breaths were much louder.

“That was nice,” Athrar sighed, already sounding like he was half asleep.

Hedgrod hummed his agreement, finding the mer’s hand and twining their fingers together. His heart rate began to slow and exhaustion creeped in, along with the mead and ale still settling in his bones.

 

His dreams were once again full of familiar fire and screams, but not enough to wake him fully, not yet. Instead he stayed in the hellscape, feeling like he was moving slow as water, watching the dragon destroy his home. His arm hurt in the dream, as it usually did, the long since healed burn opening fresh. Bodies of guards littered the streets of the small frozen town. His friends.

The Nord shouted at the dragon in an attempt to draw its attention and it finally turned towards him, its face twisted and gnarled. It shouted back, a force that knocked Hedgrod right off his feet. He ducked behind a building to gain his bearings. His foot hit something solid and he looked down.

The body was dark against the white snow, blood seeping around it. A tattered green cloak had billowed out around it, as well as long, ruddy hair. It was Athrar, his eyes devoid of life, his face twisted in fear, dark red blood around his open mouth. Hedgrod’s body went cold, and he fell to his knees in the snow next to the body of his dear companion as the dragon raged on the other side of the building.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this!

“Hedgrod!”

The body on the ground was talking to him -- no, not the body. Athrar. Alive. It was dark. They were back in the inn. In Morthal. Safe.

Athrar’s hands were on his shoulders. Both of them were still nude, but the deerskin blanket on the bed covered them from the hips down.

“You can’t do what?” Athrar asked quietly. He could see his hazel eyes glinting in the low light.

Had he been talking in his sleep? It appeared so. He said nothing but instead pulled Athrar into him, wrapping his arms around him. Athrar seemed briefly shocked by the sudden motion but reached his arms up to embrace him back, trailing his fingers through Hedgrod’s hair in that familiar comforting way that he had.

 

The morning was cold, flurries of snow still falling, the sky overcast. The two adventurers got dressed after they awoke, ate breakfast in the now very quiet main room of the inn, and set out to speak to the blacksmith.

They found him on his porch, already at work at his forge despite the early hour. He was a Nord, much like the rest of Morthal seemed to be, with red hair that barely brushed his shoulders and a short scruffy beard to match. He looked up as the two men approached, his icy blue eyes piercing, but not unfriendly.

“Good morning, lads. Anything I can help you with?” He stood up straight. He was wearing leather armor, no furs, and Hedgrod wondered how he wasn’t cold until he got closer and could feel the heat of the forge. Then he began to wonder how he wasn’t hot.

“We’re looking for some armor for my friend here,” he said.

“What kind?”

“Not sure. Probably something light, right?” Hedgrod said, and Athrar shrugged noncommittally.

“Well what’s yer aim? Adventurin’?”

Hedgrod thought for a moment. He figured saying ‘we’re about to search a crypt for an ancient artifact and there might be undead creatures in there’ was a little too much. Especially for this early in the morning.

“Yessir. We’re on the road a lot. Plenty of bandits. You know.”

“Aye,” the redhead agreed, and held out his hand. Hedgrod took it. “Let’s get ya fixed up. Yrian, by the way.”

“Hedgrod, and this is Athrar,” he said, introducing them.

Yrian nodded and smiled. He asked them to follow him in, so they did, entering his house behind him.

There were many pieces of armor and weapons inside, in varying states of completion and polish. Above the roaring hearth sat a rather unusable-looking iron sword.

“That’s the first thing I ever smithed,” Yrian said with pride, noticing Hedgrod’s stare. “And this is my pride and joy,” he said, taking a large glass warhammer off of a nearby rack.

“Incredible,” Athrar said, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Thank you,” the Nord said, setting it back in its place. “Now let’s see what I’ve got in terms of light armor.”

He rummaged around a wardrobe for a while before pulling out a leather cuirass. “How does this suit you?”

Athrar shrugged again, clearly out of his element. Hedgrod stepped forward and took it from the redhead’s outstretched arms, inspecting the work. He had to admit that the craftsmanship was astounding. Not a stitch was out of place. It seemed sturdy, and just what they needed.

“Perfect. Do you have bracers to match?”

“Absolutely, lad.”

After thanking Yrian and paying him for the goods, he returned to whatever he was smithing, and Hedgrod and Athrar headed back to the inn, their last time before setting out.

“Alright then,” Hedgrod said as they got inside. He suited up in his guard armor and shouldered on his pack as Athrar looked on.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve never worn armor before,” he deadpanned.

“Oh,” Hedgrod said, feeling dumb. “Well let me help you then. Cloak off.”

Athrar obliged, taking off his cloak but keeping his undershirt on. Even with it on, Hedgrod could see some of his tattoo. He flexed his arms overhead, stretching, his face contorted as he did so. The facial expression he was making made Hedgrod’s mind flash images of the night before, albeit blurry and broken thanks to the alcohol. He pursed his lips and looked down at the armor instead of at the mer in front of him, trying to shake the images.

“Okay,” Athrar said, holding his arms out. “Go ahead before I change my mind.” He was smirking, a knowing glint in his eye, which wasn’t helping Hedgrod feel any less flustered.

They did not speak as Hedgrod helped him put on the cuirass, tightening various straps with care until it fit snugly on his chest. As he was doing so, Athrar put the bracers on, flexing his hands when he was done. Hedgrod stepped back around to his front and surveyed the end result. The armor fit him well, maybe a little big, but that’s what the adjustment straps were for. He looked ready for an adventure indeed.

The Bosmer pulled his cloak back on over the armor. Hedgrod felt more at ease knowing he was now better protected against whatever they might come up against in the crypt.

“Thank you,” Athrar said as he fastened the clasp on his satchel and moved it to sit on his hip. “For suggesting I wear armor.”

Hedgrod smiled at him. “Of course. I do not want you to get hurt, especially since you’re venturing into this crypt because of me.”

Lastly, Athrar put his quiver and bow on his back. They were ready to set out. Before they made a move to leave, however, Athrar pulled Hedgrod forward by the straps of his pack and kissed him fiercely. The Nord was taken by surprise but kissed him back all the same, one hand settling on his hip.

“For good luck,” Athrar said as they broke away. “Let’s go.”

Notes:

Yrian is from this mod!

Chapter 20: An Ancient Wall

Morthal was the closest town to Ustengrav, the cave only a little further than the vampire den they had cleared a few days prior, but the trip was made to feel longer by the biting cold wind.

Athrar had his cloak pulled around him, his arms crossed and head hunched against the elements. Hedgrod was more used to it, but even he was beginning to get a chill through his furs and scarf. His face was also frozen, and he couldn’t feel the tip of his nose.

They traveled around the bog instead of through it, which added time to their trek. But, Athrar had reasoned as they planned their route, they were more likely to get hypothermia before they got there if they chose to traipse through the water. So, they took the long way around, heading East out of Morthal and then due North.

After about an hour, large stone pillars came into view, along with a giant circular stone structure in the ground. “I suppose that's it then,” he said, and Athrar nodded, checking his map one more time.

Upon closer inspection of the circular stone structure, they discovered it had stairs leading down into it. A wooden door led into the crypt, and they ducked just inside to escape the wind.

“Alright,” Hedgrod said once they were inside. He unsheathed his sword, adjusting his grip and trying to warm up his cold fingers. “Here goes nothing.”

Athrar cast a firebolt, keeping it in his hand so it could act as a torch, just as he had in Movarth’s lair. Thinking back on that escapade caused a phantom pain in his throat, and he touched it unconsciously. Athrar looked at him out of the corner of his eye and frowned. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back,” he said.

I know, Hedgrod wanted to say. Athrar had already shown that he had every intention of staying by his side through these quests. He felt a surge of appreciation. If they got out of this alive, he wanted to do something nice for his friend. WHEN we get out of this alive, he mentally corrected himself.

As they descended down the cavern and a small set of stairs, the room opened. There were torches lit on the wall, which was the most perplexing part. Athrar extinguished his fireball.

Hedgrod noticed movement across the room, a black robe against the grey rock. He tapped Athrar’s elbow with his free hand and stooped low. There was a large pillar in the middle of the room, obstructing his view of the figure, which meant that they also could not see the two intruders. Hopefully the stranger had also not heard them. They crept to the right, where fallen rubble acted as a wall. Peering over it, Hedgrod could see the mage that was at the other corner of the room. It was a Breton, clad in black robes, hood down and revealing a mess of curly, matted black hair. He was casting a purple spell in front of him, a skeleton armed with an axe appearing out of it. It seemed as if he was practicing, and without even speaking to each other, both Hedgrod and Athrar waited patiently, waiting for him to cast more spells and deplete his magicka more. After the skeleton, the Breton cast a spectral familiar of a wolf. Not sensing any danger, the wolf sat obediently in front of its master, docile. The two adventurers stood very still, waiting for the right moment to strike. Athrar had already begun to slowly ready his bow, his usual first method of attack, and one that Hedgrod thought was quite effective.

As they watched, however, the Breton spoke, which Hedgrod found strange with him being alone in the cavern.

“There.”

“Could use some work,” came another voice. Another mage? Her voice was close, closer than Hedgrod expected, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He gripped his sword tighter, muscles coiled and ready to spring into action. It sounded as if the female mage was leaning against the pillar that they were using as cover. After a moment of both men holding their breath, Athar unmoving with his bow half drawn, the female mage walked into their sight. She was an Imperial, with black hair in a long braid down her back, and robes to match the Breton’s. She walked up to him and took a stance next to him before casting a spell as well, conjuring her own set of familiars, skeletons wearing ancient looking armor. The first caster’s skeleton and familiar got into fighting stances, but could barely even begin to strike before the female mage’s conjured warriors sliced with great speed and strength, taking them down in one blow each.

The Breton’s shoulders sagged. “Wow. Thanks for that.”

Athrar looked at Hedgrod. His gaze conveyed his intentions. Now.

He let his arrow fly. It lodged into the Imperial’s shoulder, striking with a thump and throwing her off balance. The Breton gasped, clearly shocked, seemingly frozen in place. Hedgrod jumped over the rubble and landed a kick square in the female mage’s back, sending her face first to the ground. His sword followed quickly, plunging into her back, aiming for her heart. She spluttered out a few incomprehensible words and then was quiet, twitching as Hedgrod removed his sword. Athrar joined him, pointing his hands at the Breton, flames licking his fingers.

“Wait!” The Breton cried, holding his hands up and half-crouching. Hedgrod could see him better now that they were up close. He was young, younger than them. Barely a man, closer to a boy. “Please! I-I don’t want any trouble! You can have whatever you want! Just let me live!”

Hedgrod straightened, lowering his sword, but Athrar didn’t seem convinced, his face set. The flames in his palms seemed to grow brighter, casting ghoulish shadows on his face.

“By Molag Bal, please spare me!” He was on his knees now, holding his hands over his head in an attempt to protect himself. He wasn’t even attempting to cast a spell. Hedgrod reached out and grabbed one of Athrar’s arms, and could feel the heat from the flame in his palm. The Bosmer turned to him, their eyes locked for a moment. Athrar’s expression softened slightly, but he was still frowning.

“Very well,” he said finally, turning back to the groveling mage.

“I’m sorry about your friend. We were not sure of your intentions. We have not had good experiences with caves lately,” Hedgrod said. “I thought perhaps you were vampires.”

“Oh, we weren’t really friends. In fact she was kind of mean to me…” he trailed off, then caught onto the rest of what Hedgrod had said. “ Wait, vampires?” The Breton asked, his voice shaky, now looking up at the two of them, his hands folded in his lap. “No, no. Just wanderers, I suppose. Although we may as well be some kind of abomination to those we left.”

“You’re a necromancer,” Athrar said.

The Breton nodded, swallowing thickly.

Athrar shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose that’s not really any of my concern. Although it does explain why you’re living in a cave.”

“My name’s Ferron,” the Breton said, standing and offering a hand. Athrar looked at him blankly, but Hedgrod reached and shook it.

“Hedgrod,” he supplied, smiling slightly. He was glad that they hadn’t killed the kid. His brown eyes were wide as he nervously returned the smile, and Hedgrod only felt more that they made the right choice by not attacking him.

“What… are you two doing here, anyway?” Ferron said, hesitant, his eyes darting to Athrar as if the stoic Wood Elf was going to stab him when he wasn’t looking.

“We’re looking for an artifact,” Hedgrod replied. “More or less just fetching something for someone.”

Ferron nodded. “I see. You’re aware that this is an ancient Nordic barrow, yes? There are Draugr down there.”

“Draugr? As in, undead Draugr?” Hedgrod looked to the left, where the cave continued on in darkness.

“Yes. It’s something that made this such a good spot for me and Julinora. Trying to control them, animating the ones that seem to be proper slumbering…” Ferron was speaking of such things as if they were normal, but Hedgrod did not miss the way that Athrar’s face soured as he continued to speak. Hedgrod himself could admit that the idea of necromancy gave him a bit of pause. While he wasn’t a mage himself, he often spoke to them, growing up next to the college and all, and was aware of its taboo nature. It also seemed to him that messing with the dead was a bit disrespectful to their memory.

“I see,” he said, at a loss for words. Ferron was wringing his fingers together, causing the rings on them to clink together, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He was clearly nervous, as he had every right to be, Julinora’s body still warm on the ground beside them. Hedgrod would never have thought he’d be killing innocent people, although to be fair they were Necromancers, likely exiled from the College, if they had ever been, and not welcome among groups of mages. While not illegal in Skyrim per se, Hedgrod knew that no mage in good standing would even attempt to raise the dead for any reason.

“Maybe you should come with us then. You being a Necromancer could come in handy,” Athrar mused, rubbing the scruff on his chin.

“Well, okay, I guess! Uh, you did spare my life, so thank you for that, I suppose I could help you out, if you’d like, I do have a little experience with these things after all, and not really anywhere else to be--”

“Alright then!” Athrar said, clapping the short Breton on the shoulder. “Come on then. We won’t let you get killed.”

“I appreciate that very much, mister, uh…”

“Athrar,” he said plainly, seeming mildly annoyed by the Breton already. Nevertheless, he offered Ferron a small smile, then nodded at Hedgrod, and the three of them ventured further into Ustengrav.

The cave sloped downwards, then there was another door, a plank across it. It seemed strange to Hedgrod to lock it from this side, after all if there was treasure with those buried inside, it would make sense to keep it locked from the inside. But, he continued, thinking back to the warning that Ferron had given them. If there were undead Nords in there, ancient warriors of old defending their burial site, it did make more sense that whoever had placed the lock was trying to seal them in.

“Alright,” Athrar said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s move in quietly. Perhaps we can prevent the Drauger from waking.”

Ferron shook his head aggressively, although Athrar had already turned his back on the other two as he slowly removed the plank that was fixed across the door. Ferron put his head in his hands, a rather cowardly position, and Hedgrod just watched him, wondering how he had survived this long.

The three of them advanced into the room, which was mostly empty. Some of the rooms and other tunnels that had originally been offshoots of the main hallway had caved in, forcing the group in one direction. Eventually, the hallway led into a larger room. Hedgrod craned his neck to try and get a better look at the walkway that formed a bridge above them when a rumbling sound began to echo throughout the cavern. They all froze, hardly dying to breathe, and a deafening crack sounded above them, the top of a sarcophagus falling from where it had been against the rocky wall.

With a growl that sounded more beast than human, the creature that had been awoken from its slumber stepped forward. It stared at the ground for a moment where its withered, slimy foot had just landed, then its head swiveled in their direction. Its eyes were a piercing white, set into deep sockets on a face that was mostly skeletal with a thin layer of decayed flesh stretched over the bones.

Ferron went rigid, his eyes wide as saucers.

“You’re a necromancer,” Hedgrod said, gripping his sword. “Can’t you do something?”

“Uhh, no, I have to reanimate a dead corpse, I have no control over one that’s already animated!” Ferron said, his voice shaky. He was behind the other two, Athrar being the closest one to the Draugr, which was now beginning to move towards them, pulling a small one-handed axe from its side and brandishing it.

“Let me deal with it then,” Athrar said, straightening his spine. His bow was still on his back but he cast a fireball, holding it between both hands before unleashing it on the Draugr. It was stronger than his usual fireball attacks, maybe because he was casting with both hands, and it hit the creature square in the face, causing it to roar. It was unclear how much pain it actually felt, however; a fire bolt to the face was usually enough to stun a human or beast assailant, but the undead corpse shook its head furiously to stop the flames and looked at them again, its face charred but otherwise unharmed.

It advanced, and moved to swing at Athrar, who jumped back at the same moment Hedgrod lunged forward, catching the downward stroke of its axe with his shield. He kept the momentum going, moving the blow sideways to knock the thing off balance before swinging his own weapon down, connecting with soft, rotted flesh. His sword tore through the Draugr’s arm easily, though even with a limb detaching and falling to the ground, it barely winced, moving its remaining arm to strike again. Luckily, it seemed rather slow, and Hedgrod had no issue parrying the blow.

An arrow hit the side of its head, but it barely seemed to notice, its cold eyes focused entirely on Hedgrod, now with an arrow through its head where its ears should be.

“Well, that’s not ideal,” Athrar said humorlessly, and Hedgrod laughed despite himself, blocking another blow before ducking and going for the thing’s knees, breaking them both and watching it fall backwards.

Once the Draugr was immobilized on the ground, Hedgrod let out a breath. It gurgled at him, still trying to hit him with the axe, though with its arm the only remaining limb, it was having a hard time moving. Hedgrod dipped his head in respect to a fellow Nord warrior before crouching and delivering the final blow, severing its head from the middle of the neck. The light in its eyes died until all that remained were lifeless sockets, and the gnarled hand holding the equally gnarled axe fell to the ground with a clatter.

“That was something,” he said, standing back up and turning to his companions. Ferron was looking at him with an expression akin to a wet puppy.

“Oh, wow, that was fantastic! You made that look so effortless! I wish I could wield a blade like that!”

Hedgrod’s ears burned at the praise. “Thank you, I suppose,” he said with a small smile.

Athrar snorted. “Hoorah. Let’s keep moving so we can find this damn horn,” he grumbled, trudging forward over the immobile Draugr and deeper into the cave. Hedgrod watched him for a moment, then turned back to Ferron, who shrugged. They both said nothing, but followed Athrar, Hedgrod especially wanting to stay close because there would surely be more undead Nord warriors up ahead.

As they rounded the large rock pillar in the middle of the open room, two more sarcophagi on the far wall burst open, revealing two more undead Draugr. Hedgrod was ready this time, charging one of them and plunging his sword straight into its chest, then swiping sideways. It fell to the ground, a dark puddle of something too black to be blood pooling around it. He raised his shield just in time for the second Draugr to cast an ice spell, which made the wood cold to the touch but thankfully left him unscathed. Athrar unleashed a volley of fireballs, and it proved enough of a distraction for Hedgrod to cut its head clean off.

The body stood there, unmoving, the head rolling on the floor. For a brief moment, Hedgrod was frozen with horror, expecting the headless body to raise its hand and continue attacking. However, after a beat gravity got to it and it fell backwards, crumpling in a heap.

“Can you use any of these?” Athrar asked Ferron, toeing one of the now-lifeless bodies with the toe of his boot.

“Um. I think so,” Ferron said unconvincingly. He approached the headless body and crouched next to it, his eyes closed. He began chanting under his breath, too low for Hedgrod to make out any words, and tracing his finger over the Draugr in a pattern he didn’t recognize. When he completed the movement, and the chant, there was a small burst of purple light, and then the corpse twitched. “Agh!” Ferron shouted, jumping backwards from it.

Athrar laughed. “Why are you frightened? You reanimated the thing, it should listen to you.”

Ferron stood up straight, his breathing unsteady. The three of them watched as the headless corpse drew itself up into a standing position, seemingly unbothered by its lack of head. It readied its hands and Hedgrod raised his shield, just in case. But it did not attack them. It turned its head – well, it would have, if it still had one, but in this case it just craned its neck stump – in Ferron’s direction, awaiting orders.

“Tell it what to do?” Hedgrod suggested, his eyes fixated on it.

Ferron nodded. “Of course! Um… Draugr. Follow and protect us,” he said, puffing out his chest. The headless Draugr didn’t move, simply standing and waiting.

“Alright then. Let’s go,” Hedgrod said, clapping Ferron on the back as he passed the boy.

At the back corner of the room they found a door leading to a staircase, which took them up on the same level as the stone bridge that Hedgrod had noticed over the ground floor a moment prior. There was an empty bookshelf just before the bridge, and some old, cracked urns. Among them was a chest, open and empty.

“Damn,” Athrar said. “Nothing of interest here.”

They continued over the bridge, walking quietly, though the reanimated Draugr behind them didn’t seem to get the message, its footfalls hitting the stones with soft thuds. No matter. Across the bridge the cavern continued downward, and Hedgrod wondered offhandedly how far underground they were.

The group made their way through more tunnels and rooms, still progressively sloping down. Between Hedgrod’s blade and the reanimated Draugr on their side, they were doing just fine for themselves, making swift progress and without so much as a scratch. Hedgrod was beginning to tire, however, his sword arm sore. He hadn’t seen this much combat in one week in… well, ever. As exhausting as it was, it was also oddly gratifying to know that he was working towards a goal, and that he was good at what he did.

After a while of them walking and picking over roots that had grown back into the cave system, they emerged into a large room, a dropoff just in front of them, and on the ground below Hedgrod could see trees. The area of the cave they had entered was massive, and somehow a small ecosystem had begun to thrive even with the limited light. Still, the cracks in the cave ceiling above them meant that it was well lit enough to see without Athrar’s fire spell, so he extinguished it as they carefully picked their way down a broken bridge that had fallen and now lead to a level down below.

The creaking of bones could be heard, then a drawing of a bow, and Hedgrod scanned the area in front of them before his eyes landed on a skeleton, moving around as if it didn’t have any flesh, an arrow aimed directly at them. He stepped up next to Athrar and lifted his shield just as the arrow flew forward, sinking itself into his shield with a deep thud. Athrar quickly drew his own weapon, seemingly unbothered by the fact an arrow had almost found its home in between his eyes. When his arrow was ready, Hedgrod lowered their cover and moved back so he could have a clear shot. The skeleton was still readying another, and Athrar let his fly. It caught the creature in the shoulder blade, and with a crumbling sound, its entire arm that was holding the bow became detached and hit the ground.

“Great shot!” Ferron cried, clapping his hands.

Athrar smirked. “Easy,” he said, pride radiating off of him.

Hedgrod advanced, moving forward quickly to finish the skeleton off. It didn’t have any flesh to tear through, so instead as he ran full sprint at it he jumped and lifted one foot, catching it square in its bony sternum. It flew backwards and hit a stone pillar behind it, shattering. The now lifeless bones fell, clattering, in a heap, and the skeleton was no longer a threat.

“What an interesting bow,” Athrar said, picking it up. The skeleton’s hand was still attached to it, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“It must be as old as these warriors,” Ferron said.

“It must. I haven’t seen anything like this before,” Athrar said, using his free hand to pry the skeleton’s disconnected arm off of the thing. He readied the drawstring easily. “It’s old, but it’s made of high quality materials. The draw weight is higher as well. Perhaps I should use this instead of my plain hunting bow.”

“Yes!” Ferron cried. “A bow like no other! You’ll be the greatest archer of them all!”

Athrar rolled his eyes, but Hedgrod could see the tips of his pointy ears flush with the praise. “I do not know about that,” he replied.

As they were speaking, the creaking of bones around them began to grow louder. More skeletons were approaching from the far end of the cavern, and they were all ready for battle. Ferron looked as if he was going to faint.

“Do not worry,” Hedgrod told him. “They are quite weak. That last one needed only a sturdy kick from me. Surely even you can handle one.”

And he would have to. Four skeleton guardians were now halfway across the room, advancing on them with weapons drawn and eyes glowing the same haunting white as the Draugr. Ferron made some whimpering noises, rambling under his breath as he lifted his hands and cast a spell that coated him in green light, then cast another at once of the skeletons. It froze in place, the spell resulting in it being captured in hardened ash. He smiled wide, evidently proud of himself.

Hedgrod turned his attention away from the boy once he was sure that he was going to be okay, and instead focused on the two skeletons who were coming at him. He let them, standing still, and when they were upon him he dodged their blows deftly, matching with his own when he had an opening and taking out one of them in one blow, separating the top half of it from its legs. It fell to the ground and clattered apart, and Hedgrod continued the momentum into the other one, bashing it with his shield and knocking it to the ground. It stayed together, and while it was trying to get back up he stomped on its sternum, the resounding crack sending a jolt of satisfaction up his spine.

Athrar and Ferron had felled their respective attacking skeletons, Athrar looking neutral, but was visibly shaking. There was still a faint glow around him from whatever protection spell he had cast, and he didn't seem particularly afraid anymore, but he was still trembling, most notably his fingers, which he couldn’t seem to keep still.

“Are you okay, lad?” Hedgrod asked him, beginning to be seriously concerned that he was accompanying them.

“Yes!” Ferron said, voice a little too loud. “Let me reanimate these skeletons.”

He averted his gaze from Hedgrod’s as he focused on the task, repeating the steps he had with the Draugr with the bones on the ground. As he chanted under his breath, the bones reassembled themselves, softly glowing purple, until two of the skeletons were standing upright again, looking at Ferron. Their eyes glowed a bright purple, instead of white, and clearly meant them no harm, but Hedgrod still felt slightly uncomfortable with their presence. The headless Draugr had collapsed upon their entry into the large cavern, so the spell had a limit, but Hedgrod knew so little of spellcasting and magic that the subject dropped from his mind as Athrar continued walking forward. He sheathed his sword and jogged to catch up. A clattering of bones followed them, as well as Ferron’s light footsteps, and they were well on their way, going down further into the cave.

The lower level of the room, where the trees were, was surprisingly pleasant considering they were in a cave. A waterfall drowned out the sound of their movements, and the trees stood tall and sure. They made a beeline for the water and crouched on the shore, drinking and filling their waterskins.

“What’s… what’s that?” Ferron said, having stood back up and pointing to something on the side of the shore. His skeletons were standing behind him, staring blankly ahead.

Hedgrod and Athrar both looked in the direction they were pointing. Carved into the side of the rock that formed the slope they had just descended from was a smooth wall that formed a half-circle, like a shrine. There were more carvings in the rock above it, and stone pillars on either side.

“Fascinating,” Athrar said, standing and immediately walking up to the wall. Hedgrod watched, putting his waterskin back into his pack, as his companion approached the wall, putting his hands on it and feeling along it. “I can’t tell what language this is in,” he continued, sounding perplexed.

“Let me see,” Ferron said, walking up to the wall as well, his skeletons on his heels. “Strange!” he exclaimed as he got closer, standing next to Athrar as they both examined the etchings.

Hedgrod was curious as well. He stood slowly, his eyes fixated on Athrar’s slender fingers tracing one of the words on the wall. As the Nord drew closer, he watched as the words began to glow. Athrar drew his hand back as if he had been burned, although from what Hedgrod could see of his side profile, he was surprised rather than in pain.

The word on the wall was definitely in a language he didn’t understand, but there was something about it that called to him. As he approached, it glowed brighter, and small tendrils of light emanated from it. Hedgrod felt a heavy buzzing in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears. Athrar and Ferron were both looking at him, confused, waiting for something to happen. Hedgrod however could not take his eyes off the word on the wall, drawing closer to it and reaching his hand out to touch it. Chanting seemed to echo from somewhere behind the wall, sounding far away and reverberating in a dreamlike fashion that left him unsure of whether or not it was real or in his head.

At last he touched the wall, the word feeling alive under his fingertips. It spoke to him as the light emanating from it began gliding towards him and settling in his chest. He took a deep breath as he felt the energy of the word around him, from within him.

FEIM.

Fade.

Hedgrod took a step back, feeling the energy of the wall in his veins. He looked upon it with new eyes, and found he was able to read it. He read it once, twice, the ancient language translation to modern Tamrielic in his head, and then falling off of his tongue as Athrar and Ferron looked on.

“Noble Nords remember these words of the hoar father - It is duty of each man to live with courage and honor lest he fade unremembered into darkness,” Hedgrod read, his voice barely audible above the sound of the waterfall on his left.

“By the Eight!” cried Ferron. “You can read this nonsense?”

“It is written in Dragon language,” Hedgrod said, feeling that what he was saying was true rather than knowing it in his head.

Athrar’s eyes were wide, shining, but he said nothing, just looking at Hedgrod, who was starting to come back to Mundus after what essentially felt like an out of body experience. The Bosmer blinked a few times, then his face softened and he smiled. “Incredible,” he said. “Although, we should have expected as much with you being Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?!” Ferron shrieked.

“Try it. The same way you did the Unrelenting Force one,” Athrar continued, ignoring the Breton.

Hedgrod flexed his fingers, then walked a few steps away from the wall and turned towards the water. With the word being “fade”, he did not think that the Thu’um he had just learned was going to hurt the others, but he did not want to take any chances. He looked at his reflection in the water below before closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.

“FEIM,” he asserted, and immediately felt lighter, like all of the weight from his armor was gone.

“What in Oblivion…” Athrar said under his breath as he walked closer. He stuck his hand out to place it on Hedgrod’s arm, but Hedgrod felt no such touch.

When he lifted his arm in confusion, he realized it was translucent, and it, along with the rest of his body, was glowing faintly blue.

Chapter 21: A Dusty Horn

“You’re…” Athrar said.

“A ghost?!” Ferron exclaimed, his skeletons clattering, clearly impatient that they were all just standing in one place.

“No,” Hedgrod said, looking at the palm of his hand. “I feel very much alive.” As soon as he finished speaking, the light dissipated and his color returned to normal. Athrar reached out to touch him again, and their hands found each other’s for a moment.

“Very interesting,” Athrar said, his mouth quirked to the side in a smile. “This kind of thing could come in handy.”

“Perhaps,” Hedgrod agreed, stroking his thumb over the back of the Bosmer’s hand.

“Can one of you explain to me what in Oblivion is going on here?!” Ferron yelled, hands gesturing wildly to punctuate his bewilderment. As he swung them down, the skeletons behind him simultaneously cracked and fell into heaps of ash, the spell worn away.

“Uh, well, I’m something called Dragonborn. I can absorb the souls of slain dragons. And read ancient dragon tongue, apparently,” Hedgrod said calmly, dropping Athrar’s hand so he could use both of his to speak.

“Molag’s grace,” Ferron said. “I can’t keep up with you two. And here I was thinking I was the strange one, being a Necromancer!”

Athrar chuckled, seemingly amused, but Ferron did not seem to find anything about the interaction particularly funny. “You get used to it. Come on then, fellows, let’s find this damned thing so we can get out of his old cave.”

XXX

After more wandering around, a puzzle to open a door that seemed harder at first glance than it actually was (to Athrar, anyway), ancient booby traps that they had to pick around, and some angry frostbite spiders, the group descended into the room that was to be the end of their cavern crawl.

It was peaceful for a tomb, with a stone walkway surrounded on either side by water. Upon their approach, massive stone pillars rose out of its depths, much to Hedgrod’s impress and Ferron’s shock. The rather grandiose sight culminated in their arrival at an ancient casket at the far end of the room, where a stone hand held onto a gnarled looking horn. At the very back of the room was a door leading to a stash of chests and urns, likely the riches of Jurgen Windcaller himself, which Hedgrod had reservations about disturbing, but Ferron rifled right through. He found what looked at distance to Hedgrod to be a potion and guzzled it down without word to the other two. Hedgrod passed it off as him seeking to replenish the magicka he’d used thus far, and promptly turned his attention back to the horn in his hands. After examining it, he gently placed the artifact into his pack for safekeeping.

Ferron also managed to find a way out, much quicker than doubling back, so they took it. Hedgrod was excited to feel fresh air on his face, no matter how cold it was going to be.

And cold it was. Icy wind whipped across his face as they stood on the rocky outcropping at the back entrance to the cave. They picked their way down the path back towards the road, and the dragon mound that marked the way they had entered Ustengrav.

“So, where are you two headed?” Ferron asked as they made it back to the path.

“Well, I suppose back to High Hrothgar now,” Hedgrod replied.

Ferron frowned. “What business do you have all the way up there?”

“That’s where the Greybeards are. They were the ones that tasked us with finding this horn,” Athrar supplied.

“Oh,” Ferron said, wringing his fingers together. Hedgrod noted he wasn’t shaking like he had been when they first met him, even though it would make much more sense for him to be shaking out in the cold.

“Where are you going to go?” Hedgrod asked, remembering with guilt once again that they had cut down the person he’d been traveling with, and now he was all alone.

“Uh, I’m not sure, really. I hadn’t thought this far. I was following Julinora because she was my mentor back in our coven. She was taking me north to join another coven after ours got discovered.”

“Where were you before you were in a necromancer coven?” Athrar asked, a hand on his hip.

Ferron paled, his gaze not meeting theirs. “I’d really rather not go into all the details.”

“Did you kill someone?” Hedgrod asked before he could stop himself. They still had no idea what this stranger was capable of, if it was even safe to be walking with him, trusting him at their backs.

“I-I-I-” Ferron stuttered, pulling his robe tighter around himself. “Look I, um, I may have some unconventional magic practices, but I promise I’m trying… I’m trying to be better. To do better.”

Hedgrod softened. He tightened his iron bracers, the fur rubbing against his forearms. “Well, if you’d like to travel with us, you’re welcome to,” he offered.

Athrar turned to him with a reproachful gaze. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked under his breath, as though Ferron wasn’t right in front of them and could hear everything he said.

“I’ll do my best to aid you in your quest until I find a place I’d like to stay! I’ll even teach you some magic!” Ferron offered to Athrar, his hands clasped together.

“I don’t want to learn Necromancy,” Athrar said icily.

“Not that! I’m still a novice in that myself, anyways,” Ferron rambled. “I meant more along the lines of destruction. Restoration. Alteration. Anything you want.”

Athrar regarded him with suspicion, his eyes flitting back to Hedgrod’s for a moment. “Fine.” His tone was flat, his arms crossed, and Hedgrod felt bad for a moment, like he’d done something wrong.

The three of them were dirty, covered in grime and spiderwebs from the ruins. It was a no-brainer to return to the Moorside Inn in Morthal to wash up. Having spent so much time in Ustengrav, it was late afternoon as well, and it stood to reason that they should stay the night there anyhow.

“I’m starting to tire of this town,” Athrar grumbled as they walked down the hill towards the inn.

“I know,” said Hedgrod. “I’m ready for a change of scenery as well, but I think it best if we rest for another night. Not to mention, I doubt any charroteer would willingly set out this late in the evening for Ivarstead.”

“This is true,” Athrar agreed, casting another sidelong glance at Ferron, who was staring straight ahead of them, looking like he was lost in his own world.

When the Breton noticed Hedgrod staring, he met his gaze. Hedgrod noticed his pupils were blown wide, making his eyes look black, the hue of his irises almost entirely obscured. There was something different in his gaze now, than there had been before, and Hedgrod wasn’t sure what to make of it. Hedgrod averted his eyes, looking back ahead as they entered the inn, trying to shake off the weird feeling settling in his gut.

“I’m… fine with staying,” Ferron said, although he sounded strained. “It’ll be nice to sleep in a proper bed.”

 

Jonna was happy to see the adventurers again, and congratulated them on finding what they set out to. When they tried to pay her for a room, she waved them off.

“At least let us pay for some warm water so we may take a bath,” Hedgrod pressed. “And a few meals.”

Jonna nodded. “Sounds reasonable to me.” She seemed to notice, belatedly, that Ferron was standing over their shoulder. “And who’s your new friend?”

“Oh! This is Ferron, he’s uh… a mage.” Hedgrod said with a nervous smile.

Jonna narrowed her eyes at Ferron, who looked downright terrified. After a beat too long, he offered a weak laugh. “I’m more than willing to pay for my own room,” he said tentatively. “I promise I won’t be… any trouble.”

“Well in that case,” Jonna said, sounding unconvinced but nevertheless relaxing a bit as she leaned on the counter between them, one hand outstretched to accept the gold that the Breton offered her. She stared him directly in the eyes as she said, “Be my guest.”

Ferron nodded to her without another word, inclined his head to Athrar and Hedgrod, and headed off into the room that the innkeeper indicated.

“Let me get you guys some hot water going,” Jonna said to the other two, who were still sitting at the bar watching Ferron disappear into one of the inn rooms.

“He’s… a little strange,” Hedgrod said in a quiet voice, meant only for Athrar’s ears.

“You don’t say,” the Bosmer replied, turning to look at Hedgrod, his expression unreadable. “I’m apprehensive about him traveling with us.”

Hedgrod shrugged. “I think if he wanted to harm us, he would have already done so.”

“Perhaps,” Athar mused, turning back to look at the door that Ferron had disappeared into. “We’ll see. I cannot lie that some assistance in magic would be a great help.”

“Maybe this is a good thing then,” Hedgrod said, resting his hand on Athrar’s thigh. “Besides, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Athrar looked back at him, his mouth curling in a smile. “But, my dear companion, what if it’s you he has it out for?”

Hedgrod shrugged again. “I do not think so. We should give him a chance. We did murder the only person he had left accompanying him in his travels, and before that he was in a coven. He hasn’t exactly had the best influences in his life. Perhaps we can be that for him.”

“Ugh.” His scoff made him sound irritated, but he leaned into Hedgrod’s touch, his head resting lightly on the Nord’s shoulder as Hedgrod traced circles on his leg with his thumb.

 

They filled the bath with buckets of cold water while they waited on Jonna to boil some. When the basin was filled, the boiling water added, it was a warm, inviting temperature. Hedgrod stuck his hand in, then removed his other bracer, closing the door before turning back to Athrar, who had taken off and carefully folded his cloak.

“Can you help me with this infernal cuirass?” Athrar asked, gesturing down towards his midsection, his bracers already strewn over the floor at his feet.

Hedgrod laughed, moving to help him. Athrar sighed in relief as he slipped it off. The sound was innocent enough, but sent a shiver down Hedgrod’s spine nonetheless.

With his cuirass off, it was his undershirt next, his lean yet muscular back making an appearance, along with that tattoo of his Hedgrod felt he could never get enough of. Half-undressed, Athrar turned to look at Hedgrod, who flushed when he realized he’d been caught staring. His reddening cheeks only seemed to floor Athar more. The lantern on the table cast the room in a low, warm light, shadows falling across half of his face, but it was still easy to make out his smirk.

“What?” the Bosmer asked, his hands on his bare hips. His trousers hung low, exposing his hip bones and a dark trail of hair that started at his belly button and disappeared into his waistband.

“Nothing,” Hedgrod replied.

“You’re rather overdressed for a bath,” his companion remarked, toeing off his boots.

“I suppose I am,” Hedgrod said, fingers fiddling for his own cuirass so he could remove it and catch up. By the time he’d gotten it over his head, Athar had already slipped into the bath, his trousers folded on top of the rest of his clothes on the nearby table. Hedgrod watched Athrar's hands as they took the bar of soap and sunk below the surface of the water, his ministrations forming soft suds between his fingers after they emerged. The smell of lavender hit Hedgrod’s nose and prompted him to inhale the pleasant aroma, and he slipped out of his own clothes, gliding into the tub as Athrar’s eyes followed him. His Bosmer companion continued to lather the soap, his long brown legs pulled up to his chest. There was space between them, space that Hedgrod wanted to close.

“Let me wash your back for you,” Athrar offered, his eyes dark and gleaming in the lantern light.

“Alright,” Hedgrod acquiesced, shuffling so his back was facing Athrar.

His touch was gentle, the soap sliding across his shoulders as Athar’s nimble fingers worked. Hedgrod’s eyes closed as he enjoyed the sensation, feeling his tense muscles relax while Athrar worked at the knots in his back. It occurred to him that nobody had touched him so tenderly before, nor had he ever bathed with a partner. It was a warm feeling, starting from his shoulders and back where Athrar was touching him and spreading all throughout his body.

When he was done with the soap, Athrar rinsed him, his arms sliding up and down as the warm water trickled down Hedgrod's sides. Hedgrod felt the warm press of his lips against the back of his neck, and it made him shiver.

“Cold?” Athrar teased.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Hedgrod replied, turning back around to face the mer. “Your turn,” he continued, grabbing the bar of soap from where Athrar had set it down on the side of the basin.

Athrar hesitated, then shuffled around so his back was facing Hedgrod, pulling his ponytail forward so it fell over his chest. Hedgrod returned the favor, lathering the soap in his hands before spreading the suds over his skin, taking care to clean him thoroughly from the sweat and grime of the cave.

“You’re surprisingly gentle for a Nord,” Athrar commented, his voice barely above a murmur.

“You think so?” Hedgrod asked, more focused on the way Athrar’s shoulder blades sloped, and his tattoo curled around the top part of his bicep.

“Your hands are calloused, of course, but your touch is not as rough as I would have expected before I met you.”

“What did you think of me when you met me?”

“I thought you were likely similar to many of the other Nord guards I have met in my travels. Brutish, rough, perhaps an alcoholic.”

Hedgrod paused his kneading of the Bosmer’s back muscles. “Is that what you think of us?”

“Unfortunately, that is what I have come to know in my time in Skyrim. I had some rather unpleasant run-ins with guards in the past.”

“We aren’t all like that,” Hedgrod said, beginning to rinse the suds off.

“Well, I know that now,” Athrar supplied. “I could tell you were different from our first conversation. I suppose you could say I have a sixth sense about these things. Which is why I am not so sure about this Ferron character.”

Hedgrod let his hands fall, and Athrar turned to face him again, letting his hair down from its tie. He curled his legs back up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, chin on his knees. His expression was unreadable, and he was clearly waiting on some sort of response from Hedgrod.

“I do not think he’s a threat to us.”

“Something is up with him though. He’s not telling us everything.”

Hedgrod shrugged. “I hardly know more about you than I do him.”

Athrar let out a breath. “What do you want to know?”

“What was your childhood like?”

A smile stretched across his face, but it was a sad one. “I come from the Imperial City.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned so.”

“The Waterfront District.”

Hedgrod said nothing. He knew enough about the City to know that the Waterfront was the rundown outskirts of the city. When Athrar had mentioned he was from the Imperial City, Hedgrod had imagined a large house, lavish clothes and plenty of food and drink. A cushy lifestyle. All of that, it seemed, was a hasty assumption.

Athrar continued. “I was raised by my mother. My father was a Thalmor agent, or some such, I think. My mother didn’t talk about him much. Their union wasn’t an official one, nor did it last very long from what I can figure.”

“So it was just the two of you?”

“Not for long,” Athrar said with a slow shake of his head. “Mother married a Bosmer merchant who moved to the city from Arenthia. I’m not sure if you’re aware of Bosmers’ fecundity. Before I was twelve, I had four younger half-siblings. And none of them really cared for me.”

Hedgrod furrowed his brow.

“Neither did Cinhelas. That’s my step-father. I suppose he didn’t like that I wasn’t his, and my siblings didn’t like that I’m half Altmer.”

He laid his head back and shut his eyes, the tips of his hair brushing the surface of the water. His chest rose and fell with his breaths.

“I’ve always wanted to see the world. I had traveled with Cinhelas to other towns a few times to trade wares -- Mother’s idea, not either of ours -- but I wanted to see more. I wanted to learn how to make potions. And cast spells.”

Hedgrod stayed silent, listening to his story. His heartbeat was thumping in his ears, and a little fast. He was excited that his close-lipped companion was finally opening up to him.

“After we returned to the Imperial City from one of our visits to a nearby city to trade, Cinhelas claimed he was short on gold. I had no idea what he was talking about. He made a huge scene, and Mother tried to calm him, but he was so angry…” His eyebrows drew together, forming a crease in between them. “He found the money in my satchel. But the thing is,” he lifted his head back up, opening his eyes and looking at Hedgrod. “I didn’t take the damned money. I swear on my life.”

Hedgrod nodded. “I believe you,” he said quietly.

Athrar continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “That slimy bastard just wanted me gone. Told my mother I was uncooperative and rude to him when we traveled, and now I was a thief. That he wouldn’t have a thief in his house. It was technically my mother’s house, but she had so many children and he was the only one bringing in any coin at the time. His word was law. And it was his word against mine, in that moment. My half-siblings jumped at the chance. They wanted me out, too.”

He briefly fell silent, searching for words, or perhaps lost in memories, and Hedgrod scooted closer, placing a hand idly on his calf.

“So I left,” Athrar said with a shrug, his face a stony mask once again.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Your mother didn't believe you?”

Athrar shrugged. “I don’t think she did. The way she looked at me… I could tell. I could tell none of them wanted me there. So I decided to try to find my place. Because it isn’t there, not anymore.”

Hedgrod’s eyes wandered to their clothes on the table, to the tattered green cloak that had been charred and torn, but Athrar had insisted he still wear.

“The cloak was a gift from Mother,” Athrar said, seemingly reading Hedgrod’s mind–or just knowing where he was looking. “She made it for me, before I went out to trade with Cinhelas. Perhaps bribery, but she really wanted us to get along. And she wanted to make sure I stayed warm. It reminds me of a time when she still cared about me.”

“I’m sure your mother still cares for you,” Hedgrod said, ripping his gaze away from the cloak and back to hazel eyes.

“No,” Athrar disagreed, looking crestfallen. “Anyway, there you have it. Are you satisfied with the information you’ve gotten out of me?”

“It’s not like that, Athrar,” the Nord said, a little offended. “I just want to know about you. It is only fair, with us traveling together and all.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Athrar agreed. “Now do the same with Ferron and make sure he won’t kill us in our sleep or some such.”

It was meant to be lighthearted, Hedgrod thought, but he was still digesting the story of Athrar’s childhood. How cruel his step-father and younger half-siblings had been, content with him leaving home with scarcely more than the clothes on his back.

The water had cooled, so they exited and redressed, carrying their armor back with them to their room. Athrar crawled under the furs on the bed, facing the wall.

“Would you like to have dinner?” Hedgrod asked him.

“No, I’m quite tired. I’m going to turn in for the night. You go on ahead.”

“Alright,” Hedgrod agreed, his chest squeezing. He wondered if he had done the right thing by bringing up Athrar’s past. His own parents were both deceased, so he understood a thing or two about being disconnected, although he couldn’t imagine the pain of being willingly shunned and cast out by your own parents. He supposed they were experiencing similar grief, in different directions.

He decided to leave Athrar alone for a little bit, slipping back into the main room where many patrons of the tavern were having dinner. One of these was Ferron, sat by himself holding a turkey leg and watching the Orc bard with a blank expression on his face. He looked over, noticing Hedgrod emerging, and a small smile formed on his face as he gestured towards the spot next to him.

Hedgrod nodded to indicate he'd be over in a moment, then approached the bar to order some food.

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of the scrolls have foretold