Chapter 1: Reminiscent Breeze
Notes:
welcome to my Skyrim story, based on my most focused playthrough that inspired me to begin writing again. I am excited to be sharing it here. if you have thoughts, please do tell! I aim to please~
farewell!
Chapter Text
Home. In recent months, it had been the village of Bleaker’s Way, between Bruma and the Imperial City, in Cyrodiil. It had been the cottage she moved into upon hearing the news of Skyrim’s border being closed; the twin brother and sister whom she welcomed in upon overhearing they needed a temporary place to stay. Waking to snowy mornings in the biting winter of the year’s first months, fading into frost resting along the grounds and vegetation as the warmth of springtime arrived. Bitter cold meeting redemption next to the warmth of the hearth. Then there was the tavern, where she’d watched the lovely bard, with mouse brown hair and eyes like ink, play The Song of Grandfather Frost along the flute. She could almost hear the laughter of the villagers, gathered together for merriment and meal. She remembered River, the mare who bore a coat of silver with white flecks; how she bought River from the stable in the Imperial City the previous year, and kept her along for the journey.
Her thoughts drifted to the Temple. Planted in the heart of the city was the Temple of the One. Each summer she spent there was sweeter than the last, spent plucking flowers and picking herbs in the name of alchemy-brewing potions and mixing ingredients for the Temple’s healers, or the local apothecary. There was the exchange, too. The deal she’d been agreed into the moment her infant body was left there at the Temple. The sympathetic taking in of an unwanted child, raising her up to be what the world needed her to be. Followed was the understanding that her time was up on her twenty-first birthday. She could stay at the Temple in exchange for her labor, and that was what she did until the day came to leave. Time was spent between minute duties like cleaning and cooking, or fetching ingredients and books from the city’s patrons. It was all business, but it was necessary. Time was the tool of Akatosh, Dragon-god and chief deity of the Divines. Temple servants called for endurance, everlasting legitimacy, and time. Not just more of it, but the protection of it as it flowed inside of and beyond the currents of Mundus. Why was it now that she recalled years of the past, the places she had called her home?
A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.
Those were the words she’d heard before falling back into a state of unconsciousness, fading between the blurred lines of awareness. The unfortunate result of a stone to the head.
A bump in the road along which the carriage traveled pulled her awake. Opening her eyes, she stared at her lap and attempted to gather her thoughts, battling the disorientation she suffered. She felt wet streaks upon her face, but when her eyes shifted to the sky, she saw only azure blue looking back at her. She’d been crying in her unconscious state-the dampness of her cheeks and the dryness in her eyes a simple aftermath. Her gaze, of a pale, silvery blue, met that of the blonde Nord man she’d spoken to just minutes earlier, before her injury pulled her unconscious. He was sitting across from her, and next to him was the brunette horse thief; he needn’t speak the situation in his mind, as his eyes displayed immense panic and distress. Sitting hunched over to the right of the woman was the prisoner who needed his hands bound and his mouth gagged. She moved pieces of the puzzle to fit together, and the predicament of the prisoners, divided between two carts, made quite a bit more sense. Ulfric Stormcloak, she thought to herself. Wanted for killing High King Torygg; this, she had learned from the twins Rialla and Varellus, scouts of the Imperial army at the border of Skyrim and Cyrodiil. They were also her closest companions for a time, before she found herself parting ways with them. The woman didn’t need to remember every detail she’d heard about Ulfric. His presence alone was demanding.
The prisoner carts slowed as they came into a village, passing through an open gate and entering the settlement’s walls. She thought she’d heard someone mention Helgen. This must have been the place. Shame she was brought to it against her will. An Imperial officer’s voice called her attention to the scene within Helgen’s walls. “General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting.” She couldn’t retrieve the beat her heart skipped on hearing that word-headsman. The blonde Nord began reminiscing about his time in Helgen, back when he was a lad, before the war. Knowing that her time on the cart, feeling idle yet passing, was coming to an end, she tried to think of how she ended up here. She was supposed to be in Falkreath by now.
A haziness tore through her mind as she struggled to gather her thoughts. At this point, it must have been late morning. Perhaps midday? Hours previous, she was positioned securely in the saddle on River’s back, gently guiding the mare through the Pale Pass. She had departed from Bruma the most recent morning, and rode River from the safety of the city’s walls into the wilderness of the Jerall Mountains. “The Pale Pass will take you into Skyrim,” she recalled Rialla’s words. Her brother Varellus had chimed in, too: “It’s dangerous, and the perfect spot for an ambush. But don’t rush, because the ground is frozen and a minor slip could break a bone-of yours or River’s.” She had been passing through a narrow crevice, surrounded on either side by steep walls of stone. Jagged rocks above blocked most of the sunlight from lighting this section of the pass, yet there was just enough to illuminate those dreaded streaks of red across the snow. Opting to leave River off to the side of the path, she’d slowly stepped forward to try and see whom the blood belonged to. Her thoughts concluded that River was better off a bit behind, in case she got spooked by a wild animal. If only that was what hid behind the crevice.
Her eyes, peeking from under the hood of her thick burgundy cloak, followed the crimson trail. Her gaze landed to meet bloodshot eyes housing soft green irises-they would have been serene if not lifeless. A soft gasp escaped the woman’s lips, painted just slightly with apricot balm. Without thinking, she stepped further and peered behind the crevice which partially concealed the Stormcloak’s body, blue cuirass and fur armors stained with more crimson. She tore her stare from the corpse to see the reason for her demise. Three men donning Imperial studded light armor were just a few steps away, hovering over at least two more Stormcloak bodies. They were mumbling amongst themselves while they looted the corpses and hadn’t noticed her yet. She swallowed quietly, beginning to back away in hopes of remaining unseen. A sudden bout of shouting and neighing from further down the path drew a yelp from her. Her eyes widened, her hand shot over her mouth, but it was too late. Each of the three soldiers caught a glimpse at her figure, and scrambled to grab her before she could get away.
From the moment she yelped and realized that her cover was blown, she launched herself into a sprint, a furious attempt to get back to River and hustle back through the Pass-despite Varellus’ words of warning. Except, she couldn’t see River, who must’ve been spooked by the commotion beyond their position on the path. The Nord woman simply couldn’t gain traction; each foot landed in front of the other in her effort to run, but her body betrayed her when she slipped and smacked into the frozen ground. Most of the fall went into her palms, met with instant aching and redness. She rushed onto her bottom, at least turning to face her enemy. She thought she may have been able to explain, to tell him that she was running because of fear-not guilt. Her mouth opened, but all too quickly he swung a rock against her left cheek. She was instantly knocked unconscious and rendered useless.
Recalling the incident and meeting the eyes of Helgen’s strangers humiliated her. Her face felt stiff, especially her lower cheek. She knew it had been bleeding, as she noticed dried blood stains on the prisoner’s tunic and pants she wore. She didn’t even want to consider how she ended up in them or who removed her other garments. Her lips were chapped, her tongue desperately swiping over them to try and nourish the dryness. If only her hands weren’t bound, she’d have been able to cast a healing spell; to close the wound on her cheek and apply a salve to the scar, to banish the pounding in her head and ache of her body. She could have even used her magicka to attack the soldiers keeping her prisoner. They were smart to have bound her hands, for she’d have had no mercy when escaping.
End of the line.
As the carriages carrying the prisoners came to a stop, the woman looked around warily. She was consumed with regret of the fact she decided to run, rather than explain herself. Her chances were slim anyways, but was she not self-incriminating when immediately running? As much as she understood how it appeared, she could not deny that the Legion had been to quick to place judgment on who she was. Maybe her time wasn’t at its end.
In the first courtyard within Helgen’s walls were various buildings; cottage-like homes and a local inn, as well as a keep. Both carriages landed in front of a stone building with a singular staircase leading to a wooden door. The main event was unmistakable. A headsman, whose face was concealed with a dark mask, and who held an axe taller than himself, was positioned next to a wooden block with a narrow indentation carved across the surface. The space where one being facing execution would rest their head. A priestess was present also, her robes of daffodil and orange tones standing out among a backdrop of more natural shades. As she took all of this in with a shaky breath, the Nord realized just how alone she felt. A feeling like this wasn’t unfamiliar in her twenty-two years of living, but never had she felt this icy pang of isolation, laced with the dreadful poison of a bloody, pointless death.
One at a time, the prisoners accompanying her in the transport cart stepped onto the ground. Not covered in snow or wet mud, thankfully. Her boots had been replaced with meager footwraps; she may as well have been barefoot. Last off the carriage, she jumped to the ground. Although her landing was soft, she felt the ache shoot up her calves and into her knees. She was exhausted, and her body knew this. Sleeping between the Pale Pass incident and the carriage ride for however long, yet dreaming of warmth and an end to the aches of her flesh. Chatter of surrounding soldiers, prisoners, and civilians became idle noise as she squeezed her eyes shut, silently begging Akatosh for what she, in this moment, needed most. Time. She had spent the majority of her life living at the Temple of the One, serving Akatosh. Auri-el, the Divine of the Divines. Perhaps it was enough service to ask a favor? Maybe Akatosh was in a giving mood on this morning of Last Seed. For so long, but not too long, her home had been the structure housing the monumental statue of the Dragon-god. A sight she never grew tired of.
Just a little more time. To see the Gildergreen she’d heard of, or to steal a glance at the Arcaneum hall Rialla had told many stories of. Her hope to find the College of Winterhold, to see the view of the structure just once, faded when a voice broke into her thoughts.
“Wait, you there. Step forward.” Already, she was next in line and stepped to approach the owner of the voice. “Who.. are you?”
Her eyes met those of the tall Nord soldier facing her. He had thick auburn hair that was tucked behind each ear, and didn’t grow much farther past. The hue of his hair contrasted with the cloudy grey of his eyes-looking so friendly, yet deceptive in that he was guiding her towards the block of execution. His hands held a quill and list. It didn’t take a scholar to know that the list read each of the prisoner’s names. Her mind, though, went blank as she attempted to speak her name. A moment went by, and before she knew it, she spoke the word as if it were a muscle memory.
“Aerene.”
The soldier nodded, eyes searching the columns of names on the list in his hand. Aerene knew he wouldn’t find her name there, written to be doomed. She hadn’t spoken it to a soul since departing the inn at Bruma. Thoughts of her journey prompted her to wonder where her belongings had ended up. Maybe on the side of some road, waiting to be found by a ne’er do well. Or, perhaps her pack and goods were still with River, wherever the mare had ended up. Poor girl, Aerene thought. Probably lost and frightened… Aerene knew those feelings all too well.
His brow furrowed, the soldier looked to her once more. “Surname?” She shook her head. She had always been Aerene and its variations. Aerene of the Temple, Aerene of Bleaker’s Way. She doubted either of those would be written on the damned list. Turning his head, the soldier addressed the nearby Imperial captain. “Captain, what should we do? She’s not on the list.” With his eyes off of her for an instant, she was temped to make a run for it. A quick survey of her surroundings put a pang through her chest; during her distracted moments, the thief from Rorikstead had attempted to escape. He had not fared well-an arrow had pierced straight through his chest, aimed with excellency. His face lay in the dirt while blood stained his tunic near the entry wound. She guessed that surrounded by some of the finest archers around, she wouldn’t make it much farther.
“Forget the list. She goes to the block,” was the Imperial captain’s response to the list holder’s inquiry. Surely the issue of Aerene’s name being absent from the list wouldn’t die down so quickly? She had not expected the Empire to have grown so careless. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. She wanted to sob and beg for her life, as a child would beg for the very thing they wanted and couldn’t have. “No,” she murmured, stepping closer to the soldier with the list. Her gaze shifted from his, to the captain, to the prisoners, and back to the soldier. “What is it that I have done to deserve such a gruesome death?” she questioned, looking between him and the captain to his back left. “Wrong place at the wrong time, spy,” the captain replied with a devilish glare. Aerene swallowed, deciding that if she continued her appeal, the woman shooting daggers through her would probably resort to doing so literally. “I’m not a spy,” she began, “and I have committed no crime.” These words prompted the soldier with the list to reconsider. Aerene could practically feel the contemplation radiating off of him. Another bark from his superior cut off his impending reply. “Hadvar! You’re smarter than this. A Nord alone on the trail, who resorted to fleeing when seen? I never took you for a fool.”
“By your orders, Captain,” the list-holder, named Hadvar, gave the captain a respectful nod and turned to face the prisoner. “I’m sorry. At least you’ll die here, in your homeland.” Aerene couldn’t ignore the regretful undertone she heard in his voice. Her attempt at defending her life was short-lived, but existent nonetheless. To her own surprise, the tears welling within her eyes never fell. “Skyrim is not my home,” she breathed, swallowing the lump in her throat while fury and hopelessness dug through her chest.
“Enough of this.” The captain beckoned with her hand a simple ‘come hither’ gesture and two officers on standby approached Aerene. They each grabbed one of her arms, gripping uncomfortably tight and much too close. “Unhand me!” she demanded, shuffling out of their hands and standing her ground. Once she was balanced, she spoke up. “You’ve escorted me this far already.” With a huff, she turned away from them, joining the group of prisoners gathered near the block.
Once more, the haze of a groggy, early morning seeped into Aerene’s thoughts. While she stared ahead, she was not truly looking; there was nothing in her surroundings that she wanted to see. Off to the side, General Tullius stepped forward to address Ulfric. As she began to study the two figures, she understood why the men and women of Skyrim trusted Ulfric to lead their people-by appearance, he was the ideal leader. Towering over the Imperial, wearing a furrow in his thick brow and boasting a fleshy, muscular figure. He looked like strength; to many, though, his outward appearance acted as a facade masquerading his ulterior motives, his hunger for power. The tone of the General’s voice was one that needed a long vacation, of a person who thought their work would have been done by now. Ulfric’s actions and rebellion against the Legion had plunged Skyrim into chaos, Tullius stated. By executing Ulfric and squashing the rebellion, peace would be resorted once more. Aerene’s attention was drawn from the speech a thunderous sound echoed across skies above. Most of those standing in the clearing looked upward, but no entity showed to claim the noise as their own. Aerene’s eyes narrowed; she noticed clouds had formed. Perhaps the process had been gradual, and she was still suffering effects of disorientation. “What was that?” It was Hadvar who posed the question. Aerene looked between him and the General, curious to hear the General’s response to the interruption. “It’s nothing; carry on,” Tullius declared.
Any reasonable soul would know the sky’s roar was not nothing. She watched as the clouds above seemed to gather rapidly, matter of white and various shades of grey mixing like rats scurrying among each other. A breeze swept through the town, smelling just slightly of smoke. As Aerene’s eyes fell from the sky, she caught the menacing gaze of Ulfric. He looked to know something the rest of them did not. Perhaps he did.. but Aerene knew the reason he wore a gag. Not to conceal his speech-to conceal his Thu’um. The shouting, which rumbled the ground and tore life apart, vessel from vessel. She shifted, uncomfortable, and looked away. One of the Imperials, dressed in silver, red, and brown heavy armor, instructed the priestess to give the prisoners their last rites. Aerene shut her eyes again. Once more, she silently begged Akatosh for a way out of this. Time-it was all she wanted in that moment, everything she needed. Her prayers were cut short as a prisoner yelled to disrupt the sermon, demanding that the execution be over with. Aerene fought to avoid eye contact with any of the Imperials around her, as it had been her first mistake. She stared as intently as she could into the dirt and cobblestone beneath her feet. She listened to the silence, interrupted by footsteps across the ground. She knew a prisoner was approaching the block, and she needed not to look up to know what was going to happen next. Sound of the axe slamming into his neck echoed between the people standing in the clearing, followed with the sound of his detached head landing in the crate adjacent to the block. “Next, the spy!” Aerene’s eyes widened as she stared daggers into the ground, the icy blue laced with shiny tears. So quickly, that was who she’d become. The spy who wasn’t. Another roar drew the crowd’s eyes to the sky, and Hadvar spoke up again. “There it is again…” his voice trailed off. Unfortunately for the mage in prisoner’s rags, the Imperial captain was in no mood for idle chatter about roars of the heavens. “I said, next prisoner!” Her voice boomed at Aerene, who attempted to control the quiver of her lip as she stepped forward.
A pang of nausea drifted through Aerene when she looked upon the block, stepping towards it. Blood was splattered across the wood and surrounding dirt, dripping slowly downward to meet the ground. “To the block, Aerene, nice and easy.” It was Hadvar who directed her. She turned to completely face the block, internally thanking him for using her name. This would be the last time she heard her name spoken, wouldn’t it? Hearing him speak to her in such a manner felt so personal, so intimate while she began to kneel, knees sinking to the ground. She would not forget her name, at a time like this, for she had never come so close to crossing the bound between this life and the next. The paralysis of fear had vanished, the shock dissipating. The captain’s boot met Aerene’s back, between her shoulder blades, and pressed forward. She obeyed, falling slowly to rest her right cheek on the wood. As she did so, the hot blood from the previous soldier oozed along her skin, its rancid, metallic stench invading her nostrils.
Confidence and hope for peace found their ways into her being, perhaps filling the alcove left by the absence of fear. She chose not to regret, and not to think of what could have been. For what she could, she recalled the words of the blonde Nord, who spoke of his past and memories of juniper mead, the thrill of young love… Ralof was his name. He had mentioned one’s last thoughts being of home. Aerene thought of the seasons before, of the laughter and warmth that long since been absent, for it felt she’d been in Skyrim for ages by now. Her gaze shifted from the headsman, to the mountains in the distance. She could see in her peripheral vision how he raised his axe while he hid his face; she imagined he was ashamed to face the gods after ending the lives of many, in occurrences just like this. She shut her eyes, shut away the impending silence. A quiet sigh escaped her softly parted lips, and she swallowed the anxiety in her throat. Her breaths calmed, as she chose to instead look forward to whatever came next. Akatosh, she prayed, end me quickly so that I may begin the next life.
In a split second, Tullius’ voice echoed across the clearing. “What in Oblivion is that?!”
The General’s voice was no competition to the roar which erupted across the skies, mimicking the previous sounds in a haunting echo, but louder and… closer than before. The woman’s eyes shot open, and she gasped at the sight of the roaring creature, black as night as it drifted across the heavens above, colored a palette of azure, fighting for its place among the storm clouds. Her thoughts of Bleaker’s Way faded to that of her first home. The Temple. Without hesitance, the memory of the grand statue fluttered to land within her mind.
A statue which she had admired with reverence, the embodiment of a creature existing in legend and birthed of the Divines. Immortalized in the courtyard of a distant city.
A dragon.
Chapter Text
The streak of black painted across the sky grew larger as it came closer. The haziness of the day was torn instantly, as the beast spoke some kind of spell; the thunderous roar ripped across the atmosphere, knocking a wave of dizziness into Aerene. Her eyes shifted from the beast to the headsman, whose axe was raised above his head in preparation to execute her. As the invisible spell rang through the clearing, the headsman collapsed with a groan. Aerene was struck with panic and her vision blurred, before she rolled from her position on the block and into the dirt next to the headsman’s corpse. While she fought for awareness, the commotion of the chaos behind her erupted, and kept erupting.
Shrieks of horror, blood curdling screams, orders for action all clashed in the sudden devastation. The scent of smoke wavered through the air, the grey substance floating about as fires caught on many of the small buildings. Aerene lay in the position of which she fell, hands still bound and a streak of blood leaking from her nose, downward, over her dry lips. Tears gathered in her eyes-not from crying, but from the sting of the burn around her. The beautiful azure sky had erupted into a mass of slithering clouds; she watched this while her cheek made acquaintance with the cold, hard ground, breaths quickly huffing from her nostrils. Somehow, the dragon had commanded the skies, and the heavens did its bidding. Orbs of flame burst through the clouds and struck the various structures of Helgen, accompanied by clumps of stone that did the same. The air was no longer a gentle warmth with a slighted cool breeze; it was cold and carried a sense of dread.
A voice broke into the woman prisoner’s observations. “Kinswoman! Get up, the gods won’t give us another chance! We must hurry!” Before she knew it, she was on her feet, and it was Ralof who was calling into her thoughts. Her dizziness faded with a few blinks and deep breaths, as her legs carried her to follow Ralof’s path. “Inside, hurry!” he called to her, ushering her into a stone building that towered towards the sky. Aerene was out of breath with the quick rush across the clearing, coughing and leaning her back against the inside wall of the tower. She took in her surroundings and noticed two Stormcloak soldiers laying on the floor, hunched over with wounds leaking blood onto the flagstones. A third soldier was leaning over them, ushering them to stay still so as not to rush the bleed. Aerene glanced to her own hands, still bound by rope. If she were cut free, she could cast a spell of healing across the soldiers’ wounds. Her brow furrowed in disorient, trying to gather her thoughts among the sounds of the dragon’s roars outside. “Jarl Ulfric…” it was Ralof who spoke once more. Aerene looked up to him, before noticing the man whom Ralof addressed. “Could the legends be true?” Ralof asked Ulfric with a shaky, curious voice. Aerene studied Ulfric’s figure. His eyes were focused upward, to the ceiling of the tower, as if he were waiting for the dragon to burst through at any moment. His jaw was fiercely tense, loosing when he turned to Ralof. “Legends don’t burn down buildings.”
How did this happen? Reality hit Aerene as she mentally came to, blinking away her confusion. Just moments ago, she was to be dead, and then a creature of historic legend appeared, commanding the skies. Thus, she was spared, and now she stood in the same space as the leader of the rebellion in Skyrim. He was obviously no longer gagged, and his hands were free. What did this mean for the future of Skyrim? The dragon had not left yet, for its thundering sounds still sounded just through the tower walls, and the beast’s commands still shook the ground every now and then. Is it looking for someone? Or does it seek to destroy all in its path? Aerene, along with all those in Helgen who remained alive, had more questions than answers. “We can’t stay here. We must keep moving!” Ralof gently nudged Aerene’s arm, towards the staircase spiraling up the tower. “Up the stairs, quickly,” he insisted, and she listened. Hurriedly, she shuffled up the stairs, eyes wandering on those behind her-the injured and their attendees, and Ulfric, wearing a sharp expression as he looked to be unsure, and lost in thought. “Where will we g-“ Aerene’s voice was cut off by the sudden burst of stone into the tower, its own wall blasting inward. She jumped back, partially pulled by Ralof. “Get back!” he called over the crashing rubble. Before them was the dragon itself, its huge black talons latched into the stone bricks of the tower. Its beating wings generated a rough wind, kicking up flurries of dust and ash. Aerene and Ralof were quick to move away from the new opening, before it was blasted with a river of flame-another spell spoken from the dragon. “It can speak spells,” she mumbled in astonishment. The river did not linger, and the dragon flew away from the tower as suddenly as it came. The way up the staircase was now blocked. “Down there,” Ralof pointed from Aerene’s side. Her eyes shifted downward as they stood in front of the opening, her feet burning from standing on the hot stone. “Jump through the roof of the inn, and we’ll follow when we can,” he advised her. She cringed at the idea, not taking kindly to the height between her position and the floor of the inn’s second level. She turned to complain, to come up with a different plan, but Ralof had already made his way down the stairs. No time for indecisiveness, she thought, and stepped back a couple of paces. Without another thought, she leapt downward, across the space separating the tower from the inn, and landed with a thud. The planks of the shambled inn creaked underneath her feet, as she shuffled toward another opening leading to the ground. She stepped into it, and finally landed on solid ground again. Her view of the gaping wall in the tower was blocked, so she decided to keep moving forward. They’ll follow when they can.
Jogging to the left, outside the inn, Aerene scrambled across the path. The stones and rubble beneath her feet shot jabbing pains through her skin, upward through her ankles. She flinched with each step forward, leaning against a ruined stone wall to catch a breath. Looking upward, she froze, paralyzed with panic. Hadvar, the soldier with that damned list, stood with his sword unsheathed. To his side was an elderly man in iron armor, each of them calling to a young boy who was slowly backing away from the dragon, standing menacingly and facing the three. “Haming!” Hadvar called to the young boy. “Get over here, hurry!” Haming wore a plastered expression of terror, as he broke into a run and met Hadvar. “Thataboy,” Hadvar consoled. The dragon remained in its position multiple paces back, lowering its head to breathe out another flaming blast. “Gods, Gunnar, get down!” Hadvar commanded, and the three ducked behind the rubble of a collapsed structure. Aerene noticed that a share of the flame burst laced over Hadvar’s back, and his cries of agony were drowned by the beast’s roars. In seconds, the attack ended, and the scourge beat its wings, lifting itself into the sky and flying out of view. She jogged from her position over to the three, taking note that Haming and Gunnar were unharmed, if not terrorized. “Take care of the boy, Gunnar. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense,” Hadvar breathed, before meeting eyes with Aerene. “Still alive, Aerene?” he questioned with a grin that spoke of being impressed. “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way,” the grin faded and he nodded for her to follow him. She did, as they ran along the path towards a short alleyway between two structures. Just above them, the beast landed on the roof of the structure adjacent to their position, the ground beneath their feet rumbling treacherously when the contact was made. “Stay close to the wall!” Hadvar whisper-yelled, and extended his arm across her torso, nudging her out of the dragon’s line of sight. The woman’s back met the cool stone wall, joining the soldier in watching the beast’s movement just a short distance above them-too close for comfort. It prepared to speak again, taking in a long breath and speaking a wretched, melting blast outward. Somewhere within the flame river spouting from the dragon’s throat, Aerene heard words not of the languages spoken in Tamriel. “Yol Toor Shul,” were the words she made out; the sound of this language seemed so distant, as though it were not barreled across the chaos, but echoed across the cavern of her mind. She wondered if Hadvar heard these words, too. “Quickly, follow me!”
She stayed at his heels while they made their way through what might have been a backyard. A collapsed roof, charred and glowing with embers, blocked their exit from the yard. At the base of the collapsed rafters and beams was the corpse of an Imperial soldier. Aerene stared in horror, stopped in her tracks at the sight. His body was contorted in ways she didn’t know were possible, legs bent and broken underneath him and flesh melted from parts of his bone. His face was not visible. Her jaw was opened slightly, her breaths rapidly picking up as a tear raced down her cheek, eyes stinging of irritation as she tried to keep them open in the air of smoke. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight, lost in the horror of the man, the human being, on the ground. She’d never seen anything like it. “We must keep moving,” Hadvar spoke to her, prompting her to finally tear her eyes from the tragedy. He turned his head into their direction of travel; she wondered if she had truly seen watery glints in his eyes too, or if her own had deceived her. He held one of her wrists in his hand, tight and unmoving, as they stepped through a burning house and into the clearing where the majority of action against the dragon was taking place.
Above, the beast glided effortlessly over the chaos, while its victims were entrapped in walls of smoke, flame, and ash. Fire caught on the rubble all around reached upward, extending past the height of Helgen’s walls. Smoke curled into the breeze, blowing across the clearing. Aerene stood back while she caught sight of Hadvar running to meet General Tullius, who was wielding an Imperial sword. Beyond them were multiple Imperial soldiers, many releasing arrows from bows, into the direction of the beast. Aerene spotted a couple of mages as well, their hands tensing and relaxing as they released spells into the atmosphere. One of the mages blasted the dragon with strikes of lightning, tickling against the black scales of the beast as it circled back and headed in the direction of the clearing once more. “Hadvar! Get to the Keep, soldier, we’re leaving!” Tullius shouted to the soldier; Hadvar turned on his heel and jogged past Aerene, into the direction of what she assumed was the Keep. “It’s you and me, Aerene, come quickly!” she followed suit. As they maneuvered through burnt ground, crumbled stone, and past bloodied and charred corpses, she could hear the Imperials behind them asking, “What does it take to kill this thing?!” Had nothing they were trying worked? Was this beast of legend truly invincible? The thought pushed a shiver through her being. She followed Hadvar as they jogged past a scatter of soldiers, shouting for them to keep moving. Staying still, while the heavens still blasted stones and invisible breaths of force, would lead to certain, and even slow, death. The two passed through an archway just as the dragon landed over top. Its contact with the stones shook Nirn below them, causing Aerene to stumble downwards. From her position on the dirt, her thigh and bottom boasting new, sudden aches, she looked back toward the archway. The dragon faced a singular Imperial, who released an arrow toward the creature’s opened maw. Before the arrow struck, the beast spoke another call of its invisible force, and the brave soldier flew backward, body crashing into a wall of stone yards back. Aerene scrambled upward, bound hands pushing from the dirt to support her aching legs in standing up.
She caught sight of Hadvar facing Ralof, and heard, “Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!” she wondered their history, as it was apparent they shared one.
“You there!” Ralof pointed to her from an entrance to the Keep, which appeared to be the only undamaged building in Helgen… for now. “Come with me, into the Keep!” the blonde Nord called to her. So, the Stormcloak prisoners were managing to escape as well. “Aerene! With me, let’s go!” Hadvar beckoned from her left, at a second entrance into the Keep. Both of these men had helped her up to this point-and now she was faced with the decision of letting one of them lead her through the chaos. She glanced between the blonde and the auburn-haired, her thoughts intruded upon by the yelling of the Imperials as they coordinated their attack.
What does it take to kill this monster?
Keep your eyes on it!
By the Eight Divines, what is this thing?
Her decision was made, and she sprinted towards Hadvar, who ushered her inside the Keep and slammed the door behind them.
Inside the Keep was a central room with light fixtures holding lit candles, flames in unison to bring a glow to the windowless setting; there were beds with chests at the feet, as well as tables with chairs. Each furniture piece looked as if it had just been sat in mere minutes before; Aerene studied the way the chairs were fixed around a couple of the tables, pushed out just enough for a person to have quickly stood up. Mugs sat here and there, no doubt filled with water, ale, or mead. Furs on a couple of the beds were unkempt. The room had an energy that was fading, yet Aerene and Hadvar were the only two inside. “I guess we’re the only ones who made it in,” the young man sighed, one hand resting on his hip while the other rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the end times?” He asked her, grey eyes bearing a soft look of uncertainty as they met hers. She looked back to him, gently nodding. “That is the only legitimate explanation… for all of this.” And even that legitimacy is questionable. What even was this, truly? A one-and-done instance, or the beginning of something horrible? She shuddered to think back through the history of Tamriel, including the Oblivion Crisis she’d read about in the Temple.
“Here, let me cut you free,” Hadvar drew his sword and offered his hand. Aerene smiled faintly, lifting her bound hands up. He shifted the blade of his sword swiftly through the ropes binding her, and they fell to the ground. “There you go,” he murmured. She rolled her hands and gently massaged at her wrists, glad to finally have back some mobility. “Thank you, Hadvar.”
He looked around the room, stepping forward into the space, as if taking in their new situation as best he could. “We should keep moving. Take a look in these chests, see if you can find any armor or weapons,” he pointed to the chests near the beds on one wall of the room. “I’m going to see if I can find something for these burns,” he added, turning away from her to head toward the opposite end of the room.
“Wait,” she prompted, her hand raised toward him. “I can heal you, if you’ll allow me,” she smiled genuinely, her brows raised in polite emphasis. After his actions in that day, of which she viewed as him redeeming himself from his list-reading, it was the least she could do. Hadvar’s eyes perked up in surprise. “How do you mean?” he asked, stepping back to her. “I am a mage,” she began. “Now that my hands are free, I am useful,” she grinned. “I know healing spells, and can cast them on your burns. The wounds will be closed, but the scars will remain. You would feel much better, than with a potion,” she insisted. Hadvar at first looked uncertain, but another smile graced his features. “Okay. Please,” he nodded. She dipped her head, pulling a chair from one of the tables over to their position, gesturing for him to sit. He did, stepping over the chair to sit in it backward, legs facing the back of the chair so that his back and shoulders were not touching anything.
Aerene stood in front of him, gently grasping his arm to lift it up into the candlelight, at a horizontal angle. She held his hand with one of hers, and with the other, began casting the spell. Hadvar watched the process with awe. Hues of gold began illuminating from her very palm, swirling around her fingertips and extending to his skin. Her palm hovered over his skin, the starry essence dancing across his burned flesh. He could not see the detail underneath the magic, for it was too bright to watch his skin mend, but he could feel a tingling sensation where her hand was. While she did this, he studied her features. She was quite tall, that being of her Nord blood. Her hair was a light red color, on the border between blonde and ginger-strawberry blonde, he’d heard it called. Skyrim did not grow this strawberry, but that was the name coined for her hair color in other Tamrielic provinces. Her strands of hair fell straight and ended to rest upon her shoulders. Her brows were on the thinner side, pointed slightly upward and back, resting naturally along her brow bone. Below, her eyes were of an icy, pale blue, contrasted by a light green shadow she wore over her lid. The woman’s cheekbones were prominent, slightly wider just below her eyes and gradually narrowing to her jaw. As she studied his arm, turning her head, he looked upon the sharpness of her nose and the quiet plumpness to her lips, which bore a faded balm color reminding him of red or orange wildflowers. The sharpness of her chin melted into a softer jawline, that was more visible when she had faced forward. She stood only slightly shorter than him when he was upright, and her prisoner rags displayed the thickness of her arms-seasoned in labored work. She claimed Skyrim was not her home, he remembered, but she did have very Nordic features. Her entire body displayed the events they’d just witnessed. Smoke stained her clothes, sweat dripped down her features, dirt plastered here and there. The streak of dried blood leaking from her nose was a telltale sign of the stresses they had encountered.
By now, she had moved behind him, and he shivered at the tingly sensation moving across his back and in between his shoulder blades; the feeling was euphoric, and he sighed at the pleasure of the pain vanishing. “Aerene,” he spoke her name.
“Hmm?” she answered. “Why do you heal me? Help me at all, join me, after what was about to happen today?” he questioned, head resting on his arms along the top of the chair he was seated in. There was a pause as she thought of an answer. She could really only put it in the simplest words, because they were the most truthful. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t helped me. My fear… has gotten the best of me at more than one moment today. Believe it or not, I was unafraid of death,” she told him. “But when I saw the devastation the dragon caused, as it flies around us, I was completely taken aback.” He considered her response. He knew what she meant, about feeling that kind of paralyzing terror. “There is more to it,” she sighed, while her hands continued to work across his burned back flesh. “Before I was to be executed, you spoke my name. It was… unexpected, but also a reminder of who I have lived to be. Who I want to become,” she finished. He turned his head to look up at her behind him. “And who is that?” he wondered aloud. “That, I am still learning,” she chuckled, as the glow from her palms faded. “Why did you help me?” she turned the questioning back to him, as she lifted her hands to be at level with her head, her palms tensing into fists and then relaxing. Swirls of the healing spell engulfed her figure, and all at once she seemed hours anew. Her eyes were not so sunken, her face swelling lessened, a wound on her cheek healed to a scar.
“Who would I be had I left you out there?” Hadvar spoke, his question of a rhetorical nature. Aerene sighed in understanding of his philosophy, moving to kneel at one of the chests and open it. Inside, she found a set of light Imperial armor. After a few minutes, she was strapped into the armor-a cuirass, braces on her wrists, and boots to protect her legs up to her knees. “You are a mage,” Hadvar turned to her as he placed a few potion bottles into a knapsack, “but do you have a weapon of choice? It’s likely we’ll run into more Stormcloaks as we make our way through here.” Aerene tilted her head to the side in thought, and nodded a yes to him. She had not learned enough destruction magic to move without a solid weapon; that was one of the reasons she’d aimed to enroll with the College of Winterhold. Gods, she thought, how will I get there now? The question burned through her mind. She had none of her belongings, including the gold she’d saved up for years. Nor her alchemy journal, or her amulet of Akatosh. Her brow furrowed in frustration at these thoughts. Just focus on staying alive, she told herself. “A sword and shield will work just fine,” she conceded. Hadvar wore a smirk of satisfaction, walking to one of the room’s tables. He picked up an iron shield from the table, and unsheathed an iron sword from a nearby weapon rack. He handed them to her, then spoke. “Let’s go.”
After making their way through two iron gates activated by pull chains, the pair could hear voices behind the next turn in the halls of the Keep. “Stormcloaks,” Hadvar whispered to Aerene. “Maybe we can reason with them?” he asked hopefully, after peeking out from their position to spy the enemy soldiers trying to gather their bearings in a prison room of the Keep. She nodded, and they stepped out from their position, defenses ready but willingness ahead.
Unfortunately, none of the first Stormcloaks were interested in civility; the two managed to defeat their efforts, quickly leaving the scene and turning right into a long hall adjacent to the cell room. Aerene took the lead, sword drawn and shield positioned as they walked. A rumbling groaned through the walls of the structure, and dirt fell from the ceiling above. At the end of the hall, two Stormcloaks stood, catching sight of the two in Imperial armor. Before a fight could ensue, the ceiling in the middle of the passageway collapsed, rubble rapidly falling to block the attack. “Damn. That dragon doesn’t give up easy,” Aerene mumbled as they jumped back from the opening in the ceiling. Above, they caught sight of the beast, its scales streaking black across the sky while it soared about. Its roars echoed into the Keep; both Nords covered their ears while the vicious sounds rang into their ears. Debris continued crumbling, collapsing to cover the opening in the roof and shrouding the two in darkness. Once the roaring echoed away, they continued.
Soon they had entered an old storage and supply room, laden with drying racks of garlic and elves’ ear herb, as well as pheasants and rabbits waiting to be plucked and prepared for consumption. Hadvar instructed Aerene to look for any supplies they could use. She found a few more potions, of the health and stamina variety. She put the small red and green bottles into the knapsack they kept, while he searched more barrels. Quickly, they left and moved deeper into the Keep. Aerene had rapidly noticed how they kept descending as they moved inward. Just how deep were they going? Was there some kind of exit within the tunnels underground?
A spacious staircase led down into another space. From her spot behind Hadvar as they stepped down the stairs, Aerene could begin to make out what appeared to be cages. She swallowed nervously, eyes darting along the space as they drew closer. “The torture room,” Hadvar mumbled to her. “Gods, I wish we didn’t need these.” Her eyes explored the space they stepped into, studying the iron cages reaching from the ground to just below the ceiling. Hadvar approached the torturer himself, questioning the hooded man about the commotion they were attempting to escape. While they argued, with the torturer refusing to believe that a dragon could be attacking, Aerene approached a cage with a deceased mage inside. It was the only one with a.. fresh corpse. The cage cell to the left had a skeleton, and the devious machinery nearby had no signs of recent activity. There was a table, though, showing a display of torture devices. The thought of what those tools could do to the tender flesh of man and mer put a shiver through the woman. She turned back to the cage, attempting to pull it open and approach the mage’s body; near him on the floor of the cell was a spell book, and a scatter of septim coins. “Oh, don’t bother with that. Lost the key ages ago,” the torturer called to Aerene. Hadvar approached her, fingers digging into a small pouch he held. “Here are some lock picks, you might be able to pick it open,” he gave her a few lock picks and turned back to the torturer, as well as his assistant, insisting they follow to escape the Keep, or face doom if the dragon were to continue its attacks.
Aerene got to work, gently moving the pick to the left and right curves of the lock, closely listening; she was fortunate to have much experience with lock picking. When she heard a particular ‘click’ she pulled the lock, and the cage door opened. She scooped up the coins, stuffing them into the knapsack Hadvar handed her, followed with the careful placement of the spell tome. It bore the symbol of destruction magic on the cover, which piqued her interest as she thought to return to it later. “Oh, sure, just take all my things,” the torturer complained. Aerene could practically hear his eyes rolling. Looking to the deceased mage, her eyes narrowed. His robes looked warm and comfortable, yes… but they’re his. Aerene could not stand to take his robes, perhaps his last cover of dignity after being left to rot in a cage like this. She caught air of the stench of rotting flesh as she crouched near him, and held down a gag. “Come with us, we need to get out of here,” Hadvar addressed the torturer while Aerene wandered the room. “You have no authority over me, boy,” the hooded torturer spat in a tone of irritation. “Didn’t you hear me?! I said the Keep is under attack!” Hadvar raised his voice in response to the tortuter’s ignorance. Aerene’s eyes landed on a short table next to a support pillar in the center of the room. There was a knapsack, and in front of it a book. While the men argued, she reached to pick up the book, fingers tracing the decorative edges, loops of a silver thread. At the center of the cover was a symbol of some kind-she studied it, bringing it closer to her face and then further away. A dragon, she realized, pulling the cover open to find the title: The Book of the Dragonborn. What a coincidence, that she should come across this book as they tried to escape the very being shown on the cover. “Forget the old man, I’ll go with you.” The assistant grouped with Hadvar and Aerene, who stuffed the black and silver book to join the spell tome in the knapsack. “Good,” Hadvar nodded for the two to follow him out of the chamber. “Name’s Garm,” the assistant grumbled, as the three proceeded through a dimly lit hallway. Each wall on the left and right was carved out, with iron doors attached over the small room-like openings. More cells. Although the hall was dimly lit, its only light source a fire pit in an alcove of the far wall, Aerene could see how the dried, age-old skeletons caught light. They hurried through, and turned left into another room. “By the Gods,” she mumbled, not immediately knowing where to look. There were smaller cages hanging from the ceiling in chamber; the intense, rancid scent of decomposed flesh wavered through the air, accompanying the intensely moist air-it was suffocating. Aerene knew not to look anywhere she did not need to; she learned her lesson when she couldn’t tear her eyes from the charred Imperial corpse back on the surface.
Luck was not on their side-this much was already clear, yet the message was delivered once more as the three found themselves in a larger expanse. A stream of rushing water, snaking around rocks and sediment, flowed through two walls of the space. Man-made platforms of cobblestone rose above the sediment and stream, with a bridge closing the gap between the two platforms. Short staircases reached from the stone above the ground to the dirt and sand below. If one of us were to fall off, we’d be able to step right back up. Aerene, Garm, and Hadvar stood on the stones at the exit of the hall they’d just passed through. Across the bridge, on the far side of the room, stood at least four Stormcloaks. Up to this point, the pair had only run into groups of two Stormcloaks at a time. Now, they were outnumbered. “Get ready for a fight,” Hadvar told the others in a low tone. He drew his sword, as did Aerene, while Garm unsheathed an iron battleaxe from its place on his back.
“Imperial bastards!” One of the Stormcloaks cried, a tall blonde woman who pointed an arrow towards the three. She let it loose, and it whizzed past Aerene, who dove out of the way. She scrambled to her feet and raised her sword and shield in defense, eyes peeking out over the rim of the shield. The archer stayed on the far platform, while the other three Stormcloaks raced across the bridge. Aerene noted that one jumped from the bridge into the shallow stream, landing with a splash. He screamed a war cry at Garm, swinging a greatsword as he approached the assistant. The other two approached Aerene and Hadvar, who met them with equal effort. Hadvar used his sword as a defensive tool, for he was without a shield, while his opponent carried a small iron war axe, and blocked Hadvar’s attacks with a hide shield. Aerene’s opponent was a towering Nord with flame red hair, and a beard braided to hang from his chin. “HRAGH!” he growled as he brought a battleaxe swinging downward. The woman dodged the swing, maintaining a lightness on her feet as she quickly moved here and there, sword clanking as she defended herself. She had been successful until the Nord swung his axe horizontally; she had not been expecting it and barely brought the iron shield up in time. When she landed on her knees, her sword flew from her grasp, clattering across the stone-just out of reach. The Nord laughed, his deep chuckle haunting her as he stepped closer. “You are amused?” she asked, pushing up from the hard ground, hoping to distract him with idle chatter. “Not at your effort,” his lips parted into a wolf-like grin, “but at your failure.” With that, he swung the giant axe once more, and she met the blade with the iron shield. The axe blade became lodged in the wood, the Stormcloak violently pulling at it to get it free. Aerene yelped as he abruptly pulled the axe from the shield, which split in the process. Against a blade that size, it was no use to her now.
Adrenaline rapidly streamed through her veins, the grunts and cries of those around her and the sound of the stream’s running water drowning her thoughts. Among all of this commotion, though, the loudest pounding was that of her heartbeat. There were no weapons near her-her sword had been kicked further away by Hadvar or the man he was struggling against, each of them in an intense foothold as they fought. Resorting to a more primal solution, Aerene faced the brute of a man that was her opponent. Breaking into a sprint, she ducked close to the ground and spread her arms, tucking her neck to a secure angle as she tackled the axe-wielder. He groaned in anger, as they both fell from the platform and landed in the sediment next to the stream. “You’re a disgrace to your own kind,” he sneered as they wrestled along the ground, the woman struggling as he began to gain the upper hand. Too soon, he held her down to the ground, his hands gripping her throat with ferocious intensity. She was losing her breath, and was swiftly growing dizzy as she gasped for air. She brought her knee to meet his pelvis, to which he cursed, his face dripping with sweat; his brow was lowered in rage. Hers was too, as she screamed at him, her war cry drowning out his cursing. Her hands aimed to his face, and her fingers began shaking violently, palms tensing into shaky fists. That was when the orange glow began to gather; when she opened her hands, bursts of incinerating flame blasted into the soldier’s face. His cries thundered as he cursed, fighting the flames that engulfed his skin, hair, and armor. Aerene crawled away, to the staircase, as she watched the Nord fall to the ground. The scent of burned flesh lingered into her nostrils; without hesitation, she stood and made her way up the stairs.
While she didn’t know much destruction magic, she was able to wield the flames and sparks spells. A quick glance around the room revealed that the archer was still on her feet, an arrow aimed at Hadvar and his opponent. Across the stream below, Garm’s body lay slain. A wide gash spanned across his chest, and his eyes were closed. The soldier he’d been fighting was making his way up the nearby steps to approach Hadvar. Aerene hid just below the ledge of the stairs. Damn it, she glanced between Hadvar and the archer. Light of the flames burning the red-bearded Nord’s corpse revealed a substance along the ground on which the archer stood. Oil. If she and Hadvar were to live, there was no time to hesitate.
Echoes of a distant memory breezed through Aerene’s mind. It had been Rialla, the Imperial battlemage Aerene befriended back in Cyrodiil: While such a demise is agonizing, do not forget they’d burn you alive if they had the means.
She stood from her position, the crackle of lightning summoned in her hands. She aimed to the oil slick, which expanded from where the bridge met the second platform to the archer, and struck. Sparks whirled among each other, gliding across the room to brush along the oil. The substance caught fire instantly, trailing to the archer who cried out in panic. Aerene turned from the woman, her focus landing on Hadvar. He was taking on both Stormcloaks at once, but she could see he was fatigued. The mage woman ran to her sword, swiping it from the stones and slicing it across the back of Stormcloak nearest to her. He screeched in agony, turning to face her. With both hands on the hilt and handle of her short sword, she plunged it into his stomach. His leather and blue cloth cuirass had a growing crimson stain as he fell to the ground. Three. Hadvar had managed to slice his sword across the throat of the soldier who had killed Garm. Each of the two survivors were panting for breath, sweaty and exasperated.
“Are you alright?” Hadvar asked as he took in their gruesome surroundings.
Aerene shrugged, sighing. So much had happened in just a short expanse of minutes. “By the Divines, I am ready to get out of here,” she told him. Hadvar nodded in agreement, his expression tired. “We’re close to the way out, I know it.”
While they hoped the ensuing struggle to escape Helgen’s Keep was ending, the next doorway took them into a naturally formed cavern occupied by a cluster of frostbite spiders.
After some more time, the two stood perched in the largest section of what was now a cave, into which they had followed the stream. They’d discussed the likeliness that the stream flowed to a larger nearby river or lake, which meant they couldn’t be too far from the surface. Before they could finally get out, though, they needed to get past a sleeping bear on the opposite side of the cavern, across the deepening stream. Hadvar looked to Aerene, speaking in a whisper. “We can try to take her on, or sneak past her, up to you. Whatever you choose, I’m at your back.” Hearing his words of support reassured her. “I have killed enough for one day,” she whispered back to him, looking into those grey eyes that wore a distant, yet familiar look. Quickly, they snuck past the bear, who appeared as a furry, brown mass, figure slowly rising and falling with her every breath. Aerene, from a distance, admired the glowing mushrooms in the cracks of the wall behind the bear. They illuminated the space with a light blue-green hue, casting a long shadow of the bear’s form across the dirt on which she slept.
The two rounded a corner, turning right, and the path sloped downward to an open crevice. A breeze swept inward, and the light of the outdoors peeked in. “Here we are,” Hadvar gained his footing up the slope to the opening, offering his hand to Aerene. She grasped his hand and they stepped through the narrow space.
Notes:
and here is chapter 2! it was exciting writing some action, and there will definitely be more to come.
:D
Chapter 3: A Good Night's Rest
Chapter Text
Stepping through the cave opening and out into the surface world was a true breath of fresh air. Aerene was in awe of the beauty around her. She walked out of the shade underneath the rock overhanging the cave entrance, and stopped to admire the beautiful Skyrim weather she’d always heard about. The weather was dreamlike; a haze of warmth in the sunlight, a teasing breeze of cool air blowing by. In the distance were huge mountains, snow-capped and jagged, rocky and treacherous in appearance. She looked up to the sky, admiring the azure once again, with a puff of white cloud here and there. A shadow loomed over Aerene and Hadvar, casting them out of the sunlight. “Get down, quickly!” Hadvar warned Aerene, and both of them made haste to crouch against the walls of stone connecting to the cave. It was the dragon… again. How? “He’s headed away from us, don’t worry,” Hadvar consoled the woman, as he must’ve noticed the petrified expression cast on her features. They watched as the creature soared across the wind, and into the mountainous region, eventually out of sight. It was no longer roaring or displaying the behavior of a predator on the hunt for prey.
Aerene’s hard, worried gaze moved from the skies, to the ground on which they stood. Her vision blurred, from the tears gathered in her eyes. The hope she’d been gifted as soon as they left the cave had faded instantaneously, and the terrifying stress of the day brought a realization of the exhaustion she felt-all at once. The tears poured down her dirty cheeks, washing lines through the dried blood and soot that had caked on her skin during the escape from Helgen. She breathed in, but it sounded like a whimper, and she turned from Hadvar to try and wipe her wet eyes dry. “Hey,” he murmured, stepping towards her. His fingers softly grazed one of her arms, as he did not want to invade her space. She turned to look at him; there was nothing embarrassing about her situation, as it was rather fortunate they’d made it out alive, but she still felt embarrassed for crying. “Sit,” he beckoned. In a moment, he had managed to guide her into the sunlight again, and they both sat down, facing the trail down a gradually sloping hill. Yet another road ahead. “Talk to me?” Hadvar turned to ask her. She noticed the sincerity, the calmness in his voice. What a good man. A good person. She had been wiping her hands and wrists across her eyes, attempting to clear her vision so that she’d feel more grounded, more present. The first to leave her lips was a sigh. “For a moment there, I thought we were done. As if the Gods had decided to end us, after we’d made it so far,” she began. “Today… has been quite the day.” During her pause, Hadvar spoke up. “I can imagine,” he mumbled, as he picked a nearby mountain flower, plucking the leaves from the stem and letting them fall to the dirt. He did not speak more, as he knew she hadn’t finished. “Today is not the first time I have taken a life,” Aerene continued, her tone carrying caution as she chose her words carefully-not because she had something to hide, but because she wanted to speak genuinely. “Yet today their lives weighs heaviest on my heart.” She sniffled, and tilted her head back to rest on her shoulders, palms stretched out behind her as she rested them on the soft, grainy dirt. “How do you do it, Hadvar? Take a life, and continue on? Look to the future? I feel… unlucky, having witnessed the things I have seen today. Coming from a life I am quickly realizing was much more guarded then I had first believed.”
By now, Hadvar had begun plucking the petals of the purple flower he held, fingers keeping busy as his mind wandered. “There’s a Captain in the Legion, Aldis. Trains new recruits up in Solitude. I remember during my training days words of wisdom he spoke to us. About how we’d have to carry that weight with us,” Hadvar told Aerene. She knew exactly the weight he referenced. “In the heart of the battle, when we don’t have time to question the honor or integrity of the men and women we fight, we must do what has to be done. I do not hate the Stormcloaks who I have fought in this war,” Hadvar sighed, “but it does help.” Aerene had looked from the path to Hadvar, watching him as he spoke; his gaze carried a far-away look. She could tell he was deep in thought while he talked, his body present here but his mind elsewhere. Back in that training yard, or Helgen.. or somewhere farther in the archives of his mind. “When it comes to the future…” his voice trailed into a nervous chuckle and he shook his head. This brought a smile to Aerene’s face. Hadvar turned to meet her eyes with a matter-of-fact look. “You remember your purpose, and don’t forget those lives who were lost on the way.” His mood had become a bit somber now. Aerene could tell he was thinking of something uncomfortable to recall, perhaps all of the battles he’d fought-between scuffles and wars. “As for your luck, however, you should lift your chin up a bit. You’re the luckiest woman I know, Aerene.” She raised her brows in surprise. “Just how have you come to that conclusion?” she questioned playfully. “By way of logic, of course. Today, your execution was ordered,” he started again. “Which, by the way, I am still sorry about,” he confessed. Before she could respond, he continued. “And a creature from legend, which I thought had been long dead until now, showed up to disrupt the whole process. Causing quite the ordeal, sure, but those moments, forward to this present moment, are not lost. You have survived while many did not. I think if the Gods wanted you dead, they’d have killed you by now.”
Aerene was astonished by Hadvar’s revelation. How could I have been such a fool? He’s right.
“You’re right,” she mumbled, eyes narrowing as she studied the mountains off in the distance, where the dragon had flown into. It had not emerged, which was a relief. She stood up, dusting off the light Imperial armor she’d put on when they first got into the Keep. She turned back to Hadvar, offering her hand. “You are lucky too, you know. Not many witness a dragon and live to tell about it,” she told him as he took her hand and she pulled him to a standing position. “We should get going,” he suggested. “The closest town is Riverwood,” he continued as they began walking down the dirt path. “My uncle is the blacksmith there-I’m sure he’d help us out.”
The path led downwards, branching onto a stone road; it was only one pathway of the many that ran through Skyrim, a network of roads that had grown dangerous during these times of war. For a while, the two walked in silence, the only noises those of their footsteps and the songs of nearby birds. The warmth under the sun felt excellent on Aerene’s skin. When she inhaled a long breath, she caught the scent of the flora growing all around; scents of wood, the flowers, the moist dirt. It was serene, and such a harrowing comparison to the scene they’d left in Helgen. Downward, they continued, and the road turned left. A few yards in front of them stood a stone platform, off to the side of the road. As they approached, Aerene noticed thick, vibrant green vines snaked across the stones and the ground below them. “What are those?” she asked Hadvar, pointing her finger towards them. Once they stood next to the platform, Aerene noticed each stone pillar had a unique carving. “These are the Guardian Stones,” Hadvar told her. “Three of the thirteen standing stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape.” Aerene had begun approaching the central stone. It looked majestic, unbothered by the breathtaking landscape behind the stones. Finally, the sparkling currents of a river came into view. This must be the river the cave stream runs into. “Is that the river for which Riverwood is named?” Aerene asked, looking down into the valley. Lots of forest on each side of the waters, with plenty of stones here and there, looked back at her. “It is,” Hadvar affirmed. “It’s beautiful,” Aerene grinned, trying to blink the sunshine out of her eyes as she took in the landscape. “The waters are warmer this time of year. When I was a boy, my aunt and uncle would take me out of the town and up the river for swimming,” he reminisced. Aerene liked the sound of this memory-it was so peaceful. She wondered about his childhood, how he came to live with his aunt and uncle. “That stone you’re by is the Mage stone. Naturally drawn to it, eh?” Hadvar grinned. Aerene grinned back to him, as she leaned closer to the stone and studied the mage carving. She reached her fingers to touch the cool surface, fingers gentle tracing the curvature of the carving. Upon making contact with the stone’s surface, she felt… fulfillment. “Look at that,” Hadvar gestured upward. She looked, and gasped when she saw the light blue beam of light stretching from the top of the stone and upward towards the heavens. “Wow!” she exclaimed, feeling a rush of excitement at the whimsical sight. Her fingers dropped down to her side, and she looked to Hadvar. “Have you chosen already?” she asked.
“I have. The Warrior,” he told her, pointing to the stone on her left. It bore a carving of a mighty being, wearing a horned helmet and bearing a shield. Symbols of persistence, strength… “It suits you, Hadvar.” Aerene stepped back from the stones, eyes quickly glancing over the final stone of the three. She did not need to ask what the carving symbolized-she could see it was a thief, who seemed to be in motion-running from something or someone. Her mouth curved into a sly smile, in consideration of this Thief stone, but she had made her choice already. She walked back towards him, back onto the stone road. “Riverwood, then…” she began, and the two started their journey once more. Along their walk, Aerene learned that Hadvar lived in Riverwood until he joined up with the Legion. Alvor and Sigrid had raised him after his parents passed during his boyhood, and now they had a daughter of their own named Dorthe. Hadvar had also pointed out Bleak Falls Barrow, a burial crypt across the river and nestled up in the snowy regions at the top of the mountain overlooking Riverwood. He’d had various nightmares of draugr, the Nordic undead, creeping into his room under the cover of night when he was a boy. She sympathized, for his fears were legitimate. They lived only a relatively short distance from Barrow.
Their trek through the wilderness ended when a stone wall, centered with a wide opening into the town, came into view. “It’s so quaint,” Aerene commented as the two of them approached the archway. “That it is. Uncle Alvor should be at his forge,” Hadvar mentioned. The sound of a hammer banging metal against an anvil carried through the town. The stone wall extended across the path, and reached towards a rocky hillside on the right. The left side of the wall was much shorter, stopping just alone the riverbank. Ivy grew along the cobblestones, fluttering in the breeze. Atop the wall was a walkway, safeguarded with ropes on both sides. A narrow roof had been built along the tops of wooden support beams, as well. The setup was convenient for guards to watch the nearby roads, and keep in tow the happenings of the town itself. Ferns in color from vibrant green to muted brown were clustered all along the pathway, accompanied by low bushes boasting small white-petal flowers. A quaint place indeed. When the two passed through the archway, the blacksmith’s forge was visible on the immediate left. Smoke puffed from the hot embers, and Aerene caught a glimpse of a man up the stairs of the deck. “There he is,” Hadvar spoke, guiding her towards his childhood home. Just as they passed a cottage home on the right of the road, an elderly woman called out, “A dragon! I saw a dragon!” Aerene stopped in her tracks to face the woman, whose son had quickly approached. He wore a yellow and blue tunic and had shoulder length blonde hair, the front pieces twisted and pinned back out of his face. He was hushing his mother. Aerene hadn’t moved towards them yet, as she listened to the woman. “What is it now, mother?” the woman’s son asked-he must have been in his twenties. “It was as big as the mountain, and black as night. It flew right over the barrow!” the woman did not lower her voice as her son had urged her to do, and was pointing frantically into the direction which Aerene and Hadvar had watched the dragon fly. The blonde man was not having any of his mother’s words. He had started telling her how if she were to continue speaking this way, the townsfolk would think her crazy and stop speaking to them both. Aerene began wondering how many other witnesses there were to the dragon attack. If General Tullius had escaped Helgen, he would count as a highly credible witness.
“Aerene!” Hadvar called her name. She turned to him, learning that he was not at her side, but rather up on the porch of the home that divulged into a space adjacent to the home’s left exterior wall. She forced herself to meet Hadvar up on the porch, pulling her attention from the woman and her son’s bickering. She jogged up to Hadvar’s side, looking to a new face-his uncle. “Hadvar, what are you doing here? Are you on leave-“ Alvor abruptly stopped speaking when he took in the sight of both Hadvar and Aerene. He studied their appearances, and concern overtook his features. “Shor’s bones, boy, what happened to you? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Shh, Uncle, please keep your voice down. We’re fine, but we should go inside to talk.”
“What’s going on?” Alvor’s voice picked up an edge of urgency. “And who’s this?” he glanced from Hadvar to Aerene, obviously confused by their sudden appearance in Riverwood. “She’s a friend. Saved my life in fact,” Aerene’s eyes widened slightly when she heard Hadvar say this, a blush of flattery rising to the surface of her cheeks. Hadvar had rather saved her life, she thought, but now was not the time to argue about it. “Come on, let’s go inside and we’ll tell you about it,” Hadvar met his uncle’s eyes with a quiet plea to get into a private space where their voices wouldn’t travel. Alvor didn’t need to be convinced further. He nodded, tipping his head for the two to follow him inside the house. “Alright. Sigrid will get you two something to eat, and you can tell me all about it.”
Hadvar stepped aside for Aerene to travel in front of him, and she followed Alvor into the wooden cottage. Hadvar shut the door behind the three of them. “Sigrid! We have company!” Alvor called into the home. Aerene looked around, listening to the sound of footsteps traveling up a staircase on the left wall of the room. The entry level was a cozy space. There was a bed for two against the wall opposite the front door, next to a lit, blazing fireplace. The furs and pillows atop the bed were neatly made; Aerene looked to her right, and noticed a smaller bed against the same wall as the front door. This must be a Dorthe’s bed. To the left was a dining table, with four chairs around it. It was set with a few plates, bowls, and mugs, with eating utensils here and there. Sigrid emerged from the staircase, greeting the two visitors with a warm look. “Hadvar, who is your friend here?” Sigrid asked her nephew. “About time you brought home a nice young lady to meet us,” she grinned, pulling Aerene into a hug. Hadvar’s cheeks went red as he tried to explain their situation. “I-it’s not like that. This is Aerene, and we escaped Helgen together. We’ve only just met today,” he stammered, his hand rubbing the back of his neck while Aerene awkwardly patted Sigrid’s back, still in the aunt’s embrace. “Oh,” Sigrid pulled away, an apologetic look on her face. “Forgive me, Aerene. You must be starving. Have a seat, I’ll make you some food.” Aerene dipped her head, finding an unoccupied chair to sit in. Once she was sat, she stretched her legs underneath the table. It felt so good to finally be in a comfy position. She could hardly wait to get to sleep after a long day. “So, Hadvar, what’s this about an escape, you say?” Alvor captured Hadvar’s attention. The three of them sat around the table while Sigrid moved here and there around the room, opening cabinets and drawers, picking up bowls and breaking apart pieces of bread. “As you know, I was stationed in General Tullius’ guard,” Hadvar began. Aerene detected the slightest bit of uncertainty in his voice. She knew why-what he was about to explain wasn’t something quite as believable as the sight of it was. “We were stopped at Helgen when a dragon attacked. The entire town erupted into mass confusion-“ Alvor cut Hadvar off with a look of suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “A dragon? You’re not drunk, are you boy?” There it was.
“Husband,” Sigrid chimed in from her meal preparations, “let him tell his story.”
When Alvor was hushed by his wife’s gentle scolding, Hadvar continued. “Not much else to tell. I’m not sure if anyone else made it out alive, but the entire place was devastated. I’m not sure I would have made it out alive if not for Aerene here.” Aerene had been listening, but still taking in the setting around her. She had been looking between Alvor, Hadvar, and Sigrid, wondering where Dorthe must have been. Alvor’s face was covered in soot, from the forge work. He wore his smith’s apparel, a red tunic with a black apron, both stained with the effects of labor. His hair was of a similar style to Hadvar’s, grown just past his ear and kept out of his eyes-a dirty blonde color, too. The whites of his eyes stood out from his dark irises and the soot on his cheeks and forehead. Sigrid, on the other hand, wore her hair twisted away from her eyes, part of it tied into place while the rest hung around her shoulders and back. As Aerene admired the woman’s beauty, she noticed they had the same, if not highly similar, hair color. Sigrid’s underdress was of a tan color, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Over that she wore a rustic orange piece, that had thin straps as sleeves and cut out sides. Her belt had a few pouches attached to it. Aerene thought the woman’s style was pretty, and she wished for her own belongings. Thinking of this reminded her to ask Hadvar about her things when she got the next chance. By now, Alvor was telling the two of them that they could help themselves to whatever they needed. “You should stay here for the night. You two look like you lost a fight with a cave bear. A warm meal and rest will do you both well,” Sigrid said this as she set fresh food down in front of Aerene, and then Hadvar. The mage woman looked into the bowl Sigrid had placed in front of her. A creamy potato soup, it looked like, sprinkled with herbs and seasonings. A piece of bread loaf was slowly sinking into the steaming dish. If not for the voices bringing sound to the room, Sigrid and Alvor’s neighbors surely would’ve heard the grumbling of Aerene’s belly when she inhaled the steam rising to her nostrils. “Thank you, so much,” Aerene picked up a spoon and stirred the soup. “Any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend of ours,” Alvor chimed in. “There is, however, something I need you to do for us,” Alvor spoke with a tone of hopefulness. Aerene looked to him, nodding in acknowledgement. “If there are dragons flying about, Riverwood cannot be left defenseless. While Hadvar makes his way to Solitude, we need you to travel to Whiterun and send a message to Jarl Balgruuf. Ask him to send defenses to Riverwood, and tell him what you have told us.”
Aerene had not planned anything more for her time in Skyrim. Hadvar’s family was opening their home to her, feeding her… the least she could do was deliver Alvor’s message. “You have my word,” she dipped her head in sincerity. “Thank you,” Alvor responded, before Dorthe made an appearance out of what seemed to be thin air. “Hadvar! Did you really see a dragon?!” she squeaked, excitement plastered across her face. “Hush, child, don’t pester your cousin,” Sigrid chuckled, wiping her hands on a small towel as she stood near the table. Hadvar had just spooned in a mouthful of soup, and was chewing quickly. Aerene took this opportunity to speak to Dorthe. “We did,” she started, “just like the stories about the dragons of before.”
Dorthe turned to Aerene, mouth agape in awe. “And just like the statue of the one at the Temple in Cyrodiil?!” she pressed in amazement. She’s heard of the statue at the Temple?! “Yes! Exactly like that one!” Aerene answered happily. Dorthe turned to Sigrid, “Mama! Did you hear? The dragon they saw was like the one you told me about from the book!”
“Yes, yes, child. Come now, let your cousin and our new friend eat. They’ve had a long day,” Sigrid met Aerene’s gaze with a glimmer in her eye. Aerene spooned a portion of soup into her mouth, and could have melted at the tastefulness of it. “Well, I better get back to work,” Alvor decided, pushing his chair out from the table and standing up. “You are both welcome to take anything you need,” he mentioned to them, before pushing through the front door and closing it behind him. Sigrid and Dorthe headed towards the staircase, stepping down to the lower level. “We’ve got chores to take care of down here. Let me know if you need anything!” Sigrid called, the two disappearing to the basement level. Suddenly, it was even quieter inside than the walk to Riverwood from the cave. “Thank you for bringing me here, Hadvar,” Aerene looked to her companion. “Thank you for deciding to join me. I meant what I said-I don’t think I’d have made it without your help today.”
They continued eating, and the amount of soup in their bowls decreased with every spoonful. The bread served alongside was disappearing too, and within minutes, both of them were leaning back in their chairs. “Your aunt is a good cook,” Aerene broke the silence, her tongue running over her lips to soak in the last bit of saltiness from the food. “Tell me about it. She’s been a fantastic cook all my life… anyone who’s here will never go hungry,” he smiled hazily, eyes set on the ceiling. “What’s your plan from here?” Hadvar then questioned, leaning forward to bring his head back to level as he looked at the Nord across the table. Aerene thought for a moment. She didn’t really have a plan, anymore at least. “Well… I had hoped to travel to the College of Winterhold, and become a student there. However, I am without any belongings or coin to sign my name into any treasury to create a holding,” she pondered, playing with her fingers down in her lap. “Did you, by any chance, see a silver mare when I was captured?” Aerene asked Hadvar. She refused to allow her previous anger invade the space they occupied now. They were in a safe spot, and while she had only the items she’d gathered in the knapsack sitting against a leg of the table at her feet, she was alive. Hadvar sighed, shaking his head. His mouth formed a flat line, before his lips pursed in thought. “I was not with the party that captured you last night. You were brought to a prisoner camp to join the rest of the captured, but I heard you were not conscious enough to be questioned. I only saw you briefly after you’d been put on the carts this morning.”
Aerene was surprised to hear how much time had passed between what she remembered and where she sat now. Hadvar must have noticed her confusion, and asked, “You do not remember any of that? Apparently, you were alone when another few of the Legion found you. No belongings other than the clothes you wore.”
“No, I don’t remember. That means somewhere, either in Cyrodiil, or Skyrim, or Gods know where in between, my horse and belongings are free for the taking.” It all felt bitter to think about. Aerene had saved up an abundance of coin, and she was traveling with it, aware it was not the smartest idea. She’d packed a week’s worth of clothing with her, as well as a couple days’ worth of food. These things were lost to her for sure now, but she did feel a pang in her chest when she considered how River was left alone in the wilderness. “It’s not much, but you can sell whatever you picked up on our way out of Helgen, that you don’t need. There’s a place here in town, the Riverwood Trader, where you can drop off any extra belongings,” Hadvar spoke apologetically, trying to suggest anything that might help her. When she only nodded in agreement, he frowned. “For today, though, why don’t you get cleaned up? Wash away the remnants of today. Aunt Sigrid always has a bundle of nice soaps to choose from. Stay here tonight, and set off for Whiterun in the morning,” he finished, a brow raised hopefully. That does sound nice, I have to admit, she thought to herself. “And you’ll leave for Solitude?” she asked him, to which he responded with a nod. “That settles it, I suppose,” she felt satisfied with this new plan, even if it was rather short. She sincerely hoped she’d find more purpose in Whiterun, maybe some way to work for gold again. There were lots of farms in Whiterun hold, this she knew. She could probably find work with one of them. But Rialla and Varellus said farms weren’t doing well because of Skyrim’s war. She scrunched her nose at the inconclusive suggestion to herself. “I’m going to go find Sigrid and ask her about those soaps,” Aerene decided, wanting a breath of the outdoors, already. They hadn’t been in Riverwood more than an hour or so, yet she was aching for a moment alone-not because of bad company, no, but because she just wanted to gather her thoughts. “Aerene,” Hadvar looked to her from where he stayed seated at the table. She faced him from the top of the staircase, tilting her head to tell him, ‘Go on.’
He did, asking her a question she wasn’t expecting at all.
“You told me, when I was holding that list, that Skyrim is not your home. Besides Winterhold, is there another reason you’re here?”
Aerene hesitated, resorting to a quick but not entirely dismissive answer. “Why don’t I tell you over a drink or dinner tonight?” she hoped he’d accept her offer. At the moment, she was aching to get cleaned up and free of the stink she was sure lingered on her. He nodded to her-she knew it was not the answer he’d hoped for, but she also knew she would make up for it later. She sent a soft smile his way, before descending the staircase into the second level of the home.
Sigrid could not have been more kind when Aerene wandered in looking for a bar of soap. The home’s second level doubled as a shop where Sigrid sold Alvor’s smithing creations, such as armors and weapons. There was an additional display of a few lotions, oils, and soaps-all of her own making. She had a variety of handmade soap bars to choose from, all of excellent and lovely scents, and gave Aerene a clean belted tunic to keep. Aerene asked if there was something less… valuable for her to take, but Sigrid insisted on the belted tunic dress for the mage. Dorthe appeared with a brush, and wanted Aerene to use it, saying that it would leave her red locks shiny and silky just like Sigrid’s. After thanking the mother and daughter, she wandered out of Riverwood back the way she and Hadvar had first entered. Traveling upstream of the White River, she had wandered along the cobblestones of the road. By now, it was the late afternoon, and there were a couple hours of sunlight left. She planned to make the most of it. The spot she settled into was just down a small hill behind the Guardian Stones, offering plenty of privacy out of view from the road. She knew bigger cities in Skyrim would have bathhouses and such, but she did love the thought of dipping into the fresh, untouched river water. Aerene had decided on a bar of soap scented with lavender oil; the smell was pleasant and not overwhelming. She dropped the small basket she’d been carrying onto the sand, and stretched her arms above her. Next, she pulled the Imperial leather boots off of her feet, plopping them down a good distance from the water so as not to get them wet. She unlaced the ties keeping the light leather cuirass on her, and pulled the braces from her wrists. Once all of the armor was shedded, she tested the waters with a dip of her foot. Perfect.
The woman took her sweet, sweet time bathing, creating a good lather and scrubbing the soap very well into her greasy hair and massaging thoroughly. The flowery scent brought her immense satisfaction, and she could feel the cleanliness on her skin. She felt brand new. Sigrid had mentioned that the soap would not do harm to the river at all-Aerene appreciated this as well. She ran her hands along her skin, washing away the dirt and grime from the day. Her fingers massaged into her face, cleansing her of the last bits of ash and blood. Once she was completely clean, she made her way to the shore, wading through the cool waters as it raced past her legs-in a constant, rhythmic movement. She squeezed the excess water from her hair, and dried off with a linen Sigrid had folded into the basket next to the tunic. The woman wrapped the linen around her, picking up the brush and feeling the bristles with her fingertips. She began to brush her hair, gently picking out the tangles. A while later, she stood looking out across the river, standing on the shore in all clean wearables. The sun was setting, and it was time to return to Riverwood; the walk back would be about thirty minutes, before she would tell Hadvar what she promised, in hopes he would believe her.
Walking back to Riverwood was just as relaxing as leaving it had been, but returning meant all the walking and travel was done for the night, until the morning. Aerene greeted Alvor, who sat sharpening a number of swords against the grindstone. “Welcome back,” he greeted her. She opened the door to the home, and her eyes landed on Hadvar sitting at the dining table. A book was open in his hands, and he looked up from it to meet her eyes. “Hello,” he said kindly. “What are you reading?” she asked him, wondering what kind of literature interested a soldier like himself. He hesitated before responding, and told her he was reading a block training book called The Mirror. Alvor had picked it up for Hadvar a while back, and kept it around for the next time his nephew stopped by home. Hadvar admitted, though, that he was not learning anything new from the piece. Aerene set the basket she’d been carrying down, out of the way. “How about that drink?” she asked her new friend, her hands set on her hips and her head tilted. Hadvar immediately stood up, book closed, and pushed in his chair, as if he’d been waiting for any opportunity to get up and get away from the novel. “How about it. Let’s go to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Just down the road a little,” he suggested. Aerene liked the idea of seeing the Inn, for it would give her a chance to observe a small fracture of Skyrim’s town society. “Lead the way,” she stepped aside so that he could take the lead.
The Sleeping Giant Inn was really just down the road a few paces, on the corner of two paths-one supposedly leading to Whiterun and the other heading towards the stone hill Riverwood was nestled against. There was a front porch to the building, with two staircases leading up to it. The entire roof was loaded with straw, multiple thick layers sitting atop wooden panel walls. Ivy held a presence on this building, too. Inside, there were a number of Riverwood’s citizens having dinner or socializing, or both. “Why don’t you find us a seat? Drinks are on me,” Hadvar left to the counter before Aerene responded. She blew air from her mouth, arms folded as she searched across the room for a seat. The gathering room was warmed by a large, rectangular stone fire pit, and lit by the flames of candles positioned in mounted goat horn sconces around the walls. Here and there was a snowberry wreath; the Inn’s rooms all seemed to be occupied, as they were closed and there was not a second floor. Glad I already have a place to stay, Aerene thought to herself, feeling fortunate she didn’t have to be told there was no room for her there. She spotted an unoccupied table against the wall opposite the door, and made her way over to it. She stepped over the bench seat, and sat once both legs were on the inside facing the table. She felt just slightly awkward, as the table was facing the wall; she leaned her head onto her palm, propped up by her elbow.
“You are old enough to drink, right?” Hadvar asked; Aerene startled, turning to look at him with an eye of incredulity. “What do you consider the drinking age?” she questioned as he settled onto the bench next to her, but he met her look with a cautioned one of his own.
“I jest, Hadvar,” the woman chuckled, taking the bottle he handed her. The glass bottle was of an orange ombre colour, and the stopper had been popped out already. She studied the label on the bottle, admiring the small drawing of an overflowing mug with flowers blooming out of it, decorated with a circle of leaves, petals, and more flowers. “Black Briar mead,” she examined, clanking bottles with Hadvar to toast. “To… a good night’s rest?” she asked. “A good night’s rest?” Hadvar laughed, before nodding and drinking anyways. After a few moments of idle chatter about the townsfolk, a teensy bit of gossip here and there, Aerene recalled her promise to tell him why she was in Skyrim.
Hadvar was many things-a fierce warrior, a kind soul, a sympathetic being-but he was also a fantastic listener. As the mage dove into detail about her reasons for traveling into Skyrim, the Imperial soldier would ask unexpectedly welcome questions, of which she was happy to answer. Of what he learned about Aerene’s past, he found intriguing. He made a point to mention that once he arrived in Solitude to receive new orders, he’d speak to General Tullius and his second in command, Legate Rikke, about a pardon for Aerene. She felt relieved to hear this news, and thanked him once more for his immense help throughout the day. Both were starting to feel the mead as well as their exhaustion, and retired from the Inn back to Hadvar’s family home.
-
“You’re our guest, you’re not sleeping on the floor!” Sigrid exclaimed in response to Aerene’s insistence that she sleep on the bedroll downstairs, rather than Hadvar. “But I sincerely do not mind!” Aerene happily protested. “I am much too tall for Dorthe’s bed, and I would not dare kick you and Alvor out of your own,” she added, referring to a previous suggestion Hadvar’s aunt had made, arms crossed. Sigrid wore an unimpressed expression, shaking her head. Just then, Hadvar and Dorthe came up the stairs from the second level. “You’re still arguing about this?” he asked, seemingly entertained. Both Aerene and Sigrid spoke at once, and both immediately shut their mouths in order to let the other speak. Alvor came in from the outside just then, the sweat and soot from the day vanished from his features, and he wore clean nighttime clothes. “Why doesn’t Dorthe sleep in our bed, and Aerene can sleep in hers, and Hadvar takes the floor?” Alvor suggested. Aerene nodded, not wanting to annoy Hadvar’s family further. “Alright, I give up,” she admitted, finally. “Good! Now we can all get some rest,” Sigrid tiredly smiled. After a few moments, each of them had spoke their goodnights and drifted off into sleep.
Aerene slept amazingly well, likely a result of the long day full of movement and conversation. By nighttime, the cost of all that spent energy caught up with her, and she went out like the flame from a candle. She did not dream, and hardly stirred, unbothered by any sounds within and outside of the home.
The next morning, her eyes slowly opened to dim light of an early day. She felt well rested, quietly yawning as she sat up from the bed (which she had not been too tall for) and stood. Although it was dim inside, an orange light filling the room from the wood burning in the fireplace, she could see that Sigrid and Dorthe were still sleeping. Alvor wasn’t around, and Hadvar was probably still in the bedroll downstairs. Poor guy. He’ll probably be aching to the nines by the time he wakes up. She pulled on the boots she’d scavenged the previous day, and wrapped a spare blanket around her shoulders. Taking caution to be extra quiet, she slipped outside and admired the break of the sun’s light peeking through Riverwood. The town was just starting to stir. “Good morning,” Alvor spoke from near his forge. She hadn’t noticed him, but sent a friendly smile his way. “Good morning.”
Curious to see what he was working on, she walked over to his forge, the blanket keeping her warm while the cool morning air lingered just a bit longer.I have not seen that style before,” she spoke quietly, admiring a chest plate he was twisting short bolts into on the armor bench. She noticed the piece of steel was quite asymmetrical; next to the chest plate was a set of shoulder plates, slightly bulky and of the same steel color. “Steel soldier’s armor,” Alvor explained, pushing the final bolt into the piece he held. “Is there a helmet, too?” she asked him. “There will be. This set is incomplete, for now. We’ve still got to attach the cloak, and tie together the braces and boots.” Aerene took a moment to realize that when Alvor said we, he meant himself and Dorthe. This thought was heartwarming, knowing Dorthe’s father took his daughter’s passions seriously. His daughter, and his apprentice. “How long have you been smithing for?” she asked, stepping closer to the forge, for the embers were emitting a bit of warmth. “As long as I can remember. My ma and pa were smiths, too.”
Aerene didn’t say anything, her mind wandering elsewhere. Her thoughts drifted to her own parents; she did not know them, and did not often think of them. Whatever it was she felt towards them was not favorable-she was left with too many questions when she considered the actions of the two who had brought her into the world. What were their names? Were they living somewhere in Skyrim? Would she recognize them when she saw them, if they were still alive? Why had they left her in Cyrodiil, of all places? What was their reason for abandoning a child? Her brows had furrowed in silent anger as these questions raced around her mind. “Mind giving me a hand?” Alvor asked her, pulling her from her frustrations. “What do you need?” she asked him.
Following his instructions, she spent the next half hour or so assisting with small chores around the forge. She was bringing a bucket of water from the river back to the forge trough, when Sigrid appeared at the corner of the home. “Busy already?” her tone was warm-she must’ve awoken in a pleasant mood. “Always something to be done, isn’t there?” Aerene stood up, setting the bucket down where she’d first retrieved it from-the trough was full now. “You wouldn’t mind trading places with Dorthe, would you? Help me prepare breakfast? She’s great around the forge, but can’t peel a potato for anything.”
“Hey!” Dorthe appeared at her mother’s side, curling her lips into a pout, breaking into laughter over her mother’s teasing. Aerene happily agreed, and she was soon inside the home after conversing with Alvor, who was joined by Dorthe at the forge. The two women prepared a meal of potato pancakes and snowberry porridge, finished with fragrant juniper tea. Sigrid asked Aerene to wake Hadvar, who had slept the longest. She told Aerene something about how the boy loved his sleep, and would rest clear until midday if he had the chance. The mage couldn’t help but feel bad for taking the comfy bed and waking him up, but they had long days ahead of them with little time to waste. The family and their new friend shared a lovely meal together, and soon after prepared for their day out. Sigrid had offered Aerene leftovers to take with her, but the younger Nord politely declined, as she figured she’d find a meal in Whiterun and wouldn’t be hungry at least until she got there. In private, Hadvar had mentioned to Aerene that she should avoid wearing the Imperial armor she’d found the previous day, which meant she’d be traveling to Whiterun in the belted tunic and boots underneath. Instead, he suggested she sell it to Adrianne Avenicci, a blacksmith in Whiterun.
When saying goodbye to Dorthe, Sigrid, and Alvor, Aerene promised she’d stop by to say ‘hello’ the next time she was in Riverwood. She was not sure when this would be, but it was a moment she was looking forward to. She and Hadvar stepped down from the porch of the home, waving goodbye to his family. Their walk through Riverwood was quiet, and even the slightest bit bittersweet. “You know, Hadvar,” Aerene began while they walked side by side, “you’re my first Skyrim friend.”
The male Nord smiled faintly, eyes looking ahead. “I certainly won’t be the last, either. Skyrim is a dangerous place, but you’ll find sincerity where you look for it,” he glanced over to her after they crossed the stone bridge leading them officially out of Riverwood and across the White River. This was where their paths would diverge, Hadvar traveling to Solitude and Aerene to Whiterun. They had stopped now, facing each other. The sun had risen, spreading its warm light into the valley. It would be a beautiful day, most definitely-good weather to be out in. “Where will you be sent off to once you arrive in Solitude?” Aerene asked-she was secretly wondering if she’d ever see Hadvar again. “Most likely to wherever the war is being fought. With yesterday’s events-Ulfric’s escape-the road ahead has lengthened. I have faith, though, in the Legion. We captured him once, and we can do it again, in a matter of time.” An unwelcome thought crept into Aerene’s mind. What if Hadvar were hurt in the war?
No. Don’t think like that. He’s capable, and he’ll be alongside strong women and men in the Legion.
“Perhaps the next time I see you, you’ll have good news,” Aerene spoke with optimism. When would she see him, or his family, again? He only nodded, that hopeful look glistening in his eyes. “Until next time, Aerene.” Hadvar dipped his head with a sly smile; he knew the formality was unnecessary. “Keep well, Hadvar,” she dipped her head back. They each turned, Hadvar taking the path leading up the hill they were on, and Aerene taking the path leading down into the plains of Whiterun. Neither looked back, for their goodbyes had been said and said well.
Aerene’s walk along the path was voiceless for now. The White River was rushing downhill to her right, the waterfalls pouring rapidly onto one another. Plenty of vegetation and dense forest grew to her left, with a number of trees, ferns, fallen logs, and flowers to the left and right along the riverbank. After a few turns, she was stepping away from the river, and paused to take in the views. The plains of Whiterun Hold were vast, extending from the base of the hills she was walking down, and out as far she could see. Whiterun itself could barely be seen through the trees, strategically built on the highest point of the plans. Walls snaked around the city, and Dragonsreach, the Jarl’s home and place of official business, stood the tallest by far. Knowing she’d be able to see more the closer she got, she continued. The path winded again, back into the direction of the river, and she was nearly toward level grounds. Mist from the waters blew across the wind, bringing a tinge of coolness to her skin. She was glad it was not raining, for by now, she’d have been drenched. Her goal was to find suitable armor once she arrived in the city. She wore a belt with the iron sword sheathed at her side, wondering what other swords might be available for purchase to replace the one she had. It was dull, and she felt it would be better to use a sword she wanted, not that she had because there was no other option. Her wandering thoughts silenced when she came to reality. Who am I kidding? I have no gold to spend.
At the base of the hill, there stood a tall sign with wooden panels, shaped into arrows, and painted with the names of other cities and towns. Aerene stepped back, reading each name, the white paint chipped but still legible. Winterhold and Riften caught her attention most. From this point in the road, she was invited three ways. She could turn left, and make her way towards Whiterun, through the farmlands and up into the city. Her second option was to continue straight and pass the city completely, while her third was to turn right and head up a stone road that wound up another hill towards Windhelm and Riften. She turned left, keeping to her original plan and continuing towards Whiterun.
To her left, she was coming up along two buildings. Each had white exterior walls with wooden support beams, and sloped yellow roofs with carvings of a beast extending upward towards the sky. There were a couple of chickens clucking in the yard of the buildings. A sign hanging from a post next to the road swayed back and forth in the wind. Honningbrew Meadery, it read. Aerene looked to the smaller building, which must’ve been the one open to customers. It was much too early to go mead tasting. She also thought she smelled a… peculiar scent emanating from one of the structures. Deciding to let go of the thought of revisiting the business, she began walking once more.
Further along the road, gardens bloomed in front of farmhouses settled along the left of the road-to the right, there was a shallow stream flowing back to the White River. Aerene noticed a few farmers at work, dragging tools across the soil or pulling vegetables like potatoes, carrots, and cabbage from the ground. Their plots were neatly divided by short cobblestone walls; they seemed aged, for moss and ivy had grown from the nooks and crannies between the stones and brought vibrant green tones to the dull grey hues.
The woman had been looking to her right as she walked, mesmerized by the currents of the stream, when she heard a commotion from the direction of one of the farms. There was yelling from at least two or three voices, and as she jogged toward the noise, did she feel the ground shake? Inside a fenced garden stood three warriors, all with their weapons unsheathed. At the center of their attention was a tall creature, standing at least three people tall. His skin was a greyish-white, and he was barefoot, with a hide cloth draped around his hips. It was when he stomped to the ground that the impact rumbled underneath Aerene’s feet again. He was swinging a large club, as well as a ginormous hand, down to the warriors around his legs. Two women and one man were having at the giant’s legs, occasionally landing a hit of their weapons-arrows, a blade, and a greatsword, along his more vulnerable parts. A giant. Just like the ones she’d heard of, but had never seen before. The giant’s grunts and growls carried through the air-he was most definitely angry, which made him all the more dangerous. He stomped again, and this time, the man and one of the women stumbled to the ground. Left standing was the archer woman.
Without another thought, Aerene drew her sword and charged to the scene, from her position at the fence gate. Once she was in close proximity, the tangy stench of the giant’s blood hit her nostrils. “Get up!” the archer called to her fellow warriors, but they did not stand. They each held themselves up from falling with one palm in the dirt, panting heavily. Aerene yelled out to the giant, who was facing the archer and approaching dangerously close; she gripped the sword in both hands and swung into the beast’s heel, plunging the blade into his flesh. He cried out in pain, falling onto one knee and bringing a mild quake into the ground again. Aerene grabbed the handle of the sword and ripped it from his heel, blood squelching from the wound. Another cry from the beast. She maneuvered out of the way, preparing to strike again. Before she needed to, though, the archer released an arrow that pierced directly into the giant’s heart. He went still, club falling from his grip, and he landed on a part of the fence. His body smashed through the wood and made impact with the dirt, sending a final rumble into Nirn. Aerene leaned back, gaining her footing. Sweat gathered along her temple. She flicked the blood from the sword, watching the giant as if it were going to move any second. “For a moment there, thought I was left to fight the beast alone,” the deep, feminine noise of the archer called for Aerene’s attention. Aerene looked to the woman, fully taking in her features. She was tall, and had dark red hair hanging to her shoulders, pushed out of her face. The light skin of her face was decorated with dark blue diagonal stripes of war paint. She wore armor of a dark brown, with silvery metallic plates along her hips and shoulders. Across her chest were metallic bands bearing jewels of green and blue, while her arms were clothed in dark green cloth and layered over with gauntlets. Her boots were thick, layered over with leathers and hides. Along her side, the cuirass failed to cover the woman’s skin entirely, and it also plunged deep along her chest. It was stunning and fierce.
“You are a brave one, stepping into a fight without armor or context. Would you step in at every opportunity like this?” the Nord now stood just a pace from Aerene. She had quite the presence, and the mage almost stumbled over her own words. She attempted to swallow the nervousness. What was the suitable answer? She had charged in without considering the stupidity of her action-she could have easily been bludgeoned-yet she seemed to trust in her abilities, and those of the archer. “Yes. I suppose I would,” Aerene finally spoke, her words coming out clearer than she’d anticipated, while she maintained eye contact. Her counterpart nodded, lips pursed as if she weren’t.. expecting that answer. “I am Aela. These are my shield-siblings, Ria and Farkas,” she gestured to the other two, who were collecting their bearings and dusting themselves off, not speaking a word. Maybe they were embarrassed? “Shield-siblings?” Aerene asked with a tilt of her head, now leaning on the bloodied sword she held.
“Never heard of the Companions, huh? We’re a group of warriors. We show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough.” Aela met Aerene’s gaze once again-her eyes serious, but tinted with something else. Maybe she was impressed? Intrigued, even?
“Could I join you, if I wanted?” Aerene questioned, her thoughts quickening at the mention of coin. She’d impressed herself with how she launched at the giant, and wondered at her capabilities, given she had the right tools. “Not for me to decide. Our leader is Kodlak Whitemane, up at Jorrvaskr in Whiterun. If you decide to visit, see him. And good luck,” Aela reached to Aerene’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze, before turning to Ria and Farkas. “Come on, you two,” she shot her companions a warning look, and they stepped behind the warrior woman. After they left the plot and had reached the stone road, Aerene’s eyes shifted to the giant’s unmoving body, resting inconveniently over the broken fence. She recalled Hadvar’s words that she’d find sincerity where she looked for it.
What she gathered from Aela’s description of Ria and Farkas as her shield-siblings, and the unspoken camaraderie between them, was that their bond must have been sealed with sincerity.
Chapter 4: Endurance
Notes:
Annnnnd here is Chapter 4 :D
I dedicate this one to my good friend-she knows who she is. Thanks always for your encouragement and support. <3
Enjoy this chapter!
Chapter Text
After the three Companions had traveled out of her sight, Aerene was greeted by a frantic farmer couple. “You killed it,” the man, who Aerene assumed was husband to the woman next to him, muttered in disbelief, staring down at the limp creature’s body. “Not I alone,” Aerene corrected, a hint of amusement in her voice. “And you’ve left us this mess!” the woman shouted at Aerene, who flinched and took an instinctual step back. “W-“ she began, but the woman cut her off. “How do you expect us to clean this up? This ugly oaf’s not going to walk himself out of here. Then, we have a fence to fix. Does it satisfy your honorable group to take advantage of poor farmers who don’t have such strength in numbers?!” her voice boomed at the mage, who had shrunken another step back, for as the woman shouted, she also invaded Aerene’s space-by a lot. Aerene blinked while the woman glared at her, veins bulging around her temples and jaw clenched tightly. Her husband also wore this look of irritation, his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed. The redhead woman hadn’t expected such a negative reaction. What was she supposed to say? How could she say anything as she tried not to feel the cooling sensation from dots of the woman’s saliva that had landed on her face when she got too close? Ew. She made a mental note to wash her face in the stream across the path the next chance she got, as soon as she could get out of this situation. When her thoughts had gotten the better of her and she failed to say anything quick enough to the angry pair, the man spoke up again. “What? Sabre cat got your tongue? How much are you making off of us this time? Do you get the whole five hundred gold we paid for this to be taken care of? And what of the lumber we’ll have to order for the fence? Another two hundred septims.”
“I think she should pay it,” the woman chimed in, brow raised as she looked to her husband for support. He gave a curt nod in agreement, yet his eyes darted to a spot behind Aerene, who was at a loss for words.
“She’s not paying anything.”
Aerene turned to meet the amber gaze of a Khajiit woman, the owner of the voice. Her eyes were intense, yet beautiful, irises of honey and gemstone, pupils narrow slits focused on the two farmers trying to shake the mage down. As if she had any money to give anyways. The Khajiit’s hair was black, cut short and styled into multiple braids that hung just to her jawline; her ears were slanted back in annoyance, with gold earrings pierced through the triangular tips of them. “Eliza, this is none of your business,” the farmer woman snapped to the Khajiit, Eliza. Aerene swallowed, feeling a bit of the panic flush away, as she searched Eliza’s features for some kind of response. Her fur was of shades in grey, a few stripes here and there that turned to a reddish-brown color just around the center of her face, around her nose. Underneath her left eye, which was lined with dark blue color, was a prominent scar draped diagonally down towards her shoulder, but not stretching across the entirety of her cheek. “Would calling the guards over make it my business? Or should I deal with you two myself?” Eliza’s right hand raised to rest on the hilt of a dagger sheathed at her hip. When the farmers said nothing, the sweat and shade of embarrassment leaking into their faces, Eliza hissed to them, “Get out of my sight, Hagrid and Niel.”
Hagrid and Niel, huh? As if commanded by the Khajiit’s voice alone, the couple shot another look at Aerene, but said nothing, and stepped back towards their hut at the other end of the plot. Aerene watched them walk away, and quietly sighed once they were really not going to pester her anymore. “Their desperation is becoming their downfall,” Eliza’s voice called Aerene to reality once more. “Do they have some kind of problem with the Companions? I do not understand,” Aerene tilted her head, searching Eliza’s eyes for answers. “Ah,” the woman sighed, shaking her head as she looked down. “The Companions solve problems for all people of Skyrim, but sometimes the people of Skyrim find problems in the mess left behind.” Oh. It seemed to Aerene that the group were dignified mercenaries. The dots connected, as she recalled Aela’s words-they show up if the coin is good enough. The remains of the giant were not a concern like his lively presence had been. “So, tell me…?” Eliza’s voice trailed into a tone of questioning, as she prompted the mage to introduce herself. “Aerene,” the redhead filled in. “Tell me, Aerene, you are fighting with the Companions, but are the only one left behind? Where have your shield-siblings gone off to? Certainly, you wouldn’t fight a giant alone.”
“I am not a Companion, yet. I hear it is a good way to make some coin, if one has the skill.” Aerene met Eliza’s gaze with a hint of knowing in her eyes. When Eliza looked back to her, her brows furrowed in understanding, and she nodded her head. “One of the more honorable ways for earning a septim in these lands. Your… lack of coin, is that the reason you fight in a belted tunic?” Aerene nodded in response, glancing down to the dress she wore, wishing she hadn’t soiled it already. The bottom of the dress was dirty with mud, and blood splatters made their appearance here and there on the pale yellow cloth.. “For now. I am new to this place, and I have a journey ahead of me. It is not entirely written, yet. But I must start anew.”
“Our journeys aren’t complete until the day we leave this plane. I wish you luck, Aerene. And, why don’t you come see me at my farm when you’ve got some stories as worthy as mine to tell?” Eliza grinned, her tone a playful challenge. Aerene raised her brows in slight surprise, but nodded nonetheless. That sounded nice. “I will. Is this your land, here?” she asked, gesturing to the ground on which they stood. “No. I grow wheat a bit down the road. I heard, then saw, the commotion from the fighting,” Eliza gestured to the lifeless beast’s body. “I own Wolfmoon farm. You won’t miss the sign if you’re on the way to Whiterun. Stop by sometime, and I’ll serve you the best sweet rolls you’ve ever eaten.” The mention of good company and good food watered Aerene’s mouth. How had she been so lucky, to meet Hadvar, and now Eliza? “I’ll see you again. Perhaps before you’re called to save my hide once more?” she teased the Khajiit. “Perhaps so. Farewell, then.” Eliza waved a quick goodbye, stepping away from the scene. Aerene watched the sway of the Khajiit’s tail as she walked, the furry appendage moving side to side, yet never touching the ground. She was left to wonder just who would be responsible for cleaning up the mess of the bloody giant, but decided not to wait and see. While her eyes rested on the beast’s lifeless form, and her mind was racing like wolves after prey, she tried to gather her thoughts and focus on the task at hand.
Her sole purpose for traveling to Whiterun now was to bring the warning of the dragon to the Jarl of Whiterun. The longer I put it off, the longer Riverwood is left defenseless. Once I report to the Jarl, I can form more of my plan. For now, Whiterun must be my priority. While she looked at the giant’s figure, though, her eyes wandered to the creature’s large feet. Giant’s toes. An alchemical ingredient worth ten or twenty septims apiece. And this giant here was still left with all ten of his toes… not for long. Aerene didn’t jump in excitement at the idea, however, she needed the coin. She could use her sword to carve the toes from the two feet of the creature, and hope to the Gods that Whiterun had an apothecary. She reached down to the inner layer of her dress, hidden underneath the thicker outer layer, and tore a sizable piece of the fabric. I’m sorry, Sigrid, she thought to herself. She’d just gotten the dress the night previous and was already ripping it apart. But I have a purpose for doing so, she argued with herself, while she got to work with her sword in hand.
After a quarter hour, the mage had harvested the toes of the giant, and wrapped them in the torn cloth from her dress. The blood had leaked through, and so she’d torn another couple of wide stripes of fabric and wrapped them securely around the alchemical ingredients. Once her sword and face had been rinsed in the stream and secured in the sheathe around her hip, she had made her way up the path leading to Whiterun’s gate. She’d already passed through two walls; the first had no gate and the second was just after a drawbridge. Now, she approached the central gate into the city, guarded by two men. They wore yellow cuirasses, carried shields painted yellow and bearing the stallion insignia of Whiterun, wearing helmets that completely hid their faces. Aerene looked between the two, one on either side of the gate, which she could not see past, and took another step forward. “Halt!” She froze, just barely stopping herself from startling at the sudden demand. The guard to the left came forward after calling out the order. “City’s closed with the dragons about. Official business only.” Dragons? As in more than one? Had someone in Whiterun Hold seen a dragon other than the one from Helgen? Questions fought through her mind as she prepared her statement. She recalled her reason for being here-Alvor had sent her to seek aid for Riverwood. She chose this as her leverage, knowing that Riverwood was of deserving importance. “I come from Riverwood, bearing news of a dragon attack. The village is in need of aid, and I seek an appointment with the Jarl,” she spoke to the guard who’d approached her, eyes looking into the shadowed openings of his helmet, from which he could see her. She, however, could not see his gaze. “Riverwood is in danger, too?” the second guard asked, approaching from his position at the right of the gate. He looked to his watch partner. “You better go on in,” one of them told her; she could not tell who, for they were standing side by side and facing her from just a pace back. “Jarl Balgruuf the Greater is up in Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill.” Both moved from their positions and one unlocked the latch, while the other pushed open one of the two large gate doors. She caught a glimpse at the inside of the city, as they moved around in front of her, before each stood still. “Thank you,” she dipped her head, walking forward and through the last defense, into Whiterun.
Once Aerene passed through, the guards pulled the gate to a close behind her. She paused, taking in the sight of what was rumored to be Skyrim’s most beautiful city. In front of her was a cobblestone street, set forward through various buildings sitting on the sides of the path. She was standing on a short cobblestone bridge, and stepped to the left side. She looked down, and saw rushing waters flowing underneath her. The city’s water system, flowing underneath the bridge and into a grate on the opposite side of the under-bridge. Her eyes took in the cobblestone walls rising about two men tall, winding around the outskirts of the city and acting as a solid defense; Whiterun seemed infinitely more protected than Riverwood, especially with its strategic placement atop the slope the city was built on. However, likely as all of Skyrim’s surface settlements, the foes of the sky could launch an attack at any time.
The mage began walking forward, passing a couple of Alik’r warriors on her left, arguing with a couple of guards; the woman didn’t pay much attention to their conversation, as her eyes were drawn to the blacksmith’s to her right. The smelter was emitting puffs of grey smoke, while the embers of the forge burned. An armor bench and grindstone were present as well, all for the absence of the smith. Aerene guessed that Adrianne Avenicci, who Hadvar had mentioned, was inside the shop. A sign hung from a horizontal post near the front entrance-Shieldmaiden’s. She made a note to stop by and sell her armor after a visit to Dragonsreach. At the corner of the street, across from the smith, was some kind of tavern sitting a few steps up a small hill. The Drunken Huntsman. Aerene decided to keep walking, and passed a few more homes until she reached the city’s marketplace. Vendors were spread in a circular shape, calling out greetings and offerings of their goods. Behind the vendors were a few more structures, of which Aerene guessed were more merchants. This part of the city was quite the lot busier than the area near the front gate. She noticed vendors selling produce, jewelry, and meat. She would smile to the people whose eyes met hers, but would grimace when their eyes drifted downward and cringed at the dirtiness of her dress. She made an additional note to get some new clothing as soon as she could. How would the Jarl and his court view her when she stepped into their clean space, wearing her dirty, bloodstained dress? She averted her eyes from the last person she held eye contact with.
“Do you get to the Cloud district very often? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you don’t.” Ouch. She looked away from a building that looked to be an inn. Alvor had told her of Whiterun’s districts that morning-the Cloud strict housed Dragonsreach, named so because it sat in the highest points of the city, closest to the clouds. The voice belonged to a Redguard man wearing fine robes, one of his arms tucked under the other, his hand holding his chin as he eyed Aerene up and down. He very well had been talking to her, and her assumptions were right. She tried not to frown; she knew she didn’t look the best, and was feeling discouraged about visiting Dragonsreach the more she pondered over her sorry appearance. “Nazeem, leave the poor girl alone,” a Nord woman with short, bluntly cut auburn hair approached the two. She wore a blue dress with thick stitches crossing the seams, and a brown corset over her waist and chest. Aerene was grateful the woman came to her defense from Nazeem, but was getting tired of others stepping in to speak for her. She had a voice-she needed to use it. “I am headed there now, actually,” Aerene quipped to Nazeem. His face washed over with surprise. “In that?” he pointed a finger over her belted tunic. “In this,” she affirmed with a nod. His mouth moved into a frown of disgust, and his eyes bore a stare of the same nature. “Well, Ysolda, you can converse with what the streets bring in these days. I have better things to do. Good day,” Nazeem walked away then, leaving Aerene in the presence of the woman, named Ysolda. “Don’t worry about him. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us because he owns a farm outside the city,” Ysolda explained in a way that told Aerene this kind of thing, his kind of attitude, was not uncommon. She nodded, trying to blink away the sting of tears slowly threatening to gather in her eyes. Why am I so damn sensitive all of the sudden? Will I be crying while I’m greeting the court, too? When she hadn’t spoken in response to Ysolda’s small talk, the woman added, “Well, better get back to your business. See you around, maybe.” Aerene forced a small smile, nodding. “Yes, I’ll see you around,” she replied, and the two parted ways. She sighed, stepping up a set of stairs to her left, carrying her up to a quieter setting. The path diverged into two parts, as it circled around a large planter with a dead tree in the center. Aerene stepped to the right, studying the buildings as she tried to get her breathing back under control. He doesn’t know what’s happened. He’s just a snob, that is all, she attempted to reassure herself. Letting the words of a rude, random man get to her was the last thing she wanted to do right now. Still, a tear fell down her cheek. Damn it! She plopped down one one of the white benches around the planter, pulling on her sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes and the wetness from her cheeks. She looked up to take in her surroundings for the moment.
Up yet another set of stone stairs was a large building, in the same pale blue and off-white wooden colors that most of Whiterun’s buildings boasted. However, instead of a yellowish-khaki thatch roof, a large overturned boat was sitting atop the structure’s walls. It was incredible to look at. She admired the building, wondering what went on inside, and whether she’d get the chance to enter. It caught her attention, maybe because it was so different from the rest of Whiterun. At the top of the stairs, two men appeared. Their similarity in appearance was uncanny. They must be twins, she decided. One of the men had jet black hair hanging to his jaw, tucked partially behind his ears. He was shorter than the other and was slimmer, but the width of his shoulders was exaggerated by the armor he wore. Metal plates with black fur, and the carving of a beast under his chin, at his collar. His eyes were light, she could see from the distance, but couldn’t quite tell what color. The taller one was more muscular, and as she looked at him, she realized he was the man from earlier! One of the two Companions who had accompanied Aela that morning. He wore fur-lined steel armor, tied together with leather straps. Each of the two men had dark war paint around their eyes, which brought out the light color of their irises even more.
Her gaze must have been heavy, for the taller one met her eyes. He then looked to his brother and mumbled something, while they approached closer, and then the one with black hair looked to her. Somehow, his gaze stung, and her heart felt it, too. In a panic, she gripped the straps of her knapsack, and quickly stood, walking as fast as she could in the opposite direction without breaking into a jog. She passed a man in priest robes, whose arms were raised while he spoke about Talos. Aerene raced up the stairs leading to Dragonsreach, legs tired from the quick movements, lungs running out of air. Why are there so many damn stairs in this city?! She followed the stones as they winded, and paused once she reached the next break in the stairs, a flat surface. To her left was a shorter, final staircase that would be the last before she could enter Dragonsreach. In front of her was a vertical fire pit, the orange flames sending a bit of warmth her way. The wood burning inside the metallic center bowl was piled, as if it had just recently been stocked. She caught her breath, gathering her thoughts. Swallowing the anxiety in her throat, she raced up the last staircase and met the archway leading into Dragonsreach. As she stared up through the wooden beams arching over her, she took in the true majesty of the Keep. It towered over her, over the city. She felt small, then, studying the Nordic architecture of the structure, looking over the intricate carvings that stretched to an uneasy height. Seeing this, taking in steady breaths, helped her to feel calm. Remember the reason you’re here, she told herself. There are problems bigger than snobbish comments and indirect whispers. She pushed Nazeem’s question and the stare of the twins out of her thoughts, and walked along another wooden bridge, finally arriving at the entrance to Dragonsreach. There were two more guards along the door, and as she approached, they did not question her. Instead, to her surprise, they pulled the doors to the Keep open. She quietly thanked them, and headed inside.
Through the towering set of doors, the interior of Dragonsreach was just as impressive as the exterior. A vast rug stretched in front of her, reaching wooden stairs leading up another level. To the left and right were alcoves also decorated with fancy rugs, separated from the central walkway with tall, carved wooden pillars. Aerene spotted a woman sweeping, and wondered whether she should ask where the Jarl was. She decided against it, figuring it best she find her own way instead of risk being shooed out of the Keep. Once up to the second level, she quietly sighed. Behind a huge fire pit in the center of the floor was the Jarl, seated upon his throne. He was in conversation with a few around him. Aerene noticed long tables on either side of the fire pit, being set with fresh food and steaming dishes. She swallowed at the sight, the scent of cooked meat drifting her way. She realized this was just a glimpse into the life of Jarls and their courts-a stark contrast to life in a cottage with a majority of hunting for one’s own game. She decided to approach the throne, letting her hands fall to her sides so as to not appear tense-though that was her entire being at the moment.
As she got closer to the business of the court-the Jarl in conversation with whom Aerene presumed to be his advisors-she began listening in to what she could understand. One of the men seemed to be getting on the Jarl’s nerves, for Balgruuf spoke with in a tone of growing irritation, while the man was getting more defensive. “Well who’s this, then?” her eyes widened just slightly, and she looked up from the wooden panels of the floor to see that the court, every single one, was looking her. Quickly approaching her was a Dunmer woman in leather armor, her sword drawn and her free hand balled into a fist. “What is the meaning of your interruption? The Jarl is not receiving any visitors at this time,” she interrogated, eyeing the mage woman from bottom to top. Her eyes narrowed when they met Aerene’s again. The Nord somehow managed to keep a calm demeanor on her exterior, and spoke articulately. “I come on behalf of Riverwood, as a witness to the destruction of Helgen.” Her hands had met each other, fingers interlocked across her front. “You know about Helgen?” It was Jarl Balgruuf who spoke up. “Irileth, let her approach,” he gestured for Aerene to step closer to the throne. “Very well, my Jarl,” Irileth did not sound pleased with this, but sheathed her sword nonetheless. “You may approach,” she held her hand out, as if welcoming Aerene to step up to the throne of Whiterun. “Forgive my Housecarl. She is… protective,” Balgruuf greeted Aerene. “Proventus,” Balgruuf looked to the advisor who was wearing blue noble’s clothes, “we’ll continue our conversation at a later time.” Proventus, the steward, dipped his head and stood back.
“Now, what is your name, and what do you know of Helgen?” Balgruuf met Aerene’s eyes. She noticed how he had not cast judgment on her appearance, at least not obviously, but looked her directly in the eyes. She studied his features while she spoke. He was a Nord man, probably ten or fifteen years her senior. His hair was a rich blonde and braided out of his face, hanging down behind his ears. He had a beard of the same color, with hard blue eyes and a strong nose. One arm was relaxed on the rest of the throne, while the other was propped up with his hand hanging near his chin. He wore a circlet of red and green gems and unique noble’s robes, decorated with feathers, jewelry, and fur. “I am Aerene, and I was at Helgen…” her voice had trailed. Her eyes fell from his, as she quickly debated whether to tell him why she was there at Helgen in the first place. She looked to him again, and continued. “When the dragon attacked. The creature from legend. Many lost their lives, few escaping. I was given welcome into Riverwood by Alvor and his family. He asked me to come here, my Jarl, seeking more defenses for Riverwood. The dragon was last sighted flying into the mountains nearby.” She finished, and Balgruuf nodded with a glimmer in his eye. He looked tired, in the way that he’d felt tired for a long while now. His face was handsome though, the allure formed by the sharpness of his features in contrast to his soft eyes.
“My Jarl, I have never heard of this woman,” Proventus approached from his idle position, and looked Aerene over. She could feel the judgment of his gaze. “How should we know to trust a word she says?” Was the whole of Whiterun against her today? “Proventus, do not speak of our guest as if she is not here. Would you also be able to describe an eyewitness account of the attack on Helgen?” Balgruuf asked his steward, that tone of annoyance returning to accompany his words. It had left when the Jarl addressed Aerene. “Well, my J-“ Proventus was cut off by Balgruuf. “Well, what? No, Proventus, you would not,” Balgruuf stressed, shifting positions in his throne. “Do not interrupt again,” he warned the Imperial steward, who nodded and mumbled an apology, before returning to his earlier spot. “Now, you’re sure this was not some Stormcloak raid?” Balgruuf asked Aerene once his attention returned to her. Huh?! How would the Stormcloaks summon a dragon? During an execution? Aerene’s brows furrowed as she shook her head. Could that make sense?. Hadvar had been wondering if the Stormcloaks were behind it all. It would have been too risky, though, to launch a dragon attack when the leader of the rebellion himself could have quickly become a victim. “I am sure, my Jarl. The Imperial Legion was holding an execution of a captured Stormcloak squad, including Ulfric Stormcloak himself. As far as is understood, he managed to escape with his best officers,” Aerene informed the Jarl. When she said this, a few gasps were heard from around the room. It seemed her presence had gathered quite the audience. She cautioned herself to choose her words carefully. “Riverwood is in danger, then, and the dragon could very well be headed this way.” It was Irileth who’d spoken this time, advising the Jarl further. Balgruuf nodded in agreement with her words. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once. They have asked for my help, and I will answer.”
“Yes, my Jarl,” Irileth bowed a goodbye, then turned away from the court and disappeared behind a wall to the right of the throne. “No, my Jarl! The Jarl of Falkreath will see that as a provocation, that you have taken sides against Ulfric! More men in Riverwood would weaken our position of neutrality!” Proventus worriedly proclaimed. Aerene wondered if she’d see Falkreath any time soon. She knew that it’d be bittersweet whenever she’d come to end up there, probably sometime in the later future. For the time being, she was in Whiterun, and was growing satisfied with this, despite the rough start she was having. If the Companions accept me. How would they view her, then, if she showed up in her current state?
“Enough!” Balgruuf snapped to the advisor. “What would you have me do, Proventus? Leave my people defenseless while we sit here idly, a dragon lurking free to burn and slaughter? We cannot be separated from the villagers outside the city. Troops will be sent to Riverwood at once, and that is final.”
Proventus shrunk back with the Jarl’s words, eyes lowering to avoid the blonde man’s glare. “Perhaps I should return to my duties,” he proposed. “That would be best,” Balgruuf responded in a sigh. Aerene turned to watch the gathered return to their previous occupations, maids and a few guards leaving. Aerene felt more comfortable now that there were only two in the conversation. “Now, Aerene,” Jarl Balgruuf called for the woman’s attention. “Yes?”
“Lunch is being served shortly. Would you dine with me? I am sure you’re tired and ready for a meal after your journey from Riverwood.” Aerene’s cheeks flushed-she had not expected an invitation to dine with the Jarl. In fact, she had not expected this kindness at all. She also had not realized the hunger growing in her stomach. It must have been midday already, and her body had burned away the fuel of breakfast. “Yes, my Jarl, I would be delighted, Thank you for your kindness,” she bowed slightly forward. “Good,” Balgruuf stood then, and gestured for a maid to come over. “Gerda, please show Aerene to a seat at the dining table. I will join shortly.” Gerda, the woman Aerene saw sweeping earlier, nodded in understanding. Balgruuf left the two and walked into a nearby room. “You must have had a busy morning,” Gerda guessed as she walked Aerene to a seat at the table. “A busy couple of days,” Aerene corrected jokingly, to which the maid smiled. “Would you like water? Wine? Mead?” she pulled a chair from the table and gestured for Aerene to sit. The mage did, and settled in comfortably. “Water would be lovely, thank you.” Gerda nodded, and walked across the setting to a room behind the table on the other side of the fire pit, which must have been the kitchen. Aerene sat her knapsack on the floor against her chair, looking at her hands in her lap.
“Hello,” a polite voice spoke. Aerene looked up to find the eyes of a brunette woman in steel armor. She wore a soft smile and had pretty emerald eyes, but Aerene was not entirely sure she was the target of conversation-there were others sitting around as well. “Yes, you,” the woman laughed quietly. Aerene’s mouth formed into a soft ‘o’ shape, and then she grinned. “Hello,” she greeted in return. “I’m Lydia, one of the housecarls here. It’s so nice to have a guest. Are you staying in Whiterun?” Lydia questioned, sipping from a tankard she held. “For the time being, yes. I need to sort my own business out, and there is no promise of safety while traveling at the moment, with the dragons about.”
Lydia and Aerene continued speaking for a little while as they awaited the Jarl’s return; no one would dare begin eating without the head of the table present. The mage had learned that Lydia lived in Dragonsreach, and would be assigned as the Housecarl to the next Thane. However, there was not currently a candidate in line. Aerene had also learned that the building with the overturned boat atop was indeed Jorrvaskr.
Once the Jarl returned, the group began eating. Gerda had returned with water and a bowl with a rag, insisting that the Nord wash her hands before dining. Aerene did as the woman asked. She had also been seated closest to the Jarl, whose children were at the opposite end of the table, with Lydia on the Jarl’s other side. Their lunch was of fresh bread, roasted potatoes and carrots, cut apples, and roasted chicken. It was an impressive spread. Why wouldn’t it be? Jarls dine like this every day. After the children had asked for permission to leave, and the others at the table had returned to their duties, four remained; Jarl Balgruuf, Aerene, Lydia, and the court wizard, named Farengar Secret-Fire. Farengar was gnawing at a chicken leg, and the sight was too unpleasant for Aerene to look at the wizard when he talked between bites. Lydia must have felt the same, or similar, at least, for her attention was set fully on the Jarl. “Now, Aerene, you have done Whiterun a service. You took initiative and sought me out to call for help on behalf of Riverwood,” Balgruuf began, setting a cloth onto the table after wiping his mouth. “For this, you have our thanks,” he gestured to Lydia and Farengar, who did not speak, but nodded in agreement to Balgruuf’s words. “Now, I ask you this. Should we need the aid of an adventurous outsider such as yourself, sometime sooner or later, would you assist my court again?”
Aerene blinked, knowing that a negative response would ruin the position she was establishing. What exactly was he asking of her? “Yes, my Jarl. As I become familiar with this lands, I seek to establish familiarity with its people, as well. If you trust I might be of assistance at a later time, I trust I may carry out your will.” With this, the blonde Nord man seemed satisfied. He leaned back in his chair, hands folding in his lap. “See? I told you,” he spoke to Farengar, who was now wiping his fingers clean with a cloth napkin. “You did,” Farengar acknowledged. So they’d been talking about her earlier. She was not entirely comfortable with this, but decided to hope the words spoken of her were good, and that she should not care anyhow. “Excellent, then. As a symbol of gratitude, I am rewarding your efforts.” At that time, Balgruuf set a sizable pouch on the table. The clanking of coins shifting inside could be heard as he did so. “This should buy you accommodation and… wearables, should you seek them out.” Aerene couldn’t help but chuckle at the Jarl’s joke about her clothing. Why did it not bother her when he laughed about her dirty dress? Perhaps because he was not doing so in contempt.
The four sat in conversation for a while longer, Farengar eventually returning to his space. Aerene asked as many questions about Whiterun as she could, but also tried to get a grasp on the Jarl’s position in the war. He had insisted he was on the side of Whiterun, even with Lydia’s reasoning that he would likely need to choose an allegiance with Ulfric free again. Balgruuf dismissed this, saying the time had not yet come. While Aerene listened to him speak, she learned he was probably older than she first assumed. His features had signs of aging she had not previously noticed, and he spoke in a manner displaying his experience as a leader for quite some time. The longer they chatted, the more comfortable she felt in Dragonsreach, and attributed that almost entirely to their hospitality. The time came for Balgruuf to return to the throne and handle smaller issues, while Lydia would focus on her tasks as well. Aerene parted ways with them, after much thanks and a burning curiosity about how much coin she was rewarded. After she left, she began wondering whether her reward had been given according to her response to the Jarl’s inquiry about her assistance at a later time. Either way, she had done well.
She found herself wandering back to the marketplace after leaving Dragonsreach. She planned to sell off what she did not need, and visit Warmaiden’s. She was hoping for a set of armor that she could afford and wear well, and that wouldn’t leave the Companions laughing in her face when she went to Jorrvaskr hoping to join. She decided to try for a bed at the Drunken Huntsman after visiting the Companions’ Hall, depending on how it went. Her mood was vastly different from what it had been earlier-she felt calmer and happier overall. She hadn’t seen the twin Companions from earlier, nor Nazeem. She did see Ysolda entering the inn at the marketplace, but did not get the chance to say hello-not that she had much to say other than thanks for earlier. First, Aerene entered an apothecary called Arcadia’s Cauldron. Inside was the owner, Arcadia. She was an Imperial woman who wore a dress similar to Sigrid’s, with a matching fur hat. She was curious to know how the redhead had harvested a full set of Giant’s Toes, and Aerene proudly told the tale. It seemed she earned points for bravado on top of the base value for the ingredient, because Arcadia offered fifteen septims per toe. Aerene was satisfied with this, and purchased two small magicka potions. She would keep them with her, not knowing when she would need the magic boost. Once she was rid of the extra weight from the toes, she made her way into Belethor’s General Goods, to perhaps buy a dress and sell the spell book she’d found in Helgen.
“I’ll tell you what,” Belethor began, after she’d told him what she was looking for. “I’ll trade the book for that dress,” he pointed to a mannequin wearing a tunic of awkward length, with hideously large stitching and too many patches. “This is a spell book, not some forgotten memoir. Surely it’s at least three times the value of that sorry excuse of a dress,” Aerene complained at his scheming. Did he treat every customer like this? “That’s my offer. Maybe I’d throw in those boots, too,” he pointed to a single pair of very worn boots sitting on a shelf. “I stitched that dress myself, you know,” Belethor’s bearded mouth curved into a sly smirk. “Did you wear the boots to death as well?” Aerene retorted, taking the book from the counter and stuffing it into the bag. Sounds of his attempts to haggle her into trading for a ridiculously bad deal followed her to the shop’s door, which she quickly pushed through and closed behind her. She deeply hoped he wouldn’t continue harassing her outside of his shop. Her fingers ran over the straps of the satchel, tightening it to a close before swinging it onto her back. She brought her hands to her hips, wondering what to do next. There wasn’t any reason to delay her visit to Warmaiden’s. By now, it was mid-afternoon, and an armor fitting would take some time. Deciding not to waste any time, she set out down the cobblestone street, back towards Warmaiden’s near the gate of the city.
While she walked, she admired the weather; the afternoon had a chill to it, a sign of a colder night on the way. She would need an armor suitable for Skyrim’s chilly climate, but that was also comfortable to wear.
Back in Cyrodiil, while she’d lived with Rialla and Varellus, Varellus had shown her a great deal about smithing and the art of wearing armor. He wore a set of studded Imperial light armor, and had expressed to Aerene how it allowed him to move comfortably while maintaining agility in battle. However, he often fought with a shield or duel wielded two swords, for better defense to make up for the light armor’s lower defense rating. Rialla had opted to wear heavy armor, offering more protection from attacks while she cast spells in battle from a longer distance. Rialla had also shown Aerene a ward spell, but Aerene never had the chance to learn it. While casting an attack from one hand, Rialla was able to create a magical barrier shield protecting her from incoming spells. The ward was of limited protection, though, as it could not defend against physical offense. Aerene had minimal experience wearing light armor, and had not ever been fitted into the heavy type. While she thought of the dark bronze-skinned twins, who each had curly, dark brown hair, she smiled to herself. A memory of one of those days spent learning from Varellus made its return to her thoughts.
“You have strong legs, use them against me!” he’d called to her as she held a light shield and a short sword, facing him in the village’s training yard. “But I don’t want to hurt you! What if I kick you too hard?” she whined back to him. “It’s about more than kicking, strawberry hair.” She rolled her eyes at his silly nickname for her, especially because she did not like strawberries and refused to grow them in her garden. He began nearing her, holding his shield and sword up defensively. His dark eyes were narrowed as he approached her, staring over the top of the shield in her direction. There was only so far she could keep moving backwards…
CLANG.
He brought the sword down into her direction with a fast swing, and his blade met the shield she shoved to her defense. The impact rattled through her arm and into her body as she stumbled forward, trying to gain her footing. “You didn’t warn me!” she cried, facing him after she grabbed hold of her balance once more. “Your enemies will not warn you, Aerene. You cannot wait for their attack!” his enthusiasm was an additive to the adrenaline pumping through her at her success in defending from his movements. They circled each other, each of them studying the other’s movements in attempt to pass quick judgment on what might happen next. “ARGH!” Aerene screeched as she launched for Varellus, arm raised with the sword ready to strike down against him, shield falling to a uselessly low position…
How long ago had that been? About nine months previous was when she’d first met the brother and sister pair. Their Imperial duties split the three apart around two moons previous to Aerene’s entry into Skyrim. Still, she felt many emotions in regard to the time she spent with them. With Rialla, it was sisterhood, femininity, trust, friendship. With Varellus, however…
Aerene sighed at the quiet murmurs of heartache-she missed them both strongly, despite that upon their parting, the three acknowledged they may never gather together again. Last she had heard, Rialla was needed in the Imperial City, and Varellus was being sent to the south of Cyrodiil in Leyawiin.
Before she knew it, the woman was standing outside Warmaiden’s, where Adrianne was hard at work hammering at a metal plate on the workbench. Adrianne noticed Aerene, and set the hammer down. She leaned against the workbench, wiping sweat from her brow. “Looking to buy? We’ve got good pieces out here, and more inside.” Aerene noticed the woman was wearing clothes of high similarity to Alvor’s-Skyrim’s smiths must have taken a liking to the red tunic and black apron pairing. Adrianne’s dark sienna skin was spotted with soot, and her mouse brown hair was tied back away from her face. “I’m hoping to sell, too. I have some Imperial armor, but I am not a member of the Legion.”
Adrianna had a highly agreeable attitude and a respectable demeanor, insisting that she buy the Imperial armor set for more than Aerene thought it was worth. She was also curious to hear about how Alvor was doing, and went rather quiet when Aerene expressed concerns over the dragon’s appearance at Helgen. Once the barter value of the armor was agreed upon, the two went inside for a fitting.
“Ulfberth, write into the ledger that we’re buying a set of light Imperial armor, minus the helmet,” Adrianna instructed the Nord man behind the counter. The muscles of his arms were huge, looking as if they barely fit into the iron armor he wore. “Are you sure you want these boots? They’ve been worn in a bit,” Aerene eyed the boots she still had on her feet. “Oh, absolutely. I’ll make them like new. Besides, you’ll walk out with a warmer, comfier pair. Why don’t you look around? We’ve got plenty to choose from,” Adrianne insisted. Aerene saw the sincerity in the woman’s amber eyes, and didn’t argue. While Adrianne walked over to her husband and talked to him about the quality of the pieces they were buying, the mage took in the shop’s appearance. To the right of the counter was a lit fireplace, and in one corner was a table with seating. Around the shop’s walls were pieces of armor and weaponry hanging on display, the excellent works a telltale sign of Adrianne’s skills. Aerene turned to take in the other side of the shop, to her left. She noticed that Ulfberth had a huge iron battleaxe strapped to his back; it was almost as tall as he was, and probably taller than Adrianne herself.
Then, the redhead’s eyes landed on a pleasant sight.
A set of steel soldier’s armor was displayed on a mannequin near the left wall of the building, complete with a helmet, undertunic, plates, and a decorative sash. It was a full version of what Alvor had been constructing that morning. Aerene was intensely attracted to the piece. She neared it, fingers gently tracing the steel chest plate and then the sturdy helmet. The dark blue sash hanging over one shoulder was a thick, soft material, which could likely double as a blanket in a time of need. “That one catch your eye, aye girl?” Ulfberth called over to her. Adrianne popped up from behind the counter to see what Aerene was looking at. “Ah, steel soldier’s armor. Not too heavy, and comfortable in the northern climate.”
“Would it fit?” Aerene asked hopefully, nibbling on her bottom lip in anticipation. “Anyone shorter, no. Your tall Nord stature and broad shoulders will suit it just fine,” Adrianne told her, making her way over to the mannequin. “Well?” she asked Aerene, who was in awe of the set. “Want to try it on?” Aerene looked to the Imperial woman with an excited grin.
They’d undressed the mannequin and taken the set into a changing room in the back of the shop. The mage was extending her limbs, feeling the armor out. She felt secure and able to move quickly all at once. “You’re sure you didn’t make this just for me?” she asked Adrianne, who chuckled in response. “It’s all yours, if you want it. The helmet will take some getting used to, and it might make your neck tired at first. Your head will be protected from enemy attacks, including arrows fired at you,” Adrianne told her this as she moved behind Aerene, securing the last straps. Once she was done, she took a couple of steps back and eyed the Nord. “You’re not from here, are you?”
Aerene was surprised at the woman’s question. “How can you tell?” she asked curiously. “I am from Cyrodiil. I know the sound of a more… Imperial accent anywhere. Or, at least, the accent you hear when in Skyrim’s southern regions before entering Cyrodiil. So, am I correct in my assumption?” Adrianne smirked, eyes narrowing. “You are,” Aerene replied. “I lived my life in the Imperial City, then Bleaker's Way, with a stay in Bruma.”
“And now you’re here, in Skyrim. Here to stay?”
“Yes, that’s the plan.”
“Plans change…” Adrianne’s voice trailed off, and Aerene could tell she was thinking of something, maybe an event of the past. “If I hadn’t met Ulfberth, I might’ve left Skyrim, or ended up in one of the other cities here.”
“Do you enjoy working in Whiterun?”
Adrianne nodded, beckoning for Aerene to follow her out of the changing room and back to the front of the shop. “I do. It gives me the chance to advise my father Proventus, up at Dragonsreach, and yet maintain our business.” Aerene took a moment to connect the pieces. Proventus and Adrianne Avenicci-they shared a unique last name, of course they were related. Additionally, Proventus and Adrianne spoke in accents highly contrasted to that of Balgruuf, who had a thick northern way of language. “I met your father today, when I sought out Dragonsreach to deliver news of the dragon attack. It seemed that Balgruuf’s court was already aware of the events, though,” Aerene added. “News travels quickly in Skyrim,” Adrianne replied, writing in the ledger once she was behind the counter again.
The smith and the mage worked out the difference Aerene owed after trading in the almost-set of light Imperial armor. Adrianne asked if Aerene was looking to buy a weapon to replace the iron sword on her hip. Aerene was thinking it best to keep something she was familiar with for the moment. What if it happened that she was not welcomed into the Companions? Would she need a sword then? She had a minimal savings of coin, thanks to the Jarl’s generosity and the sum she’d walked with from the Cauldron, but could not immediately make for Winterhold and expect ability to enroll with the College. After the armor set was paid for, and the stained belted tunic disposed of, Aerene left Warmaiden’s.
At present, she stood at the base of the stone stairs leading up to Jorrvaskr. She was fully dressed in her new armor, hands resting on the hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. Wearing the steel set implanted within her a newfound confidence, a natural feeling that she had been searching for since losing her belongings. Not bad. With a ready heart, she stepped up to Jorrvaskr. Being closer allowed her to take in the architecture she had not previously noticed. Multiple ancient wooden shields were mounted along the rim of the overturned boat, each boasting unique carvings. Various wooden beams acted as support for holding the boat in place, which also had mythical creatures carved from its wood.
A woman was leaning against the wall in between the two front doors to Jorrvaskr. Aerene looked her up and down as she approached, and recognized her from earlier. She had been fighting the giant with Aela, before the stomping shook her to the ground and left Aela alone-seconds before Aerene approached and entered the tangle. Ria. Aerene recognized her, but Ria most likely did not recognize Aerene, who wore a helmet hiding her face. As Aerene eyed Ria, though, she realized just how much she couldn’t see while wearing the helmet. There was only a thin line for a visual opening, and she could only see Ria’s shoulders and face. “You lost?” Ria asked, folding her arms.
“I’m looking for Kodlak Whitmane. Is he inside?” Aerene asked, eyeing the doors on either side of Ria. “Yeah. Downstairs, last I saw. They just let me in, though, if you’re looking to join. So, there’s probably not anymore room,” Ria hinted. If there was no more room, why would Aela have mentioned that Aerene speak to Kodlak about joining in the first place? Perhaps Ria was enjoying, all too well, being the newest blood of the group. Aerene gave a curt nod, pushing her way partially through the door. She had nothing to say to the brunette woman, but guessed that entering the building against Ria’s warnings was bothersome enough. Once she was inside, she looked around. A huge table was sitting in the open room, in a geometrical ‘u’ shape around a rectangular hearth boasting a cozy warmth. There was a set of stairs leading down to the space, and once Aerene was down, she noticed the commotion. Over to the left of the room, in an open space adjacent to an edge of the dining table, two were in a bloody brawl. A Nord woman wearing hide armor and a silvery helmet landed a punch into the cheek of a Dunmer male with ginger red hair. He cried out in frustration and pain, falling to his his and knees on the flagstone floor. Those standing around the brawl erupted into cheering as this happened. Aerene considered making her way over to the scene, curious to know who would win, but opted for joining the group first.
She looked for a way to the downstairs Ria had mentioned, but her eyes narrowed as she began wondering if Ria would guide her into the wrong direction. Aerene walked to an elderly woman sweeping the floor on the opposite side of the space, away from the commotion. “Hello,” she greeted the woman, who turned to look at her. “Hello, dear. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Kodlak Whitmane. I’d like to join the Companions.”
“Ah, a new recruit, hmm? He’s downstairs now. Head down the steps and turn right, then go straight down the hall. You’ll find him somewhere in there, can’t miss him,” the woman made sure Aerene understood before returning to her cleaning. Aerene thanked her, and followed the instructions. A set of wooden stairs lead to the underground level of the building, which was well lit thanks to many torches. There were long rugs of yellow and red thread stretching the lengths of the hallway. Aerene did not want to linger where she shouldn’t, and felt a bit like she was invading a private space. One of the rooms she passed had a few beds, with belongings scattered around, from what she could see. She stepped quietly down the hall, and two voices eventually came into earshot. She knew it was against her better judgment than to listen, but she did anyway. What she heard did not make sense to her; there was discussion of hearing calls, and notions indicating some kind of split within the group.
These whispers were not her concern, though, she knew this. By the time she reached the room at the end of the hall, the voices had quieted. Her eyes landed on Kodlak Whitemane when she stepped into the room. “A stranger enters our hall,” he stated, hands falling to rest on his knees. Aerene quickly understood his namesake; his hair was light grey, long and pushed back behind his head with a couple of braids. His beard was the same tone, hiding most of his broad neck. Warpaint took up the space of his left cheek, pointed swirls turning along the structure of his face and wandering down toward his shoulder, over his neck. How silly she would have been to ask if he was Kodlak Whitmane.
Aerene spoke a hello to the leader, and then she realized who his companion was. In an instant, she wished she’d have heeded Ria’s fake warnings and avoided Jorrvaskr altogether. Sitting across the table from Kodlak, with his arms crossed and his glare intensely sharp, pointing from his painted eyes, was the other twin. Not Farkas, but the one who Farkas had spoken to; Aerene recalled the icy gazes of the twin brothers when they looked at her earlier-when she’d hurried away before they got any closer. Like prey scattering from a predator. She sucked in a quiet breath, and while looking to the brooding man of the two, she spoke to Kodlak. “I wish to join the Companions, if you’ll have me.”
The twin leaned back, his arms crossing even tighter across his chest. Aerene wondered if she’d been mistaken in seeing him take a deep breath in, through his nostrils that flared tightly in the process. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and she looked to Kodlak. “We welcome those with a fire in their hearts. Why have you come to us today?”
She thought for a moment. At first, after she’d seen Aela with Ria and Farkas, she only wanted coin. After she’d been alone, thinking of how she admired Aela’s strategy and courage, she considered how she wanted to share those moments with others. In the same way she’d learned from Rialla and Varellus, while opening her home to them, she now sought coin and adventure. “I seek belonging,” she addressed Kodlak. “With a group maintaining integrity and honor. The source of the flame burning within.” And coin.
Kodlak’s mouth formed into a gentle smile, and he eyed his shield-sibling. “Step back, let me get a good look at you.” Aerene did as instructed, wondering if this was him asking her to show her face. She kept the helmet on, deciding that it was the only thing masking the twin’s daggers from piercing through her skull. “Good,” Kodlak murmured.
“How are you in battle, girl?”
Aerene was reminded of her conversation with Aela back at the farm outside the city. She told the Nord archer that she would charge into battle. She sought to maintain that nature here, and followed through with a cautious, but honest, answer. “I can handle myself, though there is always more to be learned.” Kodlak hummed to himself with this-perhaps her answer was satisfactory? “Your certain strength of spirit is what matters.”
“And her arm.” So, in the company of more than one, he speaks.
“Right. Vilkas, take her out to the yard and test her arm.” Kodlak’s instruction initiated a sour expression on Vilkas’s face.
“Master, you’re not seriously considering letting her join us? I’ve never even heard of this outsider,” he cautioned Kodlak. Aerene’s jaw fell, and her eyes shot to Vilkas. He couldn’t have possibly known the woman standing in front of him was the same one who’d been crying in the courtyard earlier! Vilkas had a thick articulation when he spoke. Aerene told herself not to be intimidated by his rejective nature, but his words did sting a bit. I’ve never heard of you either, she wanted to tell him. She bit her tongue, for now. Did the fact that he’d seen her earlier count for anything? Did he know it was her? Her previously calm brain was running in circles, and almost out of breath.
“Vilkas, I am no one’s master. And last I heard, we have plenty of open beds for those looking to join our ranks. Test her arm first. I trust your judgment.”
Aerene silently thanked Kodlak for defending her, but was that what he was really doing? And did she not think that she needed to speak for herself, earlier in the day? There would be a time and place for everything. She was trying to make a good impression, and to belittle Vilkas, who outranked her now, would have an unpleasant conclusion. Vilkas said nothing other than “aye” before standing and walking past Aerene. While doing so, he shot her another look, and she swallowed nervously. It was as if he’d seen right through her helmet and into her soul-her soul conflicted between honor and desperation.
“Follow Vilkas into the yard so you can show him your skill.” Kodlak said this, then turned his knees into the table, picking up a tankard and bringing it to his lips. This was Aerene’s cue to leave.
By the time she’d followed Vilkas, he was already at the end of the hall and passing through the door to the staircase. Wait for me, please! She wanted to call these words out-but refused. She would not beg for anyone.
Her steps turned into a brisk jog, hurrying to catch up to him, or at least maintain a distance where she wouldn’t lose sight of him. Once she got up the stairs, she spotted him standing at the doors opposite the entrance. Those doors would probably lead out into the training yard. Was he actually waiting for her? She couldn’t decide whether she liked him, yet. Mentally, she sorted him into the same grey area as Ria. Much to her surprise, he actually waited for her to get near before he pushed the door to the clearing open. She silently followed through, and silently appreciated that he held the door open for her. They emerged onto a patio setting, covered by shade from an overhanging verandah. There were tables with tankards and cups, and some spreads with fruit, cheese, and bread. Aerene gathered that the Companions certainly ate well. If she hadn’t dined with the Jarl earlier, the sight of fresh fruits and cheese certainly would’ve instilled the pang of hunger in her. Recollection of the earlier meal in Dragonsreach prompted Aerene to wonder when she’d visit again. Jarl Balgruuf had made a point to mention that he occasionally put out bounties on nearby bandit hideouts, and other issues of the sort. “When you’re looking for work, come by again,” he’d invited her warmly.
“The old man said to have a look at your form, so let’s see what you’ve got,” Vilkas spoke once they stepped from the seating area into the yard itself. The clearing was dotted with training dummies and shooting targets, accompanied by a chilly breeze-typical for the plains region in which Whiterun was located. Aerene stood facing the man, who was watching her all the same. She had not drawn her sword yet, but was… waiting? What am I waiting for? What exactly does he want me to do? Her thoughts drifted to that day of training in the village when Varellus was her teacher. How he’d told her to use the strength of her legs.
“Have a few swings at me,” Vilkas prompted, finally unsheathing the greatsword secured across his back. It was long and sharp, and just a bit intimidating when compared to the iron sword Aerene drew from its sheathe at her hip. She gripped the sword with both hands, positioning her feet into an offensive position. She raised her arms so that her right hand was holding the skyward side of the handle, left hand balancing the side facing the ground. Her elbows were pointed in opposite directions with the process. She remained quiet, as she and Vilkas began to circle one another. When she moved to the right, he did too, greatsword held at a defensive position across his torso. She shuffled forward, taking a swing as she released her left hand and focused the impact into her right hand. However, before she could land the hit against Vilkas’s greatsword, he swung it towards her, and the counterattack sent her stumbling backwards, onto her bottom. What in Oblivion was this man’s problem?! She was supposed to be taking swings at him, not defending his attacks. She landed onto the ground with a thud, and the rock hard ground was not welcoming to her tailbone. In the distance, she heard someone laugh. Great. Another audience. Unfortunately, the ache from the impact stayed, and she now had a sore ass.
Vilkas rested the blade of the greatsword over his shoulder with one hand, and approached her. He bent down, offering her a hand. “Your effort was good. Better train more before you try to fight with us,” he spoke, looking down at her while she was on the ground. She raised her hand to meet his, but before he could grasp hers, she smacked his away. He flinched at this, hand immediately meeting the handle of the greatsword. “I,” she grumbled, pushing herself up from the cold stones, “am not done yet.”
His expression told her he was not expecting this, and she was satisfied in knowing she may just manage to surprise him. She would not beg for a spot with the Companions, no, she would prove she was worthy. “Don’t play with me, Vilkas,” she hissed, “fight me like a Companion.” The words she spoke must have lit a fire within him, reigniting the spark Kodlak had spoken of just minutes before this moment. Vilkas donned a wolfish grin, eyes darkening. He positioned his sword for offense, and swung at her. She dodged the swing, quickly hopping backwards. While he staggered from the absence of a blockage to the inertia of the swing, she took the chance to swing at him from behind. He shifted and brought the greatsword to meet hers, and a clang rang through the air, through the limbs of the two Nords sparring with each other. When Aerene looked into his eyes, she couldn’t miss the haunting look within those icy, grayish-blue irises of his. In the split second her face was inches from his, it seemed she caught a glimpse of an inner animalistic nature.
The two continued the dance, neither of them landing a hit as the moments raced on. Every attack of hers was defended by him, and vice versa. She was quick on her feet, while he was able to predict her next moves. Even with these factors, their movements were slowing. She was amazed that she had been doing so well, but was growing annoyed of the helmet she wore; it would slide just slightly when she quickly turned her head, and for seconds would obstruct her view. The narrow opening wasn’t helping, either. Was it supposed to fit poorly?
Distracted by the helmet and her own thoughts, Aerene slipped up. Vilkas landed a swing against the iron sword and her grip fumbled, sending the sword clattering to the ground. No! She’d been doing so well, too well. He eyed her expectedly, as if he were preparing to say something, or ask her something, perhaps asking for her acceptance of a loss. She was not ready, though, and refused to let the loss of her sword end their spar. She remembered seeing the two Companions fighting when she’d first entered the hall. Before that, the day before, she’d been forced to handle the brute Stormcloak during her escape through the Keep with Hadvar.
Diving for her sword now would leave her defenseless for too long, and give Vilkas the chance to end the spar. She didn’t want him to have the opportunity. She couldn’t.
Upon gaining her footing, Aerene brought her wrists up in front of her face, knees bending just slightly, and her hands clenched in tight fists. An expression of an emotion she didn’t quite read washed over her opponent’s face. Was he impressed with her persistence? She wondered at this, confused with how his grip was loosening on the greatsword in his hands. He suddenly dropped the sword to the ground, and picked up a reflection of her position. His wrists raised in front of his face, and he moved toward her. Now, the two were fighting in close-quarters combat. It was going well, perhaps even better than the tangle with weapons. Once again, fatigue seeping into her veins, Aerene was growing sloppy with her movements. She had been out of breath for the last minute or two, panting into the hot helmet. Sweat was dripping down her face, and her cheeks were reddened by the exasperation. Still, she endured, and hadn’t noticed the growing number of eyes watching from under the verandah. Although she’d turned to believing that fate was on her side for this test, her faith faltered when Vilkas landed a hard punch into her unarmored shoulder, the one over which the dark blue sash was hanging. She yelped at the pain that flashed through her joints, and her heart burned with anger. He neared her again, as she gripped the wounded shoulder with her free hand. Another hit, and she was done.
Moving at a pace she didn’t know herself capable of, she turned into the direction of his punch, and his hand brushed against her back. She took a rapid step forward and turned again, so that her wounded shoulder was now pointed into his direction-her punching arm was of little use, but her legs were ready. She furiously positioned her leg against his torso, the heel of her boot meeting the steel over his chest, and launched her leg with all the strength she could muster. He couldn’t defend from her attack, and being taken by surprise, was pushed back a few paces. He landed, lost his footing, and stumbled to the ground. She turned to face Vilkas once again, but was shocked when she saw how he was much farther than she’d anticipated him to be. Drained of the fight’s adrenaline, Aerene instantly jogged over to Vilkas, plucking the helmet from her head. She tossed it aside, and pushed her sticky hair from her face, looking down to him with worried eyes. He was propped on one elbow and forearm, the other resting over the spot she assumed her foot had landed on. “I’m sorry,” she confessed, her voice holding an apologetic tone. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, to kick him that far. She only wanted to warn him off of her for a moment while she planned her next move. His dark, narrowed eyes finally met hers. He looked up to her, her features mostly cast in shadow with the sun of the late afternoon at her back. Still, his eyes softened just a bit when he spoke next. “Don’t be.”
She offered her hand, and he hesitated at first, but settled and let her assist in pulling him up to stand. “Are you alright?” she questioned, hand gesturing to where his hand rested on his torso, over his ribs. “Aye,” he nodded, holding his hand up to stop her from touching where he’d likely been hurt. She quickly retracted her hand, trying to fight the shame threatening to enter her conscience. He clearly didn’t want to talk to her, and she understood. She’d gone too far, and a number of the other Companions had seen her kick one of their higher-ranking members to the ground. “Next time won’t be so easy,” Vilkas addressed her. Was that a smirk he was wearing? She could have easily told him the same thing…
“But for now, you’re still one of the whelps. You’ll do what we tell you. Take my sword to Eorlund at the Skyforge for sharpening. But be careful, it’s probably worth more than you are.” Aerene blinked as she processed his statements. She was a whelp? One of the Companions. Excitement bubbled within her. She’d proven her worth. Her eyes flickered to the Skyforge, sitting in a rock space above the training yard. The stairs she’d seen earlier, located by the front of Jorrvaskr, must’ve led up to the platform. She also chose to ignore his snarky finishing words. Vilkas slowly walked back up to the shaded seating area, greeting the others standing nearby. Aerene watched him walk away, and thought it best to hurry along with delivering his sword. She picked up the helmet, momentarily kneeling to shove it into her satchel that had been sitting off to the side of the yard, out of the way. She had grown to despise the armor piece, and instantly appreciated the pleasure of the cool breeze drying the sweat on her skin. Once the helmet was tucked away and her own sword was collected, Aerene plucked the greatsword from the ground. She held it carefully, but tried not to take Vilkas’s words too seriously. He obviously said that to diverge from the fact that I bested him.
Without being caught up in the conversation ensuing after their sparring, Aerene made her way up to the Skyforge. It was amazing to take in at this hour in the day; the setting sun cast a glow upon the embers of the forge, and gave life to the huge stone eagle carving above the burn. The space in which the embers were burning was probably quadruple times the size of Adrianne’s forge. Above the walls of the training yard, and the majority of the city, Aerene could see down into the plains below. This spot of the city was windier than the parts shielded by the stone walls snaked around the outskirts.
“What brings you here?”
The voice of the smith, Eorlund Gray-Mane, called Aerene’s attention to the present. “I’m here with Vilkas’s sword,” she told him, stepping forward and setting it on the large stone space housing finished weapons and armors on display-it was like a very natural table. “Ah, I see, you’re a newcomer. You the cause of the commotion down in the training yard?” Eorlund questioned her, eyes searching over the sword she’d brought. “Yes… that would have been me. Partially.”
When Eorlund only ‘hmphed,’ Aerene asked a question. “Do the Companions always send others to do petty chores like this?” Eorlund chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, don’t worry about it. You’ll gain respect the more you’re with them. They were all whelps once, too, though they don’t talk about it much. Don’t always just do what you’re asked, though. Nobody rules anybody in the Companions.” Upon hearing this, Aerene was confused. Was Kodlak not the leader? After all, it was him who’d decided to test her strength-the first step in letting her join their band of warriors. “What of Kodlak Whitmane?”
Eorlund dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Kodlak is the Harbinger, and advises his shield-siblings, but each man is his own.” Eorlund looked to meet Aerene’s eyes. “And each woman her own.” His implication delivered a sense of respect to the redhead woman. She would keep his words in mind. Nobody was really the leader, although some members seemed to be a tad bossy. Eorlund let out a sigh of frustration as he observed the sword. “What is it?” Aerene asked, eyeing the piece he had been studying. “The hilt’s loose from the grip. Vilkas is used to having his sword back in a day or two, but this’ll take longer. Would you let him know for me?” Great. She wondered just how often he used his sword, and whether it was her fault the damage would take a longer than usual to repair. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”
Aerene let out a soft sigh, then sucked in a breath of fresh air. “I should be going,” she mumbled to Eorlund, but he gestured for her to wait. “Will you do me another favor?” she thought about how he’d warned her against doing what others told her to, but this was different. He was not simply telling, but politely asking. “What is it?” Eorlund picked up an iron shield, and held it out for Aerene to take. “This is Aela’s shield. Can you deliver it to her? I would, but my wife is in mourning, and I need to get back to her.” Aerene felt a pang in her chest at the mention of his wife’s heartache. She was now curious as to why she was mourning. Perhaps they’d lost one of their family members in the civil war conflict. She did not pry, and nodded. “Of course,” she took the shield from Eorlund, hooking it over her wrist. “That’a girl. Be seeing you.”
Leaving the Skyforge, Aerene eyed the skies. Dusk was falling over Skyrim, and the darkness of night would settle in soon. The Nord had forgotten the aches of the day, but now that she had moments of quiet, they were known again. Once she learned whether she’d be sleeping in Jorrvaskr or at an inn, she’d cast healing and get plenty of rest.
Wandering back into Jorrvaskr, Aerene was told Aela was downstairs. Once Aerene made her presence known, Aela had welcomed her into the quarters, exclaiming that she remembered the woman from that morning. Aela was accompanied by a Nord man. One of his eyes was a silvery color with a pink scar inching down his cheek. He had stripes of red warpaint placed horizontally along his cheeks, and had his gray hair tied back behind his head. He wore the same armor as Vilkas and Kodlak. “Skjor, she’s the one who stepped in against the giant at Hollyfrost this morning,” Aela told him, who was seemingly picking Aerene apart with his hard gaze. One side of his mouth curved into a sideways grin. “I heard you gave Vilkas quite a thrashing,” Aela queried, and both of them looked to Aerene. “Don’t let Vilkas catch you saying that,” Skjor joked, and Aela smirked to her shield-brother. Aerene didn’t know if it was only her, but she picked up on some kind of connection between the two. Perhaps it was the aura of companionship radiating from them.
“Tell me, Aerene, could you handle Vilkas in a real fight?” Aerene eyed Aela as she asked the question. That fight certainly felt real. But in the case where they were after blood? A fight to the death? She was not sure, and hoped she’d never have to find out. As much as she was reluctant to admit it, Vilkas was one of the best she’d ever fought. And she had fought quite a bit through her past…
“Vilkas is a worthy opponent, but I do not care for boasting,” Aerene responded. At least not public boasting. “Hmm,” Aela hummed. “I like you, new blood. A woman of action. We must hunt together sometime,” she patted Aerene’s sore shoulder in a friendly manner, and it took everything the mage had not to wince at the hurt. “I await the day, shield-sister,” Aerene responded to the strong woman. “Here, let’s get Farkas in here to show you where you’ll rest your head.”
“Farkas!” Skjor called into the hallway. Footsteps could be heard, and grew louder the closer they approached. “Did you call me?” Farkas appeared in the doorway of the quarters. “Of course we did, icebrain,” Aela teased. “Show Aerene where she’ll be sleeping, will you?” Farkas nodded, and gestured for Aerene to follow. She did, sending a nod of goodbye towards Aela and Skjor. “I remember you from this morning. It’s nice to have a new face around. Gets boring around here at times. Aela and Skjor like to tease me, but they’re good people,” Farkas led Aerene in the direction of the room she’d peeked into earlier. As they walked, she considered how his demeanor was a stark contrast to his brother’s. He was much friendlier, and while taller, even less intimidating. “Tilma will keep the place clean, always does. Dinner will be served soon, so be ready. Get a good seat at the table, or bring your food down here to eat. Just clean up after yourself, alright?” Farkas looked to Aerene for any confirmation that she was still tuned in. “Alright,” she nodded for him to continue. They arrived to the dorm-like room, and he pointed to a wall of two beds, each looking unoccupied. “Here we are. Pick a bed to fall into. Talk to Aela or me if you’re looking for work. We should have some more jobs coming in tomorrow morning.” Aerene wondered what her first job would be. More chores? Delivery of a new armor set, maybe? “Any questions? You ain’t a talkative one,” Farkas murmured, stretching his arms out in front of him. Aerene stepped to a corner bed, tossing her knapsack onto it, and sitting down. It was comfortable enough on her aching rump, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sit for long before she’d need to cast that healing spell. “Is Vilkas around? I have a message from Eorlund Gray-Mane.” Farkas hadn’t been expecting her to ask about his brother, she could tell this by the way his brows raised and his lips pursed. “Down the hall, to the right. That’s where our rooms are.” Aerene murmured a thanks for the directions, and Farkas yawned. “I’m off to eat. Welcome to the Companions,” he spread his arms and just slightly bowed. His casual nature was easy to be around. After he left, Aerene stood. She’d delivered Aela’s shield, and the final task was to tell Vilkas the lovely news that his sword would need a bit of time.
Aerene walked slowly along the path Farkas had instructed her on, and turned right. She ended up in a short hallway with two sets of doors-one on either side. The doors to the left were open, and upon looking inside quickly, she saw that no one was inside. Vilkas’s room must be this one, she thought, landing at the set of doors that were closed. He obviously didn’t want to be bothered if he were shut away while dinner was almost ready, but she couldn’t let Eorlund down and let his message get lost in her hesitation or shame. She raised her knuckles to the wooden door, and knocked. Inside, she heard shuffling, and stepped back to allow for some distance. When one of the doors swung open, her eyes landed on a sight she wouldn’t have guessed for, had it slapped her across the face. Vilkas held the door open with one hand, and with the other, held a loosely tied linen around his hips. His body was glistening with water droplets, beads of it falling from his wet black hair. His eyes were free of the black makeup he’d been wearing earlier. Save for the linen, he was completely nude. Aerene’s heartbeat instantly picked up at the sight, and she dared not to catch a second glimpse at the trail of black hair leading downward from his naval. She’d also seen his lean, sculpted abdomen.
Much too obviously, she was staring into his eyes, and he must’ve not been bothered by it, for he did not speak, but instead stepped closer, head tilted as he looked to her. She held his gaze, the coolness of her earlier victory vanishing in a second. “Well?” he questioned. She guessed he would have crossed his arms, had he not been using one of them in the vital position of keeping that damned linen where it was needed most. He must’ve been bathing. “I took your sword,” she murmured.
When a couple of seconds passed, she began internally panicking, after realizing why Vilkas had smirked at her words. Her brows furrowed, and she stepped backward. “Eorlund said the hilt’s loose from the blade,” she managed to add, this time crossing her own arms. At this, Vilkas frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first. “Tossing the blade to the ground sends a rather displeasing impact through the weapon.” This time, she commented slyly. The hard part was over, and Vilkas wasn’t giving her any grief about their earlier scuffle. She’d also noticed that her kick hadn’t bruised his abdomen. Surely, her own shoulder was red, and would grow into a bruise of purples and yellows. Why did he look so handsomely unscathed? Maybe he’d downed a healing potion right after the testing session. He noticed her looking at the spot where she’d kicked him, and raised the linen higher. In doing so, part of his thick, muscular thigh became visible, and a blush raced into her cheeks. Now, it certainly felt hot in there, even if he was only trying to cover more of himself. At his silence, she turned to leave. “That’s all,” she concluded. Vilkas nodded in response, before shrinking back into his room and closing the door. Aerene just about sprinted from the space outside his door and back to the bed she’d claimed, throwing herself onto it and breathing heavily into the singular pillow.
For the rest of the evening, she’d taken the steel plates of armor off, and was left in her tunic, pants, and boots. She’d found a seat at the dining table next to Farkas, who was happy to pull a chair out for her. The food was filling; she dined on cheese, venison, and bread, with a mug of Nord mead to wash the flavors down. After getting to know the names of the other Companions-Torvar, Athis, and Njada-the group exchanged stories. Tilma, Brill, and Vignar Gray-Mane joined as well as the others she’d already met. Vilkas joined a while into the meal, seated next to Kodlak across the hearth. Occasionally, Aerene caught his gaze, but settled on the idea that he was sour over his defeat. Once Vilkas had joined, the conversation shifted to talk of their sparring.
After a while, she was sleepy, and retired to her bed downstairs. She cast the healing spell again, before taking her boots off and pushing them underneath the bed, out of the way from foot traffic. Upon her return to the sleeping quarters, there was now only one torch lit in the room, rather than the multiple from earlier. Feeling satisfied, yet exhausted from the ups and downs of the day, the woman fell asleep soon after falling into bed. The blankets were warm, and the snoring of the others wasn’t too loud. She slept well.
A rough hand shaking her awake started her morning, and she turned to look at Farkas standing over her. “Job’s ready for you.” He delivered the news with a grin. She had expected to bother him about a job, not the other way around. Upon sitting up in the bed, she saw that most of the others were empty. She looked at Farkas, who’d sat down at the end of her bed and was drinking from a tankard. She hoped for the chance to explore a smaller village nearby, before traveling to a larger city or another Hold entirely. Were there any jobs in Riverwood? “Where am I headed?”
What Farkas said next caught her off guard, and took the words from her mouth.
“Falkreath.”
Chapter Text
This was not the first time the woman had been rendered silent by the words spoken to her, nor was it even the first instance in the past couple of days. Falkreath. She knew she would eventually end up there, but had not expected to venture that far south so soon. Falkreath was one of Skyrim’s two southernmost townships, and was the nearest to the Pale Pass-the pathway Aerene had been traveling before making that dreadful decision to investigate noises she’d heard.
It’s not so bad. I’ve acquired a warm bed and made a few friends already. Building up from where I was left takes time.
“Hey,” a finger poked Aerene’s cheek. She blinked out of her thoughts, and eyed Farkas, who was still sitting on the side of her bed, studying the blank look on her eyes. “You hear anything I just said?” he asked in his deep, gravelly voice. Aerene tried to recollect anything else he’d spoken to her, but failed. She sighed and shook her head. “No, Farkas, I’m sorry. Last word I recall was Falkreath.” Farkas huffed, stretching his mouth open in a wide yawn, fingers raising to scratch at the stubble under his chin. “Was tellin’ ya about the job. Somebody from Riften wants us to send a message to another somebody who was giving ‘em trouble. The guy was last seen in Falkreath, might still be there if ya hurry.” Aerene was listening well this time, moving about as she got out of bed and pulled on her boots. Her hair was tangled and messy, so she tried to pull her fingers through it and over it, the once-straight strawberry blonde strands a little wavy here and there from the way her head had been placed on the pillow. “So what am I supposed to do when I find the guy? What’s his name?” she questioned, fastening the straps of her boots and pulling the breastplate of the armor set on. She began fumbling with the straps and belts, trying to tighten the armor comfortably. Yesterday, Adrianne had done the work, and so Aerene was testing which positions would suit her best.
“You’re the hired muscle,” Farkas mumbled, sipping out of the tankard he had. “Meaning?” Aerene quickly asked, glancing to him from the straps on the left side of her waist. Farkas’s eyes narrowed when he spoke next. “Yesterday you were quiet, and today you’re asking a lotta questions.” She only looked to him, unsure of how to respond, when his features softened. “But it’s alright. You’re new, so I’ll go easy on ya,” he grinned. She grinned back, glad that he wasn’t too annoyed with her curiosity. “So, tell me about what I’m supposed to do.”
In the next moments, Aerene learned that somebody had asked the Companions to send a member out to Falkreath. She was to look for a Nord man with tanned skin, brown hair to his shoulders, and stripes of red war paint across his cheeks. The purpose of the job was intimidation-she was supposed to press him on a matter that wasn’t specified to the Companions, by sending a message. She could try to threaten him into compliance with the matter which he understood. If this didn’t work, she would have to resort to a brawl, and beat the Nord into submission, in order for him to do what he hadn’t yet. “And I don’t wanna hear about a killing, got it?” Farkas had warned Aerene away from going too far with the job-doing so would slander her name, and that of the group she was to represent. She was to complete the work honorably and bring pride to the Companions-as if some of them didn’t already have enough.
By now, Aerene and Farkas were walking out of the shared room and through the hallway leading to the staircase. “If I leave now, I’ll get to Falkreath by midday,” Aerene guessed. Farkas barked a laugh, and met her look of confusion with an amused expression. She grimaced, and he patted her back a couple of times with his large palm. “It’s already midday, sister.” Already midday?! She didn’t think she’d gone to sleep that late.. perhaps it was the exhaustion of the last few days catching up with her again. Her eyes had widened with this revelation, and Farkas noticed. “Lunch won’t be served for a while. You wait around, you’ll get to Falkreath after dark. Sorry, sister. Best not to wait.” They stepped up to the ground floor of Jorrvaskr, and found that the hall was mostly quiet. Only a few remained inside-Brill and Vignar were seated at a table on the opposite end of the space, and Kodlak sat alone at a small round table nearby. “Any more questions?” Farkas asked Aerene. She put her hands on her hips, mentally sorting her plan for the journey out. She stood unsure of which roads led to Falkreath from Whiterun, and she realized she’d left her knapsack and sword down at her bed. Still, she decided not to pester Farkas any further, and shook her head no. “Good,” he teased, grabbing her wrist and putting a folded piece of paper into her hand. Instinctively, her fingers grasped the paper, and wondered what it read. Farkas left, pushing his way through the doors leading to the training yard. Aerene, curious, opened the paper, unfolding the piece, and read the letters written in black ink. It was the contract, proof of the job. The pay would be 100 gold, once the job was complete. The other details were those Aerene had already learned from Farkas. She folded it to its original size, and stuffed it into her pocket. The woman turned to descend the stairs, retracing her steps back to the sleeping chambers for retrieval of her belongings.
“Aerene,” a voice called her name. She stopped in her tracks and instantly located the source-Kodak. He beckoned her over with one hand, and gestured to the seat in front of her. “Have a seat, before you set off,” he invited her warmly. She took him up on the offer, knowing it would be rude to do otherwise. She’d been given a warm bed, good food, and employment-the least she could do was hear what the man had to say before she hurried south. “Sleep well?” Kodlak asked, meeting her bright, freshly awoken eyes with his own. She nodded, and felt the heat creep into her cheeks, into her ears. “Too well, it seems. Lost my chance at Tilma’s cooking,” she sighed, resting in the chair across from Kodlak’s. The white-haired man faced her with a gentle smile, and pointed to a plate half full of food. “You’re not the first new blood to rest well on your welcoming night. We let it slide, before you’re set to awaken at dawn and sleep after dusk. “Eat well, before you go out to Falkreath. I understand Farkas gave you the job details. Is there anything I can help you with, before you leave? Do you have the right gear for the journey?” Kodlak asked her these questions as he slid the plate in front of her. She eyed it, and hoped he didn’t hear the grumbling of her belly at the sight. Slices of what looked to be smoked salmon sat on the plate, accompanied by a torn piece of braided bread, slices of eidar cheese, and jazbay grapes. “I think you’ve helped me enough, Kodlak,” she muttered with incredulity, fingers grasping at the salmon slices and picking at the braided bread. The Nord man chuckled at her desperation to eat. “Thank you,” she mumbled over a mouthful of the bread, which was softer and sweeter than she would’ve imagined. “We watch each other’s backs in the Companions. You’ll learn that while you’re with us.”
As the woman scarfed down the food he’d kindly offered to her, she listened to his mention of the services offered by her fellow shield-siblings. Njada was an expert with a shield, Farkas and Vilkas with greatswords, and Aela with the bow. That explains why she was firing arrows at the giant. She must prefer ranged combat. After sipping from a cup of water poured by Tilma, who had stopped at their table for a moment, Aerene looked to Kodlak again. “Do you teach skills like those?”
To this, Kodlak shook his head. “No, but anytime you want a good story, come find me. Old man like myself has plenty to tell. My days of battle are over, but should the need arise, I’ll fight for the honor of the Companions. In the meantime, you may become better acquainted with your shield-siblings. Maybe teach them a thing or two,” he finished, raising the mug to his lips again for a drink. Aerene sat and listened quietly to his words, noticing the sincerity in his language and the promising acquaintance behind them. His presence was endearing and strong, the traits of a leader to his clan, one offering guidance without demand. She had only known Kodlak for a day, yet she was growing more comfortable in his presence. She only wished it would be so easy with her other shield-siblings. Unlikely. Ria had told Aerene there was no more room, and Vilkas seemed to relay that idea as well, while Farkas and Aela were friendly enough. “I am unsure what I may offer to teach my shield-siblings. I have high doubt there is anything they may learn from me. They are far more seasoned with experience,” Aerene spoke, her words a genuine reflection of her thoughts. The Companions weren’t just a group of whoever wanted to join-hopefully-but instead a band who had to keep their reputation, and an honorable one at that.
“In time, lass, you’ll learn what you can share with others. Your days here have only just begun,” Kodlak reassured the woman. She found his words comforting, a refreshing, stark comparison to her tunnel vision of occasional self doubt.
She continued eating, probably a bit too quickly, but once her plate was empty, she thanked Kodlak again. He bid her farewell for her journey to Falkreath, telling her the journey would at least keep her for two days. As she began to clean off her plate in the kitchen off the main dining space, Tilma’s gentle demeanor shattered her thoughts. “Dear, you don’t need to do that. You’ve got work to get done, yes? Best get to it,” the older woman insisted, offering Aerene a sweet smile. Aerene knew the woman was right, and that by lingering around the halls of Jorrvaskr, she was only delaying her arrival in Falkreath. Delaying the job, avoiding the nervousness of her first test-the sequence of her actions versus their consequences, forming to exist with the paradigm set by Skyrim’s most famous warriors. Without too much further hesitation, the mage left the kitchen, gathered her satchel and sword, and set out for Falkreath.
Aerene walked through the streets of Whiterun, past the statue of Talos and the priest shouting to the air around him. Past the dead tree in the planter, down the steps and through the marketplace, with a passing wave to Adrianne Avennicci, face darkened with soot and streaked with perspiration. Just as the redhead stepped out of the city, through the gates, a realization brought a frown to her features. She didn’t know the way to Falkreath. There may be directional posts, like the one I saw on my way here. She stepped along the stone path winding down the elevated land Whiterun sat upon. Not every turn in the road will have one, though. I need a map. Sighing in frustration, she stopped just before passing through the final opening out of Whiterun’s walls. She stared at the yellow-green grass off to the side of the path, pressed flat from the impact of many stepping on it. Still, it moved just a bit with the wind sneaking in from the plains. She debated returning to Whiterun on an attempt to find a map, perhaps sold at an inn or at a stall in the marketplace.
“Tools, wares, and weapons, all for sale at fair prices.”
The raspy, deep, and pleasant voice of a Khajiit woman had called this sales greeting. Aerene hurried out past the last archway, and saw that a Khajiit caravan had settled into a camp just beyond the city’s walls. She approached, looking between the four travelers; two women wearing warm tunics and furs with two males in heavy armor-likely their guards. “Ah, greetings, traveler. Khajiit has wares, if you have the coin,” the same voice greeted Aerene as she arrived to their setting. The others eyed her, and she looked briefly between them. Her gaze settled on the woman speaking to her. “Ahkari? You are far from Cyrodiil, you know,” Aerene happily teased the merchant, extending her arm for the Khajiit to accept. Ahkari gripped Aerene’s forearm and they patted each other’s opposite shoulder. “Aerene, what are you doing here? You get into trouble in Cyrodiil?”
Shaking her head, Aerene suppressed the excitement at seeing an old friend. “No. The trouble came after I got to Skyrim,” she chuckled, and Ahkari’s quiet laughter rang between them. “You finally got in touch with Ri’saad, then?” Ahkari gave a slow nod, her pale eyes, centered by midnight black slits, wandering elsewhere as she talked. “He was able to look past my… misunderstandings with the law. I work for him, now.”
“How long have you been in Skyrim?”
“Not long, in truth. I came to find myself unwelcome in Cyrodiil and Elsweyr. These lands are vast, and cold, too cold. But the sun’s warmth lights our path,” Ahkari’s voice was tinted with an emotion Aerene could not quite read. Regret? Sorrow? Longing?
“Ahkari, who is your friend here?” the male Khajiit wearing steel plate armor, without the helmet, stepped over to the two in conversation. “Kharjo, this is Aerene. We met in Cyrodiil.. you might imagine,” Ahkari went silent with this. Kharjo’s eyes narrowed, as he caught on to Ahkari’s meaning, and his feline mouth curved into a sly smirk. “You are no stranger then, Aerene. Are you leaving the city now?” he asked. Aerene was warmed by his curiosity. “I am headed to Falkreath,” she responded. The look on her face must have told them her feelings on this, but before they had the chance to ask, she questioned them back. “Have you settled in well?”
Ahkari and Kharjo looked between each other, their glances exchanging something untold. Aerene thought she saw Kharjo glance to Ahkari’s abdomen, hidden under her loose clothing-this only made the Nord more curious, but she did not pester.
The three continued their conversation, and before long, the other two travelers came over-Zaynabi and Dro’marash. Zaynabi complained to Ahkari that she should sit down and eat, that it wasn’t good for the cub to wait on its mother’s lunch. Aerene’s eyes instantly darted to Ahkari’s, and she knew that under Ahkari’s dark brown and grey fur was a blush. It was revealed to Aerene that Ahkari and Kharjo were expecting, yet were naturally worried with being in constant travel and the threats from all sides. They were excited for their cub, though, and Aerene congratulated them upon hearing this. She thought to ask them if they had a map for sale, of which they did. Kharjo insisted on finding it, mumbling that Ahkari really should sit down and eat. When he handed the map to Aerene, she was adamant on paying for it, to which Kharjo reluctantly accepted. She spent a few more moments with the group, exchanging brief stories and wishing them well. They invited her to visit them anytime, but warned they’d be on the move in a short while-a traveling caravan. Before Aerene set off once more, and while Dro’marash chopped firewood, and Zaynabi prepared a bowl of Elsweyr stew for Ahkari, Kharjo asked the Nord a favor. She was intrigued by this; he told her that they’d recently dealt with a bandit attack, and the fiends had made off with Kharjo’s moon amulet. He wanted it, as it reminded him of home, but did not want to betray Ahkari’s wishes that he stay with the caravan and avoid traveling into an enemy camp outnumbered. Aerene agreed to find the amulet, and Kharjo described to her the camp’s location. Silent Moons Camp was northwest of Whiterun, and overrun with bandits. It would be wise to travel there with someone she trusted, he’d said. When she asked whether they’d be in this location by the time she had the amulet back, he told her it was unlikely. They’d be making their way to Dawnstar, Solitude, Riften… their travels would carry them all along Skyrim. Aerene wondered if they’d eventually settle, to give Ahkari a break from the movements, but to do so would contradict the core elements of being a caravan. Aerene promised to find the amulet and return it to his family. Ahkari and Zaynabi offered a bowl of the fragrant stew to the woman, but she declined, explaining that she’d just eaten-though at any other time she’d never have turned down the taste of Ahkari’s recipe.
Bidding the feline group farewell, Aerene continued along the cobblestone path, past the stables. The horses there were another reminder of her missing mare, and she wished not to ponder on the loss for too long. With this, though, she couldn’t help but wonder where River had ended up, if she were still alive. Turning right at the first fork in the road, she sauntered along the path. The further she walked, the windier it seemed to get, and she wished she had some sort of scarf to pull over her head for protection against the wind. And I’m not putting that damned helmet on again. In fact, she hadn’t even taken the helmet with for the journey to Falkreath. While she’d used it to hide her face and shame the day before, the risk of a blockage in her vision was not worth the reward. The last farm she passed on the road was Wolfmoon, and the woman caught glimpses of wheat sprouting in the fields along the property. Her mind drifted to the offer for tasty sweet rolls, and knew that one day she’d find Eliza and take her up on the offer.
Until then, she had a quest to complete.
The skies above Whiterun had been a serene azure blue, with puffs of white cloud here and there. As Aerene left the city’s outskirts, and had a clearer view of the mountains hiding Falkreath within, she caught glimpses of angry grey clouds hugging the jagged stone peaks. She didn’t mind the rain, while her Nord blood equipped her well for cold resistance. Still, she despised the wind with deep fibers of her being.
She passed by a watchtower, partially in ruins, with guards in the yellow armor standing in stationery spots on lookout. Further, on the right of the road, were the ruins of a house that seemed to share the same wooden, thatch, and stone architecture of the cottage homes inside Whiterun’s walls. She wondered how the home had been destroyed into this state, but knew that there would be another time to explore the ruins. She continued walking. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind across the foliage around the plains, and her footsteps along the stones beneath her feet. In her solitude, she thought over the events of the past days. So quickly, her plans had been altered and rerouted, yet she couldn’t help but recall Hadvar’s words about her luck. She had managed to escape Helgen, entirely because of his help, she believed, and had safely arrived to Whiterun. Her efforts were generously rewarded by the Jarl, and she’d been accepted into a band of revered warriors. Her journey being so quickly rerouted to Falkreath had served as a reminder that the path ahead was fluid and changing.
While she walked, though, she found herself glancing to the skies and hills, even the path behind her and all that she could see around her. She had not realized it yet, but she was paranoid of whatever she might encounter while alone. A sliver of envy snaked into her thoughts with remembrance of the caravan’s safety-even with what they may encounter, they still had each other. Kharjo and Ahkari were in love, supported by Dro’marash and Zaynabi. Aerene recalled her friendship with Rialla and Varellus, and the tricky love that had developed there, split between platonic and romantic. While she reminisced sweetly, the uneasiness of arriving in Falkreath slowly dissolved. Soon, she hit another fork in the road. To the left was a steep hill, paved with a cobblestone path; to the right was a gradually sloping path leading just downward. Something told her she’d have to take the steep path, as it was leading up into the clouded hills. She pulled the map from her satchel, and gasped upon opening it. The map was marked with Skyrim’s major holds and smaller settlements, complete with drawn paths and the occasional scribbled drawing indicating a mountain range. What surprised her, though, was the shimmering teal blue, rusty red, and golden yellow paint elaborately decorating the edges and corners of the map. There were dots, swirls, and plant-like shapes present. She smiled as she admired the vibrant colors, happily reminded of the Khajiit culture in Elsweyr. The map was beautiful, and she felt honored to carry it. As she eyed the bottom edge of the paper, she noticed small writing: ‘by Zaynabi’. She quietly gasped yet again. Zaynabi painted this! Aerene’s eyes wandered from the writing, and she glanced around her, before looking back to the map. Her sight landed on her current location-and the way to Falkreath was up the steep path, into the grey setting she’d likely find up the hill. With a clear, calm, cautious mind, she folded the map and stored it in the satchel. With a ready breath, she began walking once again, careful not to slip on the steep path, her strong legs handling the incline with little problem.
Arriving to the upper portion of the path, Aerene was pleased to find that the rest of the path leveled out and did not retain the same drastic incline as the one she’d just trudged up. Her lungs burned just a little, as did her legs, reminding her that lounging around for too long had taken just a little of her athleticism. In her defense, her training buddies in Rialla and Varellus had their own duties, and she lost the motivation to continue the training by herself on the same consistent basis. Sparring with Vilkas had awoken that love of the burn in her, though, and she wondered how often she’d be able to spar with her shield-siblings. Even though I only joined yesterday, I feel as if I am representing them now. I am. My actions and reputation will surely get back to them, probably before I do. She recalled the speedy motion in which news of the dragon attack had gotten to Whiterun before she did. Although the Jarl and his court had already learned of the unfolding mystery, they’d still accepted her company and treated her well. It won’t be the same everywhere. It never is.
The woman hadn’t passed a soul on the road, briefly wondering about the rumors of Skyrim’s roads being dangerous to travel on. Maybe this is another stroke of luck. It felt nice to be beneath the trees, and out of the windy plains of Whiterun Hold. The foliage on either side of the path was thick with green ferns and shrubs, with patches of grass. Trees of pine and oak towered over her head, casting a shade over the stones of the walkway. As she looked up through the branches, she caught glimpses of grey sky with patches of azure blue above, but she knew the clouds overhead were thickening. Rainy, wet weather was typical for Falkreath Hold.
She’d passed a dirt path on the right, thinking nothing of exploring wherever it led to, when she heard a voice.
“Is someone there?! Can you hear me?! I need help!”
Her head turned, eyes searching for the source of the voice. Her hand landed to the pommel of her iron sword, aware that this might also be a trap, luring the unsuspecting traveler into a robbery, or worse scheme…
“Where are you? Shout to me, and I’ll follow your voice,” she called into the forest.
“I’m off the path! Up a dirt walkway! Follow it and you’ll get to me,” the man sounded tired, his voice strained. Aerene’s head darted to what she believed was the direction of the voice, though it was a bit tricky because of how the trees and foliage both carried and reflected the sound. She jogged back to the dirt path she’d passed, and continued up the winding trail, up to a clearing. A very injured man was slumped against a fallen tree long, sprouting with moss and ivy. He had pale blonde hair and tanned skin, wearing scaled armor. When she saw his state, she hurried over, kneeling next to him. “Thank Kynareth for you, stranger,” he sighed, his words erupting in a cough that spurted blood into his hand. “Who are you? What’s going on?” Aerene asked, her eyes wide with concern. “Name’s Valdr. I’m a hunter, and tracked a bear to this cave with my friends. Moss Mother Cavern. Those pelts fetch a pretty price, and we managed to down the beast at the end of the cavern space. That’s when they came out of nowhere. Spriggans. Niels was killed before we even knew to run, and Ari died just inside. I suspect I’ll be next… hurts to breathe… I may have lost a drop or two of blood,” he chuckled, which yet again turned into a choking cough. Aerene looked to his abdomen, which was bleeding profusely; his hand was over the wound, pressed against it, but she guessed that by now, he was too weak to put enough pressure. She brought her gaze to his face, and couldn’t ignore the crimson leaking down the corner of his mouth, slowly inching over his chin and down his neck. “Do you… have a healing potion?” he asked hopefully. She shook her head. “No, but I know a healing spell, if you’re willing,” she offered. He only nodded, his eyes looking more tired. With his affirming nod, she got to work. She grabbed his bloodied hand and set it to his side, standing up.
She closed her eyes to concentrate the magicka into both of her hands, and felt the power coursing along her wrists. That beautiful golden glow, those delicate, yet powerful swirls, surrounded her palms. She slightly bent one knee, and supported her weight here, her other leg outstretched into the dirt below. It was the best position she could be in to accommodate Valdr’s awkward one. He watched her, and she studied his wound, casting her healing hands over his torn skin. The glow stretched from her palms to his being; her fingers and hands shook with the intensity of the spell, as it took over his form, light swirling and surrounding him. He smiled with this, eyes closing in satisfaction. It’s working. This continued, until she could feel her magical energy draining-the connection was feeling weaker, and her arms were beginning to tire. Her hands fell to her side, and she kneeled by him. She nudged him, and his eyes opened. “Did it work? Do you feel any pain?” she asked. He let out a slow breath, and actually began to stand up. He pulled himself to a sitting position on top of the log, hands on his knees to support himself. “I feel much better. You saved my life. I wish it were the same for my friends.”
Valdr looked to the cave, his eyes shiny with tears. Aerene felt a pang in her chest at his grief-he had not lived the day the way he’d expected to, and this hurt her to know. “I am sorry,” she whispered, finding herself unable to meet his hurt gaze. He spoke again. “What now? I can’t just leave them in there, to let them be torn apart by those creatures.” She picked up on his panic, and thought for a few moments. She had encountered two Spriggans in her lifetime. They always lived in forest regions, empowered by their magical taproot cores. Their taproots emitted a pale golden-orange light, and their bodies were formed of strong wood. They could sprint on their two legs, and attack with each of their arms, boasting hand-like appendages tipped with razor sharp claws. The creatures maintained complete resistance to poison, and could heal themselves, even turning invisible from the human eye to hide from prey, not predators, and strike when the time was just right. If there were other animals around, Spriggans could cast a spell over them, and enthrall them for a time.
They were protective and vile creatures.
“Let me help you,” Aerene told Valdr, whose face lit up with surprise. “You’d do that for a stranger? I.. I don’t know what to say. Here, let me get up, and I’ll lead the way.” He began to stand up.
“No.”
She held her palm out to him, gesturing for him to stop. “You might feel better, but your body needs to rest.”
He did as she told him to, and stayed seated. “You’d really do that for my honor? I cannot tell you how thankful I am. I will wait here, for you, my friend. But be careful. Those creatures can appear out of nowhere. If you don’t come out in a reasonable bit of time, I’m going after you.” With this, Aerene nodded-deal. She turned away from him, and approached the narrow, shadowy cave entrance. “Wait,” Valdr called after her. “What’s your name?” She didn’t look back at him, as he would’ve seen the fear settling over her features at the thought of the next moments. “Aerene,” she called loudly enough for him to hear. She heard him mumble acknowledgment; without another moment to waste, she slipped through the entrance to the cave.
Inside was noticeably cooler than the cave exterior. Aerene crouched, stepping quietly along the path. A few paces forward showed her the walkway to the main clearing of the cavern. Just in front of her, a woman lay in a splattered pool of her own blood, face down. Ari. Aerene knelt down by Ari, looking over her surroundings. A bit further was the huge bear’s unmoving figure. Aerene turned her attention back to Ari. She gently pushed the woman onto her back, and stood up, pulling her body out of the blood, and to a cleaner spot by a cluster of mossy rocks-hopefully out of enemy sight. She continued into the dimly lit cavern, past the bear. The path branched into two; she could walk to the left and travel upward, or continue forward underneath what looked to be a trunk-bridge overhanging a gap in the upper path as it stretched over the lower one. She decided to take the high ground, where it would be safer to have a better look at her surroundings.
Taking the high ground turned out to be the dangerous way, as a Spriggan appeared within seconds. Aerene had managed to avoid the creature’s swinging claws, keeping clear of the green poison flecks emanating from the creature’s fast-moving figure. Her sword struck the taproot center, and instantly, the creature was dead. All light and remnants of magic vanished, the wooden limbs stiffening and croaking as it fell to the ground. Aerene caught her breath, pulling the sword from the core. She crossed the trunk-bridge, and entered the cavern’s final enclosed space. A stream was pouring from a high opening in the stone wall across the clearing, and had formed a pool of water. There were ledges around the space, and as Aerene eyed it, she found the body of Niels. She noticed how both he and Ari were face down in their deceased positions-they were running away when they were killed-did they even know how close behind doom itself was? She jumped from the ledge she was on and landed softly on the dirt below, stepping over to Niels. As she began flipping over his body, to repeat what she’d done with Ari, a devious buzzing sounded in her ears. She unsheathed her sword and spun around, and barely caught sight of the second Spriggan’s appearance before it disappeared with a flash of purple and orange magic-an invisibility spell. Aerene swallowed, eyes narrowing as she held the sword across her torso in a defensive position. If she hadn’t drained so much of her magicka earlier, she would have been able to cast a detect life spell-revealing to her the Spriggan’s position simply through its aura, or essence. Instead, she stepped backwards, and with a long swipe of her leg, kicked as much dirt and dust as she could into the surrounding space.
As she hoped, the creature’s position was revealed, and the Spriggan was standing much closer than Aerene had anticipated. She swung at the being, the sword’s blade barely flicking across the solid spirals of wood. Aerene grunted in frustration, but managed to hit one of the creature’s arms. The Spriggan’s mouth-like space opened, but no sound followed-and Aerene wondered if she was right to believe the buzzing noise had intensified. While she prepared to swing again, the Spriggan struck with its uninjured claws, knocking the sword from her grip. Damnit! To add salt into this bitter, growing wound, the Spriggan began casting its poison magic on Aerene. Her vision slowly began to blur, and her movements felt slower. She fought to concentrate on somehow striking the taproot, but the creature’s movements were getting to be faster than her own. She felt weaker with every second. She pushed at the creature, bare hands coming into contact with the cold wooden flesh. She, unknowing how, managed to get the Spriggan off balance, and while it recovered so, she lunged for her sword. She swiped it from the ground, stumbling as she was losing her own balance, and swung back to face the creature. It was surrounded by the familiar golden swirls of a healing spell-meaning that her previous efforts had been in vain. She stepped backward, attempting to maintain enough distance between her and the Spriggan so as not to become further poisoned. While doing so, she wasn’t exactly paying attention to the dark, blurred ground behind her. The woman tripped backward over something, she didn’t know what, and landed on her side. Thankfully, the ground was soft with grass and ferns in this spot. Approaching was the Spriggan, both arms extended with its claws spread-prepared to swipe down into her. She scrambled to grab the sword’s handle with both hands, and thrust the blade forward. It struck into the taproot core, and the creature went limp. Its full body was beginning to fall down her sword, and she couldn’t hold the weight. She directed the force to the side, and it worked. She rolled herself over, taking a moment to rest and gather herself.
After a few minutes, she’d made her way over the pool of water. She cupped her hands together and collected the running water into her palms, bringing the liquid to her lips to drink. It was refreshing, and she made a note to try and find a water canteen for sale in Falkreath. Perhaps she’d have better luck there than with that ratty Belethor in Whiterun. That fetcher.
Aerene was cleaning the Spriggan sap from her blade, using a puff of moss she’d picking from a nearby stone to scrape at the sticky substance. She’d realized her hearing was also affected by the Spriggan’s poison flecks, but wondered how Valdr had managed to hear her shouting earlier, if he’d been poisoned too. How long was he waiting there? Hours? She stood, sheathing the sword, and turned around to prepare for her exit from the cavern. She startled, though, when a tangled mass of wooden spirals and branches crowded her eyesight and a strong force shoved her backward. She was flung against one of the dirt walls of the cavern, her head smacking into the hard-packed surface. Pain struck through her skull, but she managed to look up and see a third Spriggan stepping her way. This one seemed taller and scarier than the previous two-but that may have been because of the fact Aerene was also seeing double. She whimpered, pulling at the roots sticking out from the dirt wall to stand. Once she was up, her full weight was supported by the wall behind her. She could smell blood, and wondered if it was from where she’d hit her head, or if she had a bloodied nose from the impact.
Her mind raced for a solution to the rapidly approaching Spriggan. She didn’t know where her sword was now, and she didn’t have another weapon. She was dizzy and her vision had betrayed her. She thought that if she couldn’t find her weapon, she might try to push the Spriggan towards the water pool. Could I attempt to drown it? I probably can’t even hold it down! Unfortunately for Aerene, her mind was working faster than her body was, the two entities out of sync. The creature was now inches from her, and began to grip one of its massive hands around her throat, its sharp claws tightening against the delicate, exposed flesh of her neck. If only I had that damned helmet. She stared into the hollow eyes of the creature, becoming entranced by the orange glow behind its wooden shell. She was not aware of it, but the poison flecks were invading her being now.
With what strength she could muster, her hands felt along the Spriggan’s body, eyes seeing the orange glow and nothing other. She did what she could in casting the flame spell onto the Spriggan’s taproot core, focusing the most that she could into the space she couldn’t even see. Her fingers found the blazing surface, the Spriggan now struggling against the woman. She summoned all of her remaining strength, and pulled as hard as she could at the taproot, parts of it weakened by the char of the flames.
Her vision was overtaken by the orange and gold light, exploding in her sights before flashing into black.
The sound of breathing woke her up, her eyes snapping to the hole in the cavern ceiling where daylight was peaking in. Her hands pushing into the dirt, she brought herself up to a sitting position. Upon looking around, she learned the loudness of her own breaths had called her to consciousness. How long was I unconscious for? What happened? She searched the cavern clearing for any clues, and noticed Valdr hadn’t ventured in yet.. which meant she hadn’t been out for long. Laying off to the side was the third Spriggan-she hoped it was the last. Its taproot was nearby as well, shrunken in its blackened char state. Aerene’s vision was coming back into focus, but her head was severely aching. She stayed seated, folding her legs into a meditative position. She held one hand into the air, and cast a healing spell with what magicka she had left. The pounding of her headache softened, fading almost completely with the spell’s powerful effect. She found herself able to breathe easier, and had no problem standing up. What a shame would it be to find myself injured before I even get to Falkreath. Hmph. She stepped over the Spriggan’s corpse, eyeing it as if it were going to move any moment. She made her way to the pool of water once again, but wandered to one of the edges closer to a wall-so as to have a partial view of the cavern space and not leave herself vulnerable from behind. The cool water flowed softly around her hand, fingers working to collect enough to rinse off her face. The blood leaking from her nose had partially dried, so she rubbed water along the area to clean herself.
Once she felt present and not about to faint again, she found her sword and slid it into its sheathe. Aerene stepped over to Niels, pulling him from his hunched position and into the window of sunshine cast onto the ground of the space. She wondered what time it was now, but guessed she would have better judgment once outside. It had to have been hours since her departure from Whiterun, in addition to however long she’d been inside Moss Mother Cavern. Although she would never admit it to anyone, it was foolish of her to venture in alone. Her sword was hardly a weapon and her magicka skills were relatively weak.
What matters now is that this place is cleared. Now I can return to Valdr.
She did just that, passing back through the cave and up the loose dirt, out through the narrow, rocky entrance. Valdr was in the same spot as before; as Aerene studied him, she noticed how the color previously drained from his face had returned.
“You’re back! Are you alright, what happened in there?” he asked her these questions in a worried tone. She made her way over, wiping the sweat from her face with the back of her gauntlet, glad to be back on the surface. “The Spriggans are dead. Ari and Niels were not bothered any further than when you’d last seen them,” she reassured Valdr, who let out a shaky sigh of relief. “Alright,” he murmured. “Thank you,” he added. From his hip, he pulled a steel dagger with a sharp, clean blade. “Here. I want you to have this as thanks. Ari gave it to me, said it would give me luck like it did her. I believe you would make good use of it,” he offered her the weapon with an extended hand. Aerene softly gripped the handle of the dagger, carefully holding it in her hands. It was beautifully crafted and obviously sharper than her iron sword. “Thank you, Valdr,” she told him, and arranged the blade into the belt around her hips. It fit snugly, and would be an excellent device for future scenarios.
“What will you do now?” she asked him, glancing up to the sky. It was getting cloudier, but the daylight was also fading. “I’ll give Ari and Niels a proper burial, then get home to Falkreath,” he replied, standing from the tree log to stretch out his newly healed muscles. “I would stay and help, if you’d allow it,” she began. “No one should have to bury their friends alone,” she finished. Valdr looked to her, then away; he was deep in thought, a mix of emotions displayed on his face. When he didn’t immediately respond, she spoke again. “I’m headed to Falkreath, too. But I am in no hurry.”
This seemed to convince him. He agreed, and asked if she was sure, with her insisting that she wanted to help despite his complaints that she’d already helped tremendously by risking her life for his honor.
The two returned to the interior of Moss Mother Cavern and dug graves for Valdr’s deceased hunting companions. Aerene plucked an arrangement of flowers and other plant leaves she could find, leaving them over the soil piles centered in the sunlit patch of the cavern floor. She prayed silent wishes for the two to travel safely into the afterlife, and left Valdr to have his solitude moments. After he emerged from the cave entrance and met her at the fallen tree log outside, where she was patiently sitting, they left the clearing and followed the dirt path back to the road.
Although the mood was a bit somber, the nature around them brought a liveliness to the remainder of the day. Along the road, they kept occasional conversation, Valdr expressing his favorite memories of hunting with his friends, while Aerene mentioned her newness to Skyrim and the job which brought her to Falkreath. They discussed news of the dragon attack in Helgen, before Valdr was telling her a bit about Falkreath’s history. The two passed by Half Moon Mill, which used water from the adjacent Lake Ilinalta to power the sawmill. Valdr mentioned that the owners, Hert and Hern, were strange folks. They mostly kept to themselves, but he thought it was suspicious how a large portion of their cutting logs had ended up in the river, by some weird accident.
Mist from the lake had snaked into the forest ground, floating around the roads to Falkreath. Aerene and Valdr stayed on the path, knowing it would be unwise to venture into the woods when it was almost dark and especially after the encounters of that day.
They passed a stone structure that looked to have been a watchtower at some point, and were walking downhill when it began to rain. The last of the daylight had was shining overhead, and dusk was settling in. Finally, the gateway into one end of Falkreath came into view. “Well?” Valdr asked, causing Aerene to look over at him. “Is it what you were expecting?” he asked. She studied the scene around her. The cottages and houses she could see seemed small when compared to the rocky hillside adjacent to the settlement. Lamp posts cast pale light over some parts of the cobblestone road, and a couple of chickens could be seen darting through the rain, presumably to their coop. A few guards were stationed around the entrance to Falkreath, wearing what looked to be dark purple cuirasses detailed with chainmail. Aerene felt calmer than she’d expected to. The town was quiet, and she had to admit-she liked the gloominess of the weather. “No,” she told him, “it’s better.” With this, Valdr chuckled, leading her through the gateway. They stopped in front of the inn. Aerene squinted to see the sign, which read Dead Man’s Drink. The name was a play on Falkreath’s large cemetery. The townsfolk embraced the presence of the dead, and honored them with such namesakes. “Listen,” Valdr called to her over the loudening sound of the rainfall. They stepped under protection of a building across from the inn. “I’ve seen your guy inside there,” Valdr pointed to the inn. “He’s usually trying to haggle Valga, the owner, into letting him pay less for the mead or ale he’s drinking every night. We hardly get enough business at it is, and while he’s been here for a few days, we’re tired of him. We want him gone,” Valdr explained. “Everyone who’s tried to talk to him gets insulted or threatened, and he hasn’t cared about the warnings from the guards. I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to fight him, but know that he won’t go down without one.” Aerene nodded as she was hearing this. The adrenaline was beginning to seep into her veins. The entire reason she was in Falkreath now was likely sitting inside that building across the road. She hoped it wasn’t too busy inside, but having an audience to her interactions had become a rather common occurrence. “If you’re ever in Falkreath, you’re always welcome at my door. I’ll never forget what you did for me,” he finished. Curiosity crept into her thoughts-what did the client in Riften know of the man’s actions in Falkreath?
After bidding Valdr farewell, Aerene crossed the road and pressed up the steps to the inn’s porch. She clenched her hands into fists, before stretching her fingers. The woman recalled the training sessions she’d had in Cyrodiil, and even the one from yesterday with Vilkas. She blew out a quiet breath, pushing through the entrance of the inn, heart swelling with pride.
Immediately, she was greeted by the warmth of a lit fire, centered inside a carved stone hearth. “Welcome to Dead Man’s Drink,” a woman called from the other end of the room. Aerene spotted Valga, who was wearing a white and brown dress and leaning onto the serving counter. Aerene dipped her head in acknowledgment, eyes searching the room. She saw a few tables, some occupied by chatting patrons, some empty. The room was tall, stone walls reaching up to wooden support beams with a thick thatch roof overtop. There were elk heads mounted behind the serving counter, and two or three rooms for guests to rent. A bard sat in a chair, fingers tuning the strings of his lute. A barmaid was sweeping the floor near the serving counter. Taking all of this in, Aerene was a bit thrown from her hopes-the man she was searching for wasn’t out in the common room. She wandered over to Valga. “Evening, hun. Want a drink?” the brunette, middle-aged woman asked. “Not yet. I’m looking for a man. Red warpaint on his face, brown hair to his shoulders. Seen him?” she leaned slightly in to the counter as she met Valga’s eyes. “Oh, haven’t we?” a younger voice chimed in. It was the barmaid. “Narri…” Valga began. “Valga, everyone here is sick of him. When he’s not harassing you about our prices he’s harassing me and trying to get up my skirt, no matter how many times I’ve told him no. And the guards haven’t done anything about it,” Narri complained. Aerene was surprised to hear this. She was annoyed on Narri and Valga’s behalf. “She’s right. We can’t get him to leave. Only a matter of time before he does something drastic, I’m sure,” Valga added. “What do you want with him, anyway?” Narri asked, leaning the broom against the side of the counter. Aerene had noticed the two women were speaking in quieter tones-is he in this building somewhere? They clearly wanted him gone, and if she could go about this the right way, that would be the end result. “I’ve been sent by the Companions to deal with him.” When she said this, Valga and Narri looked to each other. Valga spoke first. “He’s in that corner room over there. Might open the door if you knock. Might not. You be careful, girl.” Valga warned.
Aerene stepped over to the door, which was shut, and probably locked. If she knocked quietly, would he open up? Maybe…but a louder knock would surely bring him to the door. Then, she could keep a low voice after that. Her knuckles tapped on the door, the sound of the knock prompting curious glances in her direction. She waited, and there was no sound from within. Silence. Either he hadn’t heard her, or he was ignoring her; she guessed it was the latter. She resorted to use her fist and pounded it against the door instead. Within, she heard an annoyed grumble, and stepped back from the door just a pace. It opened, and she was met with a face that exactly fit the description of the culprit. He was an inch or two taller than her, his arms thick with lean muscle. “You’re Thrynn?” she questioned. His look shifted, his eyes darkening and his brows furrowing. “Who’s asking?” he asked firmly. “Me,” she quipped. He began to close the door, which she stopped with her hand against the face of it. “I’ve been sent to resolve a dispute,” she finished, her voice firm and her eyes burning into his. “Yeah? What’s a milk-drinking bitch like you doing out here anyway?” Thrynn opened the door completely, revealing his brown leather light armor that Aerene instantly recognized. He’s a long way from Riften. When she did not respond to his provocative words, he stepped towards her, out of the room, an angry look plastered on his face. “Hmm? What are you gonna do? Think you can take me? Go back home to Whiterun, dog.” He must’ve heard our conversation.
The insults lit a fire in her belly, and her skin was hot with embarrassment and fury. She quickly smacked his face with the back of her hand, her anger getting the better of her-fuel for the fight. “You little-“ Thrynn muttered through bared teeth, and launched a fist into her belly. It hurt a little, but would’ve hurt more had she not been enraged by his words. “Okay,” she coughed, raised her hands in defense, stepping back across the room and towards the front door. He was keeping close proximity, and was clearly not ready to let her interruption to his evening go so easily. “You know, from what I heard about you, I expected a man. But it seems I’ve found a little boy.”
Her words prompted him to curse at her, before tumbling forward and barreling her to the ground with a tackle. Damnit! She hadn’t gotten the chance to take the brawl outside. The two rolled around on the hard stone ground of the inn, landing punches and hits here and there. As upset as she was, Aerene knew she had to hold back-Farkas had distinctly told her not to kill. She would’ve loved to finish this off that way, had she no sense of honor for the Companions-admittedly, the more Thrynn's punches landed against her cheeks, and the more her knee launched into his pelvis, the more her sense of honor slipped down the drain. Voices of the inn’s patrons echoed in the woman’s ears as she struggled against her foe’s movements.
“Those fools are actually fighting!”
“Get back, give them room!”
“My money’s on the big one!”
“Are you serious? The redhead’s winning already!”
“WOOOOO!”
“Come on! You can do this!”
Aerene had just pinned Thrynn when he pushed her off with a thrust of his knee. She landed on her back with a thud. “Drive that snowback to the ground!” Ouch. She found it hard to believe there was someone in here who really wanted Thrynn to win, and hoped that whoever made that comment was cheering for her, not against her. “You had enough yet?” Thrynn hissed, getting up from the ground. She stood too, fists raised and ready. “Don’t just stand there and take it!” another voice called over. Aerene saw it was Narri. The barmaid’s words from earlier broke into Aerene’s thoughts-about Thrynn’s perverse behavior. Aerene sent the scummy man a grin, revealing blood on her teeth from being hit in the mouth. She gestured for him to come at her, when the door to the inn opened behind him. Aerene stepped towards him, and defending from his swinging fists by ducking. The newcomer, unknowing of the chaos inside the tavern, shrunk back against the door. This left enough room for what Aerene did next. She tucked her head to the side and pommeled into Thrynn, who yelped in surprise. “rrAAAGH!” she cried out. The two stumbled onto the wooden porch, her weight keeping him from gaining back his balance. Without considering the risk, she shoved him again, and he fell backwards, landing in the muddy road a few steps below. She made her way down the steps, into the mud where he was slowly standing up. They were both tired now, and the rain was pouring down fast and hard. Her skin was getting more soaked every second, breaths leaving in visible clouds of cold air. Thrynn groaned in pain, slipping in the mud as he tried to stand up. She approached, but got too close, as he launched like a snake and grabbed onto her leg. The sudden imbalance brought her to the mud as well. She landed with a smack onto the sopping wet ground, the rain not sparing her from its sharp downpour. Aerene cursed as she struggled to get a grip. The crowd from the inn had gathered outside, and a few guards hurried over to the commotion. Their cheering and taunting was muffled by the rain. Thrynn’s grip on Aerene’s leg tightened and he began pulling her closer to him. She was sliding in the mud whenever she tried to get a grip to escape his grasp. She turned onto her back, kicking at him with her free leg. He began reaching for that one too, but she managed to make contact with his shoulder.
She kicked hard enough for his grip to loosen. He cursed at her again, yet this time, the words had no effect. She looked behind her, scrambling to stand up. That was when she saw a silver glint catch the day’s fading light. A dagger. In the struggle, he’d somehow gotten hold of a dagger. She hadn’t spotted one on him when she looked him over earlier, but it was possible he had it hidden in his armor. She next noticed that Valdr’s lucky dagger was missing from her belt. Fury erupted within her yet again, at the choices made by the criminal at her feet. He was pushing himself up, still holding the dagger, presumably getting ready to attempt a stabbing. This is my chance. She could try to knock him out, and put an end to the muddy, soaking chaos, but doing so would place her dangerously close to him. She gathered her breaths, lungs burning for air, her whole body tired. She was covered in mud, and could taste the dirt and blood in her mouth. She spit the taste off to the side, stepping back as Thrynn slipped to the ground again. With a hard breath, she prepared herself. She planted her left foot into the mud, steadying her posture. With her right leg, she kicked his face to the left, the contact in true aim. His head spun into that direction with the force, water droplets spraying from his body into the air. The man fell with a thud, slumped into the wet earth below. He didn’t get up again, or move much, but Aerene could see the rise and fall of his chest. He’s not dead. Thank the gods. Rain poured onto her, her hair falling in chunks around her face; she brought her hand up and used her fingers to push her tangled locks out of her eyes. The crowd cheered at her victory, moving down the stairs to huddle around her. Their attention was endearing, and it began to give her strength despite her exhaustion from the day’s events. Valga and Narri were calling out affirmations from the inn’s porch, while the patrons were spitting insults at the downed man in the road. Others exchanged gold, finishing off the bets they’d made. Many were congratulating her or patting her as they walked to and fro.
Among all of this, though, there was a face that caught her eye. A young man was standing on the porch steps at the blacksmith’s shop just a few paces over, across from the inn. His face was illuminated by a nearby lamp, yet partly cast in shadow by the hood he wore. He was in mage’s clothing, of a color difficult to comprehend in the last light of the day. She did see, though, his sapphire blue eyes and the way they sparkled in the orange light. His stature told her he was a Nord. He looked from the crowd to her, and sent a smirk her way. Her heartbeat quickened, as she sucked in a breath. His lips were plump, and his nose was big, sculpted handsomely and contoured by the shadow of the lamp’s cast of light over his face. She couldn’t see his hair color, but does it matter? The woman had never been so entranced by the appearance of another-the aura, the mystery, that smirk. Had he seen her fight? Did he see her win, too? Why was he wearing mage’s robes? Was he a resident of Falkreath? She found herself trying to move towards him, but the people gathered round wanted to celebrate her. Someone’s voice caught her attention, and when she looked, there was a young lady holding Valdr’s lucky dagger. “Here you go, miss. I saw him take it from you earlier,” the girl told Aerene. She took it, thanking the child with her sincerest pleasure, but her distraction was lingering. Only this time, when she looked back to the spot by the lamp post, on the blacksmith’s porch stairs, there was only the glow of orange and yellow light.
The handsome face she’d been admiring was gone now. In the commotion of the crowd, and the silence of her mind, she wondered if he was even real. Perhaps he was only a dream-like entity visiting for seconds at a time, and unseen thereafter.
Notes:
finally, a special and brief meeting. many thanks to my friend who suggested this, with the 'eye contact across the crowd'.
there will be much more to come.
Chapter 6: When We Drift
Notes:
there are those transitory periods in our life when we're trying to find our place. Aerene is looking for hers, and she'll find it, soon.
anyways, I'd also like to issue a content warning. there is a brief, mild mention of groping during the inn visit.
thank you for reading. happy springtime :D
Chapter Text
While the rain poured down harder, and the last light of the day faded into clouded, misty darkness, Aerene’s thoughts were consumed by the face across the crowd.
She’d attempted to find him, subtly, and… do what? Talk to him? Look at him? Wandering around an unfamiliar town on a rainy night was an easy way to get lost. And beside that, she was drawn back to the inn. Offers of hot food and drink were too tempting to decline; Valga had insisted on Aerene getting a complimentary meal, with the claim that Aerene’d done Valga, Narri, and the rest of the patrons a favor in ridding them of Thrynn, who had been dragged away by a few Falkreath guards. Now, presumably, he was slumped in a jail cell and wouldn’t bother a soul anytime soon.
Aerene sat in a corner chair of the inn’s common room, spooning stew into her mouth. A bread roll sat on a plate in her lap. Her armor and undergarments had gotten soaked in the rain-for some parts of her getup, the water slid right down the metal, dripping to the ground. For the cloth sash and the tunic and pant duo underneath, the water soaked in and invited a lovely chill over her skin. Feeling too bashful to allow Valga gift Aerene with a free room that night, the mage had paid for a cozy space with a twin bed; it was set with furs and a pillow, with a nightstand and belongings chest. Aerene had stripped of her wet clothes and pulled on the spare items she’d packed-thankful that Adrianne suggested buying the beginning of a new wardrobe. The baggy, cream-color pants and thick, scratchy brown tunic weren’t exactly Aerene’s style, but the wool socks were warming her feet right up. She cozied into the blanket wrapped around her, cheeks pink from the hearth’s heat gently tickling at her skin.
The resident bard, Delacourt, was playing his lute across the room, humming along to a song Aerene didn’t recognize. There was chatter here and there, but most of the crowd had gone off to their own homes after the excitement of the earlier brawl died down. Valga stood sweeping near the counter, Narri setting the tables with clean dishes and eating utensils. After nibbling at the bread roll, and thinking it would have been excellent with more stew or even honey, Aerene set the plate and empty bowl to the floor just by her chair. Once she got up from her spot, she’d return the dishes to the appropriate spot. Without intending to, though, Aerene had shut her eyes. The warm stew mixed with the warm Black-Briar mead had done a number on her. She’d not speak it, but the food had done little in comparison to the hits she’d taken from Thrynn. Her body was sore, despite the healing spell she’d cast in the privacy of her room. Her belly felt tender, and her hips were aching from the impact of landing in the mud when Thrynn had pulled her leg out from under her. Sitting just a short distance from the fire, wood crackling and embers springing, was just too comforting. The melody of Delacourt’s lute was a lullaby to the Nord woman, and she consequently drifted off to sleep.
“…lady?”
A distant, gentle voice attempted to pull the woman to consciousness. Deciding it must have been a voice from her dreams, despite the fact she wasn’t actually having any, Aerene pulled the blanket tighter over her figure and settled into stillness.
“Milady?” the voice came again. A hand nudged Aerene’s shoulder. The woman slowly blinked open, seeing Narri standing over her. “Lady Aerene, won’t you go to your bed? You paid for it, and I assure you it’s an awful lot comfier and warmer than this wooden chair,” the barmaid spoke to the mage. Aerene stared at Narri, the cogs slowly beginning to turn in her mind. She blinked, and nodded. “Forgive me, Narri. My exhaustion has gotten the better of me. Please, excuse me,” Aerene spoke in a voice that she thought was of appropriate volume, but it came out just above a whisper in her half-sleeping state. Narri mumbled a quiet thanks when Aerene handed her the dishes, but not without first snatching the half eaten bread roll from the plate. She sent a lazy wave to Valga, who had just swept up the last bit of dust for the evening. Aerene closed the door of her room, leaning tiredly on it. Her gaze drifted around the room, landing on the armor she’d set out to dry.
Her emotionless expression faltered to a frown as she realized there was still mud over the metal cuirass. Missed a spot. The wet clothing had been hung to dry, and she’d scrubbed the mud away from the pauldron, boots, and gauntlets. Although she could’ve fallen into the bed and slept in seconds, like a bear in hibernation, she was too bothered to do so.
The mage once again sat down with a bowl of water and a washcloth, working the rough, scratchy material over the steel armor. She did this until she was absolutely sure of the piece’s cleanliness; thereafter, she put out the fire of the room’s candles. In the darkness, she lay, half under the furs of the bed, staring up at what she couldn’t see. Rain fell over the exterior, over Falkreath; sounds of the droplets replaced Delacourt’s melody, and the woman fell into a still slumber.
In her dreams, she caught glimpses of a pleasant setting. There was a young girl she’d see, her laughter bubbly and lively. This young girl had hair of strawberry blonde and eyes of baby blue. As Aerene ran behind the girl, both of them evidently young children, their laughter echoed along the walls of the pomp city. Well-dressed strangers were merely passers-by, the two children paying them no mind. The scene was quick, but faded faster, and Aerene’s eyes shot open into the darkness.
Was I looking at myself? That girl… looked just like me. Maybe my memory’s distorted. It’s not unusual to see oneself in their dreams.
Her thoughts were silenced by her curiosity. She squinted into the early light, and saw that it wasn’t yet dawn. Satisfied with knowing she could sleep longer, and remain free from the haunting worries of daylight, Aerene fell once more into quiet sleep.
The next time she woke, it was later in the morning; still, she was up earlier than on her first morning at Jorrvaskr. Her mind was consumed by the vague, intriguing dreams resonating through her resting hours. The statue back at the Temple was on her mind, but she just couldn’t place why. She did not recall seeing it in her dreams, yet she couldn’t shake visions of the courtyard housing the immortalized embodiment of Akatosh.
Sitting up in the bed, and pushing the heavy furs away from her, Aerene looked around the room. She thought there was no better time to dress for the day, so that was what she did. Her garments had dried, basking in the warmth of the inn’s interior. Thankful for a comfortable place to rest her head, the mage tightened the final straps of her cuirass, and swung her knapsack over her shoulder.
Venturing into the common room brought the content serenity of a slowly moving morning. There were a couple patrons enjoying breakfast, muttering amongst themselves. As Aerene studied the two sitting together, she recalled the exhilarating chaos of the previous night.
Once she’d been ushered back into the inn, guards arriving to drag Thrynn to the jail, the night remained young. A few townsfolk insisted on buying rounds of drink for all of the inn’s patrons, which brought good coin but left Narri and Valga squirming to get the bottles of wine and mugs of mead out to the raving customers. Even Delacourt’s lute playing was drowned by the conversation. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen often here in Falkreath. We’re usually lucky to average half tonight’s coin in a week. Enjoy it while it last’s, hon,” Valga had explained with a grin to Aerene as she picked up a handful of mugs from the bar.
Soon after the celebrating began, a familiar face came over to Aerene. “Valdr!” the champion woman greeted her newest friend. “I couldn’t ignore all the noise,” Valdr chuckled, taking the mug Aerene offered him and gulping down a swig of mead.
And so the evening went on, the peoples’ bellies full of warm mead and finger foods (mainly because they were easy to prepare-sliced cheese, breads, berries, dry meats, and spreads). Eventually, Valdr left for his own home, declaring his exhaustion over the rocky roads of the day. He told Aerene to find him in the morning if she felt like it, but that he wouldn’t worry if he did not see her before her departure from Falkreath.
Thus, she retired to take off the wet garments and armor, and wash the mud from her face and hair, before returning to the common room and finding a warm seat by the hearth.
Now, as she waited for her breakfast of honey porridge and dried snowberries, she sat in the same seat. The space was mostly quiet, save for the soft mumblings of the few patrons and the crackling of the fire.
Aerene’s thoughts glazed over the events of the past few days. Did Hadvar make it to Solitude? He must have, given that he’d departed Riverwood to head straight for the city. Did he make good on his promise to request my pardon, after our escape from Helgen? She sat in the uncomfortable seat of uncertainty, unsure of when she’d ever see or hear from the soldier again. The kindness of himself and his family would remain with her, wherever she walked-this was true. Aerene prayed silently that wherever Hadvar was, he was safe, and so would be Alvor, Dorthe, and Sigrid.
Shortly, the meal arrived, and Aerene inhaled the sweet, slightly tangy scent of the honey poured overtop the porridge. The dried snowberries had been sprinkled in, like little dots sinking into the steaming goodness. Aerene squinted at the sight, pushing the thought of ants in sand out of her head. “Interested in a cure for particular ailments after a night of indulgence?” Valga asked, swirling around a mysterious red bottle, the walls of which hid whatever contents were inside. Curious and intrigued, Aerene shook her head to decline. “I can handle my indulgences, Valga. And their consequences,” she proudly boasted to the innkeeper. Valga’s face lit up with surprise. “I dunno why that surprises me. Is there anything you can’t do?” she asked this as she retreated back towards the front counter. “I’m worthless with a greatsword or battleaxe,” Aerene spoke to Valga’s back as she walked away. The innkeeper chuckled to herself, leaving the mage to eat.
Pondering her plans for the day, as she spooned the sticky porridge into her mouth, Aerene wondered if Valdr was around. She tried to remember if he’d shown her where he lived, her thoughts a little hazier than she cared to admit. Despite that her job for the Companions was done, and that she could leave Falkreath for Whiterun with this news at any time, she couldn’t find the urge to set out just yet. If I leave so soon, I know I won’t shake the urge to come back. There’s more business to take care of here than just Companion work.
When her belly was satisfied with the meal, the redhead made her way to the counter. Valga accepted the bowl and spoon, adding them to a stack of dishes in need of washing. “Thank you, Valga, for making me feel so welcome,” she spoke to the innkeeper, who was wiping a wet rag over a stain on the far side of the counter. “Girl, you know where to find us when you’re back here again. We won’t soon forget what you’ve done for us. The Companions sure know who they’ve got joining up these days,” Valga replied, leaving the rag on the counter to opt for unloading a crate of meads. Hearing this sparked a flicker of doubt within the mage. ‘The Companions sure know who they’ve got joining up.’ Do they, truly? They hardly know anything about me. Aren’t I taking advantage of their position in Skyrim?
No. They’re about more than honor. They’re about coin, too. Aela said they show up if the coin is good enough.
Do others share these thoughts, as I do?
“Is Narri around?” Aerene questioned, attempting to escape the occasional snare of her inner monologue. “No, I told her to go home and not come back until midday. I try to get her to sleep in after busy nights. Goodness knows she needs it.” With this, Aerene sought to find Valdr. Deciding against asking Valga any more questions, as the woman had been help enough already, Aerene bid the innkeeper goodbye.
Stepping through the front door of the inn and out into Falkreath revealed a hazy, sunny morning, a few hours before midday. There were chickens walking about, and townsfolk tending to their duties. The rain of the previous night hadn’t lasted long, as the road was not as muddy as expected-it was drying already. Aerene made her way down the steps, eyeing the spot in the road where she’d brawled Thrynn hours previous. She’d been able to handle herself, and it may not have been obvious to the untrained eye, but to her, she was reminded that her skills had weakened since her departure from Bleaker’s Way. Skyrim was a harsher land than Cyrodiil; Aerene was learning this quickly. Her actions would’ve gotten her arrested already back in the Imperial City. And somehow I evaded it for years.
To her, the majority of Falkreath and its Hold were unexplored. She wanted to alter this, and familiarize herself with the land-to have the advantage. There were other motives underlying her desires to explore-it was also an act of searching. She needed to at least attempt to find a trace of River. There wasn’t much hope remaining within; if she found nothing this day, she’d put the idea to rest and leave it so.
Banging of a hammer against metal drew the mage’s attention to her right, and she saw the town blacksmith hard at work. He wore the same apron Alvor and Adrianne Avennicci had been in, face stained with soot and streaked with sweat. Instinctively, Aerene’s gaze drifted to the steps leading up the smith’s porch-as if she’d expected that someone to be there, with his hood settled behind his neck and his features visible for the curious woman to admire.
The steps were empty, though, and he’d been the only person in Skyrim she’d seen wearing mage’s apparel-save for that deceased prisoner in the barracks of Helgen Keep. If I were to see him again, wouldn’t it have happened by now?
She tore her eyes from the smith’s building, pushing the curiosity to the deepest archives of her mind. The day ahead would be long-she planned to arrive in Whiterun that evening, though if she left immediately she’d get there by mid-afternoon. Find Valdr, look for River, return to Whiterun. Simple.
But up until this point, has anything been simple?
At this point on the main road, she was given two choices; she could continue forward, and see if Valdr’s home was that way, or venture right and try her luck there. She decided on the turn, passing by the corner on which the smith’s shop was. To the right was a patch of plants; Aerene spotted blooms of orange mountain flower, whose height was overtaken by growth of thistle. There were ferns sprouting along the ground, with taller bushes in the patch as well. She’d noticed by now that Falkreath was more ragged than Whiterun-yet it was still beautiful. The town had an aura that was one with nature, as if settling between the surrounding hills was just slight of an inconvenience. Whiterun, on the other hand, sat overlooking the plains, walls separating the wealthy city from the land on which it was on. Admiring Falkreath’s understated beauty reminded the mage of how much she hadn’t seen.
To her left was what appeared to be the Jarl’s Longhouse. It was the settlement’s tallest building, decorated with deep, midnight purple banners bearing Falkreath’s elk insignia. There were guards stationed on each side of the single-door entrance. It was majestic, yet a stark contrast to the towering wooden vaults and long, decorative rugs of Dragonsreach. She passed by this building and met the end of the path. Up in front of her appeared to be guards’ barracks, and to her right was a shop. She moved out of the sunlight to see the wooden sign, completely still as it hung from the post. There was a mortar and pestle colored in blue with orange rimming the top and bottom of the receptacle, centered by a full moon and two outward-facing crescents. Beams of yellow light erupted from the mortar, the pestle positioned to rest just inside. The craftsmanship was pristine, though Aerene wondered on the name of the shop.
She pulled on the door, pleased to find that it was unlocked. As she passed through, the warmth of a sizable hearth greeted her. A huge mounted elk head looked in the direction from whence she came; to the right was a single bed, a wardrobe, side tables, and a dresser. To the right was a Redguard woman wearing a clay-colored hat lined with white fur. Her tunic was pale in color and she wore a garment of the same clay tones overtop. “Welcome to Grave Concoctions,” the woman spoke to Aerene. Her voice was deep and smooth-it reminded Aerene of the moments she’d spoken to Aela. “A suitable name,” Aerene commented, taking in the rest of the setting. There were barrels lining the wall to the left of the hearth, topped with red and green apples, the patchy green of rock warbler eggs, and sets of sharp claws with deep grey feathers. Hanging atop a cabinet of shelves were dried elves’ ear, garlic, and frost mirriam herbs. Potions of various colors and sizes lined the shelves, accompanied by ingredients. Fire salts, deathbed, a gourd…
“Browse as much as you like, please,” the shop’s owner invited Aerene. She did, stepping closer to the hearth to admire the potion bottles atop. As she neared, she noticed not all were potions-there were poisons as well. “Have you any stamina poison for sale? The most vigorous variety?” Aerene asked the lady. “Hmm,” the woman hummed, as she bent to look through her supply behind the counter. “One left,” she declared, setting the dark green bottle onto the counter. “Thank you, Lady…” Aerene’s voice trailed off, and she looked from the bottle in her hands, up to the woman. How rude of me not to ask her name. “Zaria,” the Redguard finished for her.
Zaria. Unique.
“You’re not from Skyrim, are you?” Aerene asked, looking over the ingredients displayed atop the wooden counter, whose ends were lit by goat horn sconces. “I’m not. You aren’t either,” Zaria pointed out, a sly smile growing on her lips, which were tinted with wine-colored lip paint. With this, Aerene met Zaria’s eyes, taking in her facial features. Her undereyes and cheeks were warmed with rouge, eyes lined with black kohl that made her deep brown irises appear brighter. “How can you tell?” Aerene asked curiously.
“I know a traveler when I see one. And I think I’d have met you already, had you been around long enough,” Zaria replied, looking from Aerene and down into a mortar. Inside, she was grinding red flower petals to a paste.
“What brings you to Skyrim?” Aerene asked, pulling her knapsack from her back and digging inside for one of the coin purses to pay for the poison. “My family didn’t exactly approve of my fascination with poisons, or death in general, so I headed north. When I came across Falkreath, and found a settlement characterized by its large, ancient graveyard and grey skies, I felt right at home.”
Aerene set a pile of coins onto the countertop. “And thus the name… you fit right in,” she complimented Zaria, who might’ve had flushed cheeks had she not already applied color to her own. “Is this enough?” Aerene questioned, gesturing to the coins. Zaria pulled two from the pile, sliding them back to Aerene. “This is,” Zaria settled, leaving Aerene satisfied. Zaria scooped the remaining coins from the counter and stored them on the other side, underneath the space.
“How long have you had the shop open for?” Aerene wondered, putting the poison and coins back into her knapsack.
The two continued their conversation, Zaria explaining that she’d had the business for fifteen years, now. She was delighted to hear of Aerene’s experience in the field of alchemy. “Back in Bleaker’s Way, I operated from my cottage, just as you do here.” Aerene calculated how long she’d had those doors open to the people of the village, selling basic potions to the villagers and those passing through-even to the soldiers stationed around. “Bought the place from the previous owner, who wanted to retire. Ran it for some time…” her voice trailed as the memories of those days flooded her mind.
Each of the women were happy to exchange stories from their time as merchants, despite the differing levels of experience, before Aerene left. She’d made her way back to the main road when she spotted Valdr, easy to see when his blonde hair stood out against the earthy tones all around. Aerene greeted him, and he was happy to see that she hadn’t left yet. When she asked her favor, that he’d join her in exploring the region before her return to Whiterun, he insisted he show her what he knew. His experience as a hunter took him throughout all of Falkreath.
A couple of hours had passed since then, and the two were wandering through the woods, past a plot of land where a home was being constructed. They continued past the plot and down a slope to the shore of the lake, sitting to rest in the warm sunlight and the soft grass. “Damn bandits take every chance they get to cause trouble,” Valdr muttered, pulling the axe from his hip and setting it on the ground as he got comfy against a rock jutting out from the ground.
Shortly after the two had left Falkreath, they headed east, where they were caught in an ambush. A bridge of wooden logs stretched across the road, lookout posts on either side. Three bandits were perched atop the posts, one of them an archer. Fortunately, Aerene and Valdr were quick enough to find cover before pushing back against the attackers. This was not before the bandits released loads of boulders from under the bridge, sent tumbling down the hill towards the two previously unassuming travelers.
They’d defeated the bandits, and wrapped a cloth over the injury Valdr sustained when an arrow grazed over his exposed arm before healing it when given the chance.
“Wonder how long it’ll be ’til more of them move into the vacant spot on the road. I hate to praise them, but it’s a damn good vantage point,” Aerene sighed, plopping down in the grass next to Valdr. She closed her eyes, leaning back against her palms and stretching her legs towards the lake-much like how she’d been sitting next to Hadvar when they first escaped the cave.
“I’m going to take the news to the Jarl. Explain what happened. I doubt Siddgeir will do anything about it. He’s only become the Jarl because of his… relations with the Legion. His uncle, Dengeir of Stuhn, was the previous Jarl. Thinks the whole situation was an Imperial plot,” Valdr explained, popping juniper berries into his mouth after digging them out from his pack. He offered his open hand, full of the berries, to Aerene. She took one, and ate it. Immediately, she winced. “Valdr, those are sour! I don’t know how you do it,” she complained, trying to swallow the flavor down her throat. Valdr laughed, shrugging. “Must be my refined taste. Used to it, I guess,” he joked, hand retreating with the rest of the berries.
“And what do you think? Imperial plot? Special relations?” Aerene asked, eyes watching the gently moving waters flow in and out from the shore. Lake Ilinalta was the largest in Skyrim, but it was not as frequented as one might expect.
Valdr sighed. “Wouldn’t put it past them. All Siddgeir does is sit around, drinking Black-Briar mead and eating the finest cuts in the region,” Valdr complained. Aerene nodded. What a surprise. A useless Jarl.
“Have you spoken to Siddgeir before?” she asked. “I have,” Valdr began. Apparently, he was finished, as on that note he did not continue. Aerene looked to him when he did not elaborate further, and saw he’d gone from fidgeting with his axe to looking across the lake, as she’d been doing. He looked to her, then, and his expression told her the previous meeting with the current Jarl of Falkreath hadn’t been positively impressionable.
He need not say more, as she understood.
The two sat in silence, the sun rising high into the sky and shining comfortable warmth down onto them. Aerene turned to see the storm clouds of the previous night hugging the Jerall mountains, meaning her journey to Whiterun would be rainless, but too windy. In the silence, Valdr spoke up. “That armor looks nice on you. Matches your strawberry hair,” he complimented. Hearing those words took Aerene back to the days she’d spent in Bleaker’s Way. Strawberry hair. “I’m still wearing it in. Came with a helmet, too, but it’s uncomfortable and moves around as if it’s not sitting on someone’s head,” she complained. “I regret that I don’t like it, for it could’ve been excellent protection against the winds of Whiterun Hold,” she added, plucking blades of grass from where she sat and releasing them onto the gentle breeze.
“That’s what your sash is for,” Valdr retorted. Aerene stopped, looking to him in disbelief. When he saw her confusion, he offered. “May I?” he asked.
She nodded, and he scooted closer. He pulled the blue sash from her shoulder, wrapped it around her neck loosely, and looped it over her head before tucking it under itself. “There,” he finished. She stood up, and he laughed at her actions of creating sudden movement, dancing around, jerking here and there to test the durability of the makeshift hood. “Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked, grinning to the blonde Nord. This brought a solemn shine to his eyes. “Ari showed us how to do it when it was raining during one of our hunts. Years ago.” At this, Aerene couldn’t help the falter of her smile. The bittersweet memories that would be with Valdr for the rest of his life would always linger like this.
“She’ll be with you, Valdr. In the breeze, in the water of the streams you drink from. In the luck of the hunt. Niels, too. Remember the strength you had together,” she sighed, her palm resting on Valdr’s shoulder in a touch of reassurance. She saw the glistening of tears gathered in his eyes, as he brought his palm to rest on her wrist at his shoulder. He didn’t look to her though, only kept staring over the lake. When he turned his head downward, she saw a single tear drip down into his lap.
Hours later, the sun had moved further through the heavens to indicate the passing of time, and the near end of day. Aerene had departed from Falkreath, and dearest Valdr, and had been on the road for some time now. As comfortable as she’d gotten, sitting in the grass on the lakeshore, watching the rippling currents that looked oh so warm and inviting, she thought maybe it’d be nice to live there someday. She’d have two friendly neighbors in Zaria and Valdr.
Before she’d departed, Valdr asked of her thoughts on running with the Companions. He’d made the effort to warn her of certain caves around Skyrim to avoid in her travels, and marked the locations on her map for her. ‘And avoid the Reach at all times. You’ll run into a den of saber cats or Forsworn before you find a place to rest your head,’ he’d emphasized. Aerene had heard about Markarth, and the Reach Hold, but had no desire to head in that direction. Sometime, she knew she might have to, but would stray from it as long as she had that power.
Feeling as if he’d offered her more assistance than she’d given him, she scribbled the recipe for a healing potion onto a blank page from the spell book in her pack, insisting Valdr at least attempt combining the ingredients. She directed him to Zaria, that they might work out some kind of deal-lessons in alchemy for fresh meats, something of the like. They could use each other’s company. They’re each friendly and alone. Knowing he was capable, Aerene attempted to leave behind the worry that he’d get hurt on another of his excursions; if he had healing potions, or even knew how to craft them, he’d have better chances at survival. As if trying to avoid being alone on the journey back to Whiterun, with her plans being pushed out of whack by the bandit encounter, Aerene left Falkreath later than planned. She insisted on walking Valdr back to the town’s walls, despite them both knowing he didn’t need protection. Still, he let her, and she was grateful for that.
Now, she was passing by the ruined structure on the side of the road near Whiterun, the building that was in ruins. This time, she approached, and carefully studied the ruins of the small house. The only remains were of cobblestone, and part of a fireplace. Ruined books were scattered around, as well as a burned bed. What used to be sturdy wooden walls were now falling downward, creating a jumble of beams and panels that looked as if they’d blow away with a stronger wind. Her makeshift hood was providing protection of the chill against her face, her eyes without tears from the sting of wind as they’d been the previous day. Satisfied that she’d explored the spot, yet disappointed there was nothing exciting within, the woman retreated back to the road and continued past the watchtower, finally turning left past the stables and wandering through the first archway.
The Khajiit caravan was gone, much to Aerene’s surprise. She knew they’d move quickly, but not so soon. All that remained of their presence was a fire pit. Inside, she felt a pang of something she couldn’t identify. Wherever the caravan was headed, she hoped they were safe. Dragons, war. Every road is dangerous. At least they have each other. She stared into the grey ashes of the fire pit, the embers stripped of the orange glow that would’ve told her the group had left just a bit ago-but this was not the case. Her eyes were caught in the movement of the cobblestones underneath her feet as she walked the remainder of the winding road to the city gate.
As she wandered inside the city, welcomed in by who she presumed to be the same guards who’d first approved her entry, she couldn’t shake the ill feelings bubbled within her heart. Of Valdr’s grief, his loneliness. Her own loneliness in traveling the roads of the expansive province alone. Still, with these conflicting thoughts swirling in her mind, she didn’t want to regret her choice in coming to Skyrim. She had more to be grateful for than she had lost, save for River. The success in completing her first job as a Companion tangled with the loss of her beloved mare and the burial of Valdr’s friends.
Aerene stepped past the smithy, Adrianne nowhere to be seen, likely having closed up for the night. The sun drowned into the landscape about two hours ago, and darkness stretched over the land. The sound of Whiterun’s rushing streams across stone occupied the woman’s hearing, as she stopped in her tracks and pondered taking the path she’d not yet. The road in front of Warmaiden’s turned up into a quiet setting where many residents had their homes. Aerene wanted to explore the spot, but also wanted a good meal and drink. Her muscles ached from walking all day, feet sore and feeling blistered from breaking in her boots. Unfortunately, her ailments couldn’t be fixed with anything but sleep. If I go that way, I’ll pass the Bannered Mare. No better time for a drink than now. Her desire for an ale called her along the familiar route, and she quickened her pace. The Companions had dined earlier and there was probably nothing for her now, anyway. How is it that I keep missing meals? Twice in a row, now. I doubt Kodlak went out of his way to save me a plate. I’m probably not expected until tomorrow, anyway.
Finally entering the rounded scene of the marketplace, where only a few guards were stationed and the merchants were absent for the night, the mage was more excited to sit for a while before falling into the bed at Jorrvaskr. Surrounded by the quiet night air, with the distant commotion of the Bannered Mare up the steps across from her, she took a moment to catch her breath. She looked up to the heavens, admiring the dancing aurorae in glows of purple, tangled with vibrant green. A chilly breeze snaked through the city’s streets, but it wasn’t enough to send a chill through the Nord’s bones. She took in a long breath of the clean, crisp air, and let it out. Feeling calm, and appreciating the near silence of a clear night in Whiterun, she stepped across the center of the market and up the stone stairs to the Bannered Mare.
Her plan for the rest of the night was to enjoy a warm drink or two, before walking up to Jorrvaskr and falling into her bed after a long day, as she’d done yesterday.
Opening the front door, she stepped through, and took in the scene of the inn. She pushed her hood down, the sash falling from her neck and over her shoulder as it had been originally. The sounds of chatter from the packed space’s patrons rang through the building. Aerene didn’t bother to look around, as it was hard to see anyways with the crowd of what seemed like all of Whiterun’s citizens in one place. She wove her way through the people, spotting an open seat at the counter. She shuffled over to the spot, and sat down on the stool, stretching her back. The woman behind the counter was a Nord with auburn hair pulled back into a high ponytail, strands of hair hanging along the sides of her face. Her cheeks were red, probably from the warmth of the fire and the exhaustive work of running the inn. “What can I get you? Hungry, thirsty, both?” she asked, approaching Aerene, who leaned against the counter to get more comfortable. When the innkeeper spoke, her thick Northern accent was revealed. “What’s on the menu?” Aerene asked.
She settled on a serving of that night’s dinner; crab cakes, grilled leeks, and potato bread. The mead was Honningbrew Reserve, served specially from the Meadery just outside Whiterun. Aerene slid the coin payment across the counter, which the owner, who was named Hulda, scooped up. She popped the cork out of the mead, and set it in front of the redhead. Aerene took a sip of the mead, her face instantly caving in at the unpleasant flavor. She swallowed the liquid anyways, brows furrowing. Whatever that is… is not mead.
“Hulda?” she called the innkeeper over from her seat. “Yes, dear?” Hulda asked, approaching the mage once again. “How fresh is this mead? Its taste isn’t what I expected. Can I trade for something else?” Aerene asked, sliding the bottle a little closer to Hulda. Hulda stopped where she was, and her facial expression turned to show she was unimpressed. “Sorry, dear. You get what you pay for. Want somethin’ else, pay for somethin’ else.”
Aerene’s eyes narrowed at this. So… Hulda seemed aware of the shitty flavor of the mead, yet didn’t care. She began walking the other way. “Wait!” Aerene beckoned. “Got any Black-Briar Reserve?” she asked. Within moments, Hulda had happily popped open a bottle of Black-Briar Mead, pouring it into a mug and setting both in front of the mage. Only for a mere 23 gold. Lovely. This time, as Hulda walked way to tend to other patrons, Aerene watched her with tired eyes.
She brought the mug up to her lips, drinking in the bittersweet flavors of the Reserve. She was happily reminded of the night with Hadvar at the inn in Riverwood… what was it called, again? The Sleeping Giant. Right. Wonder when I’ll end up there again? She’d sipped halfway through the mug when an unfamiliar voice called her attention to the right. “Evening, milady,” he greeted in a sultry tone, some kind of attempt to get her attention. Aerene turned to meet the eyes of a tall and lean Nord, his blonde hair long and tucked behind his ears. Aerene studied his features, understanding that he had indeed been speaking to her. His eyes were light blue, topped with thin eyebrows. He had a pointed chin, and smile lines formed into his youthful cheeks. He was wearing a tan tunic with a russet vest and pants, with common boots. At his hip was an iron dagger. His lips, Aerene noticed, were thin yet curved back into a smirk. “Evening,” she returned, turning her attention away from him and back to her mead. As she was gulping it down, he began talking again. Had her face not been covered by the large rim of the mug, he’d have seen the way her eyes rolled back into her head. She was tired, and not in the mood for unwanted attention.
“I’m Mikael, the resident bard here at the Mare. For a mere fifteen gold, I’ll play you a song,” he offered, leaning on one elbow onto the counter, facing her fully now. She sighed through her nostrils, setting the mug back onto the counter. He was obviously a hustler. The best bards in Cyrodiil get shy taking five gold a song, and only the proud take ten. “Bit loud in here for a song, isn’t it?” Aerene spoke back to him, meeting his gaze again. She hoped her expression told him she wasn’t interested. When she said this, though, he stepped closer, his fingers grazing over hers as her hand sat on the counter. “We could go somewhere quieter. Be as loud as we please,” he spoke quietly. These words turned her veins hot, her face reddening in frustration. She swept her hand from beneath his. Fighting the urge to grab her mug and throw the drink in his face, she bit the inside of her bottom lip and looked to him once again. “I’d pay you a hundred gold to get out of my sight,” she spat. Really? That was the best I could come up with?! What a threat. He’d probably love a hundred gold to get out of my way.
To her surprise, he seemed a little shocked at her words. Yet, he only seemed to see what she said as a challenge, as if she were a beast for him to conquer. “Oh, come on,” he chuckled, but she could hear the barely audibly stutter in his voice-the nervous undertones. The tipping point was when his hand bolted up to grasp at the back of her neck. His fingers brushed over her skin, sending chills down her spine. The unexpected touch sent a shiver through the woman, and she quickly swiped the dagger from his belt, sprouting up from the tool, and holding the blade to his neck. “Mikael,” she began, her eyes stern and her tone low. “Get out of my sight,” she prompted again, leaning forward to whisper into his ear. “Before I cause a scene,” she continued, and spoke the last words at a volume barely audible, “and carve your eyes out.”
All she heard from him was a shaky sigh, but he pushed her back and disappeared into the crowd of patrons. Since he hadn’t taken his dagger, she slid it into her belt on the hip opposite of the one with Valdr’s lucky dagger.
“Here’s your food,” Hulda’s thick accent called from Aerene’s left. She’d caught her footing from being pushed back suddenly, and found her seat. She looked over the meal, the rumblings of hunger working through her belly. When she was younger, the encounter from moments ago might’ve stolen her appetite. She’d learned to steal it back, as she gained more experience and grew older, and knew not to allow an insolent idiot’s actions ruin her evening. It’d been a long day. Once I’m done eating I’ll get out of here.
She said nothing to Hulda, but instead grabbed a fork, and poked it into a slice of grilled leek. When she bit into it, she wasn’t surprised it was cold. Knowing better than to ask Hulda if it could be warmed, Aerene chewed into the vegetable. By the time she’d finished off the leeks, albeit cold, she was feeling calmer. The crab cake was still warm when she bit into it, this she was pleased with. The potato bread was satisfying, too, dusted with potato flour and sweetened just the right amount. Aerene finished her meal, pushing the plate across the counter to leave it for Hulda to take. The innkeeper made her rounds, and asked if Aerene wanted another bottle of mead. The woman contemplated it-Hulda offered a second bottle for half the price. It was tempting, and would excellently finish off the night. Aerene gave in, sliding more coins across the counter. Hulda set down another bottle of Black Briar Reserve.
Sighing, Aerene finished off the contents of her mug, prepared to pour another portion in. When she took in her surroundings, she noticed benches placed around a central fire pit. There were tables around the common room, packed with visitors; sounds of laughter and joy rang through the air. However, when Aerene looked to one table, on the least busy side of the common room, she became hyper focused on the conversation. A Nord woman and a young girl sat together. Mother and daughter.
The woman had a worried look, her fingers fidgeting in her fawn brown hair, pushed out of her face and styled with a couple of braids hanging through the strands. Her eyes were shiny, glistening, as if she were on the verge of tears. That was when Aerene spotted the blonde Nord leaning dangerously close to the woman. The words exchanged between the three were barely audible, and Aerene was only catching fragments with the noise from the rest of the patrons. She adjusted her position to look over the people moving in front of her, between herself and the table she was watching. The people blocked her view, though, and she debated whether to step closer for a better look. She didn’t know Mikael or the woman and girl he was with, but guessed they weren’t speaking to him by choice.
Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to look, Aerene pushed herself off the stool, leaving the mead and mug at the counter. She hoped, and yet trusted, that nobody would occupy her spot before she got back to it. She wasn’t in the mood for another confrontation, yet that was exactly what the Divines had in store. When she moved between the people gathered in her way, which she weaved through with polite greetings, her eyes landed on a dreadful sight. Mikael was still standing over the woman, but his hand was outstretched. His palm was sitting on the underside of her chest, fondling her in a manner which she clearly hated. Tears streaked down the woman’s cheeks, her daughter begging for Mikael to let go. The woman sat very still, speaking quietly, presumably begging Mikael to leave her alone. Aerene’s heart pounded with hurt at the sight. She glanced around. Nobody else was looking, each person and group in the inn sunken into their own worlds. None were present to witness Mikael’s crimes.
I’ve had enough.
Aerene rapidly walked over to Mikael, from behind. From there, things happened fast. She gripped the back of his neck with her right hand, squeezing tightly, and latched onto the hand groping at the woman. She twisted his arm back, and slammed his head onto the table. Once might’ve been enough, but her rage got the better of her. She pulled his neck up and then slammed his head against the wooden table, the thud echoing through the room. She was sure many looked over to the scene she was causing. The woman yelped in surprise, her daughter doing the same. Aerene’s fingers slid into Mikael’s blonde hair, holding tightly onto his scalp and pushing his face into the table as hard as she could. He was yelling for her to stop, to screw off, that sort of lovely curses spewed her way as she had him pinned. She pulled his head up, prepared to slam his face into the table again, when she saw blood dripping onto the table. She stilled, looking from the red droplets to the young girl sitting in terrified awe. As she looked into the child’s eyes, she saw Dorthe; Alvor and Sigrid would never want their little girl to see such horrors within reality. For as long as possible, they’d surely protect Dorthe from the brutal land of Skyrim.
With the image of young Dorthe fresh in her head, and her mind feverishly racing, Aerene resorted to leaning against Mikael’s back, her left hand twisting his arm further-drawing another cry of pain from him. “Mikael,” she began. He responded with a groan, his teeth bared and bloody.
“Have you learned your place?”
“Get off of me, you bitch,” he whispered, saliva and blood dripping from his chin.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“….yes.”
“Say it louder,” she hissed into his ear.
“Yes!” He cried, his voice shaking as he did so. “I’m sorry! You’re hurting me! Please let me go,” he begged.
The Nord mage thought it suitable to slam his head into the table once more, but did not, to save the girl from a nightmarish sight. Then, the thoughts of consequences streamed into Aerene’s head. She hadn’t seen any guards in the Mare, and she wasn’t sure who else saw what Mikael had been up to before she’d intervened. Still, it was best not to hang around.
Her left hand still pinning his arm back, Aerene’s right hand found a handful of his shirt. Her fingers tightened into the cloth, she debated what she could have done next. Knowing that she needed to choose her next steps very carefully, she plucked his iron dagger from her belt. With a swift gesture, she stabbed the dagger into the surface of the wooden table, startling the woman who wore a look of distress and shock. Mikael seemed the most afraid, his bottom lip quivering and tears pouring from his eyes-the blade of the dagger mere inches from his baby blues.
Aerene stood up straight, then, and turned to see too many sets of eyes on her. As she began walking back towards the counter, movement from the inn’s upper landing caught her eye. Two figures were leaning over the ledge, watching for who knows how long. Two twins, each with black war paint surrounding their pale grey eyes. Damn it all! How long have Farkas and Vilkas had their eyes on me?! Suddenly very worried about her position with the Companions, Aerene tore her eyes from theirs, and focused on the counter. As she did so, though, she wondered if she’d seen them smirking, or if her rapidly spinning mind was drawing illusions?
She snatched the mead bottle from the counter, digging into a pouch at her hip for a few coins. She tossed them onto the counter, mumbling, “Sorry about the mess,” to a scowling Hulda. Turning on her heel with no time to spare, and the bottle of mead in her hand, she walked through the parted row of patrons. The noisy common room had grown eerily quiet, and the redhead was sure her cheeks were the color of the tomatoes on display behind Hulda’s bar.
Just as she neared the exit, stepping past Mikael’s coughing figure, and past the stilled crowd of patrons, the sound of the crackling fire seemed so deafening.
That was when she spotted yet another familiar figure.
She coincidentally looked to the right, meeting the cold gaze of a cloaked man, blonde hair braided back and out of his face, strands of his beard handing down his strong chin. Gods. Aerene gulped, but knew her sentence wouldn’t be helped if she ignored the prominent figure she was most surprised to see. Will he let me leave? Did he see what I’ve done?
She settled on what seemed appropriate for the inappropriate situation she’d gotten herself into. As she passed, she dipped her head and bowed, greeting him succinctly, “Jarl Balgruuf.”
Without awaiting his response, of any kind, she silently passed through the doors of the Mare. Shutting the door behind her, panic set in. What in Oblivion is the Jarl of Whiterun doing in the Bannered Mare?! How had I not seen him, or Vilkas and Farkas?
Aerene avoided eye contact with the guards stationed in the marketplace, as she almost tripped down the steps when she ran down them. She slowed to a fast walk, wandering up the stairs to where the dead tree was centered, the next district up in the city. Her lungs burned from the panic and the exertion, eyes darting around.
Although none of the guards suspected her of any crimes, she felt as though she were the center of Nirn and that wolves were at her tail, lurking behind every corner.
I could go to Jorrvaskr and head straight to bed. But that’s probably the first place they’d look if they’re out to arrest me. I can’t go back there! I need to hide out for a bit. But I shouldn’t leave the city.
Sudden yelling shot a pang through her chest; when she turned to the noise, she spotted only a drunken man in rags singing aloud. Harmless, yet bothersome to the guard pretending the man wasn’t there. Knowing she’d only feel a little better if she fled the ‘scene of the crime,’ the redhead quickened her pace. She wasn’t familiar with the twists and turns of the residential area she’d ended up in, and… did she hear a cow moo somewhere nearby? Focusing on tucking herself out of sight, she wandered past various buildings, and finally made it to the outer wall of Whiterun. She kept close to the wall, stepping silently, her fingers tracing along the cobblestones in the darkness. Masser and Secunda, the moons of Nirn, lit her way.
She jogged along the wall, and eventually the stone path led to an exposed outcrop adjacent to a building with two pyres dimly lighting the front entrance. A staircase went down into the ground, telling Aerene the majority of the structure’s interior was carved into the ground. It didn’t seem like a home, as it did not match the ones she’d passed. She peeked out from the side of the building, and realized she was close to the first staircase leading up to Dragonsreach. Stepping to the opposite turn of the building, she spotted the perfect hideout spot.
The building’s exterior walls came very close to Whiterun’s cobblestone wall, but didn’t quite touch. She squeezed into the space, and past (but really through) a tall, thin bush that still managed to hide whatever was on the other side.
Past the bush was a tall stretch of earth, composed of jagged rock and packed dirt. It was a natural formation, yet it stretched almost as high as the building. Perfect. She finally caught her breath, aware that the space was one-way-in, one-way-out. If she were caught, she was cornered. So don’t get caught.
She pulled the knapsack from her shoulders, tossing it to the dirt, and looked at the object practically cemented to her left hand. I’ve had the bottle of mead this whole time? For her palms being as sweaty as they were, she’d had a hell of a grip on that mead bottle. Aerene let out a long, quiet sigh, before leaning up against the wall she was next to, and sliding her back against it as she sat to the ground.
A few minutes of silence passed by, and finally she bit down on the cork of the mead bottle, spitting it onto the ground in front of her. She took a huge drink, that hurt to swallow, but felt satisfied nonetheless.
What am I doing here?
She wondered this, her head aching and her body tired. Living this scene now reminded her of the unfavorable parts of her childhood, when she’d misbehave or rebel at the Temple, and run and hide so as to avoid confrontation. I thought I grew out of that, but here I am. But what happened to the woman who faced Thrynn head on? And who managed to escape the onslaught of a dragon? Now, as if she didn’t feel bad enough about the situation she’d gotten into, she was beginning the fun process of self-criticism. And how long am I going to sit here for? If there were guards looking for me, they’d have surely found me by now.
“Aerene?”
A voice startled her. She froze, eyes widening as if whoever was speaking to her was staring right through her soul in the darkness of the night. But when she replayed the sound of the voice in her head, the memory becoming distorted the more she thought about it, she realized it was someone she knew.
“Vilkas?”
“Mmhm. You going to stay cramped back there or am I going to have to squeeze in?”
What does he want? Oh, Gods… the Jarl must have sent him after me! I’m a fugitive!
“Are you going to arrest me?” she questioned suspiciously after a couple seconds of silence. What she had not been expecting was a series of low chuckles from the twin, presumably on the other side of the bush or behind the wall. “No. Figured you’d like reassurance that you don’t need to be in hiding, like a criminal,” Vilkas spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, sounding amused and unimpressed. So I’m not a criminal… well, not here, anyway. Between the two of them, there was more silence. Aerene’s cheeks were growing red with embarrassment, like a child who was in a bad hiding spot during a game of hide-and-seek. There were sounds of movement from behind the building, and within moments, she stepped out into the open space. Vilkas was standing there, arms folded over his chest, and his mouth in a line. “You just going to stand there? Like a doe unaware of the arrow aimed at her?” he teased, stepping a bit closer. Aerene stayed where she was, watching him. “I’m quite aware,” she retorted.
“Where’s Farkas? Saw him with you earlier,” she implied, as they began to walk, in the general direction of Jorrvaskr. “He stayed behind to talk to the guards. And the Jarl,” Vilkas added that last bit on purpose, knowing how it’d irk her. “Gods,” Aerene muttered, rubbing her face with her hands. “To tell them what, exactly?”
“That we witnessed the occurrence, in its entirety.”
Aerene’s eyes narrowed when she looked to Vilkas upon hearing this. “You saw Mikael treating that woman and her daughter the way? And let it happen?!” her voice was getting higher as she stopped in her tracks and her gaze turned to a glare. Vilkas stopped too, gesturing for her to quiet down. “It’s late, and if you yell like that, you’re really going to cause a scene.”
When she said nothing, he continued. “Farkas and I were drinking at a table on the second floor. We heard the girl crying, and when we looked, you were already on your way over.” Aerene grew more confused with every word he spoke. Not that his statements were confusing, but that she wasn’t understanding most of what happened. “And you let me act out like that?! If I broke a law, you should’ve stop-“ his hand on her shoulder made her eyes shoot open a hundred times wider. She swatted Vilkas’ hand away, brows furrowed in annoyance and frustration. “You did what we would’ve. Probably more. Mikael has been a bother to Whiterun’s women for a while. And you embarrassed him in front of the whole tavern. Not only that, but as a Companion. Meaning that your actions carried more weight.”
The two were now rounding past the stone planter with the huge dead tree. The stairs up to Jorrvaskr were in close view now, and Aerene was even closer to the mostly comfy bed in the downstairs of the hall. When Vilkas paused, Aerene interrupted. “Is this where you kick me out?” she asked, genuinely. Vilkas looked back at her, averting his gaze to the distance. “Not me. Kodlak,” he sighed. Aerene frowned at this, but Vilkas laughed again. She gawked at him, and he lightly pushed her shoulder. “Lighten up, sister. I speak in jest,” Vilkas grinned, the first time Aerene had seen him do so. When he did, he looked all the more like his brother… his twin brother who he looked like anyway.
“Vilkas, you-“ Aerene huffed, sighing in immense relief.
“Good news, shield sister,” the duo was joined by Vilkas’ better half in Farkas. “You’re off the hook. And multiple witnesses recounted seeing you intervene when Mikael was harassing Carlotta and her little girl,” Farkas wrapped his huge arm around Aerene’s shoulders, to which she let out an amused laugh. “I’m amazed,” she mumbled, walking between the two of them up the stairs to the mead hall.
Once they made it inside, Aerene asked the question that had been burning into her mind. “Was I really that easy to find?” she knew it was childish, but the curiosity burned too much for her not to ask. Farkas and Vilkas stilled, exchanging a quick glance. Farkas said nothing, and Vilkas looked to Aerene with an undetectable hint in his silver gaze. “No, but your footprints were easy to follow.” She only nodded to this, knowing that if she pried further she wouldn’t get as far as she wanted. “You get the job done in Falkreath?” Farkas asked, a large coin purse sitting in his hand; Aerene had seen it strapped to his weapon belt, and thought it bold of him not to worry about a thief with sticky fingers.
“I did,” she answered simply. As much as she wanted to tell the tale, and all the details she could remember, she was exhausted and not in storytelling mode. “Tell me over breakfast,” Farkas suggested, noticing her tired eyes and the slowness of her words. “Goodnight, Farkas,” Aerene patted the big man’s shoulder, then faced his brother, who was now sitting on one side of the three dining tables. “Goodnight, Vilkas,” she spoke softly, her voice just above a whisper as she walked past. As she parted from the two brothers, each of them speaking their own parting words, she took in the scene of the mead hall. The door to the left of the front entry was shut, meaning Brill and Vignar Gray-Mane were retired for the night. Athis and Njada were mumbling to each other at a round table across the room, out of the room’s center space where the hearth and feasting tables were. Aerene acknowledged the two Companions with a slight wave, feeling that if she got too close to them she’d be stared out of existence. By Njada, at least-that woman’s amber eyes were sharp as the blade at her hip.
The mage turned the corner to the stairs, stepping down into the second level of Jorrvaskr. Only a few torches were lit, indicating most of the warriors were sleeping or keeping quiet for the sake of others. As Aerene quietly made her way through the hall, stepping across the decorative striped rug, she couldn’t help but feel… buried in the space. There were no windows in the second level, as it was underground. Still, she had always slept in places where natural light was aplenty. At the Temple in the Imperial City, she’d roomed with other young girls for a time. Then, she was given her own space, and had never felt more comfortable. She’d picked out herbs and potted them, leaving them on the sill of her room’s large, singular window to soak up the sunlight. In her cottage at Bleaker’s Way, there were a few windows around the home that let in a comfortable amount of light, especially at the time of day when the sun’s golden rays were shining through, casting a glimmering aura inside.
As much as she appreciated the bed at Jorrvaskr, and the chest that came with it, she couldn’t help but wonder when she’d once again have her own space above ground. With an alchemy lab, a larger bed with the warmest furs, an oven to bake (when she learned how), a hearth, and at least one window in the room where she’d sleep. A home.
After she’d taken her armor off and was left in her tunic and pants, personal items under the bed or stored in the chest, she shimmied under the furs with these hopes on her mind. For now, this is my home.
Chapter 7: Eight
Notes:
I'M BACKKKKKKKK! Long time no see. I've been writing this chapter piece by piece, and I had planned for it to be longer, but then realized I could write to a certain point then continue in the next chapter. I know it's been over two months, almost three in fact, since my last upload. I don't want to keep doing that. But no matter, I'll write this story through to its end! It's only just beginning! :D
also... I know this is chapter 7 and it's titled Eight... but read on, and you'll see why.
Chapter Text
The chaos of that night, the racing heartbeat and the descent into steady breaths, ended with a quiet sleep, dreamless and black as midnight. That had been a little over a week ago, and there hadn’t been occurrences as thrilling since. Aerene had mostly stayed around Jorrvaskr for training, getting to know her shield-siblings better as she found herself spending more time with them. She would awaken around dawn, and sometimes help Tilma prepare the meals for the day-doing potato peeling or batter mixing to give the woman a hand. When she’d ask the members of the Circle-Vilkas, Farkas, Skjor, Aela, and Kodlak-for work, there never seemed to be a convenient job for her. They’d recommend going out to some far-off location in Skyrim, joined by at least two shield-siblings to clear a troublesome cavern or a task of the like. Aerene would’ve done any of this, except whenever she needed the necessary company, her shield-siblings weren’t available. The members of the Circle had their own matters to attend to, while other lower-ranking members like Aerene herself already had tasks to occupy them.
She’d been wandering around Whiterun, running silly errands like weapon delivery for Eorlund or picking up the occasional job request from a local client. She’d only gotten work to leave Whiterun once, and that was to deliver a found heirloom to a family in Rorikstead-about a half day and a couple hours’ walk west of Whiterun. On her way back to the Hold’s capital, though, a thought materialized in her mind. They’re keeping me around Jorrvaskr because of what happened at the Mare. Instantly, she began to argue with herself, thinking that the Companions were too honorable for petty grievances like that. They wouldn’t just have her at arm’s reach, keeping close watch on her behavior, would they? No, they’re beyond that. We’re not children, I wouldn’t be treated that way, even if I were the newest blood. As she wandered along the plains of the Hold, past extensive farmland where she could hear cows mooing, her eyes narrowed to slits. As if there were an entity on one of her shoulders, playing the advocate for the opposition, an unexpected retort came to her. They must have lost trust in me because of what I did to Mikael. Even if Vilkas and Farkas saw it, Jarl Balgruuf did too. What if it were his request that I be made scarce around the city?!
The next afternoon, the conflicted mage stood in archery training with Aela. The two redheads were holding bows, wearing quivers at their back. Aerene was practicing her aim, with Aela demonstrating the key to hitting a moving target precisely. Aerene had the hunting bow in ready position, arrow aimed and the string pulled into the tense firing position. “Good,” Aela spoke quietly, stepping behind Aerene. “Now start moving, and pretend the target is moving too.” No reaction was forged from the trainee. Her mind was elsewhere-far elsewhere. Aerene had spent months hunting in the forest near Bleaker’s Way, getting her own food or buying from the local merchants. She’d had plenty of practice shooting arrows at unsuspecting prey, always praying thanks after the kill.
But she’d not had that same abundance of experience when it came to shooting arrows at people.
“Aerene,” Aela called her name, and when the mage turned to look at her shield-sister, she found the Nord woman with her arms crossed. “You’ve not been hitting the mark today,” she asserted. Aerene’s ears and cheeks began to redden with embarrassment at the truth called out directly. “I,” she began, but had no words ready to defend her failure for the past hour and a half. Aela was right-Aerene would fire the arrow, and it would never hit where she was aiming. She’d fire at the chest, and the arrow would strike the thigh. She’d aim for the head, and the arrow would strike the shoulder. It was highly unlike her; when she’d practiced archery back in Cyrodiil, she did well. Not top-of-the-class well, but good enough to confidently hold a bow and arrow. She was no master, at all, but she could wield the weapon if it was absolutely necessary. It would never be her first choice, though.
When she failed to respond, Aela sighed, visibly frustrated with her trainee. She took the bow from Aerene’s hands, and gestured for Aerene to slide out of the quiver hanging over her figure. The trainee did just that, and handed the bunch of arrows to her mentor. “That’s enough for today. Come find me again when you’re ready to focus.” Her words stung, and Aerene couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal grabbing at her heart. She stood there, dumbfounded, watching her shield-sister walk back under the verandah in the training yard. Aerene’s gaze shifted from the woman to the other Companions in the yard. Vilkas was in a training session with Ria, and he caught Aerene’s gaze the instant she looked in his direction. She immediately looked away, and spotted Farkas sitting cross-legged in the shade near the natural rock formation underneath the Skyforge. She considered talking to him, as he’d been easy to speak to, but changed her mind when she saw Aela walking towards Farkas with intent in her step. Aerene watched this, feeling meek, and her brows furrowed.
Despite being outside underneath the warmth of the sun and in the chill of the breeze, she felt suffocated by the many presences around her. Aerene eyed her surroundings, the disbelief of Aela’s remarks, although true, sitting uncomfortably in her belly. It was like the air was working to smother her, and she knew she needed to get out of the training yard… to somewhere quiet. Inside.
And so she did just that, pushing her hair behind her ears; although it never usually bothered her, the tickle of her red strands against the skin of her face was irritating her-distracting her from her attempts to vanish from the very thick air and pause her existence for the time being. Her legs carried her along the cobblestones and up the stairs to the dining and rest area, where Ria and Vilkas were getting seated. As Aerene stepped past the two, glimpsing at Ria’s sweaty figure, she noticed the way the brunette eyed Vilkas across the table from her. Aerene saw into the Nord woman’s eyes as she stepped past the table, and saw they were not laced with intensity, but something softer-admiration? They were talking, though Aerene paid no mind what their conversation was about; she’d been near out of earshot, her nostrils inhaling the scents of sweet wine, and the effects of physical exasperation emanating from her shield-siblings. She spotted a sweet roll sitting on one of the tables, as she finally got to the double doors leading inside Jorrvaskr. Looking upon the pastry sent a grumble through her belly, reminding her she’d not eaten lunch yet. Now, the hunger was hitting her out of nowhere. Just then, a small black bug landed on the white icing of the sweet roll. It moved around, drowning in the mouth-watering sweetness, and the sight turned Aerene’s appetite into a different direction. A figure entered her line of sight, and she glanced up to see Ria approach the bowl. She picked it up, her other hand reaching to grasp onto the pastry. As she brought the roll to her mouth, teeth biting into it, the little bug flew off-unbeknownst to Ria. Aerene’s eyes narrowed at the unpleasant sight. “Last one. Sorry,” Ria mumbled over a mouthful of the bug-marked roll. Aerene realized she must’ve looked irritated from the outside as she eyed the other Companion eating the last of that day’s sweet roll batch. “Enjoy,” the mage slyly responded, pushing her way into the warm hall of Jorrvaskr without time for a response from the brunette.
Her eyes rolled so far back into her head they almost got lost, her mood sinking in annoyance at the unfavorable events turning in the day. She pondered her choices, as she made a beeline along the wood floors of the great hall. A quick glance over the interior told her the hearth was burning hot, and most of the Companions appeared to be elsewhere; only Brill and Vignar sat together at a table, Tilma pouring what looked like wine from a pitcher into each of their tankards. Her laughter echoed across the room as the two spoke to her.
Despite seeing a fresh wheel of eidar cheese and braided bread out on a serving tray, next to some jazbay grapes, Aerene’s appetite was still with the little bug who’d indulged in the sweet roll Ria had stolen. The last thing she wanted to do was eat, and the second to last thing she wanted to do was talk to anybody about anything. Maybe I can sleep until dinner. I don’t know what else to do. She couldn’t shake a decent job out of her shield-siblings, even though she’d turned to all of the quest-givers that day looking for work. Aela was the only one with an assignment to give out, and that was to exterminate a spriggan group in the woods of the Rift. Aerene’d had her recent taste of what spriggans were capable of, and that was more than enough. She awkwardly suggested Aela get someone else to do it, to which the redhead grumpily responded.
Landing at the bottom of the staircase in Jorrvaskr’s living quarters, the mage stepped quietly through the hall, spotting Skjor and Kodlak at the wooden table and chairs that were occupied, much in the same manner, when she’d first shown up to the hall, asking to join. When she got into the whelps’ living quarters, her heart warmed at the sight of a completely empty room-the furniture her only roommates for the time being. She closed the door behind her, as she’d seen others do when one needed to change clothes, and plopped onto her bed. She laid back, feet planted on the floor as a yawn erupted from her being. Her eyes were watery from being tired, face feeling weighed down by the activities of the day. Not seeing any reason why it wasn’t allowed, she decided to nap the day away. Sure, she’d be the only member of Skyrim’s most esteemed warrior guild sleeping instead of battling, but that was the least of her concerns now. In fact, she couldn’t care any less what others might think if they found her in bed. She could always check up on her speech skills and pull the sickness card-a stomachache, headache, twisted ankle. It wouldn’t be questioned when none of them knew she could heal herself.
Content with her decision, Aerene loosened the straps of her armor, pulling the cuirass from her chest and sliding it under the bed. She got down onto her knees, sliding out of her undershirt as well. Folding the garment together, cringing at the dampness of it as she stored it next to the cuirass. She lowered herself into an awkward position, arm reaching under the bed to feel for her comfiest shirt-her sleeping tunic-but she couldn’t seem to reach it. Just as she was lowering to the cold flagstones to peer under the bed, getting a visual on her tunic’s location, there was a knock at the door to the room. She startled, barely missing the bed’s wooden support beams with her own head. She scrambled to a standing position, approaching the door. I can’t just open the door like this. She wasn’t topless, as she had on a fitted cloth bra, but she would need a moment to get her undershirt back on. “Just a moment,” she called in a slightly panicked tone towards the door, turning away from it to approach the bed once more. She’d just gotten on the ground to pull her shirt out from under the bed and the knock sounded again. She knew whoever was on the other side had heard her the first time, but spoke up again anyway. “Hold on!” she called, the panic slipping out as she struggled to get the shirt unfolded. She prepared to slip it on, when she realized it was inside out-then it would look like she’d made a quick effort to get dressed. What would it seem like she was doing? She was changing, but…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
“Oh, Gods damn it all,” she muttered, angry at the impatience of whoever was banging their knuckles against the door and choosing to ignore her stalling. She chucked the shirt at her bed, stepping with heavy feet to the door. She grabbed onto the door handle, furiously swinging it open with her breath catching at the sight of the person responsible for the impatient knocks.
Her eyes landed on the gaze of silver irises, shadowed by intense bursts of ink-colored warpaint just as dark as his jaw-length hair.
Vilkas met her gaze too, and she knew she saw him instantly try to ignore her act of indecency when he sharply inhaled a breath and refused to look away from her icy blue glare. His jaw tightened, she assumed he was clenching his teeth. She may or may not have held in her core muscles, attempting to further define the lines carved through her abdomen. Still, she felt relief when she saw it was only Vilkas there, knowing her little act wouldn’t go over well with anyone else. She’d really only been doing what he’d done to her. “There’s someone here to see you,” he said in his usual monotone voice, accent thick. “Who?” Aerene shot back at him, maintaining the eye contact as best she could. He swallowed, and made no effort to hide the way he looked from her eyes down to her exposed abdomen, breaths restrained and steady. His deep, dark gaze drifted upward from her abdomen, taking in every inch up to her eyes. As she watched the slow movement of his silver irises, she sharply inhaled, brows shifting as she realized just the kind of message she was sending him. And what is that, exactly? Why was she standing, half naked, in front of a high-ranking member of the Companions, and why was he letting her?
The draft from the hallway in which he stood sent a creeping chill over her skin, hitting her abdomen and crawling up her chest. “You might want to get dressed before you come up.” His gaze met hers, and without moving another muscle of his mouth, he blinked, then turned to leave. Thanks for answering my question. She sighed, frustrated at his antics and the way they mirrored her own. Still, her mind wandered to the topic of who might possibly be waiting for her upstairs, on the ground level of Jorrvaskr. The heat from the interaction traveled out of her cheeks, and up out of her ears. After shutting the door, she stood in silence, confused at the last few moments. She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t done that. If they were hesitant on booting me out before, I’ve really gone and done it now.
She plopped onto the bed once more, a yawn escaping her as she rubbed at her eyes with her hands, blinking various times to try and appear more awake, and like she hadn’t been ready to go to sleep. As much as she wanted to stick with her original plan, she couldn’t help the satisfaction at feeling some sense of purpose. With a ready mind, and curious heart, she prepared to return to the upstairs and face the visitor, who she assumed had asked for her by name.
Once armored again, and with her hair brushed out and hanging along her face but not in her eyes, Aerene found herself in the presence of her favorite Housecarl.
“Lydia,” she greeted the emerald-eyed woman happily, the surprise evident in her voice. “Hello, Aerene,” Lydia extended her hand, to which Aerene happily grasped onto. “Would you like to sit down? I mean… how are you? To what do I owe the pleasure?” Aerene began bombarding the steel-armored woman with questions, extending her hand to invite Lydia for a seat at the nearest dining table. Nearby, in the corner behind where Lydia and Aerene were standing, Farkas and Vilkas were sitting together. They were facing each other, each twin looking brooding and ever intimidating, yet Aerene heard not a whisper come from either of them. They’re listening. Choose your words wisely. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time to sit,” Lydia said this with a certain glimmer in her eye, and Aerene’s narrowed. “Jarl Balgruuf has requested your presence, right away.”
At these words, Aerene’s eyes flickered over to a thud from where Farkas and Vilkas were making themselves very known. Farkas was bending over to pick up an apple from the floor, while Vilkas glared through his brother, a single swallow the only muscles appearing to move within his tall, lean body. The sudden noise hardly gave the mage time to process what Lydia had said. “Take me to him, if you will,” Aerene nodded, to which Lydia returned with a dip of her head, affirming that the pair would leave Jorrvaskr at once. They began to step back up onto the outer bend of Jorrvaskr hall’s open space, approaching the set of entry and exit doors. Aerene stopped in front of the door, after Lydia had opened it and was awaiting her following, she turned to look over the hall behind her. Pondering if she should tell someone she was leaving. However, her hesitation was drowned when her sudden turn over the room caught the eyes of every person in the hall quickly averting their gaze. Even Tilma, Brill, and Vignar, along with the obviously-nosey twins, returned to their own business at her action. She huffed, fed up with the ever-changing behavior of her shield-siblings.
Once out of Jorrvaskr and heading down the stone steps, Aerene drew in a long breath. “Something on your mind?” Lydia asked, hearing the intake of breath by the mage following her lead.
Aerene glanced from the stones beneath her feet to Lydia’s friendly eyes, as they walked side-by-side. “Always,” she began, “but I am curious as to the purpose of my visit to Dragsonsreach,” Aerene confessed, hoping Lydia would shed some light on the reason they were currently headed there. They stepped along the rounded path, turning right in front of the Gildergreen and casting curious glances to the priest of Talos preaching to an audience of one-a man in stained, ragged clothes, sitting on an ornately carved stone bench. Lydia did not immediately respond to the mage’s words, and Aerene wondered why she was hesitant. Only the sound of Whiterun’s many streams, and the hissing wind of the Cloud District, could be heard as the pair climbed the stairs up to the Jarl’s home. Once they reached the top, Lydia paused, turning out to glance over the city. Aerene did as well, admiring the figures of Whiterun below. Folks going about their business, walking in the streets; a couple of children playing a game, guards quietly standing watch over the townspeople.
Again, Aerene couldn’t focus on the sight, her curiosity burning too brightly while she looked to Lydia for an answer. The brunette woman finally spoke, arms folded and voice calm. “Do you recall how during your first visit to Dragonsreach, you agreed to offer your hand to the Jarl’s aide in a time of need?” Lydia questioned, turning inward and walking more slowly towards the grand entrance to the keep. “With clarity, yes,” Aerene spoke softly.
“I thought as much. I wasn’t sure when the time would come, but there is a bit of a… bandit problem here in Whiterun Hold, and the Jarl’s men have discovered the location of the hideout.”
Aerene’s brows heightened in surprise at Lydia’s words. Admittedly, she’d been wondering if the matter was regarding last week’s incident at the Bannered Mare. “You should know tha-“ Lydia was cut off by one of the guards posted at the Dragonsreach entrance. “A most haste return, Lady Housecarl,” the guard spoke, his voice incredibly deep and his accent thicker than honey. “Yes, Tomeraas,” Lydia responded briefly to the guard, while Aerene mumbled thanks to them for opening the huge wooden doors. Inside, Lydia stopped and began to speak just above a whisper. “You should know that in Dragonsreach, you have freedom of choice. You gave Jarl Balgruuf your word, and this may only be the first favor he calls in. I have worked alongside Balgruuf for over a decade, now, and while he requires what he does of us here, his requests for you are more… special.”
Just a second after Lydia finished her statements, she looked to the stairs leading up to the court area. “Come, we can discuss this after you’ve made your appearance to Balgruuf.” With only more questions and even fewer answers, Aerene nodded, and patiently followed Lydia to the throne of Whiterun. She pushed out the thought that Lydia seemed to be speaking in puzzles.
Jarl Balgruuf sat relaxed, with Proventus on his left and Irileth on his right. His other Housecarl stood guard over near the entrance to the court wizard’s quarters. As Aerene approached the throne, Lydia stepped to her left, and dipped her head respectfully to the Jarl. “My Jarl, I have retrieved Aerene, as requested,” Lydia then stepped further to the side, nearing Proventus. Seeing the Jarl’s steward reminded Aerene of his daughter, and she wondered briefly how Adrianne was doing-she hadn’t spoken to the blacksmith since purchasing the armor.
“Thank you, Lydia,” Balgruuf spoke, eyes shifting from the emerald-eyed Housecarl to look to Aerene, and he met her gaze. Her icy eyes met his azure irises, and he offered a soft smile. “Ah, Aerene, it is good to see you. How have you been?” he questioned, his voice calm and sincere. Aerene released the breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing at the comfort she detected in his voice. The handsome Jarl had a charisma to him, accompanied by a stern nature calling for, but not demanding, respect. “I have been getting acquainted,” she mentioned, and paused. Don’t you have more than that to say?! More than the obvious?! To this, Balgruuf nodded, humming in acknowledgment. “So I’ve heard,” he replied, bringing his elbow to the arm of the throne, leaning his head over and resting his chin into his palm. “And seen,” Irileth muttered from her position a couple paces from the Jarl’s side. Aerene’s confidence shattered, as she looked to the Dunmer, shifting on her feet uncomfortably. She, at that moment, began wishing she’d rejected the Jarl’s request and told Vilkas she was… busy? Yeah, like he’d have bought that.
“Irileth,” Balgruuf sighed, his gaze shifting from the redhead over to the Dunmer, who turned to face him. “My Jarl, I only speak the truth. This stranger shows up, unknown to us, to these lands, and accepts payment for her good deeds. She wears the armor proudly, yet has not bothered to return to us for any reason whatsoever, until we call her back. Who knows how long it would have been before her next visit to Dragonsreach?” Ouch. The sting of Irileth’s words pricked at Aerene’s skin, especially reddening her cheeks in embarrassment. Irileth was right, but… but I can’t let her step over me like that. Have I learned nothing since meeting Nazeem my first day here? I need to speak up for myself. For the name I am creating here. Lydia and Proventus remained silent, observing the conversation; Aerene could see the wheels turning in their heads. It had also been the quietest she’d seen Proventus, recalling the moments when the Jarl and the steward and come to a disagreement.
Irileth opened her mouth to speak again, beginning with, “And-“, though Aerene began speaking over her, too defensive to care of her abrupt rudeness in interrupting the court member. “Jarl Balgruuf,” she called the nobleman’s attention back to her. Her eyes narrowed as she looked to him, and only him. If she’s going to speak of me like I’m not here, I’ll do the same. Once she confirmed she had the Jarl’s attention, she began speaking, as clearly and concisely as she could manage-as well as she could remember from her years of speech checks in Cyrodiil. “With your aide, the reward provided to me upon my entry into Whiterun, I was able to purchase this beautifully crafted armor set. From the daughter of your steward, in fact. That same day, I found membership and home with the Companions. Since then, I’ve been performing quests on their behalf, my travels between Falkreath, Rorikstead, and around Whiterun Hold,” she said these words with false confidence, though her facade held strong. She stepped closer to the Jarl, her hands joining to rest on her left hip, on the hilt of her blunt iron sword, as she lowered to kneel, dipping her head to the Jarl as she did so. “Yet, against my better judgment, I’ve failed to return to Dragonsreach and express my gratitude for your welcoming me into your city. For that, I am sorry, and I await the opportunity to prove as much to you, and the members of your court.” She stared into the wooden floors at the Jarl’s feet, her jaw clenching with her sharp inhale, awaiting any kind of response. Anything.
“Aerene,” Balgruuf spoke her name, and she looked up from his boots, up his fancy clothes, and to his face, framed with his blonde hair, still braided uniquely and topped with a circlet. “You may rise,” he prompted. She did, hands sweating as she held the hilt of her sword with a white-knuckled grip. I swear I wasn’t this nervous, even while that dragon was destroying all sentient life around me. “You need not be sorry, and you need not prove anything. To any member of my court. Everything we need to know of your character was displayed when you arrived here after the journey from Riverwood, unconcerned of your appearance and with an air of determination.” Hearing these words sent bolts of warmth through the redhead, relief flooding her veins. Take that, Irileth! Aerene just barely caught the way the Dunmer’s eyes rolled as she stepped back to her original position.
Balgruuf continued. “I have called you here because I could use your help. My men have been following the whereabouts of a bandit group in Whiterun Hold. However, with a detachment in Riverwood, and with news of dragons about, I cannot afford to send more men out into the tundra. That is why I have requested you here. Should you accept this proposition, you will accompany Lydia to deal with the matter.” Aerene’s head tilted to the side, listening carefully to Balgruuf’s words. She nodded along, showing her interest. Finally, a chance to get out of Whiterun for business away from the Companions. “I intend to keep my word. Consider it done, Jarl Balgruuf.” The Jarl dipped his head in acceptance of Aerene’s words, then his eyes drifted to a spot behind her. “What is it, soldier?” Irileth asked the group of three guards Aerene saw as she turned around. “Reporting from Riverwood, ma’am,” one of them explained, and Irileth turned her attention to Balgruuf, clearly awaiting his directions. “Go upstairs for the debrief. I will join shortly,” Balgruuf instructed Irileth, who spoke an acknowledgment and took the group with her. “Shall I join the meeting, my Jarl?” Proventus spoke for the first time since Aerene’s arrival to the keep. He sounded hopeful and… meek. She wondered how things had changed, if at all, since her last visit to Dragonsreach. “Yes, Proventus, that will be fine.” With this, Proventus excused himself, and disappeared behind the corner Irileth and the guards had made their way past. Now, three remained-Lydia, Balgruuf, and Aerene. “My Jarl, is it to be only Lydia and I for this quest?” Aerene questioned, as Lydia approached from her former position, coming to stand at the mage’s side for the more intimate conversation.
“Yes, Aerene,” Balgruuf responded, standing up from the throne and rolling the tension out of his shoulders. She said nothing. “You wonder why, I see,” Balgruuf observed. “Well, Aerene, I’ve also heard, and seen, that you and Lydia are worth at least five men apiece.”
Aerene gasped, her lips parted in shock at the unexpected compliment. Sure, she’d been sparring a couple of times, and had caused that scene at the Mare, but she couldn’t prove that his words were anything more than a kind exaggeration. Either way, she would be asking Lydia a plethora of questions the moment they left the many eyes and ears of the city behind. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a city to tend to,” Balgruuf looked to Lydia. “Be well,” he patted her shoulder, then faced away from the two women. “Good day,” he called, the last of the group headed for the debriefing upstairs.
Silence followed, the mage’s gaze lingering at the spot where the Jarl disappeared behind. She had very little to say, all of those burning questions fleeing her mind as if leaving with the Jarl’s footsteps. Blinking, she gathered her thoughts, sight drifting back to Lydia, who was quiet as well. “When do we leave?” Aerene questioned the Housecarl, searching Lydia’s eyes for any expression. Lydia looked from the corner leading upstairs to look Aerene in the eyes. “Now.”
With that, the two discussed the plan for the rest of the day. They were to meet at the stables in a quarter hour, as their steeds were prepared for departure ahead of time. Lydia promised to answer Aerene’s questions once they set off.
-
“You’re what?!” Vilkas huffed in disbelief, the surprise in his voice completely evident as he stared at the redhead woman. Aerene stuffed her sleep tunic into her knapsack, followed by an apple, dried fish, and bread wrapped in cloth so as not to interfere with her other belongings in the small knapsack. “Have you spoken to Kodlak on this?” Vilkas questioned, watching as she latched her knapsack closed. “I have, Vilkas. He wished me safe travels and calm of spirit. I’d hope you might do the same,” she playfully suggested to Vilkas, quirking a brow at him as she stepped past, out of the dormitory room and into the hallway. “I’ll resume my Companion duties upon my return,” she called, uninterested in any further conversation. She heard the shorter of the two twins sigh, relieved he made no effort to follow her. Kodlak had assured her that she owed nothing to the Companions, that she was entirely her own person with the right to tasks in the more personal nature-in this case, by request of the Jarl of Whiterun. She made her way to the ground level of Jorrvaskr, entirely dressed and ready to set out for the stables to meet Lydia. The anticipation was seeping in. The thought of taking on a bandit camp was intriguing, yes, but the mage was surprised she herself wasn’t more afraid of the ordeal.
“Been lookin’ for you,” a deep, gruff voice called from the entrance and exit to Jorrvaskr. Aerene looked up from her feet to meet Farkas’ eyes, and a lazy smile curved along her lips. “On my way out, Farkas,” she told him, arriving to stand just a pace away from him, attempting to stay on course for a smooth exit from the Hall. “I know. Walk you out?” he asked, his head just slightly tilting to the side. As Aerene looked at him, and listened to his gentle voice, despite his intense eyes surrounded by black bursts of warpaint, his gleaming look reminded her of a… pup? For a moment there, it was as if she were looking into a young dog’s innocent, happy eyes. Because of this, she had not the heart to reject his request to walk with her to the gate, or stables, depending on his preference. “Anytime,” she replied, pushing open the wooden door and holding it open for Farkas to step through. “I’m headed for the stables,” she added, letting go of the door handle after the two of them were outside.
They walked, side by side, along the stone path, going at a slow, yet comfortable pace. The air was chilly, the height of the day’s warmth having vanished already as the sun lowered at a snail’s pace. Masser and Secunda were visible up high in the sky’s distance, seeming worlds away yet gleaming hauntingly, beautiful and far. “Ya know, Farkas, I haven’t really had the chance to speak much with you lately,” Aerene broke the silence between them. Farkas kept his gaze straight ahead, but spoke in a reply. “Been busy, I guess. You likin’ the Companions so far?” he asked. To this, she grinned, “Which ones? You, Vilkas, Aela? Yes,” she laughed, and he echoed with a low chuckle. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I know. I just… I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling. The first job, the one you gave me for Falkreath, went well. But after that night at the Mare, I’ve been getting scraps, Farkas. I don’t understand it. Feels like I was pulled off the embers,” she sighed, brows furrowed as she thought out her words and chose them wisely. She once again found herself comfortable in her shield-brother’s presence. “You’re right, ‘Rene.” When Farkas spoke these words, Aerene looked to him. A nickname, huh? But more than that, what was he really meaning to say?
“Ya gotta give me more than that, Farkas,” she nudged his arm with her shoulder, causing him to step off to the side of the path a little. Her attempt at lightening the conversation brought another half smile to his face. “Thing is, you surprised us. Nobody’s ever made an impression like you have. Came in, kicked Vilkas’ ass, did the job in Falkreath better than any of the other whelps could’ve. We heard rumors about the muddy woman who tussled with the drunk in the middle of the street on a stormy night. Then, before you even had the chance to tell us the work was done, you were already movin’ on to another job-with blonde hair, blue eyes, and no proof of his musical talent.”
As she listened to him speak, Aerene’s eyes narrowed in thought. For once in a while, she wasn’t making the connection. Sometime during the past week, she’d heard Farkas telling Athis to talk to Vilkas about the Companion’s history-as he was ‘more of a talker.’ Farkas was making sense, yes, only Aerene was getting lost between her own thoughts and what he probably didn’t mean to imply. “So is this where you tell me not to come back?” she questioned jokingly, but Farkas didn’t smile this time. Damn. Aerene sighed, stopping to face him fully. His silver-grey eyes were clouded, yet held some kind of amusement. “I’m lost,” she admitted, hands coming to rest on her hips. Farkas nodded, as if he’d figured as much. He looked off, at nothing in particular, reaching his large hand up to scratch at his stubbly jaw. “I didn’t mean to embarrass Vilkas, and I could’ve gone about Mikael differen-“ she began to ramble, but Farkas waved his hand to quiet her. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just did more than was expected. That night after you got back from Falkreath, and bloodied Mikael’s pretty face at the Mare, other members of the Circle suggested we see how you react to being kept in a low profile. And you’ve stuck around,” Farkas finished, the last of the sentence escaping in a low tone.
Surprise washed over Aerene’s face, her brows heightening in shock. “You’ve been testing me?” she questioned, taking a step back. I knew something was going on! “Are you telling me this so I won’t go with Lydia? Has Vilkas had a grudge against me this whole time, stopping me from getting any decent work because of what happened my first day here? I ran his errands, I’ve trained under him. Who else has a problem with me? I am completely capable of handling the contracts that come in for the Companions. Haven’t I proven that already? It’s too late, Farka-“ Her confusion was evident in her tone, her expression, the way she spoke so fast yet somehow managed to remain coherent. Still, she was erupting in conflict over the dynamic she’d built with Vilkas this past week. She thought they’d been getting along, yet he was the one wanting to hold her back? For what!
“Aerene,” Farkas firmly spoke her name, and she shut up instantly. “We know you’re capable of fighting with us. You’ve shown your prowess. Great warriors have come in before you, but left even before their Trial. Skjor, Vilkas, and Aela wanted to wait and see if you’d stick around despite gettin’ the boring jobs.”
Hearing this brought a twist of confusion to the redhead’s features. She blinked, then stared at Farkas, silent. Suddenly, everything was making sense. Somehow, she’d made such an impression that the members of the Circle believed she might not really stick around. They were watching to see if she were expendable. And she wasn’t.
“And Kodlak?” she asked quietly, lips barely parted as slow breaths escaped. Farkas brought an arm up and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her into step beside him; after all, she was probably late getting to Lydia by now. She was in an ocean of conflict, the waves of nonsense beginning to drown her as she couldn’t grasp what Farkas meant to say. Did they not trust her after the stunt she pulled at the Bannered Mare? Or had they expected her to leave from the beginning? Did any of the other lower ranking members have a say? Like Ria? Aerene’s eyes narrowed to slits as the thought of the brunette warrior wanting her gone tickled at her brain.
Wait. I’m going about this all wrong.
“Kodlak’s been happy to have you since you came into the hall last week. Been vouching for you all along,” Farkas reassured her, his rough hand squeezing her shoulder in emphasis. Aerene nodded, leaning her head into his shoulder, which admittedly wasn’t very comfortable because of his thick steel armor. Still, she felt protected under his arm-as true shield siblings. “You?” she then questioned, voice barely above a whisper. “I may not be sharp like my brother, but I know a good fighter when I see one,” Farkas responded in his usual calm, casual tone. “That’s what I like to hear.”
By now, they’d passed through the front gates, and the stables were coming into view. “Earlier you mentioned a Trial,” Aerene began, breaking the comfortable silence they’d spent the last few minutes in, their footsteps along the stone path and the winds the only audible noise. “It’s when you go carry out a task for the glory of the Companions, and a member of the Circle watches you. To see how you are in a battle.” There’s gotta be more to it than that. But that’s enough information to understand. “When will my Trial be?” she asked Farkas in curiosity. “Dunno. At the very least, after you get back from doin’ the Jarl’s chores,” Farkas teased. Aerene scoffed at this, rolling her eyes at her shield-brother’s comment. Aerene waved to Lydia, who was standing between two steeds, each wearing saddles and ready to ride. “Ready?” she called to the Housecarl. Lydia nodded in response, tightening the reigns on one of the horses. Aerene stopped, and faced the muscular, dark-haired twin with a sincere smile. “Thanks for walking me out, Farkas,” she told him, her eyes reflecting the smile her mouth wore. “Be seeing you, sister,” Farkas grinned, giving Aerene a tap on the arm with one of his large hands, before turning and heading back up the road into Whiterun. She watched him leave, studying the way the sunlight reflected from his shiny armor plates, and the huge great sword strapped over his back. If she hadn’t been so fortunate as to know him as a friend, he would’ve been a damned fierce enemy. Once he’d left her line of sight, she greeted Lydia again.
The stables of Whiterun were pleasant and sizable, with four stalls of equal length lined up together. Two of the stalls had gates; inside one was a mare with a milky white hide, and at her legs were two colts, at the age where their legs were disproportionately long for their little bodies. The sight brought pleasant memories to the mage, yet the bittersweet flavor of melancholy came, too. River.
A roof of thatch sat atop wooden beams and walls of Whiterun’s typical light colors. The air carried the scent of horses, a blend of manure and the grasses they fed on. When Lydia greeted Aerene back, she handed the redhead the reins of a dapple grey steed, with a tail and mane umber in color. “Hello,” she mumbled to the steed, hand reaching along his neck to gently pet him. He huffed out a breath of air from his mighty nostrils, nodding his large head up and down. “Anxious to get going, huh? Me too.”
“That’s Thunder. He’s seen his fair share of battles,” Lydia informed Aerene. “Yeah? And who’s that?” she asked, gesturing to the paint horse Lydia was pulling herself up and onto. “Patch.” Aerene chuckled to herself at the simplicity of the horses’ names. Like River was any better than Thunder or Patch. Without further delay, the mage stuck her foot into the stirrup, and launched herself from the dirt ground onto the seat of the saddle. She wiggled into a comfortable position, hands resting on the horn with the reigns secured in her grip. “We’re in no rush as of now. We’ll walk the horses to Rorikstead.” Lydia’s words were simple enough; she emitted a clicking sound, and Patch, a mare, neighed, walking onto the path and staying in motion. Aerene loosened her grip on Thunder’s reigns, reaching forward to pet his neck one more time. “Ready, old boy? Let’s go,” she muttered, and mimicked Lydia’s clicking sound with a gentle tap of her heels against Thunder’s sides. He made a grunt in response, and set off after Lydia and Patch.
Her fingers ran gently along the steed’s lengthy mane, surprised at the silkiness of the hair. Traveling from the mane, she brushed her hand over the width of Thunder’s neck, admiring the way the hairs shifted as she ran her fingers in one direction and then the other. Doing so was lovely, indeed, but was growing too bittersweet, as her mind fled to the same routine as usual when it came to equestrian matters. She’d agreed with herself to leave her search for River behind, when she and Valdr had no luck finding tracks or other evidence of the mare’s whereabouts. It hadn’t helped that Falkreath saw a near constant patter of sprinkling or heavy rains, as it sat near the shore of Skyrim’s largest lake. Still, even with the failure to find River, and despite her previous decisions to let it go, Aerene knew she had to be somewhere. They had been too close to the border of Skyrim for River to turn tail and scurry all the way back through Cyrodiil. Besides that, there was the special training Aerene and River had practiced. Even when River was spooked by sudden scares, she was always supposed to follow Aerene, unless a separate command had been given. The process of teaching the mare was lengthy, yet thorough, with much thanks to the retired Imperial captain who worked as stable master back in the Imperial City.
“Bear!”A gasp immediately fell from Aerene’s lips, parted in shock with a quick intake of breath. “Where?!” she called to Lydia, who had somehow gotten a few steps ahead; Aerene illustrated a clicking sound and Thunder galloped up the cobblestone path to Lydia’s side. Aerene’s arm flew to land on the handle of her sword, preparing to unsheathe the weapon. Her face was flushed with panic and reddened with worry. When Lydia said nothing, Aerene began to unsheathe the sword, but felt Lydia’s hand placed on her arm. The redhead sharply turned her head to face the brunette, who rode Patch with simplicity and in a state of… calm. “Dear Aerene, there’s no bear. However, that’s the only thing I’ve been able to say to capture your attention. I thought of shouting ‘dragon,’ but thought you might not respond happily to jokes about that.”
The monotone way of Lydia’s explanation was somehow too plain for Aerene to get upset. Instead, she pushed the sword back into the sheathe and blinked slowly. “Lydia, I am sorry. You have my full attention from now, forward,” she promised the Housecarl. There was a silent air that came, but left in a flash when Lydia spoke again. “I know you have questions. But I am curious as to what’s on your mind. At times, I’ll glance to you and see that you’re here, while your mind must be elsewhere. Existing here but living someplace else.” Aerene shifted on Thunder’s back, Lydia’s words hitting her in a spot that was too sensitive to keep still. “You’re observant, Lydia. It must be in your nature, for not just anyone can make a Housecarl.”
“And not just anyone always has something on her mind. Perhaps you wouldn’t be preoccupied if you shared some of your thoughts,” Lydia spoke in an elusive way, hinting that she would listen to whatever the mage had to say. After all, Aerene had not become exactly close to her shield siblings. She’d made small talk here and there, but the air had shifted after that night at the Mare. Her earlier conversation with Farkas was piecing the puzzle together, and the reason why she felt cast out and also watched so closely was displayed. Aerene breathed in a fresh puff of air, letting her lungs expand with the breeze. If Lydia was offering to listen in, there would be no better chance to speak on the matters that had been digging at her for too long now. She readjusted herself in the saddle once more, and looked to Lydia with a glint in her eye. She was ready to talk, to leave the alcoves of her mind and hear herself aloud. “My plans for venturing to Skyrim have been years in the making. My lifetime, in fact…” she began, and the two continued the conversation for long as they rode steadily toward Rorikstead. Through the winding plains, along the cobblestone road with passersby few and far between.
-
“So they were just waiting to see if you’d stick around, then?” Lydia asked slowly, processing the information Aerene had spent the last hours explaining. “As far as Farkas told me.” She looked from Lydia’s face, shaded by the twilight hours after the sun had set, and down to the dried fish she peeled in her hands. She brought a bite of meat to her mouth and ate, regretting she didn’t pack more to have yet looking forward to the Frostfruit Inn’s meals. “And you have.” Aerene heard this, and her fingers stilled from picking at the salty fish. At the last bend hill in the road, the two came to a stop. In the near distance, torches and streetlamps were flickering. The few buildings of Rorikstead were just a few minutes’ ride away; the conversation between the two women had taken them along the journey with ease. The grasses of the tundra, normally in shades of red, green, yellow, and brown, were now cast with grey and blue, illuminated by the white moonlight of the two above. “Sleeping town. Perfect time to carry out business without question,” Aerene quipped, earning a nod from Lydia. “Let’s do this.”
While on their way to Rorikstead, the two exchanged deep conversation. Lydia revealed how she came to a position under the Jarl, one of his most trusted. Furthermore, she was happy to freely explain the matter which they were preparing to handle. A group of bandits and taken up solace in a cave west of Whiterun, and northeast of Rorikstead, called Orotheim. For months, caravans and merchants traveling through Whiterun Hold had been harassed by the group, robbed of their goods, and worse. There were additional unconfirmed reports of skooma dealings going on. It had all gotten out of hand, and three days previous, Jarl Balgruuf sent troops to clear out the cave and find evidence of the crimes committed. ‘Three of the best guardsmen went. Three of the most seasoned warriors Whiterun had to offer. One returned.’ Lydia was hesitant as she said this. Aerene wondered how she would compare to a seasoned warrior, and even expressed this to Lydia. The Housecarl replied that if Aerene had seen herself from the perspective of the Mare’s other guests that night, she’d have thought the same.
When she understood fully what their mission was, and why it couldn’t be openly discussed in the Jarl’s court, Aerene felt prideful at her being chosen for the handling. The guard who’d made it back to Whiterun sustained few injuries, but was instilled with an unshakeable fear about the horrors he’d seen his men go through. Most of his words were incomprehensible, ramblings on how the cave-dwellers had forced him to watch as they skinned the men alive. His retellings were dismissed as confusion from the trauma, but the encounter was haunting the court of Whiterun. Once Lydia and Aerene made their return to Whiterun, the rampant rumors could finally be put to rest, and merchants passing through Whiterun Hold would be safer. Until the next rise of a savage group like the one in Orotheim. What kind of people will we come across, who choose to live underground and prey on the innocent, like predators in the hills?
‘We’ve been watching the Orotheim bandits long enough to know they only send patrols into the plains during daylight hours. They keep two guards at the cave entrance at night. We’re going to leave the horses tied in town, and walk to Orotheim. We’ll approach from the south side, then from behind to see where the watchmen are positioned. Once we eliminate them, which we’ll need to do quietly, we’ll head inside. No telling how many will be inside. Poor soul who escaped said the place wasn’t big, but was enough to keep up to ten.’
-
“Just two of you? Heading into that cave alone?” the guard asked, eyeing the Housecarl and mage as they unloaded their gear from the horses, whose reigns were tied to a nearby tree branch. The three stood in a plot of one of Rorikstead’s few farms. “Yes, Tolgir. We have an advantage that Nelmvar, Vuuls, and Ronarf did not. Insight. We know the watch pattern. If anything, they’ll be taken by surprise and we can move on from this mess.” Lydia’s tone was tired; she’d clearly had enough of the chaos caused by the bandit group and their heinous crimes. Aerene could only imagine how the court had reacted behind closed doors. Yet, she had to applaud their presentation of the request for her to accompany Lydia. Had she known what they were really on the way to deal with, regarding the rumors of ripping flesh from bone, she might’ve turned tail and fled back to Cyrodiil right then. ‘I see that look on your face,’ Lydia had said to her, ‘so just know that if you turn back now, I’ll be going in alone.’ Her words ended with an empty-hearted smirk. “And what are you going to fight them with? That dull sword probably can’t cut butter,” the guard Tolgir huffed, gesturing to the iron sword sheathed at Aerene’s hip. Aerene took offense to this, turning to look at Tolgir, whose face was hidden by his guard’s helmet, as she fed Thunder her apple. “This,” she retorted, and brought her palm up between them. With concentration, she focused on summoning her magicka. Then, the familiar orange glow of the flame spell swirled from her skin, heating the air surrounding her palm. Tolgir jumped back in surprise, drawing a laugh from Lydia. Aerene chuckled with the Housecarl, despite the complaints coming from Tolgir as he mumbled about the importance of not drawing fire or a weapon while near a guard. “What? Nervous?” Aerene asked, dropping her hand to her side and letting the flame vanish. “Take good care of Patch and Thunder for us. If we’re not back by this time tomorrow, we’re not coming back at all.” Lydia continued instructing Tolgir on various possible situations, including how to handle any of the bandits showing up to raid Rorikstead. It was a common occurrence.
The reality of their situation sunk in, and the cold night breeze sent a chill down Aerene’s spine. It wasn’t necessarily the brisk air that caused unease; it was the thought that they only knew so little about where they were headed, or what they’d find. Still, she knew not to expect more. She looked across the plot, watching a cow graze on the tall grass, dancing with the breeze. Her sights drifted across the small scape of Rorikstead, even cozier than Falkreath. Unlike Falkreath, which sat in a rocky grove surrounded by hills and forest, Rorikstead was accessible from all sides. One home, belonging to Rorik himself, sat on the south side of the road. The other three structures, two homes and an inn, were adjacent on the north side. When Aerene had passed through during the daytime, she’d seen goats and chickens walking about, farmers hard at work plowing the land and plucking vegetables from the soil. Still, the handful of residents were not protected by heightened walls or even gates, like Riverwood was. The cobblestone road went straight through, continuing west towards Markarth, Dragon Bridge, and Solitude. In this moment, though, with the soft nighttime glow, the setting was peaceful.
-
“You saved my life, Aerene. Had you not killed him, it would instead be my corpse alight,” Varellus’ voice echoed across the walls of her mind. That had been the first night she’d taken a life. She’d been so terrified, paralyzed with indecision, as she watched those two men struggle. Had she not stepped in, Rialla would’ve lived her life without her twin, with Aerene’s courage crushed by the guilt of inaction. How many lives will be saved by our actions tonight?
-
“The night ahead is long,” Lydia met Aerene at her side. “Let’s eat, then head out. No use fighting on an empty stomach.”
Thus, the two settled at the bar of the Frostfruit Inn. At this time of night, the innkeeper was the only one awake, and even he seemed half-asleep. Deep circles were etched into his undereyes, and his blinking was slow, as if he were not fully comprehending the two hungry customers who’d just come into the tavern. They ordered the special for the day, a stew that was hot and ready to be served right away. “We need to drink these now. They’re most powerful when ingested before food.” Aerene and Lydia sat looking at two stamina potions-the alchemical ingredients of which would give them energy to last through the night, into the morning, and hopefully the early day. Aerene wondered what all Lydia had in that pack of hers, as it seemed full, but not bothersome at all. The craftsmanship was fine, dark grey canvas with embroidery on the cover flap. Lydia also bore a thick grey cloak, with the hood left down for the time being. Gauntlets lined with silvery grey fur were also new to her arms, not part of her everyday wear. She looks battle ready. More prepared than me, for sure. “Cheers?” Lydia popped the stopper from the potion bottle, and thudded onto the counter. Aerene clinked her open potion against Lydia’s, and the two began to drink, heads tilted back. Aerene finished first, setting the empty bottle down. The sticky, sour substance lingered in her mouth, her eyes burning and watering from the overpowering sensation from such a small serving. “Oh gods,” Lydia mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut as she coughed. Just then, the barkeep set two bowls of steaming hot stew in front of them. Much to the surprise of the two, he also set down mugs and poured alto wine into each. “On the house. Heard about your business here.” Aerene and Lydia’s twisted expressions softened as they smirked to each other, each eagerly reaching to grab the mugs and wash down the rancid taste of the potions.
Mralki the innkeeper’s kind gesture prompted a conversation between the three, where he shared his history and eventual settling into Rorikstead with his son, Erik. Mralki fought in the Great War as a Legionnaire, and was now running his successful business; he admitted that Rorikstead was a slow town, but that enough travelers stopped by to keep the inn going. ’That’s another thing, I should add. Rooms are all full tonight.’ Aerene and Lydia didn’t have much more to say after that. A long night ahead indeed.
-
Aerene followed silently in Lydia’s footsteps across the damp ground, stepping along the damp moss lining the stream, as it flowed through the valley’s smallest crevices. Their only light was emitted from Masser and Secunda, Nirn’s moons shining happily over Skyrim’s deep night landscape. “There they are,” Lydia observed, crouching to rest behind a cluster of rocks. Around the two were various natural formations, where the earth beneath them had shifted upward, grassy tabs sitting atop the ground; their exposed dirt and roots making up the underbelly of these formations. They made for excellent cover-yet were a sensible place for a predator to search. Lucky for us, they don’t know we’re coming.
Aerene stepped forward, coming to rest beside Lydia. She balanced one leg into the ground and knelt on the other, eyes glancing over the landscape. They were sitting to one side of Orotheim’s entrance, peeking over the rocky cluster they hid behind. Aerene studied the two figures at the cave entrance, taking in all she could see, despite the distance making it difficult. “They’ve both got bows,” she spoke lowly, to which Lydia added, “The one on the right has a war axe on her hip.” Aerene glanced to the woman, who had thick hair partially tied into braids that hung down closer to her shoulders. She wore a hide band top, with furs draped around her hips and gauntlets to match. The second guard, a Redguard man, had his arms crossed. He wore studded armor, pieces of hide hanging over his legs. The cuirass was form fitting over his torso, leather straps and a round metal plate sitting at the center of his chest. The circular studs hanging in the skirt of the armor reflected the moonlight. The redhead’s eyes drifted from the shiny bits on his armor upward, noticing how only one shoulder of the armor was protected with a metal plate. Similar to my armor. “What are you thinking?” Lydia asked after the silence had settled between them. Aerene sucked in a slow breath, eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze to meet Lydia’s. “I’ll go for the one on the right. You take the one on the left. They go down at the same time, then we drag the bodies out of sight to avoid arousing suspicion, if we can help it.” Lydia studied the two figures, who’d begun a conversation which was inaudible from this far across the plains. “You speak like you’ve done this before,” Lydia mentioned, in a somewhat accusatory tone. If it hadn’t been for the cover of night, the brunette Housecarl wouldn’t have missed the reddened ears and cheeks of the redhead crouched next to her. I have.
“Lead the way, Aerene.”
And so forth they set, Aerene making a beeline to approach the bandits from behind. As they approached, she stopped at another stream flowing towards Orotheim’s entrance. Lydia hopped across it, and faced her, waiting to keep moving forward. Looking into the flowing water, she cupped her hand and collected some. She brought her hand to her lips and drank, the icy cold liquid flowing down her throat and into her belly. It was so chilly, yet so refreshing. “Plains water,” she whispered to Lydia, “only second to the water that flows from the glaciers.” Again, she dipped her hand-cup into the stream and drank again. She heard Lydia’s chuckle, but saw as the emerald-eyed woman drank, too. Lydia’s eyes squeezed shut, and she let out a quiet cough. “Gods, that’s freezing!” They laughed for a few moments, drinking their fill, before moving forward. By now, the winds had picked up, and was flowing against them. Yet, in their favor, as the sound of their footsteps was carried away from the Orotheim entrance.
“Did you hear that?”
Aerene’s eyes widened at the sound of a feminine voice-it must’ve been one of the guards from the entrance just around the bend of the hill the two hunters were perched upon. Lydia met her gaze, the whites of her eyes hauntingly visible in the dark, her lips barely parted as she hushed the younger of the two. If they didn’t act now, their quest would become much more difficult than it needed to be. Aerene lowered further to the ground, so as not to poke her head over the top of the mound they were hidden near; the grass gently swayed in the wind. Both she and Lydia had their backs against the moist, soil roots of the grassy tab. Lydia nudged Aerene, getting her attention. She pointed her thumb in the direction of the cave entrance, on the other side of the small hill, underneath the rocky overhang that formed the entrance. She wants me to get over to the entrance, Aerene realized. If she crawled on her belly over to the remaining guard, as Lydia dealt with the one who heard their commotion, she might manage to catch him by surprise. She lowered her whole body to the dirt, laying on her stomach, and began moving forward with her elbows nudging into the ground. She pushed forward with her toes, surely leaving a trail across the ground as she scooted forward to keep hidden. Finally, she reached a stone post at the side of the cave entrance, so close she could now hear the remaining bandit’s rough, loud breathing. Sweat began to gather at her temples. She brought her knees to her chest, sitting as tightly as she could against the jagged stone wall jutting out from the soft curvature of the grassy plains. Her fingers met the leather wrapped around the handle of Valdr’s lucky dagger, strapped to the waist of her cuirass. She plucked the dagger from its spot, hand gripping it tightly; it was damp from her sweaty hands, which were sticky with dirt now, too. Around the bend, she heard the slink of metal breaking into the air-a sword being unsheathed. Damnit, he’s got a sword.
She bit into her lip, weighing her options. She hadn’t heard anything from Lydia’s direction, and silently prayed that whatever was going on over there was in Lydia’s favor. I can’t attack if I don’t know where he is. She set her hand against the cool stone wall, and pushed herself to a crouch. One foot stepped silently in front of the other, and she quickly glanced around the corner to try and spot the bandit at the entrance. He was near the center of the shadowed cave opening, facing toward the other side, where his companion had disappeared into moments before. Dread snuck across the surface of her skin, tickling the nerves at the back of her neck. She swallowed, the chills flowing into her hands; the skin of her hand bearing the knife became clammy. She sighed, and began creeping toward the unassuming bandit. Once she was just two paces behind him, and he still hadn’t turned into her direction, she launched from her crouched position to stand. Her left hand became plastered over his mouth and nose, muffling the noises he made in distress and rage at the sudden attack. She adjusted her fingers around the dagger, and plunged it through his back, into his flesh, into his heart. His muffling stopped, the sword in his hand falling to the dirt with a thud. The lifeless figure began to fall, too, and she compensated so that the thud of his corpse hitting the ground wouldn’t alert anyone else. Blood crept from the wound over the ground, as Aerene stood over his form. Her hand shook, but she did not notice this until she looked at the trembling blade in her fingers. It was slick with crimson. The part of her arm he’d grabbed onto, attempting to pry her hand from its position over his face, was tingling with the echo of his grasp. The one he had as he struggled in her grip, the one he couldn’t escape. She shook the feeling out of her wrist, and flicked the dagger; the faint sound of the blood splattering off the dagger was heard. She sheathed it back into its position, and began taking in the cave entrance.
Aerene’s sights landed on imagery more haunting than what she’d seen at Helgen, more silencing than the act she’d just committed. Her icy eyes met one-one eye, sitting in a skull picked of nearly all its flesh, coated in dried, shiny blood. The skull was connected to a ribcage and spine, sitting on a wooden spike jutting up from the ground. Next to it was more than bone-but an entire burned corpse, completely charred and impaled horizontally over a second wooden spike. Her breaths picked up, lips trembling while her mind raced. Then, as if she knew it would be there, her vision darted to the opposite side of the cave entrance. A third jagged wooden spike erected from the dirt, pierced through another charred corpse.
The breeze picked up then, this time towards her. That rancid scent she’d been forced to inhale during the escape from Helgen-the scent of torched flesh-hit her, and she immediately covered her mouth and nose. Nausea rolled through her, her eyes watering at the intense swell in her stomach.
“So, he was telling the truth after all."
Lydia’s sudden words startled the younger woman, who pulled the dagger before she realized it was her companion who’d spoken. “Vuuls, Ronarf… and other poor souls.” Aerene couldn’t look anymore at the corpses scattered around them. “Gods, Lydia,” she sighed, rubbing her fingers into her eyes to clear them of the tears that had gathered. She breathed through her mouth, so as not to inhale anymore of that lingering stench. “We’ll take care of this when we emerge to the surface. Our work isn’t done, Aerene.” Aerene swallowed, clearing her throat while she got her nerves under control. When she looked to face Lydia, she caught sight of the blood streaked down the right side of the brunette’s chiseled face. “Did she hurt you? What happened?” Without thinking, her fingers extended to approach the injury, her habit from times as a healer at the Temple. She stopped, though, as Lydia replied, “I have a cut. I’ll be fine. We need to keep moving, and we can take care of everything else once the job is done.” Aerene dipped her head in understanding. Always one to stop the flow in the name of health. Lydia had managed to kill the bandit, but before a tussle. She’d even picked up the criminal’s longbow and a handful of arrows, strapped onto her back.
In a few moments, both warriors had their weapons unsheathed-Lydia wielding a silver sword, its quillon ornately carved with curving lines, intertwining into each other-Aerene holding her iron blade in a position of defense. They stepped from the surface through the narrow mouth of the cave, slipping into Nirn for the continuation of what had been started.
Inside the cave had a considerably different temperature. The air was cool, yet felt warmer because it was humid and almost sticky-yet was hard to breath clearly. It’s probably me who’s having trouble breathing. These caves are suffocating, though. The ground was laden with dirt and pebbles, varieties of mushrooms sprouting in the moist environment. Namira’s rot and imp stool sat bunched together here and there. The mage made a mental note to pick the ingredients on the way out. If we make it out.
The narrow corridor opened to a wider space in the cavern, a clearing where a campfire was made. A couple tables lined one wall of the cave, directly in front of Aerene and Lydia, who were crouched into the walls’ shadows. A third bandit was bent over one of the tables, facing away from the two women. A horned iron helmet sat atop his head, protecting it from any arrows. The plates of iron across his body left only his arms and lower legs exposed for attack. Aerene drew the dagger, preparing to sneak over for another assassination. When she heard the stretch of a bowstring, she eyed the Housecarl a couple paces across the corridor from her. Just behind the campfire, the iron-clad bandit began singing to himself.
“Once was a woman, as far as an evenin’, of springtime in old Stro-“
Whoosh.
Lydia’s arrow flew through the clearing and struck the bandit through the neck, the only exposed skin of his upper body. He choked, falling into the table dead. The fourth bandit, who neither Aerene nor Lydia had seen, appeared at the top of the walkway overlooking the campfire and entry space. “What was that?” he asked, unsheathing his bow as he looked over the ledge to the space below. “Who’s there?!” he shouted into the darkness. Again, the stretch of a bowstring, and the whoosh of the arrow carving through the still air. Only this time, the arrowhead smacked into the cave wall behind the bandit. “Damn it,” Lydia mumbled. Aerene watched as Lydia drew another arrow, and launched it toward the bandit. He dove out of the way, coming to a crouch as he aimed an arrow back at the spot Lydia hid in. “Get down, Lydia,” Aerene commanded, as another arrow launched into her direction. “Did he get you?” Aerene whisper-yelled, remaining hidden in the darkness across the way. “No, but I’m out of arrows!” Lydia called back. “Show yourselves!” their enemy called from his position atop the ledge. Aerene launched herself from her spot, exposing her body as she stood to reveal her presence. “Fools, you’ll be so much easier to rob when you’re dead.” With that, the archer launched an arrow at her. She managed to hop out of the way at the last moment, feeling the air of the point along her cheek as it breezed by. She wished in this moment she could stop time, and throw the arrow back towards the archer.
As he readied another arrow to fire, Aerene took long strides to the wooden stairs leading up toward the deck, stepping two at a time in long strides. She swung her sword at his bow, now just a pace apart from him. His weapon was whacked out of his grip, flung to the wooden panel floors partially covering the ground of this section in the cave. He grunted, swinging his fist back towards her head. She stepped back, and he missed; the failure to connect brought him to stagger, and she swiped the flat side of her blade smack into his cheek. He turned with the impact and landed to the ground, unconscious. Such sudden impact sent vibrations through her arm. “Aerene!” Lydia screeched her name, causing the redhead to jolt around towards the Housecarl. Lydia’s warning was a second too late, as a weapon handle bashed into Aerene’s chest. Instantly, the pang of metal and wood into her body knocked her to the ground. Her head rolled backward into the wooden panels below, pain aching at an alarmingly fast rate through her skull and into her bones. It was tenfold the worse migraine she’d ever gotten, and she couldn’t push herself up to stand. Her sword had been lost somewhere in her fall, and the room was spinning around her. Each breath she gasped in hitched in her throat, as she choked on the air she needed. Desperate, she rolled onto her stomach, listening to the menacing words spoken by the bandit chief looming behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?” the Orc laughed, his huge hand flipping her over with just the pull on one of her shoulders. Flustered, and not ready to die, she sucked in a breath and knew she’d be killed if she didn’t move. She was coming back to, and could hear the clanging of metal below the ledge. Lydia must be fighting the others!
The Orc chief wielded a huge battleaxe; Aerene noticed this only when he raised it in the air, swinging it down at her slowly moving figure. She managed to roll out of the way, angering her adversary more. “I’m gonna split your belly like an old woman’s purse,” he spat at her, as she scooted back on her bottom, scrambling to find her sword. She spotted the iron blade-behind the chief and completely out of reach. The hulking figure in front of her, clad in full steel armor and a horned helmet, stepped forward. She caught sight of his sharp teeth, curved from his underbite and jutting up from his jaw. The yellowish tint of his canines stood out in deep contrast to his green skin, dabbed with a reddish paint. Is that… blood? The thought was harrowing, as her headache pounded. He swung again, and she leaned back, managing to dodge the blade another time. Gods, help me!
Not thinking her decision entirely through, and too disoriented to conjure up any ideas, Aerene yelped out a war cry, and barreled toward the bandit. She took up position to tackle him, as she’d done on that job in Falkreath. Even in the chaos, she thought for a singular moment about that handsome stranger she’d seen. But the dreamy memories vanished when the Orc’s hand met her head, latching onto a fistful of her hair. I should’ve worn that stupid helmet. He tugged violently, and she cried out in pain, mind racing at what to do. “That all you got?” he questioned, hot breath reaching at her neck as he pulled her closer; she assumed he was getting ready to throw her to the ground again, before he would bring the axe down on her. The dagger.
Her fingers drifted down her armor to find the hilt of Valdr’s lucky dagger, as she couldn’t turn her head to look. She thanked the gods when she felt the handle, and pulled it from that familiar place. “Die, damn you!” she shouted, plunging the blade into the bent elbow of the arm pulling her hair back. The Orc shrieked in pain, his booming voice deafening to her ears; he cursed, finally letting go of her hair, and she planted both feet on the ground. He’d dropped the battleaxe, his right hand squeezing at the site where the blade was lodged into one side of his arm, and sticking out the other. Wasting no time, she maneuvered to grab the dagger, pulling it from his skin with a schlink. He shouted again, blood oozing from the wound, over his armor, and onto the dirt. Aerene positioned the dagger to her defense, her other hand hovering in the air as she stepped towards the chief. Once she was close enough, she kicked outward, swiping her right leg into both of his, and he fell. In the chaos of her rage, sense blinded by the need of survival, she hovered over him, wielding the upper hand. He began pushing himself back up, fingers digging into the dirt for support; she brought her boot to his elbow, and pressed hard. He groaned, deep guttural sounds escaping his throat. Her face contorted as she stepped into his wound, the blood squelching out. She drowned his noises, and with a swift movement, plunged the dagger into his neck. He went silent, and the struggle ended.
“AGH!”
The commotion from down near the fire pit captured the mage’s attention. Lydia was caught between two bandits, fending off their attacks. Aerene rushed down the wooden stairs, sparks coming to life in her hands. Just as she approached the three, Lydia slid the blade of her sword across the torso of a bandit in hide armor. She fell to the floor. Aerene cast the sparks onto the remaining bandit, who shuddered as soon as the magic made contact with his skin. The electricity jolted through him, his limbs shaking, as the lightning of indigo, cobalt, and purple crawled across his hot skin. In his inability to move, Lydia repeated her action, and dragged the blade of her bloody sword across his throat. Aerene drew her hands back, stopping the release of the spell from her palms. The two watched him collapse. Only they remained standing in the clearing.
Sounds of each woman catching her breath echoed along the walls of the cave. “Are we clear?” Aerene finally asked, making her way back up to the ledge. She spotted her sword again, and sheathed it at her hip. What’s the use in having a sword if I can’t even keep hold of it in battle? “We need to walk into the rest of the cave. It’s a small system, but it’s best we see every inch of this place before we leave.” Aerene dipped her head in understanding at this, busy in her own thoughts. Other than the noise of her own mind, though, the noise of her pounding headache was growing louder and louder. “Hold on,” Lydia spoke softly, her hand touching one of Aerene’s arms. “You’re bleeding,” Lydia murmured, eyeing a spot somewhere on Aerene’s head-that the redhead herself couldn’t see. Aerene looked up from tucking the dagger into the band at her waist, and into Lydia’s emerald irises. They were evident with concern, and weighed by tiredness. Actions of the night’s course were obviously weighing on them both. They’d managed to fight off only five more inside. “Lydia,” Aerene spoke, and the brunette’s hand slowly dropped from the redhead’s arm. “Shouldn’t there be more of the band here? Where did these two come from?” The mage questioned, gesturing to the unmoving bodies of the surprise attackers Lydia had been fighting. Wouldn’t I have noticed them come from the corridor the Chief came through?
They stepped back, to really take in the space. Their visual search began at the right wall of the cave shaft, and landed at the left side. Together, they stared at another ledge, barely seen from the lower ground where they stood. It was an opening in the cave wall, but it couldn’t be reached by jumping, and this section was nearly impossible to climb without tools. Walls of dimly lit, smooth stone towered up to the cave ceiling. “Come on,” Lydia muttered to Aerene, and set out for the stairs leading into the corridor the Chief had come through. They made their way upward, setting foot onto the wood-paneled deck that had been crafted into place. Now that the area was safe, Aerene finally took in her surroundings; to the right, at the edge of the deck, there were wooden crates and floppy sacks of various sizes. Probably used for storing dried goods. At the left, there was a wooden table with two adjacent benches. Atop were open crates and wine bottles aplenty. Aerene eyed a bottle that hadn’t been opened, and considered the pounding of her head. She swiped the bottle, bit the cork from it, and gulped down a decent amount. It was simple alto wine, but it tasted amazing. The perfect tangible medicine for the pain she hadn’t been bothered to heal yet. She was not aware that her headache was slowing her thoughts down. She wiped the excess liquid from her lips with the back of her hand, and set the bottle back onto the wood. In haste, she jogged to catch up to Lydia in the tunnel they had yet to explore.
A short walk led to another room in the cave; the ceilings were higher here with the walls in a more rounded shape. The inhabiters had built another deck of wooden planks, with a staircase leading down to the lower level at the cave’s natural floor. “Looks like they’ve made themselves comfortable,” Lydia commented, standing atop the deck and looking over the rest of the room. Aerene studied the setup of the space. There was a tanning rack, more barrels, a table for crafting, crates, firewood. She ran her fingers over a two pelts splayed out on the table; the hide on one was a bit rough, while the other had soft, even fluffy looking fur. She turned, stepping to Lydia’s side to overlook the lower level. There was a lit campfire-a pile of wood burning, surrounded by a circle of rocks. Spotted around the stones were hay piles with furs atop. Makeshift beds. Aerene studied the hay piles, wondering what about the picture wasn’t sitting right with her. She couldn’t place it, despite staring at the image. The cracking of the fire and the jumping of embers were simple oils added to the cogs turning in her head. Wait.
“We only killed seven. There are eight beds,” Aerene reported, blinking in realization that the job wasn’t finished. Lydia’s lips parted, and her eyes darted over the circle of beds around the campfire; she was counting. Two halves of four beds each; one of the bandits was still alive. That was when Lydia pointed to the left wall of the cave room; another tunnel opening leading somewhere. The two women went silent, staring at the opening before making eye contact. Aerene guessed they shared the same thought-that the eighth dweller was possibly further in the cave. We can’t leave without assurance that the entire clan is finished. Making the decision to move forward, Aerene unsheathed her sword and took the lead. Lydia followed suit, pulling her bow from her shoulder and readying an arrow she must’ve plucked from one of the other corpses. Aerene stepped as quietly as she could, legs lowered into a stance between regular height and squinting. Her footsteps were silent as she made her way across the dirt, keeping an eye out for any traps. This doesn’t seem like the type of place that would have traps; with the display at the front of the cave, these murderers must not have ben expecting houseguests. She stepped into the tunnel opening, lit by a tall pit of burning wood at the entrance. Each flame cast an orange-yellow glow into the tunnel; smoke gently wafted up in a light grey hue. The Companion kept her back to the stone wall on the right, avoiding a hanging string tied with human and animal bones. A quick glance told her there were pelvic bones and tusks, at the very least. To announce the movement of an unwanted foe; the rattling of the bones against one another would echo off the cave walls. Stepping up along the dirt, pacing the incline, Aerene paused at the opening to the next room. She peeked around the corner, to the left and then the right. There was nobody in the room. She sheathed the sword, and turned to Lydia, who was a pace behind. “Empty,” she reported. They entered the space, dotted with more crates and barrels, a shovel, sacks, and mushrooms. A large chest of wood and iron sat between a few rucksacks. “The unlucky one’s going to return to a mess,” Lydia sighed, setting her bow and arrow down, before walking over to the chest. She began trying to pull it open. “We can’t leave without at least seeing if they’ll return,” Aerene pressed, leaning back against the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “We should wait it out, see if they return sometime during the night.”
“You think it’s worth the wait?” Lydia mumbled, tugging open the lid of the giant container in front of her. It had curved pieces of reddish wood, inlaid with iron nails. Between each strip of wood were sections of ornately carved iron, swirls and soft-edged shapes. “What, you have somewhere else to be at this time?” Aerene teased, stepping over to one of the sacks on the ground and pulling it open. Inside were rotten green and red apples. She cringed at the rancid scent and unpleasant sight, dropping the sack and kicking at it. When Lydia didn’t respond, Aerene glanced over. The Housecarl’s cheeks were pink with heat, a blush settled into her ivory skin. This made the redhead curious, and Lydia snapped to meet her eyes. She wore a threatening look, that seemed just the least bit playful, but the redhead didn’t press about it. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Aerene chuckled, opening a different sack. It was empty, so she plucked some nearby mushrooms, as she’d wanted to do earlier, and placed them inside.
A significant chunk of time passed by without any newcomers to the cave; the two decided it was best to camp out in the room with the chest, so as to keep an eye on the entrance. They’d discovered that the wall opening from the first room was also connected to the space they decided to stay in. ’That’s where the pair jumped down from,’ Lydia had observed. After Aerene cast healing upon herself and healing hands on Lydia, they’d taken turns, one resting on the ground with the other placed near the ledge that led into the first room, just above the entrance. Aerene stood in the opening, leaning against the stone; they’d taken to talking back and forth this way. “So,” Lydia called, in between bites of a fresh, un-rotten apple, “tell me more about the twins.” Aerene’s eyes widened, but not because of her companion’s request. She tensed, standing up from the wall to see if what she’d heard was real or imaginary. Peering over the ledge, there was nothing. Yet. But she heard movement. Footsteps, directly beneath her. Without a moment to spare, she snaked her way into the space where Lydia sat. “Wha-“ Lydia cut herself off with silence when Aerene’s index finger met her lips. Quiet.
Aerene grabbed onto the bow from the table, and placed the arrow into the ready position. She gestured for Lydia to stay put, stepping backwards and back to the ledge. She tiptoed out enough to look over the entry. It was even more dimly lit than before, as nobody had maintained the fire pit in the first room, and the overhead ceiling holes cast only low moonlight from above the surface. A figure stepped into the space from the narrow entrance tunnel, footsteps heavy as they trudged through. Tired. “Those damn Khajiit! Always trying to trick me into a bad skooma deal. I’d skin every-“ the bandit-a younger woman, stopped speaking when she tripped over the first corpse she came across. She gasped, bending down to nudge at the body. “Nulken?” she spoke softly, shoving her hand at the body. “Nulken!” she yelled, standing back up when the male didn’t respond. Aerene watched, unnoticed, as the young woman looked at her hands-wet with Nulken’s blood. “What…” her voice trailed, before she began backing up, and finally saw the rest of her clan-each in a pool of their own blood. “No!” she screamed, pulling a glass dagger from her belt. “What in Oblivion happened?!” She screeched into the cave, slowly turning to take in all of the surroundings. Aerene turned her body, raising the bow to aim. She pulled the arrow, ready in the bowstring, back to her cheek. Steady. Remember the practice from before. Before Skyrim. Her two fingers held the arrow, eyes set on the eighth member’s figure. A Nord girl with long blonde hair in a braid, stripes of warpaint vertical on her face. Aerene only knew this because the girl was looking directly at her, now. “You! You fuc-“ Thunk.
Pierced into the heart of the enraged was the singular arrow Aerene had readied. The glass dagger clattered onto the ground, followed by the thud of the body. Aerene lowered the bow to her side, silently waiting for any movement. Motionless.
In an inaudible whisper, the mage spoke the count marking the end of the Orotheim bandits’ terror reign. “Eight.”
Chapter 8: Beast
Chapter Text
Under the cover of a clear night sky, splattered with stars and subtly visible aurorae, the campfire glowed a vibrant orange as it spit out crackles of ember. “Although it’s done now, I cannot shake the curiosity of whether Orotheim was the only base for the bandit clan to operate,” Aerene confessed. She was laying on her back, tucked into the warm bedroll that sat atop another layer of hide on the ground. She was exhausted, having spent the last hours moving from the mess at the Orotheim cave and back to Rorikstead. Lydia had informed her the Jarl would send a few of Whiterun’s standard guards to clean up the mess and find any further evidence of the clan’s whereabouts. “We’ve done our part for now,” Lydia responded, sitting with her knees up to her chest, facing the dying embers of the fire.
They’d collected Thunder and Patch from Rorikstead, and headed east. Camp consisted of the fire, two bedrolls, and the horses tied to nearby trees. Each of the two women had grown weary after their ventures, and decided it was best to settle into a spot far from the road, yet also far from Orotheim. They were situated next to a stony ridge with a slight overhang, so as not to feel completely exposed, vulnerable from less than all sides.
Aerene mumbled a tired response, turning onto her side in an attempt to get comfortable. She watched the sky as if she were waiting for something, and over the horizon could barely make out the glow of the day’s beginning. Dawn already. We’ll get back to Whiterun in the afternoon, then. She wanted to face no more of the new day, and instead find solace in the comfort of sleep. A place where she need not speak, nor listen, nor draw her weapon or defend herself from another. One day, she thought as she shut her eyes and tuned out the crackling embers and calm wind of the plains, I’ll have my own home where I can sleep as long as I want, all day, and no one would care a bit. Into the silence her conscience faded, breaths slowing to a kept rhythm that matched the gentle rise and fall of her armored chest.
Hours passed; dawn broke across Skyrim, the sun gleaming over patches of streaking white clouds. The sun moved across the sky, past its point at midday, and even further. Nothing disrupted the slumber of the two warriors as they slept, a blessing of which Aerene thanked the Divines for upon awakening. Her eyes opened to the ceiling of the rocky overhang, as she’d been sleeping on her back. She pushed herself up to sit, pulling her legs from the bedroll and into the fresh air. She had been warm all night, but was nearing the point of too warm. She rubbed her eyes, running her tongue over her dry lips; she thirsted for water to soothe her dry and aching throat. A glance around told her Lydia was still in a deep sleep, facing the ashes of the early morning’s fire and tucked into her bedroll. Her hair was braided and tucked out of her face-in a way Aerene hadn’t seen it styled before. The mage stared at Lydia’s sleeping figure, admiring the beauty of the warrior woman. Her brows furrowed at the realization of what she was actually doing. The last thing I need is Lydia thinking I was watching her sleep. Which I was… but only for a moment. Gods.
A short walk across the grassy plain surrounding camp took the thirsty warrior to a rushing stream. She cupped her hand and sunk it into the water, bringing the liquid to her lips. Drinking it provided just the refreshment she was in search of. On her way back to camp, she studied the sun’s position in the sky. It must’ve been later than they’d planned to leave. Around three or so in the afternoon. Her belly grumbled too, a reminder she hadn’t eaten in a while. Lydia had awakened by the time Aerene arrived back, complaining of a headache and hunger. “By Shor, let’s get on to Whiterun. The ground does nothing good for my old bones,” she grumbled, hurriedly pulling her bedroll together to store it on Patch. “Old bones? Lydia, please,” Aerene quipped, kneeling to roll up her sleeping furs. She was growing curious as to how old Lydia was, but she wasn’t about to ask. Besides, Lydia appeared to be in her thirties. She certainly fought with the wit of a seasoned warrior but with the agility of a young sabre. “Fighting the way we have to ages us, yet keeps us young. Sharp, but still a little rough around the edges,” Lydia smirked to the mage.
The journey back to Whiterun was short and anticlimactic; neither of the women complained with this after the events of the previous night and early morning. They’d dropped Patch and Thunder back at the stables, and Aerene, unsurprisingly, found herself reluctant to part with the old horse. He was stubborn, but she’d learned his love of apples. And gone hungry at the cost of it, but that didn’t really matter.
“Where to now?” Aerene asked Lydia, the two walking through the city’s gates, returning to the peaceful scene of a Whiterun afternoon. The familiar banging of Adrianne’s hammer against the anvil at her forge rang through the air. Ahead, the sound of merchants and customers at the market carried through the wind. “We’ll report back to the Jarl,” Lydia replied, rolling her shoulders back and forth to stretch out the stiffness. “Sounds easy enough.” While walking through the market, Aerene caught a glimpse of two men arguing near the front door of Belethor’s General Goods. One was muscular and bulky, donning Imperial leathers in contrast to his blonde hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. The man he was aggressively speaking to was older, and Aerene recognized him as Vignar Gray-Mane, who stayed in Jorrvaskr, sharing a room with Brill. Over the noise of the market, Aerene couldn’t really make out what they were saying, but each spoke passionately. What set them apart was the way the blonde had his arms crossed, his biceps bulging, while the Gray-Mane gestured here and there with his hands. “Who’s the blonde talking to Vignar?” Aerene asked Lydia in a low tone of voice, just about gawking at them in passing. Lydia said nothing, and Aerene only noticed this when they began climbing the stairs up to the next walkway. “Lydia?” Still, no response. Aerene tore her eyes from the two men behind her, who were completely out of earshot now, and looked to the Housecarl.
Lydia’s emerald sights were settled on something at the top of the stairs-or, rather someone. Aerene spotted Ysolda. She wore a corseted dress and carried a basket full of lavender and tundra cotton, of which she was digging through. “Good afternoon, Ysolda,” Lydia greeted in a sweet tone when they approached the merchant from behind. “Oh!” Ysolda quickly turned to face the two women. She looked them both up and down, but Aerene noticed the way her gaze lingered on Lydia. “My, Lydia. Out fighting the city’s battles again?” her lashes fluttered when she blinked to the Housecarl, whose ears must have been hot, for they were certainly red. “And with Whiterun’s newcomer, too. It must have been serious,” Ysolda’s voice faltered with uncertainty as she looked closer at the state of the armor worn by the two. Lydia quickly responded, as if she did not want the woman to worry. “The Orotheim issue is no longer,” she told Ysolda, her hand just slightly moving from her side, but then falling back to its original place. As if she wanted to reach out to Ysolda, yet stopped herself. Like telling an antsy dog to stay put. “Really? Divines, Lydia, I’m so happy to hear that,” Ysolda smiled, her eyes reflecting the relief she must’ve felt. “Good news for the Khajiit caravans, too. Spread the word for me, next you trade with them?” Lydia asked the merchant woman politely. “Of course.” Ysolda’s gaze fell from Lydia to the ground, eyes moving as if she were searching for something. When moments of silence passed, Aerene was ready to keep walking… yet nothing happened. “You must be headed back to Dragonsreach now,” Ysolda prompted, turning to look up at the keep. “We are, to report back to the Jarl,” Lydia explained, never once glancing to Aerene for the duration of the conversation. Ysolda turned back to face Lydia. “And after that?”
Aerene watched Lydia suck in a breath, shifting on her feet. She must not have expected that. “I… will be excused from my duties for the remainder of the day, upon my return and debrief.” Ysolda gently nodded in response to Lydia’s reply. She picked a stem of lavender from the basket, and offered it to Lydia. The Housecarl took it, her thick and dirty fingers, wearing her fur and steel gauntlets contrasting highly to the bare wrists and small hands belonging to the merchant. “Join me then, at my home. I think it’s important I know the details of the excursion,” Ysolda stated, “Perhaps you’d tell me over dinner.” Aerene swallowed at this, unbothered by her invisibility to the women as they cut through the tension. “I would, Ysolda.” Lydia glanced to Aerene, her eyes carrying such a blend of emotion, then back to Ysolda. She dipped her head. “Until this evening. Come hungry.”
Ysolda returned Lydia’s nod, and continued down the stairs behind them. Aerene and Lydia watched the Nord merchant walk away, the corner of Aerene’s mouth curved into a slight smirk. “Oh, somewhere to be indeed.” Lydia sighed loudly, palming her hand to her face. Aerene chuckled at the Housecarl’s frustration, and broke into laughter when Lydia exclaimed that she’d really need to shine her armor now.
“I’ve not yet visited Ysolda at her home. I can’t show up empty handed,” Lydia mumbled as the two began climbing the ascent to Dragonsreach. Stairs, stairs, and more stairs. “She’s preparing dinner. And she already has fresh plants,” Aerene replied, thinking back to the basket of tundra cotton and lavender. Then, a thought was summoned in her mind. “I’ve heard of a lovely place to purchase dessert from. Sweet rolls, in particular. Interested?” she asked Lydia playfully, nudging the nervous Housecarl’s arm. “You’re talking about Wolfmoon Farm, aren’t you?” When Aerene nodded, Lydia did too. “Eliza makes the best damned sweet rolls in Skyrim. I haven’t visited her in ages. Wonder if she’s got any fresh from today.”
Aerene eyed Lydia, observing the perplexed look on her features as she carefully planned out her evening leading up to the dinner with Ysolda. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for that invitation. She saw how Lydia blinked various times while speaking aloud her thoughts, weighing the options she had. The mage came back to reality when Lydia asked her, “What do you think?” Only, she hadn’t been paying attention to Lydia’s ramblings. “About what?”
They were now walking the final stretch from the top of the stairs, to the doors of Dragonsreach. “Should I wear my armor after I’ve shined it, or put on a dress?” Lydia’s tone was of anticipation and quiet excitement. Aerene pondered for a moment, imagining Lydia, Housecarl to the Jarl of Whiterun, in a dress. Aerene had only seen her in the heavy steel armor at various stages of cleanliness. She knew Lydia would be gorgeous in anything she wore, but could hardly imagine the warrior woman in a dress. “Go as you are. Shine your armor, take a bath,” Aerene chuckled. Lydia began laughing too, her mood lightening as she settled on a suitable plan. “You’re telling me to bathe?” Lydia shot back, and the two’s laughter grew louder. Their conversation was silenced by the welcoming back from the guards stationed at the doors to Dragonsreach. “You’re back, in one piece,” one of them commented. “You’ve done us an immense favor,” the other mentioned. Aerene and Lydia conversed with them briefly, before standing in the towering Keep. Somehow, the mage felt smaller in here than outside in the vastness of Skyrim. Something about the walls looking over her, the way she had to walk across the stretch of Dragonsreach’s carpets in clear view before approaching. Just as they reached the main level inside, feeling the warmth of the grand hearth, Proventus Avennicci approached. “You have returned,” he observed, his hands behind his back as he looked between the two women. “We are prepared to report our findings to the Jarl,” Lydia told Proventus. Aerene noticed the Court was mostly empty, save for one guard at the base of the stairs leading to the next level, as well as a young child seated at the left dining table. “Of course. Jarl Balgruuf is upstairs, in the War Room. Follow me,” Proventus gestured, and the two set into a walk behind him. Each of them stood over the Imperial, typical height of those with Nord blood. The walk up the wooden stairs was silent save for the low sound of footsteps. Aerene had never been up to this part of Dragonsreach, yet the space matched the grandeur of Dragonsreach’s frontal presentation. Huge maps of Skyrim were splayed along the stone walls, marked with red and blue flags-probably indicating Imperial and Stormcloak camps.
Wooden pillars stretched from floor to ceiling, decorated with banners of pale yellow; each banner hung down loosely, the material appearing thin and smooth to the touch. There were more banners along the walls, one of which boasted the curving insignia of Whiterun’s steed-the city’s well known symbol. Bookshelves lined the wall adjacent to the stairscase, with one wooden table housing a display case atop. A rectangular wooden table was near the closest wall, with maps spread across it. Leaning onto the wood with large, flat palms was Jarl Balgruuf. Irileth was at his right side, with the staircase in direct view. Balgruuf’s brother and Housecarl Hrongar stood next to an Imperial officer. Aerene’s eyes narrowed as she considered what that meant for the war going on in Skyrim. She thought of the priest of Talos, who stood preaching out in front of the shrine near Jorrvaskr for hours on end. The Thalmor’s presence in Skyrim meant that the worship of Talos was outlawed… Gods, that’s a path I don’t want to fall onto. Aerene winced at the complications of the war and the Concordat that was the compromise at the end. She wasn’t too passionate about politics anyway, but especially not in a place she was still much a stranger to.
“Jarl Balgruuf, we cannot remain neu-“ Irileth was cut off by the wave of the Jarl’s palm in front of her. Each set of eyes in the war room turned to look at the newcomers. Aerene stiffened as the four in front of her and Lydia eyed them at all at once. Aerene felt the burn of Irileth’s gaze most intensely. She glanced to Lydia, who had her arms crossed, gazing over at the rest of the court. She was present, sure, but she must’ve been thinking of her evening plans. Why wouldn’t she be? Balgruuf broke the silence that had settled upon the room. “You’ve returned.”
He and his court were pleased at the report provided by the two warriors, and impressed by their relatively hasty return. Jarl Balgruuf, in his thanking the women for their service to Whiterun, had gestured for his advisor. ‘Proventus, bring their reward.’ Aerene burned with curiosity at what it might be, and was satisfied to know she’d be rewarded with gold-she’d lately been thinking it was what she needed most. As she was handed the large coin purse, she too was impressed by the Jarl’s thanks. He asked that Lydia announce their findings to the Captain of the Guard; after she carried out that task, she’d have the remainder of the day to herself. Aerene, on the other hand, was off the hook right away. She’d promised to be available to the Jarl’s aid next she was needed, and expressed her deepest thanks. Jarl Balgruuf’s parting request was that she return to her shield-siblings and continue honoring the citizens of Skyrim.
Before she could do that, though, she stopped by Arcadia’s Cauldron to sell off the extra alchemical ingredients she’d picked up on the journey. Once she stepped through the front door, and landed back in the market, she took in her surroundings. The sun was quite low in the sky, dusk stretching over Skyrim. Colors of orange, purple, pink, blue, and yellow collided to paint the evening’s sunset. Aerene closed her eyes, feeling the tinge of warmth on her skin.
Moments passed before she came to face the reality; it was time to head back to Jorrvaskr, and face her Trial, whatever that would be. It hadn’t been too heavy on her mind, as she wandered with Lydia, but now that she was alone, the thoughts of her daily occupations came creeping back. Instinctively, her eyes set on the Bannered Mare. Patrons had gathered around the front door, some swaying with full mugs in their hands, bubbly with laughter. The commotion was appealing, certainly. You can’t avoid Jorrvaskr forever, she told herself. Why not enjoy a drink with my shield-siblings?
Sighing, she tried to release at least some of her worries. She walked along the stones, ascending the staircase to Jorrvaskr’s front entrance.
Her hand met the hard wood of the left door, fingers locking around the metal handle. She pulled the heavy door open, and stepped inside… to find a mostly empty hall. Only Tilma was inside, setting dining ware on the long tables behind the hearth. Aerene greeted the woman, stepping to the ground level. She turned as she looked around the room once more, confirming they were the only two inside. “What’s going on?” she asked, and Tilma’s lips parted to answer. Before she answered, though, a commotion from Jorrvaskr’s back porch drew the attention of both women. Aerene’s features were laced with worry, her hand landing to rest on her sword’s grip, while Tilma wore a simple smirk. “Dinner’s being served later tonight. Your shield-siblings are all sparring in the training yard. You’d best not miss out, dearie.” Aerene took a couple steps toward the doors opposite her, leading to the training yard; as she neared, she heard more of the laughter, the voices of the Companions echoing through the evening. “Everyone’s out there?” she asked Tilma, obviously stalling from going out. “‘Cept you and I,” Tilma responded calmly, as she placed a cup next to a plate on the table. A pause settled between them, Aerene glancing between Tilma and the door every few seconds. The thought of more fighting wasn’t the most appealing at the moment. “Might you need any help getting dinner ready?” the redhead scratched at the back of her neck. “No, dear. You enjoy the evening. I’ve seen plenty enough of these sparring sessions. Can’t say just watching equates at all to participating, though.” Tilma winked to the mage. Aerene smiled softly at Tilma’s hint. If anything now, she was curious. “See you for dinner, then, Tilma.” Aerene dipped her head to the lady, and made a quick jog up the stairs, through the doors and to the underbelly of the verandah.
Jorrvaskr’s warriors and residents were all gathered between the porch and the training yard. Various scents wafted through the air as Aerene stepped forward, taking in her surroundings. Sweet wine and mead, smoke from the torches lit around the yard, and exasperation from the sweaty warriors surrounding her. Kodlak sat next to a woman Aerene didn’t recognize; on her other side was Eorlund Gray-Mane. Aerene spotted the way Eorlund poured wine from a bottle into a tankard for her. She must be Fralia, and her husband is Eorlund. “Ah, Aerene! Good to have you back. How did your excursion go?” It was Kodlak who’d spoken to her. Drawn from her thoughts, she stepped over to greet the Harbinger. “The work is complete, Kodlak. It went as planned,” Aerene reported. There was hesitancy in her voice, her mind wandering to the screams of the girl who’d been the unlucky one to stumble in and find the others ravaged. Kodlak’s calm gaze studied Aerene carefully, as if he’d known she had more to say. “I see,” he nodded. He paused, looking down at the table, into the tankard he had in his hand. He gently moved the cup in a circular direction, watching the liquid swirl. Aerene had no words, and only looked from Kodlak to the commotion in the yard down the steps. From what she could make out, it appeared Torvar and Athis were in a session of strict hand-to-hand combat. Aerene winced when Athis landed a blow to Torvar’s jaw, who stumbled forward, off balance. “Curious?” Kodlak had gotten up and met Aerene at her side. They kept their eyes on the action, observing the way Torvar’s sloppy movements contrasted to the sleek nature in which Athis fought. “Indeed,” Aerene replied. “You’re not?” she asked, glancing to him. Kodlak’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “I’ve tasted glory of the battle many a time, sister. But in my twilight years, I cannot fight the battle as you young pups can.”
“Your glory remains with you, Harbinger,” Aerene spoke, unsure of whether she had a tone of flattery or reassurance. “It began with evenings like this. Join in, Aerene. Show your shield siblings why you’re one of them.” He patted his hand against her back once, encouraging her participation. She returned the contact, dipping her head to him. Farkas approached then, smirking as he threw a huge arm around Aerene’s shoulders. Even with her height, she still felt little next to Farkas. “Gods, Farkas. You sure you don’t have the blood of giants in your veins?” Aerene teased, attempting to pinch at the bulging muscle of his bicep. “Nah, no giants. Only wild beasts,” Farkas responded bluntly. I wonder who Farkas’s parents are. I haven’t seen anyone in Whiterun who they appear related to. Aerene laughed at his monotone humor, as they approached the crowd surrounding the sparring circle. Njada and Ria stood over to the left side, yelling to Athis and Torvar. Poor Torvar looked like he was ready to collapse at any moment, the way he swayed. It was as if a meek breeze would do him in. “Come on, Torvar! He’s almost got you!” Njada shouted to The Nord. Brill and Vignar were next to them, quietly talking as they watched the two near the end of the spar. On the other side, Aela stood with Skjor and Vilkas. Aerene studied her shield siblings as Farkas caught her up on the event. The members were training together now, using the techniques they’d learned to test each other and themselves. “No blood,” Farkas spoke firmly. “You fight ’til you submit, or the other guy has you on the ground with the point of the sword aimed at your throat. Someone might challenge another, and near the end we’ll have two against two.” Aerene gritted her teeth as Athis simply shoved Torvar, who tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his bottom. ‘Oooos’ spread through the training yard at the sight. “What’d’ya say?” Farkas nudged her. Aerene watched Athis walk over to Torvar and grasp the Nord’s wrist, pulling him up to stand. It was quite honorable, indeed. As Farkas mentioned, there was no blood drawn. “Got a question,” Aerene replied. “What’s it all for?”
Farkas met her with those dark eyes, laced with amusement. “Glory, mostly.”
Once Athis and Torvar made their way out of the circle, to the outskirts for rest, Skjor stepped forward. “Who goes next?” he addressed the Companions remaining. Each member’s gaze shot to Ria, who announced her action. “Me.” She stepped forward, turning to hand her axe to Njada, who grabbed hold of it. Ria stretched her fingers, the click of her knuckles sounding subtly. “I challenge her.”
The mage glanced around the group, suspecting the reason why each member of the group had their eyes on her. When she looked to Ria last, the reason was clear. Ria was glaring daggers through Aerene; the dim light of the setting sun behind them, and the glow of fire pits and torches around the training yard, cast a haunting glow into her amber irises. She looked menacing, the way her warpaint extended horizontally from her eyes and vertically down her chin; the shadows along her face were hauntingly long. Aerene stood, unmoving. For Shor’s sake. She met Ria’s gaze, still as ice in the north. Her mind was racing, and her heart pounded in her chest. Come on. Have you already forgotten what you were doing earlier today? And now you’re afraid to take on someone you don’t even need to draw blood from? “Well? What’ll it be, whelp?” Skjor’s demanding tone bounced off of the tired mage. “I accept,” Aerene announced, her sights not once leaving Ria as she spoke. Ria made it known that the spar would be done without weapons, only fists. Aerene broke eye contact with the brunette when Farkas instructed her to turn in her weapons to him. “I’ll hold your stuff for ya,” he promised. She shrugged off her knapsack, and unsheathed her iron sword. She handed it to Farkas, who appeared to be holding a dagger rather than a sword. And when she did hand him Valdr’s lucky dagger, she mumbled for him not to scratch it. She stared at the cobblestones, suddenly thinking it would’ve been better to have made different decisions. To fight this moment in front of her, by instead choosing to have helped Lydia retrieve those sweet rolls. Or to have gone for that drink on the way back to Jorrvaskr.
“‘Rene,” Farkas muttered. Worry was plastered all along her features. “You’re tough.”
He need not say more. She breathed in a blast of the cooling air and sighed it out. Stepping backwards, she turned around. Her steps led her to the center of the circle, directly in front of Ria. Their backs were partially to the crowd. Aerene rolled her shoulders, as she’d seen Lydia do earlier; in truth, it wasn’t her shoulders aching. So what is it, then? Ria raised her hands in front of her face, hands balled into fists. Her eyes intensified, darkening as she faced Aerene. The mage reflected this movement, adjusting her legs to the correct position she’d learned for defense. While Aerene glared back at her challenger, it wasn’t Ria who caught her attention. She couldn’t ignore that silver gaze along the edge of the circle. Irises circled by that midnight paint… “Begin!” Skjor’s command boomed across the training yard.
The two warriors began circling each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. Like two beasts hiding as predators waiting for prey. Aerene stepped backward as Ria came forward slowly, but grew uneasy with the way Ria withdrew. Now they were farther apart than before. Silence settled into the training yard, save for the crackle of the sounds of flames lighting the scene and the bouncy echoes of quiet footsteps. Aerene’s brows furrowed in frustration with how Ria was playing defense. One of us has to make a move. “Only so much more turning in circles before we get dizzy,” Aerene muttered to Ria, who was now close enough to hear. “Make a move, then,” Ria hissed to the mage. Aerene did so, not in obedience to her challenger’s request, but rather for the sake of flow. She jolted forward, launching her right fist towards Ria’s jaw and neck. Instinctively, Ria slithered out of the way. What she had not expected, though, was for Aerene to use her first swing as a distraction to land the next. The redhead’s left fist planted an uppercut against Ria’s left abdomen. The brunette gasped, swiping a flat hand in the direction of Aerene’s neck. Aerene stepped back, but still felt Ria’s fingertips along her skin; just barely, but enough contact to sting. She knows exactly what she’s doing. If she’d landed that hit, she would have choked me for air. Aerene’s eyes narrowed with her thought process. Ria swiped her fist towards Aerene’s cheekbone, which the redhead directed by pushing her hand into Ria’s wrist at the closest moment, costing the brunette the hit. Ria moved into the swing then, and all too quickly jolted her left elbow suddenly upward. Unfortunately for the mage, she was within distance, and the jagged point of Ria’s elbow jutted right up into Aerene’s chin. Stinging pain flooded through Aerene’s mouth when the sudden contact jolted the alignment of her mouth-her teeth biting into her tongue. The stream of hurt was followed with a familiar metallic taste, red in color. Damn it! If anyone sees me bleed, they’ll stop the fight and she’ll have victory. The conclusion came smoothly; Aerene swallowed the bitter blood and clenched her jaw shut. Her eyes watered by default, thankfully invisible to those surrounding her as the evening darkened. She was breathing heavily now, moisture collecting on her skin as she sniffled. Her jaw locked shut. If they know I’m bleeding, they’ll call off the fight.
Moments went by, each as intense as the last as the two moved at a rapid pace. Dodging attacks, landing them, stumbling when missing. Almost routine. Aerene was searching for the cure to this Ria problem, pushing through her options to find what would get the spar to end. If I could land a kick against her…
Grunts, yelps, and war cries between the two women joined the melody of encouraging and discouraging calls made by the surrounding Companions. Among it all, Aerene made out Farkas’s ‘Come on ‘Rene! Show her what you’ve got!’. His kind words were exactly that, but they must’ve been a request, too. At least he’s on my side. As time went on, the spar intensified, Aerene’s eye stung as sweat leaked into it, which she wiped away. She was growing annoyed with the direction of the fight, disappointed she hadn’t ended it already. She’d maintained the action of keeping her mouth bolted shut, breathing rapidly through her nostrils. “Tired yet?” Ria bellowed. When Aerene said nothing, the brunette’s hands lowered just a tinge as she prepared to say more. A tinge enough. Deciding now was her chance, Aerene bolted her hand, fingers spread, smack into Ria’s shoulder. The brunette stumbled backwards, yet maintained her ground. Aerene cursed to herself, planning her next shot. Ria made her rapid way forward, as if she hadn’t been pushed back, and took another swing in Aerene’s direction. Aerene’s left arm shot up to block the hit, yet was useless as the unexpected plagued her. Ria’s slimy fingers latched onto a handful of Aerene’s hair, and just as the redhead’s hand met Ria’s extended wrist, the brunette swiftly yanked backward. She pulled back and downward, and threw Aerene to the ground. The mage landed with a smack into the cobblestone, saving her head from the impact. Spikes of hurt stabbed into the arm that caught most of her fall. I’m losing.
Confusion swelled in her heart, fogging her mind. I thought I was better than this! The gasps sounding from the other members seemed to have been amplified. Her heart was beating faster now than at any previous moment. Aerene pushed herself up, struggling as her arm caused her agony. Gods, why haven’t I learned how to catch myself?! Rage consumed her now; she raged at herself for being so weak, at her competitor for leashing the upper hand, at her past self for putting her into a sequence she was highly coming to regret. Exhaustion weaved itself into her bones, the cries of her joints harmonizing with those of the bruises and cuts she was developing. While she’d been preparing to end the spar moments before, she couldn’t have guessed it wouldn’t end on her terms.
Finally, she managed to stand, and searched the space for the challenger. A headache began pumping through the mage’s skull, especially where her lovely competitor had apparently attempted to scalp her. She’d been too slow for her own good, though, as she couldn’t defend her body from the crushing impact of Ria’s boot into her chest. Aerene’s legs faltered, arms wavering into nothing but chunks of air she couldn’t get a grip on. I’ve lost. Just in time, she managed to tuck her head inward, saving herself from a worse headache. The wind was knocked out of her, her mouth finally opening to gasp for air. “I think you’ve had enough,” Ria stepped to her side, haunting gaze staring down the tip of her nose. Aerene couldn’t speak, only cough, as her hand came up to her own chest, gripping at the steel armor. Just to hold onto something. She didn’t even know what for. Ria bent downward, her fingers locking around Aerene’s hand. Against her will, Ria pulled the mage upward just a bit. At an incredibly low tone, just loud enough for Aerene to make out, the brunette spoke. “I guess wandering Skyrim as Balgruuf’s dog has left you run through.” Aerene’s eyes widened, shocked. The stunning words filtered through ever fiber of her being, as Ria heaved her upward to a standing position and finally let go of her hand. The mage stood still, staring after Ria, who strutted across the space back to her corner, where Njada cheered her on and readied to give the champion back her sword. “Come on, sister,” a feminine voice, much friendlier, sounded from behind the bewildered warrior. Aela gestured for Aerene to make her way out of the circle. All she really wanted to do now was collect her things… and bolt out of the city. She saw Farkas and Vilkas murmuring to one another, growing quiet when Aerene and Aela approached. She didn’t think she could ever get used to the ferocity in their eyes. Farkas met them, while Vilkas stood back with his arms crossed. He handed her back her belongings, which she took silently and shamefully. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting her to be the loser. Aerene stood there, still stunned at Ria’s words. They left a deeply sour pit in her stomach. The redhead felt a new wave of nausea, probably from the new gallery of injuries she’d collected, joined with the fact she hadn’t eaten or had a drink since getting into town. She was pleasantly surprised, though, when a warm hand grasped her own. Farkas held on, walking her to one of the empty tables beneath the verandah. She sat down, and he let go, then bit open a bottle of Nord Mead. He spit out the cork, and rather than pouring a serving into a cup as Eorlund did for Fralia, he offered the defeated Aerene the whole bottle. She looked at the bottle, then at her shield brother. Her less sore arm reached up, and she took the cold bottle from Farkas. She didn’t hesitate to drink a huge swig from the bottle, lips detaching from the rim after moments of drinking. Nasty, it was, the mixture of mead and blood she swirled around in her mouth before swallowing. Once her teeth were no longer stained red, she spoke to her shield-brother: “Thank you.”
Farkas gestured his ale to her, and then they each raised their respective bottles up to drink. Aerene saw Farkas swallow a huge gulp, setting his bottle back down. She kept going though, letting the liquid pour in and wash down her throat with every swallow. As she had her head tilted back, her gaze darted to Farkas; he lifted his head just a bit, chest expanding as he took in a breath. It may have been her vision playing tricks, but it seemed that his hand, in a fist, squeezed tighter as he breathed in. She looked back up the side of the bottle.
Her whole body felt like it did, years ago, when she’d first been learning to ride a horse. The old mare she’d been sitting on was spooked by a noise Aerene couldn’t recall, and bucked her off. She thudded into the dirt, and that same empty burn of the impact rustled through her body in an agonizing wave. That time, she’d landed on the same arm, and felt sick when she saw the way her wrist was swelling at an unusual speed. The stablemaster rushed over to help, and she was brought in to the healer. The first time she’d been treated with the sensational healing spell, feeling the warm light calm the wounded flesh. And years after that, I met River. And never for an instant did I ever fear she’d throw me.
When she was sipping at an empty bottle, she set it back onto the table. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and noticed the look on her shield-brother’s face. “Mead’s never tasted so good,” she grinned to him, to which he huffed and chuckled. Skjor’s voice drew their attention to the circle once more. Aerene knew the session was coming to an end, when a question burned into her. “You fought yet?”
Farkas swallowed a mouthful while shaking his head. “Nah. At the end, Vilkas and I will team up and face two challengers for a final match.” Aerene was surprised to hear this, evident in the way her brows were raised. “You ever been beat?” she questioned. Farkas laughed loudly at her question. “Oh yeah. Plenty of times. Won a bunch, too. But after all those matches over the years, it’s still fun to test the whelps’ skills.” There was that word again, whelp. Skjor had used it earlier. Aerene watched as he and Aela move around the yard, facing off with shields and swords. Even as they danced in the (mostly) lighthearted battle, they seemed connected. How there was tension between them, yet it wasn’t thick; rather, it was silky and flexible, as if they were simply following a path that had been set moons ago. Skjor would swipe out with the shield, and Aela would dodge; she’d slice outward with the dagger, and he’d throw the shield up to defend. Their synchronicity was remarkable. Yet, it reminded Aerene of the way she’d constantly been too late, or too slow. And just at the moment when she’d have knocked Ria down, she had not the strength to pull herself together. Run through. Her idea of my visit to Dragonsreach must be more twisted than I could imagine. “By the way,” Farkas began, hesitancy evident in his words. “She say something’ to you? At the end?”
Aerene tensed, her leg beginning to tap into the ground silently, bumping up and down. “Yeah.” She said nothing after that, and Farkas didn’t ask her to elaborate. Their silence was interrupted yet again by Skjor’s instruction for Farkas to join Vilkas in the circle for the final spar of the evening. Farkas finished off his mead and pushed the chair back, its wooden legs scraping against the flagstones. He stood, even taller over the redhead as she sat still, observing. “What’re the rules?!” Njada called out to Skjor from across the yard. “Same as every other match, except now it’s two on two. If nobody volunteers with a partner, the members of the Circle will choose who spars with their shield-brothers.”
An idea crept its way into the chaotic mind belonging to the tired mage. I’ll probably embarrass myself further if I go through with this. But there’s too much to leave unsaid.
Farkas looked to Aerene one last time, and she sent him a genuine smile, to which he returned. He stepped out from under the porch and met Vilkas in the circle; Aerene saw Kodlak and Eorlund get up, coming closer to the edge of the circle. Kodlak breathed in and crossed his arms over his chest while Eorlund studied the Companions. Thinking it was now or never, Aerene begrudgingly pushed herself up from the chair, leaning onto the table for support. A bottle of alto wine was sitting on the table, calling her name. She swiped it up, and bit the cork out. She chugged the liquid back, swirling it around her mouth to try and help the lingering metallic taste. Once she’d had her fill, and felt a little better than she had been, she was ready. Thoughts of casting the healing spell over herself were tempting… yet her conscience and practical nature argued with the idea. Everyone has their back turned. No one would see. No one would know. Except me. And I need to prove that I can finish what was started without the advantage of healing. Before she walked, her head lowered for a moment-a prayer to Akatosh for endurance. Please hear me.
The mage approached the gathered, coming to stand at Aela’s side. Aela looked to her, her hand landing on Aerene’s shoulder to give an affirming squeeze. Aerene studied the look in the warrior woman’s eyes, and admired the way they reflected the orange glow emanated by the nearby torchlight. As Aela maintained eye contact, Skjor announced the beginning of the end to the evening. He called out to the warriors of Jorrvaskr, inviting each of them to summon their inner strength of spirit, meeting the battle at its face and seizing glory in the lesson learned. “Who would challenge their shield-brothers, Vilkas and Farkas, in battle?”
Aela’s expression shifted when she saw the tilt of Aerene’s head, at the instant the mage stepped forward to announce her presence first. “I would.” Skjor turned from facing the opposite direction to look at her. “Back for more, whelp? Well, I’m not here to stop you.” Aerene met the confused face of Farkas, whose mouth was slightly ajar in surprise. Vilkas maintained that intense, stoic expression that he had all the time. She could hardly tell what he was thinking, but knew that would change when she understood him better. “And who do you choose as your second in battle?” Skjor demanded. Aerene saw in her peripherals the way Aela began stepping forward. The mage slightly raised her good arm to Aela, palm facing the Nord in way of saying, ‘Don’t.’ Aela saw this and her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing when she met Aerene’s gaze. Still, she stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest in dissatisfaction. Aerene raised the same arm into the air, and pointed straight as an arrow to the last person she wanted to partner with. “Ria.”
The manner in which confusion settled between each of the Companions didn’t go unnoticed by the woman seemingly inviting herself to another round of humiliation. With that, she knew Ria’s arrogance wouldn’t allow her to decline Aerene’s invitation. “Ria,” Skjor addressed the brunette, who stepped into the circle again. “Do you accept?” Ria only nodded, eyeing Aerene suspiciously. She came closer, and eventually stood at Aerene’s side-while maintaining distance between them. The two faced the twin brothers, whose eyes were brightened by the darkness of the warpaint surrounding those icy irises. “Aerene. As the challenger, you may choose the weapons used.” She thought for a moment, before unsheathing her iron sword and tossing it off to the side; she’d left her knapsack at the table. “I’ll use my dagger. I leave my shield siblings’ weapon of choice up to their preference.” As she said this, she was staring at the great sword strapped onto Farkas’s back, the handle peeking up from behind his armored shoulder. Vilkas was armed with his Skyforge steel sword; Aerene’s ears reddened at the memory of her first night at Jorrvaskr. Ria pulled her axe from its place at her hip, and held the grip tightly. Farkas stepped back to pull the huge sword out, holding the flat edge towards Aerene. The mage pulled Valdr’s lucky dagger from her waist, and positioned the blade defensively in front of her. As she readied herself to fight against two of Jorrvaskr’s strongest, memories of previous trainings flooded her. The techniques she’d learned in Bleaker’s Way, those she used further south in the Imperial City. So how did I end up here, defeated and attempting to revive my ability?
In truth, the mage couldn’t place the purpose of her actions. She’d teamed with Ria to spar against Vilkas and Farkas but hadn’t really ever trained in a duo before-only with a mentor and her as the student. A first-but not the last. The perfect addition to her uncertainty was the ache ringing through her head and her arm. With no time to spare, Skjor stepped out of the circle and spoke the instruction: “Begin!”
Farkas’s eyes landed on Aerene immediately, and he held the greatsword in horizontal defense. The goings-on between Ria and Vilkas were out of sight. I’ve trained with Vilkas, though. I can easier predict his movements; Farkas’s style remains a mystery to me. She set her goal on getting the greatsword out of the bulkier twin’s grip-then he’d be left with his bare hands, and maybe she’d maneuver her way around and manage to get him pinned-that is, if she wasn’t first moved from Farkas to Vilkas. Aerene stepped forward, her energy level growing from its depleted state. She took a swing at Farkas, which he blocked with his blade. She repeated this, swinging at him from all directions, and he was fast enough to keep up the defense. She knew he had to have some sort of weakness, especially with his tall, hard-muscled figure. While she had her own muscle, she relied more on nimble movement than one solitary technique. Before long, Farkas caught onto her habit, and slipped out of the way when she stumbled past him. She caught her footing though, and faced him once more. It was his turn to swing now, the huge blade reaching into her space; she hopped backward, watching the silver fly past inches from her skin. As she dodged his attacks, and while the sound of metal clanking against metal rang through the yard, joined by gasps, pants, and grunts, she observed his form. With each swing he took, both hands held the leather grip on the greatsword. If I can get one of his hands off the grip, I might be able to knock it from his grasp. She settled on that plan. A fast glance to Vilkas and Ria showed Aerene that Vilkas appeared to have the upper hand, as he leaned over Ria while she defended, her back curving at an odd angle while she used her axe to stop his blade from getting any closer. She was heavily leaning backward, leaving her legs vulnerable…
Clang.
Ria’s axe clattered to the stones. The sudden clanging caught Farkas’s attention, and the moment Aerene saw his silver gaze leave her, she launched her left boot to the base of his greatsword, smacking it against the flat side of the blade. Farkas’s fingers were just loose enough for her action to set the next events in motion. He fumbled for the weapon as it loosed from his grip. Aerene knew the dagger wasn’t long enough to use it against his sword again. She lowered her body, sucking in a huge breath of the chilly air as she prepared to tackle the huge Nord in front of her. Just when she was preparing to spring forward, a masculine cry from behind drew her attention the opposite way. Vilkas swung at her with the sword in his right hand, blade missing her as she ducked down low enough to dodge. When he swung again back in the opposite direction, she drew the dagger to her aid and slid it against the longer sword. He was too strong, though, and gained the upper hand with a sudden jolt. The dagger tumbled to the ground, just out of arm’s length, where she couldn’t reach it. Yet. Before she could dive for it, Vilkas swung again-he’s moving me farther from my weapon.
-
‘Never let yourself be defenseless. Once you have no weapon, and your enemy does, you’re at a great disadvantage. If you must kill, explore your surroundings and use them to your advantage. Hard walls, sturdy tables, heavy mugs, ropes… your survival cannot be if you do not adapt.’ Varellus’s instruction was understandable, yet she couldn’t truly know what he meant until she was in that situation. Even now, she wasn’t. She was not at bay to use her surroundings, and so she had to get back to the lucky dagger.
-
Aerene’s arms flew up in front of her, fists balled with the steel of her gauntlets facing outward. Vilkas gripped the sword with both hands, the blade pointed to Aerene. “We can end here,” he offered, the first words he’d spoken to her that night. She studied his movements, the two of them circling one another while Farkas and Ria sparred a short distance away; Aerene knew that even a glance in their direction could lose her the chance at getting her dagger back. She swallowed. “No, we can’t,” she replied with a small shake of her head. Vilkas responded with the raising of his sword by both hands, launching forward with more force than he’d used previously. Had she been in front of him, this would’ve been the time for her to test the durability of Adrianne Avennicci’s steel gauntlets. She didn’t need to, though, as she dove forward and her fingers latched onto the dagger, off at Vilkas's side, and she finished the movement with a silent roll. She landed with one leg kneeling and the other supporting her on the stones. Aerene held the dagger up once more, inviting Vilkas to make the next move. He observed her, blinking as he approached.
His stillness was temporary, with another swing of the blade towards her from the side, from his right hand to her left. Aerene leaned backward, sliding the fingers of her good arm across the cobblestones to support her weight as she hardly stopped herself from laying on the ground, her hand and both her legs supporting her outstretched body. The blade of Vilkas’s sword waved across the space above her face, just a flicker in the rapid pace of the battle. Her recovery into an offensive position was interrupted with a silly defeat. Vilkas pressed his boot into her chest and pushed downward, his sword hanging at his side as he finally had her pinned. The weight of his boot knocked her from her balanced position to the ground, the hard-packed stones beneath her a cold and familiar plane. He began moving the sword to aim at her jugular. No!
Aerene’s eyes widened in horror at the thought of a second failure. With his boot still planted on her torso, an idea came to her. She swiped her hands onto his leg with a tight grip and tugged as suddenly as she could. He grunted at the unexpected contact, and his whole body landed next to hers. Aerene scrambled to get up, crawling over top of him. She pinned her boot against the wrist holding his sword, and planted her knee against his chest, just under his chin. As he wriggled underneath her, she raised the dagger to the space between his thick, dark brows. His silver irises moved to stare at the blade inches from his skin, then back up to her. She thought she saw his left eye twitch-perhaps a reaction to his unexpected position. While she had him beneath her, though, her mind began wandering to places beyond the training yard. Back to when he’d opened the door the night she delivered Eorlund’s news about his sword, and to early yesterday when she’d done the same thing back to him. Her heart began beating faster, the warmth licking along her cheeks. Her brows furrowed at this, as she swore Villas’s eyes darkened and he stopped trying to get her to move.
“Agh!”
Ria’s yelp drew the attention of the two, who each turned to see what was going on between her and Farkas. Aerene stopped herself from smirking when she saw a glorious sight indeed. Farkas had Ria’s axe in his left hand and his whole greatsword in the other. Ria was on her bottom, on the ground, slowly inching backwards from the tall Nord. If anybody could put her in her place, it’s Farkas. What a glorious sight.
“Enough!” Skjor called out to the Companions whose battle had come to an end. He entered the circle again, intense gaze eyeing the trainees. “Left standing are Aerene and Farkas. Next time, try working as a team. Well done, nonetheless.” Skjor was right, Aerene knew. She’d made no effort to defend Ria… yet Ria hadn’t been eager to help her either. Each fighter had been split between all ends. The surrounding crowd clapped and cheered out for the members in the circle, who were getting themselves upright in preparation to go inside. Aerene quickly moved from her position atop Vilkas, but not before she saw Ria’s glare and the way her lips parted upon witnessing the sight. Aerene sheathed the dagger and offered her hand to Vilkas. He accepted, to her surprise, and she pulled him to stand. He sheathed the sword at his hip. “Never one to give up, are you?” he asked. “Not if I can help it,” she replied, satisfaction tickling at her. She was elated, in truth, to have held her ground this time. Before Vilkas said another word, Kodlak approached and patted the shorter twin on the back. “See, Vilkas? A fire in her heart, indeed. Don’t let it all go to your head, though,” Kodlak grinned. Aerene was surprised to hear the old warrior joking, yet she was happy with the result. When Kodlak and Vilkas began speaking among themselves, Aerene spotted Aela walking over with the iron sword she’d tossed aside earlier. “You make me proud, sister. It’s good to have another woman with prowess around.” She offered Aerene the sword, and commented as Aerene took it. “Too bad you’ve only got a play sword to defend yourself.” Aerene’s mouth flattened to an unimpressed expression, but curved into a smile as Aela claimed she meant nothing by it. “I hope you’ve come hungry. Tonight we feast, after a long day. See you in there,” Aela left Aerene’s side. The mage watched her walk away, to join Skjor as he waited underneath the verandah. As if he knew Aerene was watching, his intense eyes darted to hers, before he turned with Aela to go into Jorrvaskr. She didn’t miss the way his hand brushed just slightly against Aela’s, whose fingers gently glided along the back of his hand. Restraint prevented them from openly holding hands, though. A shiver danced through Aerene-she was wondering just how many secrets-and secret relationships-existed between the band of warriors.
Aerene began walking forward, only a few left in the training yard as most were already inside getting seated. Ria called her name, to which she turned and faced the brunette. Ria’s brows were low, telling of her anger; her jaw was clenched, too. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. “You only brought me into the spar to make yourself look better. You couldn’t hold a candle to Farkas, and that’s why you went for Vilkas instead,” Ria spat, her voice deep with the way she spoke rapidly. Aerene held herself back from flinching at the harsh and untrue words. She guessed Ria didn’t realize she was insulting Vilkas while trying to hide her jealousy. She hadn’t expected more from the brunette, and was exhausted of this conversation. She called me a dog. And made implications beyond the truth after she’d already beaten me in fair battle. Aerene’s narrowed to slits while she glared at Ria, who began approaching her. Once Ria was just a pace from her, Aerene replied, both hands resting on the hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. “Maybe after you train more, you’ll be called to the Jarl’s aide.” Her jaw clenched tightly, she turned and walked away from Ria, who remained eerily silent. Aerene didn’t dare turn around to face the angry Nord. As much as Ria’s words made Aerene’s blood boil, she didn’t understand what the brunette had against her. I wish it weren’t like this. She stepped through the doorway into the warm hall; seeing that the tables had been filled with fresh dinner. Fragrant meat, cheese, fruit, bread, sweets, and plenty of ale, mead, and wine. Aerene licked her lips as her mouth watered at the sight. And Gods. I’m supposed to sleep in the bed across from hers and Njada’s. Wonderful. I still need that bath, too.
Dinner was a joyful affair, with a few members drinking away the day’s hard work. Others, however, exchanged stories and shared special memories they’d created while living in the Hall. Aerene sat with Farkas and Aela, in between the two of them. She scooted her chair a bit closer to Aela, though, as Farkas took up tons of arm space; Aela didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed hardly present at dinner. She’d not eaten much, save for half a braided bread loaf. Her focus was on Skjor, across the fire, sitting near Kodlak and Vilkas; his eyes were on her, too. Farkas, meanwhile, was enjoying his fill of just about two of everything. While his mouth was full, he’d offered Aerene some from his plate, to which she shook her head and held in laughter. She didn’t want him to choke from laughing with her, after all. A handful of members left after a while, Aerene hearing something about a visit to the Bannered Mare. She avoided the eyes of Njada and Ria over the night, deciding that she’d had enough of them for the day. A little while into the meal, Aela left the table. The remaining Companions were drifting to the living quarters. Soon after, Skjor left, too. When Tilma and Brill began clearing the table after a couple hours, Aerene excused herself and thanked them for the meal. She offered her help to them, to which they declined, saying she would need all the sleep she could get. Aerene nodded to this, only realizing what they’d said after each of them left with empty dishes to carry away. Feeling the effects of the day now more than ever, she was eager for privacy and a bath. She had been sweaty, then warm, and cold, and knocked to the ground, the dirt, and had dried blood here and there, especially from the tangle at Orotheim.
“Aerene,” it was Kodlak who’d called her name. She walked closer. “Harbinger,” she dipped her head in greeting. Looking back at her were three; Kodlak, Farkas, and Vilkas. They had gathered and began talking amongst themselves, just moments ago. “The time as come for your Trial.”
Her brows heightened in surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but only stuttered. She looked to Farkas, wondering how long he’d known she’d be informed so soon. When Farkas only brought a full mug up to drink, and maintained her gaze with a hollow look, she realized he had no ill intent at all. This must’ve been decided just moments ago. Her sights settled on Kodlak, who was patiently waiting for her response. He, she’d learned, was not the type to rush things. “I’m ready.”
After that, she was invited to sit down for a moment, Kodlak insisting they wouldn’t keep her long. A scholar had visited Jorrvaskr that morning with the location of another fragment of Wuuthrad. Aerene knew little about the axe, just that it was wielded by Ysgramor as he led the five hundred Companions-the foundation of Jorrvaskr. Five hundred warriors… how the numbers have dwindled… and why? That had been hundreds of years ago, and the search for all of Wuuthrad’s pieces was on. Her Trial would be to retrieve the newly located fragment, from a crypt called Dustman’s Cairn. When she questioned the reason for retrieving Wuuthrad’s fragments, Kodlak blinked and broke eye contact. She shifted, feeling she’d made him uncomfortable unintentionally. Vilkas cut in, then. ‘They have been scattered for too long, and they are priceless. They belong to Jorrvaskr, and so it is the duty of the Companions to honor Ysgramor by piecing the axe together again.’ Kodlak added that Farkas would accompany her for the retrieval. Upon returning successfully, he spoke forthrightly, she’d be counted as a true member of the Companions. Those words hit her heart with a pang. From then, his voice was audible, but she’d failed to listen to the rest of what he said. How many trials do I need to endure before I am viewed as a full fledged Companion? How many times do I need to prove myself? Vilkas clearing his throat caught Aerene’s attention. Her vision focused on Kodlak, who looked to be waiting for a response. “Sorry, what time did you say we were going?”
“You’ll leave after breakfast,” Kodlak sent Aerene a soft, genuine smile. She studied his soft eyes, wondering how she picked up some kind of twist deep within, that wasn’t visible on the surface. She believed it wasn’t a fault in his character, nor a contradiction to his personality and kindness, but it seemed something more akin to… nature. Certainly, the mead, ale, and wine is getting to me now.
With a nod, she stood. “I understand. I won’t disappoint you.” She looked between the three, feeling as if she should be on her way as the awkwardness within was growing. “Goodnight, then, Aerene,” Kodlak spoke. “Goodnight,” she returned the words. She began walking away, her exhausted mind warped by the new information. Although she’d said goodnight, and her had knapsack over her shoulder, she did not make her way downstairs into the living quarters. She proceeded to walk up the few steps to the front entry of Jorrvaskr, and passed through the door.
The chilly air blowing against her warmed skin was met with a wince from her. Still, it was a relief from the tension in Jorrvaskr. She considered sitting on the steps in front of Jorrvaskr to think, but that wouldn’t do her any good-being so close. Settling on the different decision, Aerene set off down the steps into the quiet streets below. A guard patrolling the courtyard below Jorrvaskr, where the tall tree was hovering with a ghastly face overhead, pointed her to the Drunken Huntsman. Whiterun had no bathhouse, yet the Hunstman and the Bannered Mare had cheap baths available. With her last visit to the Mare having not gone to plan, she wandered all the way to the Hunstman. It was quiet inside, being the middle of the night; a few patrons were inside, all minding their own business. The atmosphere was wildly different from the boisterous noise of the Bannered Mare. Elrindir was the owner, a Bosmer who also sold hunting gear. Bows and arrows of various types were on display around the central room. He pointed Aerene to the basement after she paid for a bath. The five gold cost included the bath itself, a linen for drying, and soap, if needed. However, Aerene had kept the lavender soap provided by Sigrid. The tub was in a private room, closed off by walls and a door. She could spend as long as she wanted here before truly retiring for the night at Jorrvaskr.
As she rubbed the bar along her skin, sitting in the warm water, the scent took her back to that afternoon in Riverwood. While she bathed, she recalled the happenings she’d experienced. She planned to visit Sigrid, Alvor, and Daphne next time she passed through Riverwood. She would inquire about their nephew. Hadvar could’ve been anywhere in Skyrim by now, battling against the Stormcloak rebellion. It was something Aerene hadn’t grown passionate for; her newness to Skyrim was one reason, but the idiocy of the civil war was another. The Aldmeri Dominion have demonstrated their power before, though. The Empire has little choice in the matter, yet the people of Skyrim are expected to throw out their worship of Talos. Either way, the war would be sorely won. Her thoughts drifted to the darker memories of her time here; back to the day the dragon had attacked Helgen, and left its people scattered, mostly dead, and the town in shambles. The escape was just the beginning, it seemed, but she hadn’t seen the dragon since that day. Could there be only one?
In her solitude, her own actions were haunting her. In these moments, when she was alone, with no one to talk with, no presence to enjoy, the weight of her blades felt heaviest. Each time she’d taken a life, from the previous hours at Orotheim to the Stormcloaks she’d killed in Helgen Keep. The bandits she killed with Valdr, upon being ambushed along the road. The sobs of the young woman who’d returned to Orotheim to find her friends bloody and slaughtered. Had you not done what you did, you’d be dead now. Either left in Helgen to rot, or somewhere in the forest, or out in the plains. Left to be picked at like roadkill, posted on a spike as Ronulf and Vuuls had been. She frowned at her thoughts, letting her actions haunt her as if she hadn’t fought only to survive. She sucked in a breath of the humid air, and plunged her head into the water to fully submerge herself and wet her greasy hair. When she emerged, the droplets of water flowed down her skin and back into the tub. “Remember what Hadvar said,” she whispered to herself, staring at her open hands beneath the water’s surface. “I am lucky to have made it this far.”
Jorrvaskr was quiet when she finally returned, refreshed both physically and mentally. Still, the tiredness was evident in her features. Good rest was what she needed most, now. She trudged through the empty hall to the lower level, quietly walking on the long carpet stretched over the flagstones. A few torches remained lit, but most had been blown out to allow for easier rest in the dim light. Still, she missed windows with natural light. She didn’t favor awakening and not knowing the time of day. Just as she was stepping into the whelps’ dormitory, she heard low laughter from the hall. She hurried into the room and set her knapsack down, kicking it under the bed. She plucked the sword from her hip and gently set it down, forgetting about the dagger as she scrambled to get under the furs as if she’d been sleeping. Why am I in a hurry? It is not against the law to be awake at this time.
Just then, the low voices neared, growing closer and then more distant. She made out that they belonged to Skjor and Aela as they walked down the hall. After they were out of earshot, she finished changing out of her armor and got back in bed. The wooden frame was stiff underneath her body, which she’d made a point to heal before sinking into the bath at the Huntsman. Still, as tired as she was, she fell asleep in moments, unbothered by snoring and occasional movement from the other members.
When she awoke the next morning, she felt energized. Quietly, she pushed the furs off and stood up to stretch. A look around told her nobody else was up, at least not from this dormitory. Every bed that been occupied before was occupied now. She yawned, tightening the leather straps of her armor. Once she was ready for the day, she sheathed the iron sword, the lucky dagger, and pulled on her knapsack, with no idea of the time.
Sometime in the night, the door to the hallway had been closed. She opened it, and stepped out, then shut it quietly behind her. She looked around, and saw no one. Deciding not to move any further down the hall, for fear of waking anyone, she gently stepped up to the ground level. Light from the stained glass windows shone into the central room; dawn was breaking over Skyrim. Aerene wandered to the doors leading outside to the training yard, and stepped outside. The day ahead would be on the chilly, colder side, for the morning air was crisp. Her breaths were visible in puffs of white air. The training yard was empty, too. She was satisfied to see this, feeling that she had the space to herself. Breakfast would be served in the next hour or two, which meant she had time to do as she pleased. Deciding to train weapons, she dropped the knapsack on a chair at one of the empty tables and made her way over to a training dummy. There was a bow with a quiver of arrows nearby; she made use of it, practicing her aim and accuracy while moving and still. About an hour passed, and when she struck all arrows into the target in a row, she stopped and began practicing with a dagger in each hand.
Morning’s sun rose higher up as the time went by, and cast warm light over parts of the training yard. The sky was dotted with puffy clouds.
Aela was first to emerge from Jorrvaskr into the morning, speaking a quiet greeting to Aerene when she noticed her. Njada appeared as well; Aerene watched from afar as Aela handed Njada a folded piece of paper, likely giving her instructions for the job of that day. Aela sat with a ledger book and used an ink pot and quill to write into it.
Aerene kept at it, the morning stretching on, as more gathered into the yard and went about their business-some leaving and some staying. When Farkas came to her side and mumbled a greeting, she looked to him excitedly. “Been up a while?” he asked, stretching his neck as he rolled his head in circles, getting the stiffness out. “Mmhmm,” she nodded, sheathing the lucky dagger at her waist and putting the other back where she’d found it. “Good. Today’s gonna be a long one. Better start with a good meal,” he grinned cheekily, offering his elbow to her. She grinned back, hooking her arm through. They walked inside, the aroma of fresh breakfast food wafting by to say hello. Her stomach grumbled at the scent, and her cheeks flushed at the slight embarrassment.
Later on, she and Farkas set off for Dustman’s Cairn. It was northwest of Whiterun, about a quarter of the distance away from Rorikstead. With this, they were walking the journey. It started off quiet, Aerene looking over the plains as they stepped along the road. The further they got from the city, the windier it seemed to be. She tied her sash into a scarf to protect her face from the wind. Farkas didn’t seem to mind, looking rather majestic as his hair blew back when the wind surged and calmed. Deciding to quench her thirst of curiosity, she broke the silence. “Who was the scholar that came with the information on the fragment’s location?”
Farkas shrugged. “A smart man from the College of Winterhold came in. He’s been doing research for Kodlak and Skjor, tryin’ to find all the pieces of Wuuthrad.” Aerene looked to Farkas when he mentioned the College. A scholar from the College of Winterhold was right at my doorstep and I missed him. “What was the scholar’s name?”
Farkas reached up to scratch at the stubble underneath his chin. “Dunno. He was wearing those fancy mage robes, though. I think he was a Breton. Kinda short,” he told her. She pursed her lips in disappointment that she’d missed the opportunity at conversation. She had endless questions about the College, but knew many Nords of Skyrim weren’t fond of magic. In fact, during one of her training sessions in the previous week, she was warned from using magic while sparring. Not that I know many spells to use in the first place. “What’s that look for?” Farkas asked, meeting her gaze; she noticed he’d refreshed the war paint around his eyes, and imagined he had someone help him with the application. Probably Vilkas. The thought was a little funny. She sighed, fidgeting with one of the straps on her hip plate. “I came to Skyrim to attend the College of Winterhold,” she confessed. “So why haven’t ya gone yet?”
“Well,” she chuckled ironically. “On the way, I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Got off my horse when I heard a noise in the Pale Pass, and ran into a group of Imperials. They thought I was a spy and sentenced me to death. And just when I was about to watch the headsman’s axe come down, the dragon flew from the mountains. I escaped with an Imperial officer. But I lost all of my things somewhere in the mix, including my savings.” Farkas only looked ahead once she finished talking. “Doesn’t hurt to travel light,” he eventually said. Aerene laughed at the incredulity of his response. “I suppose not,” she murmured, staring at the cobblestones as she walked, having to look away as the movement made her dizzy. “Ya know,” Farkas began after a few moments of silence. “That dragon saved you, in a way. While he was trying to kill ya,” he pointed out. “It did. Keeps happening that way.” Farkas spoke again. “Come on, we’re almost there.” He broke into a jog, leaving the road and heading up a grassy hill. He stepped through bushes and over pieces of wood jutting from the ground. The wind at this point was particularly strong, bringing Aerene to lower herself to a crouched position to rest. They both looked down into the crypt’s entrance. It was carved into the natural formation of the knoll, ancient stonework with thin platforms of rock curving along the round wall as a staircase. The steps looked as if they could snap off the wall at any moment. “Doesn’t look like much, I know,” Farkas walked along the rim to the first step and headed downward. “I suspect the inside is more impressive,” Aerene guessed, following his footwork as quickly as possible to avoid falling if she waited too long. She met him at the entrance, looking up and around before they walked inside. Niches were carved into the stonework, vertical spaces dragging along the lateral stone sections of wall. Huge clumps of moss hang from crevices and nooks around the space, gliding gently as wind from the surface brushed downward into the crater-like space.
When she stepped inside behind Farkas, Aerene was hit with the thick, heavy air of the tomb. She coughed, covering her mouth in a weak attempt to silence herself. The dust was visibly floating in particles around the first room. Farkas stepped ahead, eyeing the place. Two tombs were placed on opposite sides of the room, each with long-dead corpses spilled out. “Draugr, hate those things,” Farkas commented, looking down at one of the harrowing figures. Aerene decided to keep her distance, as if they’d get up and walk towards her at any moment. That can’t be possible. They’re dead.
To her right, a pyre had been knocked over, its contents spilled across the floor. The glow of the dying embers was fading out to the blackness of the charred contents previously keeping the space lit. “Someone’s been digging here,” Farkas gestured to a pickaxe on a stone table near the center of the room. Next to it was an old book. Aerene approached the table on the side opposite of Farkas. She leaned in to study the book. It was dusty, but patches were bare- “Fingerprints,” she pointed out. Farkas’s eyes narrowed as he turned to continue further. The path made a sharp right, out of the room and down some steps through an empty hall. Part of the roof had collapsed in-a casual risk of treading in tombs. “Tread lightly,” Farkas spoke in a tone lower than usual. “And be careful around the burial stones. Don’t wanna have to haul you to Jorrvaskr on my back,” he instructed. He could drag me, instead, she thought to herself with a subtle smile at her own stupid joke. Down the steps was a left turn into a series of catacombs. Aerene stepped cautiously and looked around warily. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but was on edge.
Farkas had disappeared into one of the multiple surrounding alcoves, and she cursed herself for not having followed more closely. She jogged to catch up, when she heard him unsheathe his greatsword and begin fighting something. ‘Bastard!’ she made out, and rapidly turned in attempt to spot him. “Farkas!” she called out, but heard only a low… growl? She whipped around, freezing into place when she was faced with the heavy breathing and low groaning of the creature in front of her. One of the corpses, from somewhere in the crypt, held an axe up as if it were going to attack at any moment. Its eyes were glowing a haunting, ghastly blue, teeth bared. Its flesh had rotted away to grasp tightly against its skeleton, barely any left on its bones. It was of grey and white in color, wearing armor that hung over its thin figure. It stepped forward and hissed out, speaking a language unfamiliar to her. She jumped back, slamming into the wall she didn’t realize was so close.
Aerene pulled the sword from her hip and swiped it against the chest of the creature, causing it to stumble back. The sound of her blade hitting into it was like smacking a sword into wood-as if she was hardly chipping away. Standing up again, it swung once more. She managed to move to the side, dodging the attack. That was when it stilled completely, the blade of a greatsword plunging through its chest from the back. Its eyes went dark, and it groaned. The blade was pulled abruptly and the undead fell to the stone floor. She stared at its unmoving form, mouth agape in shock. Farkas sheathed his sword into its place on his back. “Damned things. Wish they’d stay dead,” he kicked at the skeleton’s back with the toe of his steel boot. She met his eyes. “Farkas,” she began. “That’s a Draugr? They live?! I… I thought that was the formal term for the Nord dead. But I never knew they could walk, let alone fight.” Farkas huffed. “Oh yeah, sister. These places are full of ‘em. But I don’t think they’re the only other ones here,” he said. “Next room’s empty. Let’s keep moving.” She followed him closely, eyeing each corpse laid to rest in the spaces of the walls. She could hardly tear her eyes from a table where a Draugr was wrapped in embalming paper, unmoving with its eyes closed. “Not all of ‘em come back,” Farkas warned her. “What brings them to life? Do…do they ever really die? And why are they hostile?” she unloaded each question onto her shield-brother. “Dunno,” Farkas said in response to all three questions. “Vilkas would be the one to ask. He reads books a lot. Probably knows the answers.”
They entered the next room, a larger space that was freeing compared to the twists and turns of the catacomb halls they’d walked through. The air wasn’t so suffocating in here, either. Down more steps, laced with creeping moss, a vague mist snaked around the floor. Three alcoves sat along the far wall. On the left was an open space; the center alcove was plugged with rubble from a separate collapsed section, and to the right was a third alcove with a gate stretched from floor to ceiling. Aerene looked upward, seeing a bit of daylight peak through the high opening in the ceiling. Wooden support beams stretched around the rocks jutting out from the walls as they curved inward with the height. Dust and dirt spilled from a crevice and blew into the open space below. Farkas walked over to a couple of empty thrones, his fingers settled underneath his chin with his hand on his hip, in thought. Aerene walked forward, passing another table with a partially enbalmed Draugr atop. The sound of her footsteps was muffled by the patches of moss she walked across, making her way to the open alcove. Inside was a lit pyre and a lever. This must open the other gate. She noticed a skull sitting atop one of the dusty tables; at least it’s devoid of any flesh or blood. “There’s a lever in here, Farkas,” she reported, and wrapped her fingers over the metal appendage. She pulled, expecting it to need more force than it did, causing her to over-compensate. Metallic clanging behind her caught her attention. The sight she met dragged her heart to the floor. The gate had shut her into the alcove in a trap. In a panic, she hurriedly grabbed the lever and tugged it back the other way. Nothing happened as the lever was stuck in place. With all her might, she pulled. It did not move. “Damnit,” she grumbled, wiping the dust from her hands. Farkas approached the gate from the side of freedom. “Now look what you’ve gotten yourself into. No worries. Sit tight and I’ll find the release.” She nodded, annoyed she’d gotten herself into this, and secretly hoping that whatever lever he found would get her out.
Voices approached from the third alcove, and the gate raised to open. “What was that?” she whispered. Farkas turned, unsheathing the greatsword. Five bandit-looking types made their way into the room, surrounding Farkas with their weapons ready. Aerene’s heart picked up, beating rapidly at the sight. Panic began pumping through her at fear of what could happen next. “Farkas,” she spoke in a barely audible whisper. They began talking, drawing in closer. Aerene listened, rushing over to the lever. She grabbed on and pulled as hard as she could, feeling the tension in the muscles of her arms, core, and legs. She grunted as she pulled. Behind her, the other occupants of the tomb taunted Farkas. “Time to die, dog,” one of the women hissed. “We knew you’d be coming here,” a male could be heard as well. Aerene furiously pulled at the lever, planting her legs firmly into the ground as she maneuvered around and tried to push instead. “Which one is that?” Another asked.
“One of the twins. A member of the Circle. Doesn’t matter, anyway. He has the wolf blood, he dies.”
Aerene stopped at the word wolf. She spun around, her failure at opening the gate fading from her worries. One of the fiends took a step closer to Farkas. “Killing you will make for an excellent story,” she sneered. Aerene listened as Farkas adjusted his fingers on the handle of his sword. “None of you will be alive to tell it.”
Her shield-brother rapidly plunged the greatsword through the chest of the nearest enemy, blood spurting out from the huge open wound as Farkas grabbed onto the blade and swung it at the remaining four. He pulled it back and swung it again, this time actually letting go; Aerene wondered if he meant to. A bead of sweat dripped down her temple. Farkas fell to his knees, hands tensing into fists as he began breathing heavily and rapidly. “Farkas! Get up!” she pleaded from behind the gate, fingers grasping at the iron rods to try and pull it up manually. The next moments happened in a blur.
Farkas’s skin was overgrown with midnight, his chest and limbs swelling in rapid bursts. His long hair shortened into his scalp, replaced by growth of black fur from everywhere. The larger he grew, the smaller his armor was, eventually unlatching itself and falling to the ground. A growl sounded through the air, and he suddenly leaned back, exposing his chest to the ceiling. The dim light of the room was enough for Aerene to see the silhouette of the creature’s huge maw, razor sharp teeth jutting out from the open mouth as it roared out. Its hands were tipped with massive black claws, inches long. Aerene stumbled backward as the beast stood up rapidly, her breaths getting out of control as her chest began hurting. Amid the chaos that began to ensue, she caught sight of an eerie glow. Looking her way was the horrifying amber yellow glare of the creature just on the other side of the iron: the werewolf.
Chapter Text
Farkas. He has become a beast.
Aerene’s thoughts were driven mad, darting in each and every direction as she froze in place, fear overtaking her. Her heart pounded out of her chest as she stared back at the beast on the other side of the iron. She knew not what would come next-whether his claws would tear across her chest, raking her heart from her ribcage, or if she would wake up, having somehow fallen into a nightmare, distant from reality. I must be dreaming, she thought. Seconds passed before the beast growled lowly, turning away from her and facing the bandits at his back. Just the slight movement of his form caused her to flinch, snapping into the physical realm. She glanced around the room; the lever was stuck in place, still, meaning that for however long, she was separated from the creature.
The next moments were bloody and horrific. The werewolf launched forward to the group of bandits, the air filled with noise of snarls, shrieking, splattering. Aerene watched in horror as the bandits were slaughtered. One was torn limb from limb, another thrown across the room to hit the tomb wall so hard dust fell alongside bits of stone to the cold, hard floor. The last was tackled by the werewolf, arms wiggling for any resolve as the creature slashed back and forth across the meek human beneath. Each spot she looked there lay a stain of crimson; her breathing was rampant, hands shaking as she held onto the handle of the blade in her hand. As if this will do anything. Her stomach ached and burned at the horrendous sight, mind flashing with scenes from the destroyed town of Helgen-the minutes that passed as she and Hadvar escaped the dragon who’d wrought destruction upon the settlement. When the air was silent, save for the sound of the beast’s grunting and constant, heavy growling as it took each breath, she dragged her eyes from the corpse nearest her and was again haunted by the yellow gaze of the werewolf. Her wide look was creased by the furrow in her brow as she watched the panting creature begin its departure from the room. He sauntered away, slowly, disappearing into the nearest alcove. She approached the iron gate, confused. A sudden jolt caused her to let go of the bars, which raised up and out of view, into the wall they’d first sprung down from.
She stood still, eyes stuck on the spot the werewolf had disappeared into, waiting for him to appear again. He did not, and so she stepped out into the room. The scene left behind by the beast was gruesome, yet she wondered what it was they wanted with him-what they wanted to do to him. How did these bandits know of his ability to shift into the form of a werewolf? Aerene’s mind was streaming with thoughts, one even wondering if his shifting had anything to do with the moons, and whether she’d missed a full moon the night before.
Quiet and quick steps carried her over to the corner of the alcove, where she stood with her back against the wall and peeked out from. Her eyes lowered from a lever to the man on the ground below. Farkas. He was kneeling, breathing heavily, fists holding himself up from the stones beneath. Gone was the fur as black as night, replaced with his own skin, nude from head to toe. He was not facing her, but by the sound of his breath, she knew his teeth were gritted and his jaw tight. His back was dripping with sweat, body contorted downward, so distant. Aerene watched, waiting for him to do something.
“‘Rene,” he spoke lowly. She stiffened, but stepped out from behind the wall, into the open. “Farkas…” her voice trailed off as she began walking closer. “I hope I didn’t scare ya,” he said in that usual tone of his, the one that was so unique to him. Relief flooded through the mage as she sighed out. “Are you alright?” she asked him, now standing directly behind him. “Yeah,” he grunted, pulling himself up to a standing position with a visible struggle. Without thinking, she reached over and assisted, hands gripping one of his arms as he leaned onto the stones the lever mechanism sat upon. He turned to face her, her cheeks immediately flushing and her ears getting feverish as she looked everywhere but him. Her fingers wandered up to the sash over her shoulder, untying it from the leather straps and draping it over his lap. “Sorry,” he apologized. She met his gaze for a second, having already gotten an eyeful. He was himself again, amber eyes having drifted to those silver irises once again. “Just rest, I’ll get your armor.” She turned and made her way to where the pieces had fallen off, when he first shifted. As she approached him once more, she really took in the sight of Farkas. She’d known he was muscular before, by the strength in his grip and the circumference of his biceps, but seeing his chest heave up and down as he regulated his breathing was like watching oiled machinery start to function again. Farkas had tied the sash over his hips, and was beginning to squeeze his legs into some trousers. Aerene wondered where he’d gotten those, until she noticed the dead bandit near them, lest his pants. The poor wretch must’ve been in here earlier when Farkas first arrived.
Aerene set the armor down and took a few steps away to give Farkas some privacy as he dressed. “Can you control it?” she broke the quiet between them. The sound of cloth shuffling around behind her stopped; she assumed Farkas was surprised by her question. “Yeah. Gets hard to sometimes, though. There’s been more than one time when it’s been a struggle to share my body with that of a wild beast,” he told her. Her thoughts drifted to the slaughter in the room behind them. “Are all of the Companions werewolves?” Are you going to make me a werewolf?
Farkas huffed a laugh. “No. It’s a blessing given to some of us, only members of the Circle have the beast blood.” A blessing. Granting a human the ability to shift into the form of a beast sounded like the work of none other than Hircine, the Daedric Prince, Father of Beasts, Huntsman. Aerene had plenty more questions to ask Farkas, but knew he wasn’t much of a talker. The twin who did have a knack for answering questions was Vilkas-though she couldn’t imagine he’d exactly be delighted to know she’d become aware of their blessing.
Later on, the two Companions found themselves at one end of a hallway. They’d taken to an arrangement, with Aerene taking constant point, Farkas standing back. This way, he could study her combat and technique; he’d of course enter to assist when the need arose, but let her take the reigns to display that she deserved to be called a Companion, that she fought honorably. Aerene lowered to a kneeling position, taking note that the two bandits at the end of the hall were facing away from her and Farkas. Two steps in front of her led to the walkway of the hall; she noticed another alcove to the right, and through the dim light, made out some kind of helmet sitting atop a metal stand. It was indeed suspiciously placed. Aerene looked to Farkas, and whispered, “Stay here a moment.” He nodded, and she silently stepped over to the pedestal. From the vantage point, she looked down the hall at a new angle. On the opposite wall, just near the two bandits, were multiple openings in the stone wall. A trap. “Trap ahead. I’m going to see if I can activate it,” she whispered to him. He waited, watching as she crept over to the pedestal once more. She picked up a rock from the ground, and threw it across the hallway. It smacked into the wall, and caught the attention of the two bandits. “Who’s there?” one of them called. She retreated into the crevice by the pedestal, fingers wrapped around the helmet. The torchlight from a few paces down the walkway cast shadows of the two fiends onto the wall; Aerene watched as the shadows moved along, and when the time was right, she pulled the helmet from the pedestal. Like clockwork, the pressure plate rose to its proper place with the removed weight of the helmet. Sounds of arrows released from the hidden mechanism in the walls swished through the crypt, striking the flesh of those passing by. Cursing and cries of agony were heard; Aerene revealed herself from her hiding spot, sword readied. There was no need, though, as her plan had worked. Farkas approached from behind, and the two looked down at the greenish skin on the dead bandits-an effect of the poisoned arrowheads. “I’m impressed. Clever, indeed. Honorable… not a word I’d use,” he spoke plainly. Aerene swallowed at his comment, wondering if this would have any negative impact on her assessment. What is to fight honorably? If Ria’s a Companion, I’ve got nothing to worry about, anyway.
By the time the two made it to the burial room of the crypt, hours had gone by. Aerene was feeling the strain of constant movement on her muscles, and the heaviness of so much dusty air in her lungs. Farkas seemed fine, though, and told her the wolf blood gave him better stamina with faster recovery from exhaustion. She was envious of this, but didn’t fancy the idea of sharing her body with the spirit of a wolf as a tradeoff. The mage leaned against the doorway into the final room, dripping with sweat and catching her breath from the most recent leg of the battle-more Silver Hand, as these particular bandits were called; just before that, they’d come across a nest of frostbite spiders. Not quite as clustered full as the one she and Hadvar stumbled into in Helgen, but still a challenge as Farkas couldn’t help. Of the many things Aerene was learning during this trial, one of them was that Farkas harbored a deep fear of the crawly creatures. Miraculously, they managed to reach this point in the cave unscathed.
“I hope this fragment we’re retrieving is worth it,” she mumbled to Farkas, who chuckled at her and reassured her it would be worth it, and that he’d tell her more about it once they made it back to the surface.
The mage stepped forward, eyeing the dozen-or-so vertical tombs lining the walls of the large cavern space. Lit torches were positioned on the walls, and a large pyre hung by chains from the crypt ceiling. The pyre itself was quite high up; Aerene wondered who-or what-kept the fire within the crypt alive for so long. As she made her way up the stones, toward the far end of the room, another tomb came into view. It was horizontal, placed against the ground, and sealed shut. She looked over to Farkas, searching the room for any signs of movement. “After all the fuss of getting here, this space is eerily quiet. Too… still,” she claimed. Farkas sheathed his greatsword over his back. “Can hear the draugr breathing in the tombs,” he muttered, “guess they’re not in the mood to play.” Another wolf ability-heightened hearing. Just a step short of being able to hear my thoughts. She shuddered to think of what that meant for her past interactions in Jorrvaskr-did she, or any Companion, have a lick of privacy in the mead hall? Farkas stepped past her and the tomb, walking up a few stairs to a large table set before a wall. Aerene studied the wall behind Farkas, who remarked that the fragment they were searching for was there on the table. She acknowledged him, walking to his side; something about the stone wall was unusual, though she couldn’t place it. It was slightly curved, and had a relief carving of a creature at the top center. Level with her figure were carvings, ancient writing she couldn’t decipher nor recognize. “Have you ever seen writing such as this before? It’s ancient,” she commented, pressing her hand to the cool stone, fingertips brushing over the indentations. “Can’t say I pay much attention to writing on walls,” Farkas confessed, gesturing for her to turn so he could put the fragment into her satchel. She obliged, feeling the weight of the metal in her satchel as soon as he set it in-it was heavy. Just as she dragged her fingers across the writing, and as Farkas closed her satchel back up, her head felt weightless in the most terrible way. She jerked her hand backward, bumping into Farkas. She muttered an apology, reaching out for something to grab onto for balance. “‘Rene, you alright?” Farkas asked. Across the room, clangs of tombs being kicked open rang out. Stones tumbled, and the very floor on which the Companions stood grumbled. The chaos from whatever had begun was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside the mage’s head. Her vision blurred, as she was partially blinded with lines of blue, that seemed to quiet just slightly when her hands shot up to cover her eyes and she turned her back to the brightly glowing wall carvings. Her skin burned as if her head was alight, the hotness drawing a cry from her. Farkas was worriedly talking to her, though his words were incoherent, as was whatever she was saying back. She’d slumped to the floor and held her back against the cold stone, eyes glaring upward, searching for any relief. Growls of the approaching draugr haunted her, as did the unsheathing of Farkas’ weapon as he prepared to fight. Aerene kept whispering to herself, one word, over and over, yet she did not consciously know what she spoke.
Farkas slashed through the Draugr as the redhead endured the fever, so thirsty for a drink of water yet so fulfilled when the episode finally passed. The fever dissipated in the span of a moment, vision clarifying to the degree it was before she’d come into contact with the wall. Her sights focused on a small horde of draugr, piling in Farkas’ direction. Aerene sucked in a breath, leaning forward to place both hands on the ground. She managed to push herself up, leaning against the table to wait for the dizziness to fade. Her sword had been dropped, thus she retrieved it from the ground and jogged wearily to the commotion. As she made her way, she lifted her left hand up into the air and cast a bout of grand healing over herself; the gold magic swirled around her figure, refreshing the mage’s soul from within. She met the edge of the draugr with a call for their attention, and began swinging her blade at the undead standing between herself and her shield brother.
The battle seemed as if it would go on and on, as new draugr kicked the seals from their tombs with the end of each wave. Aerene’s sword arm was burning with exhaustion, her poor muscles not familiar with the constant push back of the ancient Nord warriors that were the draugr. The skeletal frames were decorated with armor, brittle bones protected by thick and hearty metal tailored to once lively figures. Farkas’ patience was running thin, visible in the way he glared over each fiend he came into contact with. Aerene wondered if he’d reveal his beast form once again, tearing the bones of the undead apart like biting into the flesh of roasted meat.
The mage faced the undead in front of her; the draugr was one of only three remaining. Just then, Farkas plunged the blade of his sword into the chest of another skeleton. That leaves two. Aerene launched forward, swinging her blade at what would’ve been the draugr’s belly. It staggered from the hit, coming back with a swing down from above. Rather than try to hold the draugr’s blade with her own, Aerene made a final effort to swipe her sword into the draugr’s arm; as she’d hoped, the blade cut clean through. Now without arm nor weapon, the draugr cursed out in its ancient tongue, falling to kneel. In such close proximity, Aerene could almost feel the dusty breaths of the creature; she pulled Valdr’s lucky dagger from her waist and stabbed it into the chest of the creature. It spoke again in a weakened voice, “Daanik ah dov.” Her hand gripped the handle of the dagger, and pulled it from the draugr’s flesh. Simultaneously, she kicked her foot into the fiend, sending the corpse to shamble against the floor. The eerie blue light disappeared from the undead’s gaze. She stood still, catching her breath for the first time since the draugr launched their assault. Farkas was doing the same while he walked over. “Place is clear. Best to head back to Whiterun.” Aerene nodded in agreement. “Been waiting to hear that all day,” she responded, collecting herself and checking her belongings. Before she set out to follow Farkas out of the cairn, she cast the mysterious wall one last glance. The light had vanished from the stone, yet it seemed that the longer she looked, the more chance there was of the words coming back to life.
“What happened to ya, when you touched the rock wall?” Farkas questioned the mage on their walk back to the city. Aerene had just finished tying her sash around her hips, making note that it needed a good washing before she’d tie it over her head for protection from the wind. Over the course of the day, it had collected plenty of dust and sweat, among other things. She stared over the horizon, processing what really did happen when her skin came into contact with the stone. The late afternoon sun would be setting into the evening by the time they would reach Jorrvaskr. “Looked pale as a ghost,” Farkas nudged the woman. She smiled, blinking in thought. Recollection of the fever, the light, the brightness, the ache, the burn. “I don’t really know what happened. Only how it felt. Like my skull was on fire and would erupt at any moment. But somehow like I’d been refreshed, emerged from a cool stream of water, by the time the burning ended.” She pondered her explanation, cringing at the absurdity of her words. Farkas huffed a laugh. “You sound like Vilkas tellin’ me about skooma.” Aerene frowned at Farkas, who only chuckled at her reaction. “Whatever you were saying to me, I couldn’t hear. And vice versa-couldn’t understand the words falling from my own lips,” she added. “Hmm,” Farkas contemplated his next words. “Only thing I understood from you was ‘inferno’.” Aerene’s eyes widened as she looked over to the tall Nord. “Inferno?” she affirmed. He nodded in response.
After walking in silence a bit more, save for their footsteps and the harsh wind of the plains, she spoke aloud. “The wall must’ve been a magical trap from long ago.” After she spoke the words, she couldn’t fight that she herself sounded unconvinced of her own declaration. It’s the only plausible explanation. After Farkas picked up the fragment, nothing happened. When she touched the wall, though, the very grounds they stood upon rumbled to life. The entity living within the cairn unleashed the horde of undead, to… do what? To protect whatever was sealed there? It made little sense. “Never really understood any of that magic stuff,” Farkas mentioned decidedly. “Vilkas takes an interest in things like that. Ya might talk to him about what we saw today.” Aerene looked away from The Nord when he finished, pondering her options. She didn’t feel any lasting effects from the encounter, at least not any she noticed. Over the past week, she hadn’t taken time to truly learn the presence of her shield siblings. Of course, she was most familiar with Farkas-as if he were a long lost friend she’d reunited with, he was easiest to talk to and she enjoyed his presence. Never demanding, never intimidating, despite his massive height and muscles. She was yet to take up Aela’s offer to hunt together, nor sit with Vilkas and Kodlak as they exchanged stories. She wasn’t exactly eager to sit with Njada or Ria over lunch, and hadn’t spoken much to Torvar or Athis. There will be plenty of time to familiarize myself with the warriors of Jorrvaskr. Today marks a beginning for many days and nights together, glorious in nature.
Before long, the two had walked past Whiterun’s western watchtower, a few guards standing watch from the tower and ruins surrounding. Walking past the stone tower and the ruins implored one to wonder how the sight came to fall, and what it stood as before. Their entrance into the city came shortly after, and just at dusk they arrived at Jorrvaskr. The familiar sight was glowing with the last light of the day, golden rays shining over the overturned ship that had become the mead hall’s roof. Aerene could already feel the chill of night, found in the shadows and crevices hidden from the sun’s warmth as it set over Tamriel. Approaching Jorrvaskr took her back to the first day she’d spent in Whiterun, when she’d been spooked by the icy glare of the twin brothers, one of which was now at her side. She had been in Skyrim only a short time, yet couldn’t shake the growing feeling that called the province home.
“Ah, and here they are,” it was Kodlak who’d announced the return of the two. Farkas had insisted they walk to Jorrvaskr’s training yard instead of the hall’s interior, and now Aerene could see why. Each member of the Companions stood in the training yard, audience to the Circle’s members gathered in a welcoming formation. Aerene’s nerves picked up at the scene, wondering what the occasion was. Is this for me? she wondered, slowly approaching the group of warriors. “Yeah, this is for you,” Farkas whispered to Aerene. She jerked her head to face him, wondering how he’d known what she was wondering. “Could hear the way your heartbeat shifted. And the scent flowing off you. Curiosity, wonder. Confusion, too.” She watched him, eyes displaying the astonishment at his abilities. If she weren’t entering a ceremony, she certainly would’ve needed a seat to think over all the times he could’ve sensed this or that from the way her heart murmured and how she smelled.
Pyres and torches were lit around the yard, brightening the space and casting warmth between each body. Aerene noticed a hole in the formation, and she was welcomed to it by Aela, Skjor on her other side. Kodlak stood across from Aerene; Farkas took his place next to Kodlak, and Vilkas approached, stopping in place between Aerene and Farkas. When she met his eyes, she noticed a glimmer in them, yet couldn’t read what it meant. Her eyes narrowed as she considered how much her shield siblings could read off of her, or any human. The remaining members were gathering around the circle. Once silence overtook the group, Kodlak began. “Brothers and sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valor. Who will speak for her?”
It was Farkas who spoke up next. “I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us.” Each member, Aerene included, looked to him, and then to Kodlak. “Would you raise your shield in her defense?”
“I would stand at her back, that the world might never overtake us.”
“And would you raise your sword in her honor?”
“It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes.”
“And would you raise a mug in Aerene’s name?”
Aerene swallowed, hearing her name calling her to reality. As she listened to every word spoken, and the very tone of voice with which these words were said, her eyes had watered, hard shell exterior softening just a bit in the name of family.
“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in her stories,” Farkas finished, sending a smirk to Aerene when she glanced his way, yet on a sudden mission to avoid all eye contact while she tried desperately to suck the tears back into her eyes. Kodlak’s voice addressed the group then; “Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. Aerene’s heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.”
All at once, the Circle looked to the newest member of the Companions. “It shall be so,” they decided in unison. Aerene’s features were decorated with happiness, smile crossing her face from ear to ear. Each member of the Circle addressed her in some way, either with a pat on the back, friendly words, or a short congratulations. She soaked it all up, clinging to Aela’s side as the fellow redhead announced that tonight was a celebration centered around Aerene. “A fine meal awaits us inside, sister. Let us celebrate your glory together.” Aerene expressed her contentment with a short response, fearing that if she spoke any more she’d release a flood of tears-tears of joy, indeed. Kodlak appeared at her side. “Well girl, you’re one of us now. I trust you won’t disappoint.” Aerene smiled again, wiping her eyes with the cloth of her gauntlet. “Harbinger, there’s no place I’d rather be.” Kodlak chuckled, patting her back twice. “Thatta girl. You’re meant to be one of us.” With that, he left her side. Aerene stood just outside the doors into the mead hall, looking over the night scene. All sunlight had vanished and twilight was setting in. Over the mountains in the distance, stars began to twinkle; the peaks pointing up to the heavens looked sharp as blades. As the mage blinked, panic flushed through her. In a split moment, she could’ve sworn with her heart and soul she saw movement within the peaks. She stared, waiting for it to appear again. Nothing happened, except for a sudden brush of wind neath the verandah of the porch. She squinted against the icy breeze, eyes watering at the sensation. “Are you alright?” this time, it was Vilkas next to her. She tore her eyes from the distant peaks and looked into those of the more elusive twin.
She spoke not a word, but looked to the hills again. Vilkas did, too, eyes scanning for movement. “I thought I saw something,” she murmured. “Must be the long day getting to me,” she added, finding herself uncomfortable in the silence and unsettling shift in mood. “Let’s not waste any more time, then,” Vilkas told her, stepping through the doorway into the mead hall. He held the door open, waiting for her to step through. She did, thanking him for his chivalry. She stood there, mindlessly watching the movement of the other Companions seat themselves for dinner. Normally, she would’ve been seated, herself, yet her feet were stuck to those particular panels of the wooden floor. Vilkas nudged her with a goblet. She blinked, looking down at the drink, then up at the handsome man offering it. “Whatever’s got you spooked isn’t going to grab you in here. Might as well enjoy a hearty meal and good company,” he insisted, offering the goblet once more. She took it, not without noticing the brush of her fingers against his as she did so. She inhaled the scent of the beverage, mouth watering at the delectable notes hitting her nostrils. “Black Briar Mead,” she smirked. “My favorite,” she told Vilkas, lifting the goblet to her lips for a sip of the liquid. “Mmhmm,” he nodded, leaving their position to sit at the table. She followed suit, noticing an open seat at a corner of the table. Aela was closest, Kodlak to her left side. Aerene found herself in her favorite seat, which was anywhere next to Farkas, with Vilkas on his right side. The remaining members made conversation amongst themselves around the other seats of the table. Farkas lifted his mug of ale and called over the group, “To Aerene!” The group echoed his words, lifting their drinks into the air and clinking cups and mugs together.
Dinner included many of Aerene’s favorite foods. Somebody’s been paying attention to my eating habits. I wonder who… she thought, biting into the soft piece of braided bread she’d picked up. Tonight, dinner was served in the forms of venison chop, vegetable stew, lavender dumplings, grilled leeks, baked potatoes, spiced beef, and honey nut treats. The fragment pieces had been removed from her satchel and taken by Eorlund before dinner was served. Aerene wondered how many fragments the Companions had all together now, and was curious to know how they’d become scattered. Through the meal, she made a point to ask questions to her dining neighbors. “What does it mean to live as a Companion?” she asked Kodlak. The white-maned man answered without a moment to spare. “Ah, girl, to be a Companion means to live a life where your shield-siblings would proudly fight at your side. Facing problems head on, in pride and glory, leaving the sneaking and whispers behind to the gutter-rats who have no honor and let others fight for them.” She detected the slightest bit of contempt beneath his words; not towards her, no… but towards the gutter-rats he’d mentioned. She might’ve wholeheartedly accepted his statement, if she had not at points been a gutter-rat, herself. I cannot deny those habits have really, truly been left behind. Better to leave such things unsaid.
Over the course of the evening, her shield siblings exchanged stories; a favorite was the tale of Farkas and Aela fighting through a den of angry frost trolls, battling the creatures with fervor and escaping in triumph. Aerene stared at the flames dancing across the hearth as she’d listened to the tale being told, wondering how much of the battle had been fought by human hands-or if there was a single moment at all where Aela and Farkas had not been in their beast forms. She swallowed the lump in her throat, stuck between a rock and a hard place-wanting to know more about the Circle’s abilities, yet feeling it was not her place to ask. Especially not now, when other unassuming members of the group were around. Would Kodlak take offense to my questions about the beast blood? She couldn’t be too sure of anything at this point, and was beginning to feel out of place, despite that tonight was a celebration of her welcoming into the group, in the most official manner. Don’t think too much into it, she told herself. I have to accept that I am owed no explanations, and that I wasn’t supposed to know of any of this in the first place. Her following thoughts were an internal debate of whether to ask questions and seek the answers she wanted. Farkas made it clear he had nothing more to say on the matter, and had more than once directed Aerene to speak to his brother about her curiosities. Aerene looked to Aela, whose eyes were set on someone across the hearth; she followed the warrior woman’s line of sight and found none other than Skjor sitting, looking back at her. I could speak to Aela… but she’s close to Skjor, and Skjor to Kodlak. There would surely be talk about my questions. With these ideas, Aerene looked to the last option she had in maintaining a bit of secrecy, only to find he was already looking at her. Upon meeting Vilkas’ silver gaze, she immediately looked away, sitting back in her seat and making a point not to turn her head in that direction again. Am I crazy, or is he already on to me? Dinner had been a celebratory affair mixed with high suspicions.
After a couple hours, the Companions began to walk their own paths for the night; some left the table, wandering downstairs, while others went outside, or simply moved to a smaller table in another corner of the main hall. Kodlak, Aela, and Skjor had gone outside somewhere, while Ria and Njada sat together at a smaller table in the main hall. Aerene was still seated at the main table, eyes scanning the room and taking all of this in. Farkas had left with Athis and Torvar, asking Aerene if she wanted to join them at the meadery; though some mead or ale would’ve taken the edge off after the sight she may or may not have seen earlier, she declined the offer. That left Vilkas, who she watched from afar, seated off to the side of the hall with a large book in front of him on the table. It must’ve been a ledger, as it was packed with loose paper; in Vilkas’ hand was a quill, which he’d occasionally dip into an ink pot. Now’s my chance.
She stood up from her seat, ignoring the ache on her bottom from sitting for so long on the uncomfortable wood, pushing the chair into its proper position neath the table. She looked down her goblet, sights drowning in the wine that was staring right back at her, begging to be drank. She obliged, swallowing the last of the liquid before setting the empty goblet down and making her way over to Vilkas.
Aerene should’ve known she couldn’t catch him off guard, as he glanced in her direction the moment she took a step his way. She looked to the side as she walked, and stopped once she was at his table. A quick glance over the book confirmed it was indeed a ledger. She then met his gaze again, fighting off the intimidation of the look he wore-the one that always seemed unimpressed. “You have questions?” he asked, looking back down at the line he’d been writing on, and continued gliding the point of the quill across the paper. By Shor, do I.
The mage wasn’t sure she’d ever seen someone’s eyes grow so large in so little time. Vilkas had just about birthed a cow when she suddenly spit out the words the wine wouldn’t let her keep in: ‘I want to know more about your beast blood.’ He dropped the quill on the page, brows furrowed angrily as he stood up and hissed for her to keep her voice down. He then grabbed her wrist and yanked her out of the main hall, practically dragging her downstairs. Despite her protests and achy wrist, he didn’t stop until they were in his room downstairs, door shut and not a soul around. She backed against the door, staring at his figure, him facing away from her. She couldn’t see his face, and definitely couldn’t read his expression. He finally sighed, sitting on his bed with a hand over his eyes, fingers rubbing at the sockets. “I’m assuming something happened today, where you were given that information. Damn it, Farkas…” Vilkas’ voice trailed off in a grumble. Feeling a sudden bout of confidence, Aerene couldn’t help the way her brows scrunched together and the disgust overtaking her features. “It wasn’t just something, Vilkas. We went into that cairn today looking for a piece of some old weapon, that I truly don’t understand the point of repairing! Not only did we find loads of restless draugr, but we also made plenty of friends with the Silver Hand. Not just any bandits, as I had assumed. They knew exactly why we were there, and they beat us to it. We fell right into their trap. If Farkas hadn’t transformed, we would be dead. I became separated from him and he was cornered by at least five of them,” she confessed her words quickly and angrily, turning away from Vilkas to avoid that intense gaze of his. Images of the bloodbath echoed through her memory. He said nothing, and with this, she continued, after taking a much needed breath. When she was more composed, she continued, but kept her position of facing the door rather than the man behind her. She was feeling a multitude of emotions and could hardly stand to look at him while she did. “Farkas in his beast form saved us today.”
Speaking the jumble of thoughts into words helped her to feel a little better. Aerene finally turned to face her shield brother, whose features had softened; more than she expected, in fact. Was that… sympathy? He sighed, inviting her to sit. She opted to sit on the floor, rather than on another wooden chair at the small table his room had. Before long, he’d moved to the floor, too, and was leaning his back against the bed. “You don’t need me to tell you the Companions are involved in more than just contracts and transactions,” he began, staring up at the ceiling in the soft light of the space. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked her, arms resting over his knees, fingers fidgeting together. “Tell me about the Silver Hand,” she directed him. Vilkas thought for a moment, staring over his fidgety hands. “The Silver Hand are the greatest threat to Jorrvaskr. Their… distaste for us is because of the lycanthropy; in the way that Vigilants of Stendarr hunt Daedra and vampires, the Silver Hand seek to destroy every lycanthrope in Skyrim. If Jorrvaskr were not protected by the walls of Whiterun, the Companions would’ve died out long ago.”
Aerene sat back, slowly processing what she was hearing from Vilkas. The issue was much bigger than she could’ve imagined; in fact, even more than that. “Why have the Companions not wiped the Silver Hand out first?”
Vilkas sighed, readjusting his seating to sit cross-legged-something she’d seen him doing in the training yard during the daytime. “Kodlak is not a vengeful man; as our Harbinger, he guides us in the way of honor. Hunting down the Silver Hand would be against his wishes, especially when the people of Skyrim are in constant need of assistance.” Aerene nodded in acknowledgment. What Vilkas was saying made sense; Kodlak would never have stood for it. “Why do the Silver Hand steal fragments of Wuuthrad? And why does Kodlak want it pieced together?” she pressed, getting more comfortable with actually asking the questions. “At the root of it, the Silver Hand will act if it simply means acting in spite of the Companions. Wuuthrad was wielded by Ysgramor, who led the first 500; the axe is legendary and sacred-they have no purpose if not to destroy it because of what it means to us.” Aerene watched Vilkas, waiting for him to answer her second question. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
She could see his hesitancy. There was certainly more that he was considering left unsaid. A minute passed before Vilkas spoke up again; Aerene sat ready for his words, knowing the value of the conversation they shared. If there’s anything I know surely now, it’s that Vilkas trusts me. “Kodlak has his eyes set on Sovngarde. Getting the axe will aid his efforts.” Vilkas finished speaking, and met Aerene’s gaze. The redhead studied the man’s expression, deciphering his behavior. He said nothing more, only reflected her behavior. His sudden reserve did not go unnoticed. He won’t answer to questions of Kodlak’s personal interest, though it seems likely Kodlak wishes to be free of the disease.
“And what is it that you want?”
Her question brought a slight heightening to Vilkas’ brow-he hadn’t been expecting the conversation to turn to his personal interest, this much was obvious. She’d be lying to say she didn’t care that much. “I…” Vilkas began to speak, but stopped himself. He shut his eyes, brows furrowing while his fingers rubbed at his temple. “I wish to have my thoughts to myself. Having the blood of a beast is more than the shifting. A wild animal’s spirit exists within its human shell; first to give the warriors of Jorrvaskr carnal power. But with the beast blood, my soul…”
“Rests in the hand of Hircine.”
Vilkas only nodded, finally looking into her eyes. When he did this time, it was different. There was a feeling growing underneath Aerene’s skin-she did not understand whether it was sympathy, or adoration, or something else… but it prompted her to speak the next words.
“Every day lived is a gift. And the matter of your soul is no small deal, Vilkas. And Kodlak…” she sighed. She’d heard Kodlak speaking to Athis recently, about the difficulty of lifting a greatsword these days. The outlook was of legacy, not of long days ahead. Vilkas frowned, knowing what she implied. “What of the others in the Circle?”
He informed her that Aela and Skjor took to the beast blood with deep attachment. They had no interest in ridding themselves of it, and welcomed the thrill of the hunt with open arms. Aela and Skjor loved the power; Aerene wondered what it felt like, though she knew it was vastly different for everyone. She smiled when she imagined Vilkas and Farkas as boys, what their expressions must’ve been upon learning the secret of ages. “You’re amused?” Vilkas’ voice interrupted her thoughts. Her face straightened, and she nodded. “You could tell?”
He dipped his head in response. “I can always hear your heartbeat. The change in the rate at which it beats when you’re anxious, joyful, suspicious, exhausted. I can smell your scent. Taste it,” he described. Aerene felt a wave of shyness, cheeks reddening as she thought over how horrid she must’ve smelled after a long day of travel and cairn-delving. She turned away from him, waiting for the heat to leave her ears and face. Vilkas’ deep laughter erupted at this, drawing a scowl from the woman. “It’s not as bad as you think. You get used to it. Besides, you smell like lavender.” Lavender, huh? No, not bad at all.
-
The mage wandered to her bed after an extensive conversation with the more talkative brother. During their conversation, she learned of another effect of lycanthropy; those with wolf blood were never well-rested, and therefore needed very little sleep, if any at all. She imagined that to be difficult, always awake in some way, either by the wolf’s presence or the human counterpart.
She chose not to mention the magical wall in the cairn-she was tired, and thought it’d give her a reason to speak to Vilkas again.
Nonetheless, she bid Vilkas goodnight and walked the quiet hall to the shared quarters. Upon entering the dormitory, she first noticed Ria sitting on her bed, pulling her boots off. Aerene shrugged off the woman’s presence, deciding to go about her business. It was awkward, as the only noise in the space was the shuffling of clothes and the creaking of the beds as the weight atop them shifted. Once the mage closed the chest at the end of her bed, armor and other belongings now stored inside, she sat in her tunic and pants. Internally, she considered reading, but thought it best not to fight the sleep threatening to overtake her.
“Congratulations,” Ria said plainly, drawing Aerene’s attention to her. Aerene looked to the brunette, blinking, bewildered. She had half a mind to look and see if there was anyone else in the room Ria could’ve been talking to. The other half wanted to bolt out of the room, up the stairs to the main hall and out the front door. It’s just Ria, relax.
“Thank you,” Aerene replied, scooting over toward the far end of her bed to blow out the nightstand candle. Once she did, she began tucking herself in. Ria spoke again. “You disappeared after dinner. Run off somewhere?” Oh gods, what’s this about now? I just want to sleep! Akatosh preserve me.
Now lying down in the bed, and staring at the ceiling, Aerene made no effort to move. “I was speaking to Vilkas.” She narrowed her eyes, tracing the lines running the ceiling panels. “Oh. About what?” Aerene rolled her eyes, knowing Ria couldn’t see, tempted to shout, ‘You! You and your cheating ways!’ despite that not being true in any way. In any case, Ria’s interest in Vilkas was practically another presence sitting in the room with them-impossible to miss and obvious to state.
Instead, she sighed. She didn’t owe anybody an explanation of her whereabouts or what she discussed with who, behind closed doors. “Goodnight, Ria. Don’t let the wolves bite,” Aerene smirked to herself as she turned on her side to face the wall. Ria hpmhed and went silent.
-
Aerene awoke the next morning with a start. Whatever she was dreaming of vanished from her mind, though it must’ve been distressing, in the way that her heart was racing. Waking to find a quiet room with sleeping figures all around was quite the shift. Her head ached, eyes dry and tired; she was thirsty, wondering if she’d ever wanted a drink of water so badly. The candles in the room were all blown out, save for one by the door on a table. In the dim light, the redhead could tell that everyone else was still asleep. Near the candle on the table was a jug, with two goblets next to it. She sleepily walked over, lifting the jug; she misjudged the weight of it, expecting it to be heavier than it was-with immense disappointment in finding out it was dry. Frowning, she made her way upstairs to the kitchen for some water.
She spent the first half of the day training archery with Aela, followed by shield practice with Skjor in the afternoon. Both of them were good teachers, in their own way. Skjor was less talkative than Aela, though he had a dry humor to him when he did make conversation. Aerene spent each hour of the day carrying the thought of them being werewolves, and wondering if they knew she knew. Obviously not. Otherwise, they’d surely have brought it up.
About midday, Vilkas and Ria left to clear a cave nearby, crawling with trolls. Farkas was out on a hired muscle job, while Torvar and Njada were training with Athis in the yard. It was a typical day, though unusually quiet. At dinner, served earlier with a smaller crowd, Aerene sat close to Kodlak, sharing stores of her time in Bleaker’s Way; he’d stopped in the village here and there, before his twilight years. Kodlak shared details of his youth, including his venture from Hammerfell to Skyrim, and the feeling of having a true home once the Companions found him. It was not the other way around, he insisted, as his predecessor Askar brought him across Tamriel to Skyrim. Ever since, he was home. Aerene was smiling to him, hearing about this as she thought of what home meant to her.
Hearing the word carried her back to that cart in Helgen, when Ralof mentioned home. I wonder where he is now. Probably serving alongside Ulfric in Windhelm, or elsewhere in Skyrim, preparing for war.
The front door of Jorrvaskr opened, a familiar noise among the chatter of the members and the crackle of the fire. Aerene and Kodlak watched as a young Nord approached, eyes searching the room. His hair was damp and messy, cheeks reddened with exasperation and sweat gathered along his temple. He was breathing quite heavily, too. “A courier,” Kodlak muttered under his breath. Aerene’s curiosity grew when the courier approached her, of everyone in the room. She walked over, making the assumption he’d talk to her, and met him off to the side of the hall. “I’ve been looking for you, got something I’m supposed to deliver. Your hands only. Let’s see here…” he shuffled through a knapsack of letters and parcels. His hand emerged from the bag with a folded and sealed letter, which he handed to Aerene. “A letter, from a lady in Falkreath. Zaria, I believe. And… sorry for your loss.”
Her icy blue gaze shot from the wax seal on the letter to the courier’s face. Only, he turned away, leaving before Aerene even prepared a question to ask. She stared at the letter, anxiety pulsing through her hands. A letter from Zaria about a loss? There must be a mistake-
Within the moment, she recognized that Zaria was one of two friends she’d met in Falkreath; the other was the man with blonde hair, a pearly, charming smile, and sun kissed skin. Valdr.
Her stoicism faltered when she considered this possibility. Her breaths picked up, throat swelling with the ache of tears. Her jaw tightened, time flashing by as she hurried outside. The sun hadn’t set yet, casting its light over Whiterun-just enough to read the letter. Aerene jogged to a private spot on one side of Jorrvaskr, leaning against the exterior wall as she braced herself. Her fingers were shaking, sweating profusely. As soon as she began to read, her blood ran cold and her heart dropped.
-Aerene,
I write to you in haste as the courier awaits my letter. Earlier today, before dawn, Valdr was attacked on the edge of town. He was murdered, killed by a man with the blood of a werewolf. The guards arrested the man, whom I cannot name for the sake of my dear. They are holding him in the Falkreath jail while they gather evidence for a trial. I suspect the process will be quick, as Valdr was not the only victim. A girl was found dead, too. I am so sorry to tell you this, but even more to ask it of you to come to Falkreath, as soon as you can. You were a good friend to Valdr and I find it likely you would pay your respects before he is laid to rest tomorrow. Find me at my shop-I await your arrival.
In hurt,
Zaria
She stared at the letters, then at the signing of Zaria’s name; she read it over and over, as if she weren’t processing it correctly. Her cheeks were wet, drenched with silent tears. A droplet falling onto the paper captured her attention. Valdr. She thought his name over and over, mouthing it to herself as her hand covered her mouth to muffle the cough she huffed out to try and stop herself from sobbing. Akatosh, guide us.
“Aerene?”
The woman looked up to see Kodlak approaching. “Girl, what’s wrong?” She swallowed, gesturing to the letter as she choked back a breath. “My friend has died. I-“ she cut herself off to inhale a shaky breath. “I must leave, straight away,” she declared, keeping a death grip on the letter as she began making her way to the entrance of Jorrvaskr. “Lass, the dark of night is just setting in. Would you not wait to set out first thing in the morning?” Kodlak tried to reason, following her hasty movements. She stopped, shaking her head to him. There were many things she wanted to say, but could only muster so little: “I cannot.”
Kodlak only watched her worriedly, giving a curt nod of understanding. “Ever willing, lass.” She blinked another tear out of her eye, before wiping the wetness away with her shaky hands. She turned, hurrying inside and down to the living quarters to gather her things.
Everything was a blur as she got her knapsack ready, mind in a chaotic state as she tried not think, but just to do. She grabbed her belongings, and swallowed the enormous lump in her throat as she set off into the hallway once she was finished. She found Kodlak upstairs in conversation with Aela; it seemed tense, as if heated and emotionally charged. Aela seemed upset about something, though Aerene did not know what. Skjor was seemingly waiting for Aela by the doors to the training yard. Aerene briefly stopped to make Kodlak of aware of what plan she’d mustered together. When she paused in front of them, they both looked to her. “I am going to Falkreath. I do not know how long I will be gone for, but I will write if I find myself needing to stay an extended time.” He wished her a safe journey, and told her that her shield siblings were at her back if she needed them. “Farewell,” she spoke her goodbye to the Harbinger. Before she left, she met eyes with Aela, whose brow was furrowed, though her expression softened upon seeing Aerene’s stupor. Aerene rested her hand on Aela’s shoulder for a moment, before telling herself to get going. Zaria is waiting for me. And Valdr… oh, Valdr.
The mage left Jorrvaskr, making it as far as the Gildergreen in the park before stopping herself. Falkreath was at the forefront of her mind, though she wondered if she should truly leave to travel alone in the night. She had not the heart to turn back to the mead hall and ask Aela to accompany her; Farkas was out… perhaps Lydia may travel with me. It’s worth asking, at the very least. She looked up from her spot on the cobblestone street, eyeing the towering keep of Dragonsreach overlooking the city. The sound of Whiterun’s rushing streams echoed over her mind, hair tousled with the evening breeze. It chilled the dampness underneath her eyes, the wind watering them even more. “Hate this damn wind,” she muttered to herself, breaking into a quick step up to the keep. The multitude of stairs certainly took the wind out of her, sending a burning ache through her lungs and quickening the beat of her heart. As soon as she reached the walkway to Dragonsreach, and stopped herself from stumbling forward, she placed her hands on her knees and caught her breath. Inside, she knew it’d be a sleepless night.
At the entrance to the keep, she was greeted by a guard posted. Aerene recognized his voice, despite not seeing his face; she’d met him before, when she was with Lydia. “Good evening, Lady Aerene.”
“Hello, Tomeraas,” she spoke quickly. “Is Lydia inside? I seek her company.”
Disappointment landed a blow on the mage then. “No, the Housecarl is out on private work for Jarl Balgruuf; her party’s return is not expected until over morrow.” Aerene’s heart twisted at the dejection clawing at her. “I see. Thank you, Tomeraas.”
And so she set off again, greeted more often than not by pulses of emotion. Her steps wandered past the Whiterun stable, swinging right on the path to Falkreath once again. Another wave of hurt set in, the quiet night and emptiness of company bringing a quiver to her lip. It took everything in her not to yank the letter from her knapsack and read it once more to tell her that this day was real. She stopped walking, fingers pushing her hair behind her ears while she looked upward to the heavens, hoping the tears would sink back into her eyes. The absence of moonlight cast darkness over the land, which hopelessly etched its way into the spirit of the grief-stricken mage.
Notes:
a December greeting is here. I hope you are well~stay tuned for more, and I promise it'll be sooner rather than later.
Chapter 10: Laid to Rest
Notes:
I live!!
Happy spring!!! I hope you enjoy this overdue chapter.
see you again soon ;)
Chapter Text
Killed by a man with the blood of a werewolf. The horrifying notion haunted Aerene on her journey back to Falkreath. Every few steps she’d glance around, suspicious of the entire surrounding radius. Not only did lycanthropy run among the warriors of Jorrvaskr, but also in ramparts across Skyrim, it seemed. When she considered all she’d learned from Farkas and Vilkas about the beast blood, and the fact of Valdr’s murderer also sharing it, she was faced with perplexity.
In the rush to get out of Whiterun and on the road, and in a space of dreadful agony, Aerene had left her sash at Jorrvaskr. She’d cleaned it up and all, and was ready to use it again-to protect her face from the winds of Whiterun Hold as it would’ve wrapped over her hair, just as Valdr had shown her the previous week.
She thought over how much had changed in that time, just a matter of days. Her life had quickened up again after growing sleepy and slow, some for better and some for worse. But right now, as she stepped into the sleeping town of Falkreath, all fell to its worst. The crestfallen traveler came to a still, just at the edge of the settlement. The cobblestone walls laden with vines of ivy rustled in the low wind of the evening. The only accompanying sound was the sway of the banners hanging from the town’s guarding wall, under which stood a single guard holding a torch emitting a low orange glow into the night.
When she’d been in Falkreath before, Aerene admired the old structures and overgrown stone walls as though they glowed in the silver moonlight; now, with Masser and Secunda hidden behind thick layers of dark clouds, the silver aura had vanished, and in its place was only grey. She began walking again, an eeriness creeping over her neck as the words of Zaria’s letter echoed over her thoughts. She mumbled a hello to the guard stationed at the entrance to town. “I remember you. From the Companions, right?”
She stilled again and looked to him, her eyes squinting in the sudden brightness from his torch, the flames tickling at the air. She could barely make out his eyes beneath the helmet he wore. She nodded a silent yes to him. “Be weary of traveling in these parts, Companion. With the recent murders, there’s no telling what might happen next. Damned Jarl should put a curfew in place,” the guard mumbled, irritation evident in his town. Aerene swallowed the pain growing in her throat, that ache that threatened to lurch out when one was at the earliest stage of crying. “I thought the murderer was being held in the Falkreath jail,” she finally spoke, gaze hard on the eyes of the guard. “Sinding. He is; but whether he was alone when it happened remains unknown.” Sinding. He will feel the sharpness of a dagger through his flesh like his claws tore at the skin of innocents.
“I want to talk to him.” Aerene demanded, straightening her posture as she spoke. “It’s the middle of the night. And beside that, Jarl Siddgeir has ordered no visitation. Guards only, while we figure out what to do with that scum.” She didn’t like what she was hearing; in fact, it sounded like there was something more to be said; of course, as an outsider, it was expected she would be unwelcome from involvement in the investigation. “So what’s going to be done with him? He gets to sit while the victims’ corpses are put six feet under?” she snapped at the guard. He raised his hand in defense, fingers spread in a nonverbal way of telling her to calm down. “He’s going to suffer for what he did. But these investigations take time.” Aerene’s mouth curved into a frown, unimpressed and disgusted with every circumstance of the situation. She wanted to say more. It’s pointless. What I should do now is get to Zaria. She sighed, turning away from him and wandering further down the main path of Falkreath. She stepped past the inn, still and unusually silent; then, she followed the path to the right, past the hollowed out tree stump in front of the blacksmith shop, and past the Jarl’s Longhouse which she planned to make a visit to as soon as she was permitted. In the darkness, she could barely make out the sign hanging out front of Grave Concoctions, Zaria’s storefront and home. Aerene hastily stepped to the front door, raising her fist to knock; she hesitated, though, brows creased when she wondered whether Zaria was awake. Standing there, her mind drawing blanks on the appropriate course of action, she dug into her knapsack for the letter. Scanning the words over for the hundredth time, she noted Zaria had not mentioned anything other than for Aerene to visit her at the shop before Valdr, and the young girl, were put to rest.
I’m here now. I can at least make myself known to Zaria.
With that, Aerene lightly knocked onto the wooden door. She stepped back, listening for a response in the near silent night. Nothing. Her confidence in her decision faltered, and she looked around. There were no guards in view. She prepared to knock again, thinking maybe Zaria hadn’t heard her the first time. It’s the middle of the night. Who wouldn’t hear a knock at their door at this time? Thinking the exhaustion of grief was starting to muck up her decision making skills, she thought it best to turn in for the night. Just as she stepped off of the wooden porch, the creaking of a door sounded behind her. “Aerene?”
She turned, her eyes meeting Zaria’s. The alchemist’s deep brown irises were surrounded by streaks of red, eyelids puffy with dark circles telling of her tiredness. All Aerene could do was nod, slowly approaching the woman. As she neared the entrance to the home, the feeling of the internal warmth reached out to greet her. Zaria stepped aside, holding the door open with enough room for the redhead to enter. Aerene did, and Zaria shut the door. There was silence, followed by a sorrowful embrace. Eventually, Aerene sat on the floor of the home, arms resting on her propped up legs, while Zaria leaned into a chair with a blanket over her shoulders. The Companion listened, then, as the alchemist told her all of what had occurred.
Valdr had been at Zaria’s the previous night, and expressed his plan to go hunting the next morning. ‘Just after dawn, he said. That’s when he said he’d leave. Only, he left later than that. Later in the morning, because I invited him in for breakfast when I saw him leaving his home.’ Minutes after his departure from Zaria’s home a howl rang out amongst the town, a haunting call followed by silence. The commotion caught nearly everyone’s attention, but wasn’t really over. ‘There was yelling for everyone to get inside and lock their doors, when the screaming started. But it ended just as abruptly; he ripped into both of them. First Valdr, outside of town, and then Lavinia, at her family’s farm. I… I knew I should’ve stayed inside like the guards said. But I just knew something had happened to Valdr, I could feel it. I had to know. I had to see that he was okay. I thought maybe I would find him trying to help the guards, but…’
‘You don’t have to go on.’
‘By the Divines. I can’t stand to think about any of this. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. And my chest aches,’ Zaria confessed, her voice faltering at the end of her words. When Aerene looked to her, she saw the furrow of the alchemist’s brow and the way her eyes were squeezed shut, the tears streaking down her cheeks. Aerene stood, hugging the woman reassuringly, yet the embrace failed to ease any of the heartache. “You need to sleep. The longer you stay awake, the worse you’ll feel,” Aerene spoke softly, eyeing the alchemical ingredients on display along the shelves of the shop side. She spotted lavender, and recalled a sleeping potion she’d crafted for Varellus, what seemed like a lifetime ago. “I can craft you a potion, to aid your sleep, if you wish,” she offered to Zaria. Zaria looked upward, wiping her cheek with the blanket; she looked so much smaller, hidden underneath the blanket and in the fur hat that hid her hair. “I… I could do with that.”
While the Companion ground the lavender into a poultice, and added in secret ingredients spotted on the nearby shelves, she considered just how close Valdr and Zaria may have gotten since her last visit to Falkreath. They must’ve gotten along exceptionally well, and enjoyed each other’s company, for the simple act of having breakfast together. I suspect Valdr’s last hours were heavy with joy, or at the very least, contentment. As she worked the ingredients together, Zaria told Aerene how Falkreath’s Priest of Arkay was tending to the corpses in the Hall of the Dead, and his assistant Kust had taken on preparation of the burial spaces and headstones. ‘They’ll be laid to rest at midday.’
Arkay, the Divine god, Keeper of the cycle between birth and death; who presided over funeral rites, and even changing of the seasons. The one present in absence.
The two talked for a bit, and also sat in silence, before Aerene departed as they agreed sleep was the current necessary need, especially for facing the day ahead.
Aerene managed to make her way through town to the Inn, praying to Akatosh that there was a room available for her to rent; otherwise, well, she’d be unrolling her bedroll on Zaria’s floor, as the alchemist had offered her home as a welcoming space. ‘I know you probably want a bed, after the journey here, but my home is open to you. Come find me before the burial tomorrow.’
To her gratitude, Valga rented Aerene the same room she occupied previously, while discussing the occurrences. Valga had also mentioned that Sinding was not from town, nor had anyone seen him before; only after the victims were dead and bloodied did he shrink back to his human form, claiming he couldn’t control his actions and that he was cursed. ‘Cursed, indeed,’ Valga said quietly.
During her conversations with Zaria and Valga, and among the stormy chaos of her head, the mage had managed to keep her composure. But after she locked herself into her room, lit by a singular candle, and began taking off her armor, her wayward front disappeared. It was the act of her fingers wrapping around the handle of that damned lucky dagger, the piece Valdr had gifted her the first day they’d met. She hadn’t known him well, but she knew him well enough to call him a friend; when she held the dagger, laying in both of her palms, every biting emotion of the wretched day latched onto her at once, and her eyes flooded with tears. She sunk down to the floor, her knees holding her up as she half laid over the bed, her face buried into the furs and blankets to muffle her sobbing. She gripped the dagger so hard it might’ve shattered, had she been any stronger and had her fingers not been weakened by immense exhaustion and distress. She stayed like this, soaking the bedding with her tears, silently bawling as her body spasmed with the intensity of her crying. Maybe minutes had gone by, or perhaps hours; time had escaped her.
Eventually, she let go of the dagger, shifting her weight to sit fully on the floor, covering her face with her hands, as though the meager flame of the candle were too bright. Were it not for a knock at the door echoing into the room, she’d surely have been overtaken by the deafening silence.
She gasped lightly, squinting as she opened her eyes to the dim light of the room. She looked to the door, eyeing it suspiciously. I must have imagined it, she thought to herself; that was, until she noticed the shadow among the light cast from underneath the door-a darkness nestled in the light of the main room-someone really had knocked. As tired as she was, she knew it must’ve been important. She pushed herself up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and walked over to the door. She opened it, and was faced with an unexpected sight; Vilkas stood in front of her, eyes drifting from the floor upward to meet hers. She opened her mouth to speak, yet couldn’t; instead, she did as Zaria had earlier, and only stepped aside for the twin to enter the room. He looked ghastly, in a way, with the intensity of his gaze; he watched her the whole time, as he stepped into the room. She shut the door, uncaring for the rest of the inn and the town, thoughts fixated only on the friend she’d lost and the Companion in front of her. Once the door was closed, she just stood, staring at Vilkas, face barely traceable in the low lighting. She wanted to know why he was there, and whether something had happened at Jorrvaskr, and why she hadn’t come up with a way to exist in two places at once to appease the needs of all she’d encountered.
His hauntingly pale eyes studied her, following the stains of tears down her cheeks and the hollowness beneath her eyes.
But the longer she looked at him, the less she could, and the crease that formed in her brow indicated another wave of tears; she turned away from him, hands raising to cover her face as she began to tremble with another wave of sobs. There was a touch on her arm, and when she opened her eyes to look to him again, there was only closeness. He neared her cautiously, but raised his arms to pull her closer, and she let him. She let the tears fall, her fingertips resting on his back as he held her, and she him. His palm gently nudged her head, prompting her to rest it in the crook of his shoulder. She did, feeling feverish as she melted into his hug, the closest she’d been to a soul in a while. In the closeness, his scent enveloped her, and for the first time she realized Vilkas carried the smell of pine and oak, with hints of sweetness like sap or honey-the scent of the forest itself.
The surprise of his appearance faded, as she took comfort in his embrace; previous thoughts, those she had in mind when she eyed him previously at Jorrvaskr-that kind where one’s mind would consume the sight in front of them and wander elsewhere with those images-they almost vanished completely. Hugging her shield-brother brought her peace and calm.
They held each other for a while, as she cried softly, and as the tears stopped flowing. After a time, they were sitting on the bed, facing each other. She spoke first.
“I must say, Vilkas, I find your presence comforting…” she began. “Though I’m sure you can sense that,” she wanted to laugh but had not the energy. “You must know I’m curious as to why you’re here in Falkreath; I thought you’d return to Jorrvaskr after your troll slaughtering.”
Vilkas adjusted his sitting position, eyes drifting from the candle to her gaze. “We did. The old man said you were paid a visit by a courier during the evening meal. He also said you left in a hurry, that…” his voice trailed, and she saw the wince on his features as he chose his next words carefully. “That your friend had died and you came here alone to investigate.” Aerene sighed quietly, trying to draw her thoughts to a subject other than death. “Yes… Valdr. I… didn’t know him well, but I met him during my first visit here,” she told Vilkas, turning away from him to lay back on the bed and look up at the ceiling as she spoke. Her fingers tapped on her belly gently, keeping busy, as she spoke. “He’d been hunting with his friends when they were ambushed by spriggans in a cave; he was the only survivor.” A victory too short-lived. Vilkas said nothing, and she continued. “He showed me a special kindness, and, oh, gods,” she muttered, irritated with herself for feeling the wave of tears approach again as she spoke, sniffling. “He showed me how to tie my sash into a hood for protection from that gods-awful wind in Whiterun,” she laugh-cried, hand covering her mouth to muffle the noise. Once she quieted down, she heard Vilkas rustling around. “Here,” he spoke; she sat up, looking to him. Her scowl softened, as she looked at his offering. The very sash she spoke of, sitting in his outstretched and gloved hand. She reached out and took it, the deep blue cloth soft as her hands nestled into it. “You brought it? For me?” she smiled, looking to him. “Mhmm,” he hummed nonchalantly. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d do-come all the way here to give this to me,” she said. “I went into the whelps’ quarters when Kodlak told me you’d left. It was on your bed, and smelled clean. I’ve never seen you without the damn thing, so I picked it up to bring along.”
She admired and despised his casual nature, because he spoke in a way where she always wanted to know more-always wanted him to keep talking. “This isn’t the reason you came here. In the middle of the night when you’ve been out all day already.”
“No, it’s not.”
He paused, and she saw his jaw tighten as he searched for his words. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you rip out the heart of the bastard who killed your brethren.” A moment that would be relished, indeed. One way or another, she’d see to the death of the murderer.
Aerene smirked sadly to herself, hearing this-she was counting the moments until she could confront Sinding and make him answer for his crimes. “Thank you, Vilkas. I’m glad you’re here.” She hugged him again. He stiffened, before relaxing into her arms and returning the embrace. She pulled away. “A harrowing feature in all of this… is that Sinding, the man who murdered Valdr and Lavinia-was in beast form when he did it.” When she looked to her shield brother, his eyes were widened and furious in a way she would have been haunted by, had she known him as a stranger instead of as a brother.
They’d devised a plan for the next hours; she’d sleep, and they’d take breakfast when it was ready. Then, they were off to the jail in the basement of the guards’ barracks to confront the monster within.
-
“I spoke to one of the guards last night. He said Jarl Siddgeir is allowing no visitation to the jail,” Aerene complained stressfully, her hands on her hips as she paced here and there, Vilkas standing with his arms crossed as he watched her. The pair were standing just down the stairs of the Jarl’s Longhouse. “Even fancy Jarls can be swayed. We must make the effort, at the very least,” he said plainly. She huffed, eyes narrowed at him. His gaze was hard and unmoving, as if he could stand like that all day. Damnit, he’s right. Jarls be damned, nothing will happen if we don’t attempt to intervene. “We have a couple of hours before the burial at midday,” she told Vilkas, who nodded. “Akatosh, be with me,” she mumbled, stepping up to the entrance door. She had just barely pulled it open when Vilkas’s hand on her arm prompted her to pause. “Wait.”
They stilled, and she studied him intently, confused as to the pause. We have no time to waste! Vilkas was staring at the ground when he adjusted his head, turning so his head was facing her and the door she stood in front of. He’s.. listening. What does he hear?
“The Jarl is looking for someone to take care of the issue-the murder. He has a Thane who would normally do it, but he’s not here. They’re growing impatient.”
Aerene studied his facial expressions, seeing his focus on listening and putting his expertise on display-using the information they had to take advantage of the situation. She nodded to him, but said nothing as she instead planned how this might play out. She pushed the door open, and they entered the longhouse. Inside was warm, a welcome shift from the chilly morning in the misty town; a large hearth stretched along the center of the open room, bright orange flames licking at the air as they crackled and spit. The large space was built with wood, high pillars stretching from floor to ceiling in the central room. Off to the sides of the room, there were separate floors-likely for a war room and court wizard space, in addition to a bedroom or two. Aerene stepped into the space, Vilkas close behind. She took in the scenery, near the warmth of the hearth as she noticed the throne on the other end of the room. Large banners bearing Falkreath’s elk insignia hung from the wall behind the throne; various antlers were mounted around the room. The room was decorated, yet had a feeling of emptiness. Maybe the emptiness is within, the redhead wondered sadly.
The faint scent of burned wood and the fragrance of juniper wafted through the space. Large deer hides hung from the walls behind the throne. The complex scent of juniper faltered the softness in Aerene’s expression, as she remembered sitting on the lake shore with Valdr. It had been sunny that day, and the warmth of the sun rays was comfortable and inviting while they sat and talked in the soft green grass. She inhaled sharply, stopping and turning back towards the door as she felt a wave of emotion roll into her and kick at her gut. Vilkas stood in front of her, his gaze worried and brows furrowed. She didn’t need to tell him what was wrong-he could surely taste the despair lingering off of her. “Aerene,” he whispered. “You’ve come too far to turn back. They’ve already seen us. If you don’t approach the throne, they won’t see you as worthy of their time,” he explained lowly. She frowned, nodding. “Okay,” she managed to speak, sighing as she worked to compose herself. With a quick turn to keep moving before she could change her mind again, she led Vilkas toward the throne.
A young Jarl, perhaps in his thirties, sat in the throne, wearing fine clothes and a circlet over his head. Jarl Siddgeir. Young, like Valdr described. Is there such a thing as feeling an aura of… brattiness?
…Yes, I feel it every time I look at Ria.
Next to the Jarl was an Altmer woman, a high elf with pale gold tinted skin and amber eyes colored with deep black liner. A steward, dressed in finery. She was pouring tea from a kettle into a cup sitting atop a table to the side of the throne. “It’s unlikely the Thane will receive the letter before the trial,” she was saying to the Jarl as Aerene and Vilkas approached. Aerene felt shudders of nervousness creep up her spine, but she worked to calm herself. “Nevermind that,” the Jarl muttered to the Altmer steward, eyes set on the two approaching him. His voice was more uppity than one might have expected. “Stay your place, newcomers,” he held his palm up. The Altmer immediately set down the tea kettle and turned toward Aerene and Vilkas. “Nenya, see why these two are here,” Siddgeir instructed the steward. Nenya dipped her head, “Yes, my Jarl.” With that, she approached the two. “What is the purpose of your visit to Jarl Siddgeir’s Longhouse?” she asked, eyes searching the expressions of the two Companions.
Akatosh, please guide my words. Since when have I ever felt so antsy in a court? And why do I feel so nervous now, when I am faced by two? After dining with Jarl Balgruuf’s court of many?
“My name is Aerene, and this is Vilkas; we are Companions of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun. I have come to Falkreath on the news that a murder took place.” She paused. Nenya, hearing this, turned to look back to Siddgeir, who returned the look. When Nenya faced Aerene and Vilkas again, she nodded. “I am Nenya, steward to Jarl Siddgeir. You may approach, Aerene and Vilkas.”
She returned to the Jarl’s side; he reached to the table and picked up the teacup. He sipped, as the two waited to speak to him, then set the cup down as if they were the inconvenience. “I do love juniper tea,” he spoke plainly. “Now,” he looked to Aerene with a light blue gaze, brightened by the jade and emerald circlet he wore. He had a chiseled face, with black hair and a goatee below his bottom lip. “What do you know of the incident?”
Aerene shifted in her place. She knew she needed to speak carefully and try to get permission to talk to Sinding. Only then will he feel the misery of justice.
“Valdr was dear to me. He was killed, as was Lavinia. And the man who did it was not in the form of a human, nay, but in the form of a beast. A werewolf, lycanthrope of Hircine,” she hissed. She didn’t miss the subtle widening of Siddgeir’s eyes. “You know too much already,” he said coolly. “But with this, we might make use of you. Usually, I’d have my Thane investigate, but he’s decided to vacation in Winterhold for a time. Gods know why anyone would want to go there. It’s colder than a witch’s teet.” Siddgeir cleared his throat, and continued. “My guardsmen are running thin these days; most of them are already out investigating a bandit hideout outside of town, how convenient that a damned murder takes place with so few left here,” he complained. Aerene looked to her right, where Vilkas was, as Siddgeir complained. Vilkas caught her eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifted just a tad, in a nearly invisible smirk at the Jarl’s inappropriate ridiculing. “Talk to Sinding. I want to know why it happened, and if there are any more of his kind around here. We need as much information as we can get. Falkreath is a small town; any impending or standing threat must be eliminated before it can grow. Do this now, and return as soon as you have any word.”
Aerene liked these terms; they had the freedom to question Sinding, and without many limitations.
“What of his fate, my Jarl?” she asked.
Siddgeir hummed in thought. “That is to be decided, dependent upon the information you bring me. You may go.” he dismissed the two of them with a wave of his hand. Aerene bit her tongue and fought the urge to point out his unimpressive rudeness and absent hospitality, yet she couldn’t be surprised; Siddgeir was exactly as Valdr had described.
The Companions left the longhouse, stepping out into the bleak day. “Valdr implied before that Siddgeir was incompetent. I’m not sure I’ve seen a shoe fit better,” she muttered quietly. She saw Vilkas’s smirk from the corner of her eye. “Not surprising. Falkreath is a sleepy town with little need for a competent Jarl. The town is one of the oldest in Skyrim, and little has changed since it was built around the cemetery.” Aerene recalled Farkas saying how Vilkas was ‘the smart one’. He really should’ve given himself more credit, though she valued Vilkas’s verbosity and input; he was clearly well-read and ready to share his knowledge, once one could penetrate the stoic barrier he had around him at all times. “Vilkas, have you heard of instances of werewolves attacking citizens?” Aerene asked quietly as they walked toward the barracks entrance. “Not like this.”
-
Vilkas explained to the posted guard their business for entering the barracks. The guard seemed relieved someone was dealing with the problem, glad it wasn’t him. ‘There are few enough of us as it is. I don’t want to go near a damned werewolf. Might claw me apart like he did the other two.’ Aerene swore she caught a yellowish glint in Vilkas’s gaze as they later entered the barracks. And to think Jorrvaskr has a lycanthrope population, too. How many are there in Skyrim? And how do the others come to be?
The barracks consisted of three floors. The entry was on the second, opening to a central room. To the left was a stepping rail leading to the second floor; adjacent was a wooden table with two chairs, housing wine bottles, mugs, cheese, and bread. Further back, against the cobblestone walls, was open shelving with dinnerware and mead bottles. A rack of pheasants hung from the ceiling, and in the center of the wall was a doorway with a staircase leading to the lower floor-the jail. The right half of the room had a table with potion bottles, some red and some green, with notes and a book, as well. Training dummies and hay bales stood ready for practice, and a huge bear head was mounted in a silent, eternal roar. Aerene tore her eyes from the sight, and stepped forward to the stairs, Vilkas following her into the jail. A goat horn chandelier lit the staircase downward.
As she pushed the door open, the creaking of the hinge broke the silence of the space. The jail smelled musty, like old water and dust; the cobwebs hanging from parts of the ceiling attesting to the age of the building. Wooden beams around the space supported the upper floors, with dirty, worn out canvas rugs stretched across the stone floor. Aerene’s gaze wandered across the room, searching the cage in front of them; the space, however, was empty. “I’m assuming you’re sent by the Jarl, if you’re down here,” a guard with a thick accent, similar to Vilkas’s, spoke from the right. Aerene nodded. “Finally. Bastard’s over there. No funny business, you hear?” Aerene nodded again, turning to the left and stepping forward. Vilkas was at her left side, as she paused at the sight ahead.
In the grey light of the cell ahead, illuminated by some kind of daylight peaking through the ceiling, stood a man. Leaning against the far stone wall of the cell, arms crossed. He was behind multiple iron bars; mist from the opening above fell into the chamber, indicating the open space above was larger than it should’ve been. Can werewolves climb?
She stared, silent and still. It was taking immense strength to stand in that space, moments from speaking to the fiend who’d caused so much hurt. And yet she walked forward, slowly, eyes shut as she silently prayed to Akatosh for patience. When she was mere inches from the iron, her eyes met Sinding’s, and she froze. Her blood, somehow, ran hot, hot with rage. Her jaw tightened, seeing the cold in his pale blue eyes, marred by a distant nature hidden underneath it all. He had blonde hair tucked behind his ears, and a patchy beard; he wore only rough trousers, skin pale and ill in the grey light; he stood in water just higher than the ankle. A well.
He approached, stepping through the water. He carried no presence, she detected; in his entirety, stripped to ragged pants and icy cold water on the extremities, he was only pathetic.
“Come to gawk at the monster?”
Her hands clenched into fists. “Had I the choice, I’d not lay eyes upon your harrowing figure,” she spat. He said nothing, but his expression shifted with hurt. “Why did you do what you did?” she asked pointedly and quietly.
He sighed, hands raising to his scalp and running through his greasy hair. “Believe me, it wasn’t anything I ever intended to do. It just… happened. I tried to tell them, but none of them believed me.”
It just happened? It just happened?!
Her breathing quickened, heart rate fastening as fury seethed off of her.
“It’s all on account of his blasted ring,” he confessed, holding his right hand up. On his middle finger sat a silver ring, the outward facing portion crafted into the shape of a creature-the face of a wolf. “What about the ring?”
“This… it’s the Ring of Hircine. I was told it would help me control my transformations. Perhaps it used to, but I’ll never know. Hircine didn’t care for my taking it, and threw a curse on it. I put it on, and the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst times.”
She studied him, jaw locked shut as she listened. When she did not speak, he began talking again.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of men who shift into…” he was saying; “I know what you are,” she interrupted. He nodded in acknowledgement, looking downward.
“It is my secret, and my shame. That’s why I wanted the ring. It was said to give men like me control. Now I may look like a man, but I still feel the animal inside of me, as strong as ever.”
“What is it, that you wish to do now?”
I've been looking for a way to appease Hircine. There is a certain beast in these lands. Large, majestic. It's said that Hircine will commune with whoever slays it. I tracked it into these woods, but then had my...accident with the child and the hunter. I want to beg his forgiveness. Give him back the ring. But while I'm stuck in here, the beast wanders free.” There was desperation in his voice.
“Hmm,” Aerene nodded, her hand coming to rest on the hilt of the sword sheathed at her hip. Sinding eyed the blade, then looked back up to her. Yes, see my weapon.
“Why did you attack Valdr and Lavinia?” she suddenly stepped closer, her voice heightening in volume. She heard Vilkas move behind her. Sinding’s eyes widened, and he looked away from her intense gaze.
“I had just come into Falkreath. They needed some help working the mill, and I thought that would be something safe. Something I could do. When I saw the hunter, I was just...I could feel it coming on. I could taste the...I needed to hunt. But this pitiful, limited body wasn't meant for hunting. Slow. No claws. Weak, mashing teeth for chewing cud. I held in my rage as long as I could. But it boiled inside of me. I couldn’t stand the sight of such fragility. And then... I... I feel terrible about what happened. About what I did. It would probably be best for everyone if I just went away.”
Aerene’s heart dropped as she listened to him speak. She wanted to lunge at him, and rip into him with the dagger, and tear at his flesh just as he’d done.
He wishes to simply go away? To beg forgiveness from Hircine, when he should be begging forgiveness from Lavinia’s family and Zaria?
“To go away, with the ring?” she managed to ask in a voice that was so close to shaking.
“Yes. To slay the white stag in the woods and commune with Hircine, to seek his forgiveness and end this curse.”
She watched him, and relished in his obvious desperation, relished in his misery.
“I could take the ring to Hircine for you. Speak to him on your behalf,” she spoke. Vilkas touched her arm to get her attention. “Aerene,” he warned her quietly. His expression was warning her not to do such a thing. Of all, he would know. “Seeking an audience with a Daedric Prince is unwise,” he whispered. If I take the ring, Sinding may break out of this place and escape for good. He'd be free without justice.
“You… you would do that for me?” Sinding approached the iron bars, the space between them the shortest it had been since they entered the jail. He looked from Vilkas back to Aerene.
I cannot seek vengeance. Sinding, locked in this cell, has become powerless prey, and I the looming hunter. If I kill him, I will have hunted, and Hircine will get what he wants either way. I cannot feed that power. That, however, does not mean I cannot have a taste of the sweetness found in the wine of revenge…
“No. Never would I,” she condemned, latching onto the bars. “Damn you,” Sinding cursed at her, his face wrought with shame, embarrassment, and anger. His chest heaved as he began to breathe heavily. He must feel the call of the wolf blood. But he cannot transform, the ring leaves him powerless!
“No! Damn you!” She screeched back at him, fist pounding against the iron, a clang ringing out. She heard the commotion of the guard approach, as well as Vilkas attempting to calm her and the guard behind her. “You knew of the risk, and chose to live in society anyway! To live among prey!” she cried. “You slaughtered Valdr and Lavinia, yet you seek freedom? Curse you, Sinding! May their faces and names haunt you, while you rot!” she felt Vilkas’s grip on her as she screamed at the man in the cell, the rage fuming out of her. “You will burn, Sinding, and that ring will burn with you!” she seethed, arm shooting through the bars, hand aimed at his throat. Before her fingers could latch onto the throat, the skin of which they lightly grazed, she was yanked backward, among the chaotic shouting and hurried movement.
-
“Siddgeir concluded that Sinding will be executed at dawn in three days’ time,” Vilkas stated, walking down the steps fro the Jarl’s Longhouse to meet Aerene at the bottom. “And included this as a reward for the work,” he added, tossing her a coin purse, a small orange pouch bunched together to keep the coins inside. She caught the pouch, eyeing it with little interest, before tucking it into the small bag hanging from the leather belts of her armor.
Following the scene at the jail, they’d been escorted out; the guard was quite unhappy with her outburst, and her attempt to harm the prisoner, yet let her off with a warning that any additional behavior of that nature would be treated accordingly. They’d walked further down the Falkreath street to the Longhouse, where Vilkas told her to stay put outside while he went in and explained the inquiry to the Jarl.
It feels so wrong, having this coin. All of this, it feels so awful. An inescapable dread knotted inside.
The anger that had boiled over before was now resting, a simmer that was calming into a still heat; uncomfortable and persistent but better than it had been before. The redhead looked to her shield brother, who seemed to have something else on his mind; she glanced upward, and noticed the time of day. “It’s nearly midday. We should head to the cemetery,” she said, and began walking. Vilkas didn’t move behind her, deep in thought as he watched her go. “Unless… you didn’t want to attend the burial? If such is the case, I can find you after,” she offered quietly. The dark-haired man shook his head. “No, I’m with you. Just… thinking of other things.”
She nodded in understanding, and the two wandered along the cobblestone path. The sides of the street were overgrown with thick foliage, some ferns and clovers emitting a forest-like scent, a natural one coinciding with the smell of rain on the wind. A farmhouse sat off the street, stone walls topped with a thatch roof. To the right was a dirt walkway dotted with more plants, sprouting grasses and yellow-green ferns. Purple blooms of thistle sat here and there, with a few boulders around, too. Grass, flat from ages of townspeople walking overtop, gave away to a small farm plot. Inside the fenced area were various plants growing, including cabbages, potatoes, and gourds. A grain mill and carts were situated around the space. Aerene wandered from the path to the exterior of the fence, nearby a large cow. It had small, dark eyes, with dark blonde, almost orange-red hair. Its horns were large and thick, growing outward and curving upward. The beast looked at the woman, blinking, as it bent down to chew on some hay from one of a few piles. Aerene watched the cow eat, its slow movements a simple distraction from the weight of the day. “I hope, that if for some gods-awful reason I am born into another life after this, I’ll be born a cow,” she sighed, watching the creature eat the hay without a care in the world. She knelt down to pluck an orange mountain flower from a patch near the fence.
Vilkas huffed next to her.
“Aerene,” a feminine voice called. It was Zaria, who walked over. She was wearing a dark grey tunic and had a black scarf tied over her hair. “Zaria,” Aerene greeted, walking over to the alchemist. “Did you rest?” Aerene questioned, noting the liveliness in the woman’s face. She seemed rested.
“Yes, thanks to you. Can’t say I slept well, but, I did sleep,” Zaria looked from the mage to Vilkas. “Who’s this?”
“This is Vilkas, of Jorrvaskr. My shield-brother. He heard of the news last night after I departed, and came here from Whiterun to accompany me during this time,” Aerene explained, glancing to Vilkas as she talked. He’s more quiet than usual. There’s something on his mind.
Zaria offered a curt nod and a soft smile in reply. “A lovely act, to travel the distance in such circumstances. Loyal, indeed. Don’t let this one stray too far,” Zaria smiled and nudged Aerene, hinting at her (obvious) deeper meaning. Aerene’s eyes widened, embarrassed at the suggestion; she adored Vilkas but now was not the time to talk of loyalty and who she kept close. When Zaria began to walk away, Aerene spoke up. “On your way so soon?”
“Yes, I’m helping Runil and Kust with arrangements before the burial. Can’t stand to sit still. I’ll see you soon, hon. We’ll talk afterwards, too.” Aerene watched Zaria walk away, then down at the ground. She normally would’ve offered to help, yet the thought simply did not cross her mind. She dug at the dirt underneath her foot with the toe of her boot.
“Why did you not seek vengeance?”
Her foot stilled, and her brows shifted in response to Vilkas’s question. She turned to look at him, and saw that he was leaning against the fence, watching the cow eat-not looking at her with his mysterious gaze. Aerene sighed, hand reaching up to rub at her temple. She knew the answer. Putting it into proper words, however, that was a different issue.
“I desired to,” she began. “Yet you chose not to. I could taste the mix of emotions as you stood there near Sinding. Trepidation, disgust. Fear. It would have been in our power to confront the aspect of Hircine together, with the outcome in our favor. Is that not what you wished for?”
Aerene shut her eyes, searching for the words. “For twenty one years of my life I served as an acolyte of Akatosh in the Temple of the One in Cyrodiil. In that time, all who lived within the Temple learned of his ways, but also those of other Aedra and Daedra. Hircine is not Divine, and he does not care for the wellbeing of mortals. He feeds off of the hunt and very thrill of it. To have taken the ring to commune with Hircine would have concluded in some kind of bargain, as those dealings always do. Sinding would’ve been able to control his transformations with the ring no longer in his possession, and may very well have shifted to escape the cell. Which, by the way, was at the bottom of the well near the barracks. I checked while you were speaking to Siddgeir.
“Either way,” she continued, “we would have been the hunter or the hunted, and appeased Hircine. My faith in Akatosh forbids me from doing as much. I do not fear Sinding or Hircine. I fear abandoning the values I have worked to obey thus far.”
There was silence between them as Vilkas processed what his shield sister had said. “You are a faithful one,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “To reject the call of an inner animalistic nature requires much control and discipline. Farkas, Kodlak and I have dealt with such trouble for years. It is easier, for the old man. But for my brother and I, the straight path at times turns into an uphill journey.
“I hope what Sinding described… the wolfish tendencies… don’t change how you feel about us. About being around us.”
“Not to worry, Vilkas. My regard of you is high,” she replied reassuringly.
Just then, she noticed Zaria waving them over from the entrance to the Hall of the Dead, a structure found in most settlements; priests of Arkay would prepare the dead for burial or entombment, keeping watch over those who’d passed on.
In the passing minutes, townsfolk made their way to the cemetery, surrounding the two graves. Aerene watched in silence, as the faces gathered, some she recognized and more she did not. A sensation at her hand caught her attention, and she looked to see Zaria offering a hand to hold. Aerene offered her right arm, weaving it around Zaria’s and grasping onto her hand. The grayness of the day had quieted to a stillness, and as she listened, she did not hear the wind or the birdsong of the surrounding forest. She heard sniffling and low crying in the quiet, broken by Runil, priest of Arkay.
‘The god Arkay was once like us, bound to winding mortality. But he willingly gave up this existence that we might better understand the vagaries of life and death. It is through the ebb and flow of this cosmic tide that we find renewal and, in the end, peace. May the spirits of Lavinia, Valdr, and all those who have left this world and its suffering know the beloved serenity of Aetherius...and may we one day join them in eternity.’
Soft tears ran gently down her cheeks, as she approached the grave, and let go of the flower. It fell into the depth, into Nirn; soon, the gathered used their bare hands to scoop dirt into the graves, over the coffins, until each was full.
-
“Thank you for coming here,” Zaria said to Aerene some time later, as they stood on the shore of the lake and looked over the swaying waters. “I wish the circumstances had been different. I wish there’d been more time,” Aerene spoke softly, fingers tracing the lines carved into the lucky dagger she held in her hands. Vilkas had promised to wait for her at the inn, insisting she have a chance to speak with the alchemist. “You’re not the only one.”
“Sinding will be executed in three days. Vilkas and I visited the jail this morning to question him. He’s a lycanthrope, a product of Hircine, and stole a ring thinking he’d be able to control his transformations. However, the Daedric Prince Hircine despises thieves and cursed the ring, leading Sinding to shift at any time. He blamed the ring for what he did,” Aerene’s voice trailed. Zaria was quiet for a bit before speaking. “He should never have approached a township. I will enjoy watching the flesh melt from his bones,” Zaria concluded. Aerene looked away from the alchemist to hide how big her eyes widened at the revelation. She knew Falkreath had an ongoing theme of death, and being around it wasn’t new for her, but she had already gotten over the desire to physically watch the execution. Especially having been in the position of the one being executed, fairly recently. The thought reminded her of the awful scents wafting around Helgen those weeks ago, the day the dragon attacked and destroyed the town. Smoke, dust, burning flesh and scorched earth. Just the mere thought nearly made her cough. “I’ve had my fill of executions. I will not witness another as long as I can help it.”
Zaria sat on the grass, tucking her legs underneath her and resting her palms over her thighs. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of the water and nearby shrubs and flower blooms. Aerene sat down too, her legs crossed as she recalled her visit to the lake with Valdr; as fulfilling as the memory was, she was left with emptiness in her chest, an alcove. The feeling was new and most unwelcome. “What will you do now?” Zaria asked, as she untucked her legs and laid fully in the grass, her palms opening and fingers feeling the ground beneath her. Aerene thought for a moment. I truly don’t know. I understand I must carry on, but I feel more lost than ever. “I may stay here in Falkreath for a time,” she said thoughtfully, her voice indicating that even she was unsure of her answer. “That won’t do,” Zaria replied quickly. Aerene looked to the woman, who remained unbothered as she lay on the grass, eyes still shut. “I can feel you staring through me,” Zaria added. Aerene couldn’t help the smile that formed at the alchemist’s intuition. “I don’t understand what you mean by that, in truth. And I cannot search your eyes for answers,” Aerene retorted. “You may wish to stay here because it is a sleepy town, where you might find comfort in these circumstances. But your life is not here. You’ve only just begun with the Companions, yet they seem fond of you already. Vilkas, especially. I saw the two of you this morning. He hasn’t left your side all day; I’m surprised he didn’t tag along for the walk here. How long have you known him, again?” Zaria questioned, subtly teasing.
With this subject brought up, Aerene groaned, flopping down onto the grass next to the woman, uncaring if bugs made their home in her light red strands of hair. “A fortnight, give or take,” she said, slightly alarmed she hadn’t exactly been keeping track of how long she’d been in Skyrim for. In that time, she hadn’t heard from Hadvar or any more news on Helgen, and whether the dragon had been seen again. Nor had she made any inquiries about the College of Winterhold, or how she’d go to attend there. Her personal wishes to study magic had been put off the coals when she lost her savings, belongings, horse, and some dignity.
Aerene said nothing, which left Zaria room to continue speaking. I remember how I felt when I first met Vilkas. Intimidated, just slightly. Intrigued, and like the room was unusually hot. Now, I find comfort in his presence as the shield-brother I never knew I’d have.
“Falkreath isn’t the type of place where a young warrior like yourself stays. To settle after countless battles worthy of tales performed by the best bards, yes, but now, at the beginning of this chapter in your life? Return to Whiterun, and continue what you’ve started there. Write to me, and I’ll do the same.”
There was a pause in the flow of Zaria’s words. She sniffled, and said, “And by Kynareth, remember the friends you meet along the way.”
Aerene stared at the grass by her feet as she listened; she knew Zaria’s words held truth, in fact more than Aerene cared to admit. “Damn your logic,” she sighed. A familiar warmth shone upon her skin, and she looked up towards the heavens. The clouds, thick and misty, parted to reveal the light of an afternoon sun; warm and reassuring. “I’ll be damned,” Zaria sat up, looking to the rays that stretched from the cloud break and over the skin of the women, light glistening on the waters of the lake. Between the two, there was an unspoken suspicion, an underlying idea-that somehow the spirits of the departed, intertwined with hand of the Divines, played a part in shining warm sunlight down from the heavens, the first of the long day.
Later, the two said their goodbyes, with promises to write to one another now and again, and to make a point of finding each other’s company should Zaria venture to Whiterun or Aerene to Falkreath.
Aerene returned to Dead Man’s Drink, after stopping at the Hall of the Dead, and the cemetery surrounding, to visit Valdr’s grave one last time. She looked around, in the gentle light of the late afternoon, and saw no one else around. She knelt in front of the grave, praying to Arkay for the soul of her friend to rest peacefully. When content with prayer, she stood once more, scanning over the many gravestones. There were more buried than living in the town, each stone well maintained. The place was serene, sorrowful, too. Aerene turned from the grave, and walked to the entrance of the hall past banners marked with Arkay’s symbol, an image made into a sculpture for his shrines, like the one sitting to the right of the hall’s entry. Aerene studied the shrine; two squares were tilted and intertwined, creating a new shape with eight points instead of four. In the center of the squares was a sphere, each piece carved with lines, swirls and dots to represent the cycles of birth, life, and death, and the unmistakable connection between them all. The top half of the sculpture sat on a semi-sphere, the bottom of which was flat on the ground.
She traced the indentation of the lines, and a thought occurred to her. She dug into her armor’s pouch pocket and fished out the coin purse, seeing an offering bowl next to the shrine. She set the coin purse in the offering bowl, before standing up again and making her way out of the cemetery.
Her return to the inn brought her once more into Vilkas’s company. He sat at a table, a tankard of mead in front of him. Narri, the barmaid, was leaning on the stone wall by the table. Aerene couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could see the way Narri’s low cut dress was eye level to Vilkas, and the way Narri laughed at something Vilkas said. Aerene felt like she would’ve been intruding were she to make her way over, and stood back. Narri, however, saw her, and her mood shifted. The barmaid said something else and then left towards the bar. Aerene walked over. “Surely by now, you’ve lost count of the maidens who’ve swarmed you with their affections?” she asked, looking down at him. Vilkas said nothing, lifting the mug to his lips to finish off the mead. The rim of the cup couldn’t hide that devilish-or perhaps wolfish-smirk that could win over any heart it encountered.
“I considered asking Valga for the room until the morning of the execution,” Vilkas began, wiping the back of his gloved hand over his mouth. “Though I came to think you may not want to encounter it.” Aerene blinked, nodding in agreement with his words. “You’re beginning to know me well,” she pointed out. Almost too well. “I aim to leave this place at once, for the despair I feel only rots more every moment I’m here.”
After their belongings were gathered, Vilkas stood at the door of the inn. Aerene made her way over from the counter, after briefly chatting with Valga and Narri about the events of the day and the future to come. She pushed through the door first, stepping aside for Vilkas to follow. “Let us go home.”
Chapter 11: What You'd Give
Notes:
As promised, here's some more. See you soon ;)
Chapter Text
Jorrvaskr’s warriors had settled for the night by the time Aerene and Vilkas arrived. The main hall was quiet, the sound of footsteps and the crackling central hearth the only noise. “Looks like everyone’s retired for the night,” Vilkas spoke, walking down the steps to the large meal table. He picked up a bottle of alto wine, holding it in one hand while he used the other to brush the black strands of hair out of his face. His sharp teeth latched onto the cork, and popped it out of the green bottle. He set the cork on the table and tilted his head back, swallowing the wine; only, he kept drinking, and Aerene just stood there, eyeing him. Gods, do I have a staring problem, or what?
She swallowed, though, when a bit of the wine leaked down from his bottom lip and kept falling, the dark red liquid chasing down the sharp edge of his jaw. Vilkas must’ve felt it, because he stopped drinking and used his thumb to trace the line of liquid off his skin. Aerene shifted her gaze away from him, confused with her feelings. If I wanted this… whatever this is… to end another way, I would’ve loved to taste that wine on his skin. What am I thinking?! Clearly, it’s much too late to be standing here, because my senses and sharpness have abandoned me. Ruin is on my mind... Vilkas cannot be the architect. By the Divines, he’s looking right at me!
Aerene made the mistake of forcing awkward eye contact. I cannot hide my emotion from his senses, no matter how hard I try-he can taste or smell or even feel my desperate nature. I’m pathetic!
“Thank you for accompanying me, Vilkas,” Aerene said, straightening her posture. She cleared her throat, knowing he could see right through her facade. “I will see you on the morrow. Brother.” With that, she quickly stepped away, skittering off like a critter into hiding. Just keep walking. You’ve made this weird enough as it is. The more she thought about it, the faster her heart beat, weeping at the quashed opportunity.
Once she’d hurried downstairs and shut the door of the lower level, she leaned against it and took a breath. “What in Oblivion is my problem?!” she cursed herself lowly, in the dim light of the empty hallway. Shaking her head, she decided now was definitely the best time to go to sleep, before someone else popped up and caught her in such a desperate state.
The shared sleeping quarters looked the same as always; still bodies in the single beds, someone snoring after a presumably long day. Aerene quietly set her satchel on the floor, nudging it under her bed with her foot. She removed her armor plates and weapons and set them in the chest at the foot of the bed, before sitting down on the furs, the wooden frame creaking under her weight. She laid down on her side, facing the wall and pulling a scratchy blanket over her. Knowing what she needed more than anything was sleep, she shut her eyes and waited for it to overtake her.
Such generosity was not for her, though, as her own mind kept her awake. The subject? The Companion who she’d just spent many hours with, who showed how much he’d learned about her since they met. He showed her the map of his personality, and this mage was unable to decipher the meanings that had been displayed to her. Vilkas said he traveled to Falkreath to accompany her as she took revenge, though the story never took that turn. Yet, she enjoyed his company, and enjoyed speaking to him, hearing him speak. Would he welcome the advancement into something further? Surely, his actions up to this point have been intentional. Vilkas would never have to try hard to get what he wants. Narri was attracted to him like a moth to light.
But Zaria said he hadn’t left my side. How does Vilkas truly see me? And does he want what I think I do?
It cannot be. I would welcome the closeness of Dibella’s gifts, but I value Vilkas too much to only use him in that way. I wouldn’t allow myself to take succor in him without committing fully. Thus, it is all or nothing, and it must be nothing. He is my shield-sibling, and that is a boundary I must not cross. To place myself over that line brings too much risk to the companionship we’ve established up to this point.
Dibella, the Divine of beauty and passion, art and dance, the Blessed Lady of desire in its fullest nature with all benefit and consequence.
Aerene’s eyes opened to stare at the wall, her brows knotted in annoyance that she was still awake. As she stared into the darkness, shifting gently with the dancing light from a nearby candle’s flame, she was reminded of a particularly entrancing night.
Varellus, during his and Rialla’s stay at Aerene’s cottage in Bleaker’s Way. The night was deep blue, warm in the transition from spring to summer. The manner in which he sat in a wooden chair next to her bed, still and quiet while she cleaned at a wound he’d picked up during his duties from that day’s work as an Imperial soldier. A gash below his collarbone, hidden underneath the chainmail shirt and dark linens he wore overtop. When she asked why he didn’t visit the Legion’s healers, he insisted he didn’t want to wait to see them, and was hoping Aerene would tend to the wound for him. ‘I’d almost think you’re using me… my home, my healing capabilities,’ she’d teased as she washed the skin around the wound with a cloth. He said nothing, as she cast a healing spell, the golden light illuminating the room; he sat, only looking at her, her gentle healing power closing the opening in his flesh. The light faded, as the spell’s power waned. Yet, her fingers rested near the wound, just delicately on the skin of his bare torso. The glow of the night showed the way their eyes were locked. She withdrew her hand, but he caught it, and held it in his. “You know you mean more than that to me,” he whispered, leaning in closer.
-
“May I sit with you?” Aerene asked Kodlak, catching her breath from the training session she’d just finished with Skjor. He was instructing her on sword and shield technique. “Ah, of course, girl,” Kodlak looked up to her, up from the book he was writing in. He reached over and pushed a chair out for her to sit in. She thanked him, leaning back in the chair and pushing her hair back. She was sweaty, face reddened by the hard work of fighting sword and shield for hours. It was the late afternoon now, a few days after the events in Falkreath. Aerene had spent the time in between training, and she certainly felt the effects of the physical strain. She couldn’t get comfortable, and when she did, it was only for a moment or so before her muscles were aching again. She’d been casting healing spells morning and night, but only so much could be done. Her muscles needed to memorize the constant movement and activity-notions which her body was familiar with time ago, before she slowed down on physicality and focused instead on her alchemy skills. “How goes the training?” Kodlak asked her, turning the book to a close and setting the quill pen down next to it on the table. Aerene stopped herself from yawning in response to his question. “Very well. I am learning new techniques I haven’t encountered before,” she explained. “Ah, good. There’s always more to teach, always more to learn. Now, Aerene, is there anything you wish to share? A skill to teach?” Kodlak asked. Did we not speak about something like this before? Aerene shifted in her seat as she thought of an answer. There is much I could share, but nothing the Companions would want to learn.
“Should anyone like to exchange sword fighting for alchemy, my teachings are available,” she grinned to cover the way she winced at her words. I wonder if he knows I’m lying. Kodlak responded with a genuine smile, erupting in a low chuckle. Maybe not. “Alchemy, huh? Tell me more,” he invited. Tilma brought a pitcher of water to the table, pouring some for the sweaty trainee. Aerene drank, and then told the Harbinger about her time as an alchemist in Bleaker’s Way. “I attempted to cross the border from Cyrodiil into Skyrim, but it was closed at the time. Rather than stay in the cold of Bruma, or return to the Imperial City, I decided to settle for a short time. Bleaker’s Way had grown into a sizable village, and I was fortunate to find a cottage available for purchase. The nearby woodlands were abundant with herbs which could be used for potions, poultices, balms, and the like. The settlement’s previous apothecary had met an unfortunate end before my journey into town, and business was booming, especially when Legion troops settled into town for a time,” she said. “Ah, I remember you mentioned living with two Imperial siblings for a time. I imagine the sudden crowding of such a cozy little place would take some getting used to,” Kodlak replied. Aerene agreed with him, and her thoughts wandered to the political state of Skyrim. It seemed the province was on the brink of war, though she hadn’t heard anymore news on the situation between the Imperial army and the Stormcloak rebellion. “Has Whiterun chosen a side in the war?” she asked.
Kodlak’s expression told her he wasn’t expecting that type of question. “No. Jarl Balgruuf is on the side of the people, as are we, the Companions. We don’t deal in politics, especially with some of our number having… divisive thoughts on the matter.” Well, now I only want to know more. Lovely. How am I supposed to learn about the political state of a city when its citizens tend to be so elusive?
I have to ask the right person.
Of course, at the front of her mind, she wanted to know more about Kodlak’s thoughts on the relationship between Hircine and the Circle of the Companions. Its longest contributing members, all persuaded by the beast blood. In the plain day, while others were around, now was not the time. Her eyes lowered from the war paint on Kodlak’s face to the book he’d been writing in. “Is that a business ledger?” she asked, wondering if it had anything to do with the citizens she’d occasionally spotted stopping by with job slips and pouches of coin for the warriors of Jorrvaskr to handle. Kodlak shook his head and rumbled with a low laugh. “Not for official business dealings, just the translation of this old man’s thoughts onto paper.”
She’d gone back to training on a practice dummy for some time, when Aela made her way into the training yard. Aerene noticed the woman, and set her weapons down to walk over. “Hard at work, I hear. Still owe me that hunting trip,” Aela greeted as Aerene walked over. “That I do,” Aerene concurred, rolling her shoulders to try and regain some flexibility in them and settle the burning aches of tiredness. Aela neared the outer wall of the training yard, to the table where Aerene had set her weapons down. She picked up a hunting bow and a single arrow. “I’m ready for more work,” Aerene said decidedly, watching Aela line herself up a distance away from the nearest archery target dummy. She raised the bow, arrow positioned and ready to fire as she pulled back the drawstring. The muscles of the archer’s arm bulged into visibility as they flexed in the pull of the string. “So it seems,” Aela responded dryly. Aerene’s eyes narrowed, wondering what Aela was getting at. “You’ve been training the last couple of days, sister. I know improvements when I see them. So show me what you’ve learned. Strike the target in one hit, and you’ll have a task you’ve never known before.” The warrior woman’s words invited challenge, a task which Aerene was up for, feeling a rush of excitement at the chance to prove her skill. She’d practiced archery with Aela the previous morning, and it went well. ‘A true warrior will make use of any weapon she has on hand, or even one she may borrow from the enemy, should the need arise.’ Aela had spoken such words when explaining the importance of improvisation in the field. It’s nothing new to me, but if I am to continue learning, I must act as though it is.
“Well? The arrow won’t loose itself,” Aela quipped, holding out the bow and arrow for Aerene to take. She did, and moved to stand where Aela was. Her fingers lined up on the grip of the hunting bow, arrow resting atop the fist clutching the wood. She pulled the string towards herself, aiming at the target’s head-a bullseye painted right into the center of the face. Aerene took care not to move her feet, and stood firmly planted on the cobblestone ground. She held her breath to still her hands, and released the arrow. It struck; not the head, as she aimed for, but the center of the chest. She lowered the bow, satisfied to hear Aela’s praises. “I knew you had it in you. Now, about your next task,” she began, taking the bow and setting it down on the table. “Skjor has something planned for you. Meet us in the underforge tonight, when the moon is at its highest.” The underforge? “Ah, I see that look on your face. You’ve not encountered the underforge yet. Well, sister, tonight’s your time. Stand in the yard here, and look northward to the Skyforge. Then, lower your sights, and see that you do not find vertical lines within the horizontal curvature of the stones.”
Aerene did as instructed, first searching what she could make out of the Skyforge; she let her gaze fall downward, and studied the stones underneath the rocky overhang of the ledge the forge sat upon. Then, she saw the near invisible entrance, a doorway in the stone. How have I not noticed this? “That door,” she spoke to Aela, “how does it open?” Aela laughed, and then said, “Skjor will be waiting at the entrance to show you what you need to know. Until moonlight, sister.” With that, Aela left Aerene, whose sights were set on the doorway. She thought that if she stepped back just a step or two, the visibility of the entrance would vanish altogether.
She was antsy at supper that evening, as she sat next to Farkas at one end of the table. “You gonna eat?” Farkas asked her, breaking her out of her thoughts. She looked down at her plate, eyeing the grilled chicken breast that sat next to baked potatoes and grilled leeks. She’d already eaten a sweet roll, snatching one from a nearby bowl full of them as soon as she saw it. “I did,” she responded, poking at the chicken with her fork. “Sweet roll’s not gonna keep you full for long,” Farkas mumbled through a mouthful of potato bread. Aerene sighed, knowing he was right. “Yes, my lord, I’ll eat all my dinner right away, my lord,” she said in a higher pitched voice, drawing a laugh from Farkas, that turned into a minor cough as he nearly choked on his food. “You sound like the first maiden Vilkas ever…got to know,” Farkas responded casually. Aerene, now with a mug of wine up to her lips, nearly spit out the red when she heard this. She cleared her throat, setting down the mug as she readjusted herself in the seat, in disbelief at Farkas’s comment. She didn’t even want to think about what was implied. Does…does Vilkas like to be addressed with honorifics? ...Does Vilkas like pet names? She held in her own laughter at the thought, but just about spontaneously combusted when she looked across the table and saw Vilkas glaring at her and Farkas.
While sitting together, the two shield-siblings discussed the last few days, as they hadn’t seen much of each other; Farkas had been working with Athis to track an escaped criminal from Dawnstar, a town on Skyrim’s northern coast; a damned icy place, rarely with unfrozen ground but always with busy ports.
As dinner was ending, each of the Companions turned to their own activities for the evening. Kodlak retired early for the evening, while Brill and Vignar did as well. Tilma began clearing the dishes away from the table, and shooed Aerene away when she attempted to help gather the many plates and utensils together to help. The way Aela and Skjor had slipped out of Jorrvaskr’s training yard doors hadn’t gone unnoticed by the mage. Athis had gone downstairs to ready for bed, and remaining were Njada, Ria, Farkas, Vilkas, and Torvar. Aerene was standing up from her seat at the table when Farkas met her side again. “We’re headed to the Mare for a drink. You comin’?” he asked her. She shook her head. “No, thank you. Got plans,” she replied cheekily, the excitement of a new task from Skjor and Aela beginning to bubble within her. “Ah, plans. Don’t work yourself too hard, then,” Farkas grinned, patting Aerene on the back before joining the group by the door as they readied to leave. Aerene picked up on the fact that she and Farkas may have had different ideas about her evening ‘plans’, indicative of the notion that Aela and Skjor hadn’t told the other Circle members about the moonlight meeting.
Nonetheless, she made her way to the opposite side of the main hall, and readied herself for stepping into the night to learn what the next move would be. She sent one last glance in the direction of the Companions leaving for the Bannered Mare, yet did not feel envious, nor curious. She felt rather content, visions set on following the path laid out for her. She caught the eyes of Vilkas on her again, and noticed the way Ria watched his movements. Aerene bore no expression, simply turning away and walking out under the verandah of the training yard. It was a windy evening, and chilly, too. Her hands met the straps of the satchel around her shoulders, squeezing at them as she stepped out into the empty training space. She watched the mountains in the distance, and her mind wandered back to that time she thought she’d seen something. This sequence of thought brought her to recall her trial, and the encounter with the magical wall in Dustman’s Cairn. She had no answers, at least not anything of importance. Vilkas had not encountered anything of the sort, and Kodlak said ‘those mages up in Winterhold’ might have something to do with it. I find that to make little sense. What would the College of Winterhold have to say about that specific wall? As she stared over the mountains, a realization came to her. Perhaps the scholars at the College were knowledgeable about magical walls in general, even if not the one in the Cairn. If I want to know more, I’ll have to search. Perhaps the scholar who informed the Companions on known locations of the fragments of Wuuthrad would be willing to share any information on other subjects. Just when she began wondering how she’d end up in Winterhold, and what that meant for her time with the Companions, a whistle caught her attention.
She turned to see Skjor next to the stone wall underneath the Skyforge, waving her over. “You gonna keep us waiting?” he called. She jogged over, meeting the older man with a shake of her head. “Not for too long,” she responded. “Well, here’s the way in. Press your palm onto the stone, and the entrance will open,” Skjor gestured for her to make an attempt. She did as he said, pressing her palm flat against the stone wall. She heard shifting, and the sound of stones grinding. Moments later, the wall slid into itself, a tunnel entrance revealed. “What is this place?” she asked, stepping into the entrance and stilling. The stone wall slid back into place and locked behind her.
Skjor crossed his arms and turned to her. It was dark and cold inside the tunnel, with torches aglow here and there, emitting dim light and little heat. Still, she saw the glimmer of the firelight reflected in his scarred and blinded eye. “Here's all you need to know. Jorrvaskr is the oldest building in Whiterun. The Skyforge was here long before it was. And the underforge taps an ancient magic that is older than men or elves. We bring you here to make you stronger, new blood. Now, let's move.” Magic? The same magic that powers the wall in Dustman’s Cairn? She couldn’t let the chance to learn more escape her now. “The ancient magic you mentioned,” she began as the followed Skjor, “does it-“ she was caught in her tracks when a horrific sight presented itself to her. Her blood ran cold and she felt lightheaded all in a moment’s notice. Her right hand landed on the handle of the lucky dagger at her waist.
A werewolf, with a dripping maw, amber eyes, and a pelt black as night. Is that…? No, it cannot be! Sinding must have been executed this morning. Aerene stepped backward, taking in the sight of the beast; it stood on the other side of the small stone room; between herself and the creature was a central, sizable bowl of sorts-one that would be used in ceremony. “I would hope you’d recognize Aela, even in this form,” Skjor spoke, drawing Aerene’s wide eyes to him. Even with reassurance that this was Aela, who Aerene very much did not recognize, she couldn’t stop the panic beginning to flood her veins. “Why have you brought me here?” she managed to ask, throat as dry as the sands of Elsweyr and fingertips shaky as she leaned onto the cool wall behind her for support, so as not to faint and fall over here. “It’s been a long time since someone with a heart like yours has joined our ranks. That pitiful ceremony behind the hall does not befit warriors like us. You, Aerene, are due more than calls and feasting. We want you to share in our gifts, the prowess Kodlak calls a curse. Such is why we must do this in secret. To join the Circle, the highest ranks of the Companions, you must share in the blood of the wolf. Aela has agreed to be your forebear. Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?”
Friend.
“A true friend would not oblige me to give my soul so willingly to a Daedric Prince,” she sputtered out, stepping backward slowly. Her heart was beating at an insanely fast rate, and her vision seemed to be caving in. “So long as this is the price of glory, I will have no place in your Circle,” she choked out, eyes watering. Skjor’s voice could be heard as he attempted to persuade her, but her mind was elsewhere, drowning in an ocean of terror. She fled through the same entrance they’d just walked in through moments previous, having pressed her hand against it repeatedly to get it open. As it slid open, she swung around, seeing Skjor and Aela at the same spot, not moving any closer but not without verbal efforts to calm her down. The second she felt the chill breeze of the night against the skin of her neck, she turned tail and sprinted away.
Into the streets of Whiterun, she fled, running into the quiet of the residential part of the city. When she finally came to a stop, she barreled over, hands on her knees while she struggled to catch her breath. She breathed loudly, coughing for air. Her state only worsened when she attempted to take a step forward and only stumbled to the ground. An ache in her chest seemed to pull her into the coldness, and she couldn’t focus well enough to cast a healing spell over herself. She managed to flip back over, knees pressed into the earth below, but not strong enough to lift her up. The panic proved too much, and her vision tunneled completely, a reflection of the dark and mysterious entrance to the underforge that was the beginning of her ruin. In another mere moment, she’d lost consciousness and her body lowered completely to the ground.
-
Despite her efforts to escape, she was only met with the same nightmare she’d just fled. Skjor’s voice could be heard as she entered the underforge, the scene dim save for the orange torchlight. It was warmer in here this time, and didn’t feel as shadowy as the first time she’d entered. She stepped forward, following the older Companion. They stepped into the main chamber of the tunnel space, and she once again froze in fear when faced with the werewolf. It was huge, towering over her and the human next to her, stepping closer and breathing heavily. Its long, razor sharp fangs glistened with saliva, lined with blood, remnants of it dripping from the maw. She winced, moving to turn. Only, she couldn’t move, and couldn’t tear her eyes away from the creature. Her legs seemed fused to the stone she stood on, bolted down and still no matter how she struggled to run. She began shaking, trying to scream for the beast to stop in its place, but her voice was silent and her screams rendered unreal. A flash of the dark mass struck, and she was tackled to the hard floor, the beast pinning her down. She fought as best she could, but had no weapons, only her hands. She reached up and punched her fist into the creature’s large snout, only angering it as it bared its teeth and bit into her weak, human flesh. Its bite tore through her skin and it jerked back, erupting in a horrific roar and crushing the hand it had ripped from her wrist. She screamed out, falling downward, tears flooding down her hot cheeks, her sight bloody and blurry as she turned over, using her one remaining hand to try and pull herself away.
“Aerene?”
A feminine voice broke the chaos; Aerene opened her eyes to meet worried emerald green irises. She jerked backward, eyes searching the room to try and discern where she was. “You’re safe, dear, just breathe,” Lydia instructed, placing her hand gently on Aerene’s leg. The contact brought Aerene back down, and she swallowed, blinking to a quieter reality. “Oh my gods,” she sighed, looking between Lydia and the room she was in. The furs were soft, as she sat up and ran her fingers over them. A nightstand was to her left, with three candles lit; the wax dripped down their edges onto the decorative plate they sat atop. “Where are we?” Aerene asked Lydia, swinging her legs over the bed to plant her feet on the floor. Although she was wearing boots, her skin within felt cold, like she’d been sweaty and then the perspiration cooled her too much. “We’re in Ysolda’s home,” Lydia spoke, sitting up and leaning back into the chair she was in. Aerene’s face contorted in confusion. How in Oblivion did I end up here? The last I remember, I was leaving the underforge. “What time is it?” she questioned, looking around to try and find a window. “Relax, please. It’s the middle of the night. I stepped outside to get some firewood for the hearth when you stumbled into view from out of nowhere, and collapsed. How do you feel now?” Lydia asked, pulling a blanket over Aerene’s shoulders as they chatted.
Aerene ran her tongue over her chapped lips, suddenly missing the apricot balm she’d kept before coming to Skyrim. It kept her lips a pinky orange color and ensured they were always soft, despite all the time she spent outside picking herbs or training weapons, among other things. As for how she was feeling, there was a lot going on there. “I was… drowning in panic when you found me. I’ve never experienced that before,” she confessed. A third figure appeared in the room behind Lydia. Ysolda, wearing a nightcap and evening robes. “Here,” she said softly, setting a mug down on the nightstand. “Glad you’re awake, Aerene. Gave us a fright, collapsing like you did. Some warm milk with honey, to help calm you,” Ysolda said. Aerene smiled at the kindness of the red-haired merchant, her soft hazel eyes carrying the same kindness she enacted. “Thank you, Ysolda,” Aerene said, taking the mug and sipping the liquid. As promised, warm milk sweetened with honey. It was tasteful and lovely. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. There’s leftover supper out here, if you’re hungry,” Ysolda said, turning to leave. Lydia caught the woman’s arm, and smiled up to her. “We’ll be out soon, my dear,” she promised. Ysolda reassuringly touched Lydia’s shoulder, and left the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Aerene looked at the door, then to Lydia. “I take it she loved the sweet rolls,” Aerene mused, putting her hands, one holding the cup, in her lap. Lydia was amused, but shook her head. “Ah, ah. Before we talk about that, I want to know what got you in such a state. Are you feeling well now?” Lydia asked, reaching up to feel Aerene’s forehead with the back of her hand. Aerene sat still, as Lydia concluded she didn’t feel feverish.
“Jorrvaskr,” was all she said, drawing a raised brow from Lydia. “Is this about that Vilkas? If he hurt yo-“
“No, no. not Vilkas. He’s fine,” Aerene put it simply, searching for her words. “It wasn’t him. I…” she stopped herself. I cannot share the Circle’s secrets. I found out only because Farkas and I were caught in a crisis. It’s not my secret to share. “I saw something I wasn’t expecting to see, and it reminded me of something else, and I was overcome with sudden panic,” she explained, knowing her answer wasn’t satisfying in the least. Lydia nodded, listening carefully to Aerene’s words. She studied the mage’s pale blue eyes, leaving Aerene wondering what she was hoping to find. When Lydia next spoke, it was just a whisper. “They asked you to become a werewolf,” she stated. Aerene’s mouth fell open in shock. How many know of the Circle’s lycanthropy?! “Y-yes,” she stuttered. Lydia nodded again. “And you declined. But why? The Circle are esteemed, the leaders of Jorrvaskr. Did you not want to become one of their highest ranking?” Lydia asked. Aerene shook her head, setting the cup down on the nightstand. “No. But first, how do you know about their wolf blood?”
“Tilma's my aunt. She raised me here in Whiterun. She’s been in Whiterun, and Jorrvaskr, for ages. Knew Balgruuf when he was a boy, and knows more about this city-and its inhabitants-than anyone else I know. She used to tell me, ‘I see everything, hear everything, and know everything.’ Around my 15th winter, or so, there was a week where wolves were in constant howling as soon as the moons showed. Tilma would leave our house in the middle of the night, and I only felt more afraid being home alone. Every time I asked her where she’d gone, she’d say, ‘Jorrvaskr, dear.’ At the end of that week I’d figured it out, and asked her about it. She confirmed my suspicions and told me never to ask her about it again, and that I’d never be allowed to join the Companions.”
Aerene only stared in disbelief, not knowing what to say. “I couldn’t accept the offer. Skjor and Aela told me they had a task for me, and when I met them, Aela was in her beast form. I didn’t know it was her, though,” she sighed, her hands reaching up to cover her face as she leaned downward. She realized she hadn’t seen Lydia since the night she’d attempted to call on her at Dragonsreach, were she was told of Lydia’s occupations outside the city.
“A few days ago, my friend from Falkreath was killed by a werewolf. A man named Sinding, who was, if all went accordingly, executed for his crimes this morning. I never saw him in his beast form, but I was told of how he tore into Valdr, and the little girl, Lavinia. Seeing Aela dissolved my sense of judgment, and after the last few days, I have no wish to serve a Daedric Prince,” she rambled, stopping herself from speaking further. “Those bastards,” Lydia cursed. “They tried to force that on you? By Shor,” she exclaimed, her fist clenched. “Aela and Skjor wouldn’t have done it if they knew about Valdr. Vilkas wouldn’t have told them, I don’t think,” Aerene considered what she knew of her shield brother’s gossip habits.
“What does Vilkas have to do with it?”
Aerene looked to Lydia. “That night, when I got the letter bout Valdr’s passing, I left for Falkreath. Vilkas showed up at the in a few hours later,” Aerene spoke plainly, knowing how it sounded. Lydia’s eyes narrowed, and Aerene knew what she was getting at. “I’m sorry about Valdr. Damned Sinding got what was coming to him. But it’s hardly any relief,” Lydia commented. Aerene frowned, not wanting her mind to fall down that well again. “So Vilkas followed you all that way, huh? Wonder how far he got before he realized it’s hopeless,” Lydia teased. When Aerene asked what she meant, Lydia shrugged. “If you eventually want to study at the College of Winterhold, dear, it would be unwise to indulge in a relationship with one your shield-siblings. You’ll find yourself wanting when you’re on the other side of the province. No matter how tempting it may be, as your friend I advise you not to do it,” Lydia spoke wholeheartedly. Aerene leaned back, planting her hands to hold her up on the bed. “He is tempting, indeed. When he showed up at my door of the inn, he stepped into the room, and just… held me. It was exactly what I needed,” she said in a lowered voice. “But enough about that. What’s this between you and Ysolda?”
Lydia chuckled quietly. “Dinner went well.” Aerene scoffed, grinning at Lydia’s slyness. “I can quite tell,” she retorted. “We enjoy each other’s company,” Lydia said. “I am glad for you, Lydia. I wish you longevity and the sweetest blessings of Mara,” Aerene said. “Thank you, Aerene. Would you like to stay here the rest of the night?” Lydia offered. As much as she wanted to, Aerene knew this home was too small for the three of them. “I appreciate your kindness, and Ysolda’s hospitality. As much as I’d like to stay here, I make company a crowd. This has been enlightening, Lydia. Let us reconvene soon.” Lydia stood when Aerene did, and pulled the younger woman in for a hug. “Of course, dear.” They stepped out into the grand room, where Ysolda sat at a table with a mug in her hands, sipping from it. A large fire pit with hungry flames lit the room, a roasting rack placed with pots hanging from it. Venison chops were staked onto the rack and sizzled in the heat. The opposite wall, behind Ysolda, had shelves with merchant items like rugs, woven baskets, and vases. Aerene thanked the two again, feeling like she needed to do more than show her appreciation with words. She insisted they’d see each other again soon, and bid them goodnight. Lydia’s parting words amused Aerene more than they should’ve; ‘Don’t let the wolves bite!’, a phrase Aerene had once said to Ria.
Aerene walked along the houses onto the main street of Whiterun, yawning as the exhaustion snaked through her. As she passed through the marketplace and past the dead tree in the park, over the footbridge and up the stairs to Jorrvaskr, she saw no familiar face, but reveled in this. Just as she was nearing the entrance into the hall, she heard howling from the far distance.
A chill ran up her spine, and she hurried inside. Once downstairs, and in the darkness of the sleeping quarters, she hastily undressed of her armor and flopped down into the single bed. It felt especially small, as she felt more whole in herself. A slight trepidation lingered, but the worry over consequences of tonight’s occurrences couldn’t fight the wave of sleep that enveloped the newest member of the Companions.
Her sleep was restless and plagued with frightening nightmares; as she tossed and turned, and woke up again and again, every time she’d fall back asleep was to fall into a scenario where she was being hunted or chased, whether it be through a forest she didn’t think she’d been in before, or the very halls of Jorrvaskr’s living quarters. At one point, in the final nightmare she was trapped in before finally waking, she’d managed to escape the mead hall and flee into the training yard. Someone was calling her name, the voice of a woman that she could not place with anyone she knew. When she looked up, upon seeing the darkness of night, she saw red skies revolving around huge black moons. Not Masser and Secunda, the moons of Nirn, no, but the heavens of a realm she had never known, and wished never to know again. Warmth grew hot, and lost in the dark colors formed in a haze around her, she awoke with a start.
Aerene’s skin was hot, though not feverish, and she was sweaty, as if she really had been running for her life. She rubbed her eyes, disgusted with the residue left on her fingers. Ugh, I need to bathe. I have not slept so horribly in a while. She knew the cause, though. A chill ran up her spine as she sat up in her bed. Sounds of howling echoed through her head, but she knew those were memories from hours ago when she arrived back to Jorrvaskr. She wondered if Aela and Skjor had lingered around Whiterun after she hurried away from them, and later awoken in Ysolda’s home. What’s next? I hit my head and wake up in Bleaker’s Way?
Considering how strangeness has lingered lately, that would not be so bad.
The redhead looked around the room. Her shield siblings were still sleeping around her, which meant it was still early in the morning, if not the twilight hours before dawn. Her throat was dry, as though she’d been breathing heavily in her sleep. Feeling as though she’d suffocate should she stay inside for much longer, and cautiously wondering how the consequences of last night would play out, she settled on going for a bath at the Drunken Huntsman. Pushing herself up from the bed, she reached her arms up to stretch. Then, she opened the chest at the end of the bed and dug around inside. From it, she pulled the lavender soap made by Sigrid, and realized the only article of clothing she had besides the tunic and pants she wore under her armor, was her sleeping shirt. I remember seeing a washbasin in the bathing room of the Huntsman. I should make a point to buy a dress I can idle in when I’m not in my armor or night tunic. She pulled on her wool socks, and slid her boots over them. Purchasing a pair of shoes would be nice, too.
Once her bathing supplies were in her knapsack, and dressed in her brown tunic and cream colored pants, down to her boots, she peeked out through the doorway from the sleeping quarters to the main hallway of the living quarters. Not a soul in sight. Thank the Divines. She stepped out, and tiptoed hurriedly to the exit door, pushing through it and heading up the stairs to Jorrvaskr’s main floor. It was about as early as she expected; breakfast had not been laid out, nor did she smell it cooking. Relief comforted her at the thought of leaving Jorrvaskr. She couldn’t face the thought of being in the same room as Aela and Skjor, not after the previous night. What would I say to them, if anything? Will they try to persuade me once again? After facing Sinding, and attending the burial of two lovely souls who lost their lives because of his lycanthropy, she had been even more dissuaded from partaking in the ritual. She walked along the wooden floors, stepping towards the entrance of Jorrvaskr.
That bowl in the underforge… it must’ve been for blood. Aela was prepared to spill her blood, for me to drink and allow the beast to grow into half of myself.
Her exit from the mead hall and into the morning air was quick, though she paused to admire the beauty of a new day. Whiterun was slowly stirring, with a few guards walking about and even fewer townsfolk to be seen. The distant horizon was a light, peachy orange which bloomed into light lavender, growing darker the higher up the sky stretched. Faint, nearly transparent clouds were sprawled out, floating along as dawn neared. Some clouds clung to the mountains in the far distance, jagged peaks brightened by white snow. As Aerene looked over the huge crags, she noticed for the first time a barrow nestled between two of the peaks. Towering archways reached out from the ground, repeating until they disappeared into the mountainside. Could that be Bleak Falls Barrow, the same ancient structure Hadvar told me of when we escaped Helgen? Should my travels ever take me there, I must make a point to look here, Whiterun, and see the changing of perspective.
A brisk chill reminded her that she was merely on her way to the Drunken Huntsman, thus not properly dressed to linger in the outdoors. She walked down the wooden steps in front of Jorrvaskr and while she wanted to hurry along, she contended to enjoy a pre-dawn walk. As she passed through the park, she couldn’t help but study the dead tree in the center. Benches were placed around the trunk, while lavender, blue mountain flowers, and red ferns bloomed in aesthetic harmony. The trunk itself, though, was grey with absence of life. She tilted her head back and looked upward, and saw only pokey, bare branches naked of any leaves or blossoms. She had a clear view of the sky-it was unusual; a tree that size should have a beautiful bloom of leaves and flowers by now. The Gildergreen. I wonder if this tree is only in slumber?
Once she’d made it to the Huntsman and paid for a bath, Aerene found herself looking forward to cleanliness. To begin, she undressed, setting her satchel down in the chair next to the tub. The water inside was steaming, and most inviting. She scrubbed her clothes in the small washbasin to the right of the tub, and hung them to dry on a clothesline stretched from one wall to the other. Once her chore of laundry was done, and while she wondered just how dry her clothes would get in the humid room, she sunk into the hot water and ran the lavender soap over her skin. It was immensely relaxing and one of many comforts she would allow. While she sat, and let the dirt of the days past vanish from her skin, she thought over the last week. So much had happened, and she was left feeling conflicted. Having succeeded in her Trial, she was prideful in being a Companion. Valdr’s death had taken her back to Falkreath, and after the burial she couldn’t wait to get back to Whiterun. Training had gone well, and she was satisfied with what she made of the circumstances, until last night. I could never give my soul to Hircine in exchange for supernatural abilities. Akatosh, and the Divines, guide me. The Daedric Princes would have mortals believe they are not enough as that alone. With thoughts of returning to Jorrvaskr, in the presence of those who wanted her to change, she itched to see more of Skyrim’s wilderness. The buildup between herself and Vilkas had been only that, and the disparity between herself and the members of the Circle was established when Aela and Skjor invited her in. What of all the other members? Athis, Njada, Ria, Torvar? Are they not worthy of the wolf blood? Who decided I should become a werewolf? Another thought upset the calmness she’d maintained. Surely, Aela and Skjor wouldn’t have offered the wolf blood while also knowing why Vilkas and I were away for a short time?
No matter how much she speculated, there were no singular, solid answers. She did wonder briefly what it must’ve felt like to share one’s body, a half of a soul, with the wild one of a wolf. Hearing the call of the blood, and choosing to answer, or to deny it and wrestle for control as Kodlak, Vilkas, and Farkas had done. Vilkas explained to Aerene that his brother, Kodlak, and himself had vowed not to shift into the wolf form, though Farkas broke the vow when he and Aerene were surrounded the the Silver Hand in Dustman’s Cairn. The scheming bandit group was especially dangerous because their weapons were all pure silver, crafted under the moonlight and especially deadly to werewolves; torturous in touch.
While she worked the bar of lavender soap through her hair, cleansing the greasy, clumpy strands, she remembers the first day she entered Jorrvaskr. As she stepped down the hall of the living quarters looking for Kodlak, through a place so unfamiliar at the time, she overheard him and Vilkas talking about the call. Vilkas had been telling Kodlak how he felt the pull of the beast, teeth bitten into his being in a constant battle for indulgence and even control. No wonder Vilkas tried to shoo me away. He was telling his Harbinger, our Harbinger, about his innermost conflict. A heavy subject not to be tiptoed around or spoken of lightly.
Sitting back into the water and soaking, she concluded it was best to get a job from one of the leaders, preferably Farkas, and leave the workings of Whiterun behind for a bit. Perhaps there’s business in Solitude to take care of. I’d like to visit Skyrim’s capital city.
Once she’d soaked in the bath for a long while, and her skin had pruned, the water cooling, she emerged from the tub anew. After squeezing the water from her hair, and using the linen to fluff it and dry it, she stood half dressed, wearing her undergarments and pants, with a shirt too damp to wear out into the Whiterun tundra climate. A thought crossed Aerene’s mind, and before she had the sense to dismiss it, she set the shirt down on the chair, hanging it partly over the backing and making sure it was evenly spread. She’d not done it before, but she’d seen it done once. To use a magic spell for drying. Well, I suppose using flames to boil water for cooking is different than using it to dry a shirt… but the principle remains the same… right?
She stood back, and held her left hand up, concentrating the magicka into kindling the spell forward. A flick of orange burst from her palm, ready to be pointed and used. She turned her palm toward the shirt, and blasted the flames forward. They lashed out at the wool garment, and the very fabric of the shirt stiffened as it dried. She concentrated the spell for too long, though, and when she released the power from her grasp a flame remained on the threads of the shirt. “No!” she whisper-yelled, plucking the shirt from the chair and stomping over it with her boot. “Damn it,” she muttered, picking the shirt up to find it had only been slightly singed.
A couple hours after her departure from Jorrvaskr, she arrived back to the mead hall. Just as she was walking up the stairs, a Dunmer woman she hadn’t seen before stepped down past her in the opposite direction, hurrying down the stairs. Aerene heard sniffling, and saw the woman wipe her hand over her eye. Her brows furrowed, and she quickened her pace to get up the stairs into Jorrvaskr.
Inside were most of Jorrvaskr’s Companions, gathered in the main hall for breakfast. Light grey smoke from the fresh wood in the fire pit wafted upward, curling around and dissipating all in seconds, a constant loop. The faces of her shield siblings were tired, transitioning from sleep to the start of a new day. Tilma and Brill passed dishes around the table, busy with trays and cutlery as they readied the tables for the meal. Those faces that weren’t so tired, that always had a yellowish glint in the eye and a certain awareness that was never quite shed, were all gathered off to one side of the hall.
Three of the Circle’s five members stood together. Vilkas, Kodlak, and Farkas appears to be in a heated discussion. Does what they’re talking about have anything to with the Dunmer woman who just left crying? What is going on? Aerene stood at the top of the stairs, caught between settling down for breakfast or poking her nose into the Circle’s business. It wasn’t often Kodlak, the wise Harbinger of the group, meddled in job assignments. Which is all the more reason to know what’s going on. Her jaw tightened as she lightly ground her teeth in thought. Where were Skjor and Aela, she wondered? “They’re usually back by now,” she heard Vilkas assert in a concerned voice. “We should go lookin’ for ‘em,” Farkas said in his plain voice, at the volume that told those around him he was hardly ever one for whispering. Vilkas spat for Farkas to keep his voice down. “It’s not unusual for your shield brother and sister to go… hunting, boys. Perhaps the prey is farther out this moon,” Kodlak spoke quietly, in a reassuring tone. Aerene stared down at her boots, scraping the fingernail from her left index finger against the burnt portion of her shirt. “They’d have told us, Master. I cannot shake the feeling something is wrong,” Vilkas said. Aerene heard the worried tone he spoke in, and turned her head to look over to them. She caught Farkas’s eye, and he nodded his head in a beckoning her over. As she approached, Kodlak was saying, “Vilkas, I am no one’s master.” As Aerene joined them, fresh faced and renewed, Kodlak greeted her. “Ah, good morning, Aerene.” She looked back towards the front door where the Dunmer women must have left through, and back to the three around her. Is i a good morning?
“Something wrong?” she questioned. Farkas spoke first. “Aela and Skjor are usually here in the mornings. Today, they’re not.” ‘Is that really so bad?’ She wanted to ask, but didn’t for her better judgment. She did not see the reason for bringing up what happened the previous night. Not now, at least. By the attitudes of the three Circle members with her, and the trust she believed they had in her and each other, she figured they were unaware of Skjor and Aela’s attempt at coercion. Still, she couldn’t shake the unease that crept up her back and hovered over her shoulders at hearing those names. “Farkas,” Vilkas glared at his brother. Aerene looked beyond Vilkas, who stood across from her, and over at the table. She could tell the others were curious as to what was going on, in the way Ria and Njada were whispering and leaned in toward each other, with the occasional glancing in Aerene’s direction. Any talk of werewolves cannot take place in the main hall with no privacy. “Who was the Dunmer woman? Did she just leave from here?” Aerene asked, slightly changing the subject. “Yup. Her daughter was kidnapped by bandits and she wants us to track them down,” Farkas said. Aerene’s eyes widened, concerned at the urgency of such a matter. “Farkas and I will search for Aela and Skjor. Aerene, Ria will accompany you to find the girl.”
Aerene felt as though Vilkas had shoved his gloved hand through her chest and grabbed onto her heart, wrenching it between the tight grip of his fingers, but not pulling it out of place. She felt the drop in her chest, as if he’d let go when he began talking to Kodlak and Farkas about the rest of their plan. What they were saying was akin to water rushing in the background of a walk through the woods. Her mind was set on how her trusted shield-brother had just simply told her what to do. It was the least charming she’d ever heard him talk, and he’d completely disregarded the silent but obvious standing that she and Ria did not get along. Flashes of that night in the training yard, when the blood from Aerene’s own tongue tainted her mouth and Ria yanked her around with the simple pull of her hair, echoed across her thoughts. Following those images was that of Vilkas darkening her doorstep at the inn of Falkreath, when her eyes were simultaneously soaked and parched from the constant flow of tears they’d been spouting since she locked herself into her room. What she felt more than anger at Aela and Skjor or disdain at the thought of traveling with Ria to gods-know-where was betrayal. Betrayal by Vilkas, who she did not claim nor own, yet who she clearly cared for more than she cared to admit, who would give her a job with a person she despised in favor of finding two very capable half-wolf warriors who she despised even more for their ignorance and presumption.
“She will not,” Aerene barely walked over her words, just a vowel away from a stutter as she spoke. Kodlak had been talking then, and he, as well as the twins, looked to her. When no one spoke immediately, she met Vilkas’s gaze. Looking into his silvery eyes told her to straighten her back, so she did. “I will find the girl, alone.”
“No, Aerene, it is unwise. We do not know how many bandits are holding her hostage,” Vilkas replied in a tone that reminded her of the days at the Temple when she’d get scolded by the priest she hated. “Can Farkas not accompany me?” she retorted, subtly taking a step towards Farkas’s side. All at once, the three said, “No.” She internally winced, and she knew they could sense, probably even taste, the unpleasant surprise at their dismissal of her offer. If they could sense her ego taking a hit, then they surely knew of the anger bubbling in her heart. She crossed her arms, her hands balling into fists hidden under the fabric of her baggy shirt. “Farkas must go with me,” Vilkas said, and then she understood. Farkas and Vilkas will go together and use their enhanced abilities to follow the scent trails of Aela and Skjor. Vilkas cannot say that, though, unless he wishes Kodlak to be aware that I know of their lycanthropy. Now is not the place, nor the time. “So it goes,” Aerene contended, and having looked at the wood panels beneath her feet, she met his gaze again. “I will not travel with Ria,” she spoke quickly, directly to Vilkas. He took a step closer. “You will go with Ria or she will find the girl with another shield-sibling at her side,” Vilkas hissed back. Thus, the arguing intensified. Now, the two were mere inches from each other’s faces, burning daggers through each other’s skulls. “Do you not think me capable?” Aerene spat to Vilkas, lowering her voice as her brows furrowed in rage. “I think you unwise,” Vilkas fed the flames of the fire. “Lass,” Kodlak attempted to intervene. Farkas could be heard ushering Vilkas to step back so they could discuss the terms of the assignment. Aerene stood her ground, her heart beating at a high pace. Vilkas was standing so close she could feel the heat emanating from him, and even caught that forest-like scent of his. A fragrance she was just dreaming of hours ago, and now she couldn’t stand the turn of things. “I go alone, now, or I will take my leave and you will not see my return.” It hurt her heart to say it, though the words were coming from a place of hurt themselves. I don’t really mean that, do I?! It matters not, for I have already said it. She knew she was in no place to make threats, and that her anger was pointed in the wrong direction, but her sense of rationality had fled through the door already. Vilkas’s gaze softened for a mere second, before his eyes narrowed into bitterness.
“Your choice, sister,” he condemned, shoving a sheet of parchment into her, leaving her no choice but to grab onto it. She couldn’t shake his cursed glare, but refused, in shame, to look at Kodlak or Farkas. Her sweaty fingers grabbed onto the parchment and she walked through the space between Vilkas or Farkas, intentionally shoving Vilkas’s shoulder with hers as she stepped past him. Her hurried steps down into the lower level of Jorrvaskr took her away from the delicious scents of breakfast, and into the condensed quiet of the living quarters.
Gods, I should be ashamed to show my face here after that. Though some others could use a bit more shame, Aerene thought to herself as she stuffed her belongings into her knapsack as it sat on her bed. She made sure her bed roll was fastened to hang from the knapsack, and stopped her movements altogether when she looked at the bag, then into the chest at the foot of her bed. It was empty now, and so was the hiding space where she put her things underneath the bed. All of my belongings stuffed into a knapsack or worn on my person. She’d dressed in her armor and was secretly hoping someone would try and stop her from going alone, or to encounter her and ask why she felt the way she did. When she walked through the halls of Jorrvaskr, and through the front doors, feeling many sets of eyes on her, there was no such thing.
In spite of her pride, it hurt.
On her way out of Whiterun, she realized how little information she had regarding the job. After Aerene had passed the stables outside the main gate, she wondered briefly about where Thunder and Patch might’ve been, as they were not at the stables. Maybe out questing. I wanted out of Whiterun, out of Jorrvaskr, and here I am. Honor and glory, hmph. Where am I even going?
Just before crossing the stone bridge standing over the White River, she stopped in her tracks and decided to collect herself before going even further. There stood the signpost she’d passed a couple weeks previous, with wood pieces carved into arrows pointing in various directions. Riften was east, Windhelm north. I don’t even know where I’m going. She stood there, frowning, looking for a place to sit where she could observe her map. All that looked back at her was calm; long green grass sprouting up in patches, with stones jutting out between lavender blooms and red grass. The breeze of the morning swept her way, and the scent of the fresh lavender washed over her in a gentle haze, easing her spirit. She made her way over to one of the boulders, boots crunching over the thick grass beneath. Once she plopped down, and had her fill of watching the mist dance upward off the river, she opened the map made by Zaynabi and unfolded the crinkled paper Vilkas had so delightfully handed her. She admired the artful declaration on the map, asking herself where the Khajiit caravan might just be at that moment. When she looked to the parchment and spread the page open, smoothing the sheet out over her lap, she groaned. “Divines help me,” she complained, upon seeing the horrendously vague notes on the page. It read, in messy script:
Dunmer girl Nellsea Llanith kidnapped
Parents Dravin and Synda Llanith Merryfair Farm
Ransom 2,500 gold in shack south of Ivarstead
Reward 500 gold
Absorbed by the notes on the page, Aerene had let awareness of her surroundings slip away. It was unlike her, though with so much on her head, could one blame her?
“That’s the prettiest map I’ve ever seen,” a thick, hearty voice spoke to her. She startled, looking up and almost falling backwards off the boulder. She knew that unique voice, without seeing the face hidden underneath the Whiterun Guard’s helmet. “Tomeraas,” she greeted, stabilizing herself on her seat. “Good morning, Lady Aerene.”
“What are you doing out here? I have only ever seen you around Dragonsreach,” Aerene mentioned. Tomeraas chuckled from underneath the helmet, his shoulders moving with his low laughter. “The security in Whiterun is terrible, so the Captain of the Guard reassigned some of us. And I wound up out here. So if a dragon attacks the city, I’m out defending the farms with no protection of the walls,” he spoke, the disappointment with an edge of fear detected in his voice. Clearly, he was unhappy about the reassignment. Aerene blinked, recalling how even the walls of Helgen, made of stone, crumbled with the dragon’s fire. “If you see a dragon, just try to keep distance between it and yourself,” she warned. Tomeraas began to talk, but no full words came out, only stuttering beginnings of a sentence.
Changing the subject, he asked, “What are you doing out here, then?”
Aerene looked from the slits in his helmet where his eyes were hiding, and down to the map. “I’m on assignment for the Companions, but I do not know where to start,” she confessed. She told him about the kidnapped girl and Merryfair Farm, as well as the shack somewhere around Ivarstead. “Over in the Rift? Stay as far from Riften as you can. Though Merryfair is just outside the city walls,” Tomeraas huffed, digging into one of his small belt satchels. From it, he pulled a small charcoal stick. “I can mark the locations I know on your map?” he offered. Aerene nodded, offering her map up to the guard. “You said the shack is south of Ivarsted?” he asked, as he scratched onto the map with the charcoal. “Mhmm,” Aerene affirmed. “Gods, I haven’t been to Ivarstead since I was a boy. Don’t remember seeing a shack. But the forests south of the settlement don’t extend very far before they turn into hills and eventually mountains. If those bandits took the girl for ransom, it would be to a spot easily accessible, near the roads where they can rob passing caravans and travelers, or escape when they’re snuffed out. As bandits do,” Tomeraas explained, gesturing to the roads along the map and the general area the shack was suspected to be. “To get there, you can head south through Riverwood, though I’m unsure how far you can get on the road near Helgen. There’s a shortcut that cuts through the mountains, and into the Rift. Otherwise, you’ll have to head that way towards Ivarstead, and keep traveling at the base of the mountains ’til they wind around to the other side.” Tomeraas pointed eastward, where the road vanished around a turn along the hillside.
Helgen. What has become of the town, now? Does the dragon lurk around the settlement, still? She thought of the moment she and Hadvar escaped from the cave, and watched the wyrm fly into the jagged peaks behind Riverwood.
She studied the markings on the map, eyeing the spot where Ivarstead sat and the general area south of the town. Nellsea is being held clear on the other side of Skyrim’s tallest peak. Haste now will cost everyone involved. “If I am to save the girl, I must be on my way,” Aerene concluded, thanking Tomeraas sincerely for his help. She wished him safety, and told him to keep his eyes on the sky, before setting off up the path toward Riverwood.
The disheartened and perplexed mage stepped along, staring at the path rather than the foliage around her. Eventually, seeing the movement of her own boots walking forward made her dizzy, and reminded her she skipped breakfast to preserve what dignity she had after that encounter with her shield-siblings and Harbinger. She could not deny how much she despised the situation. There was much that hadn’t been said, an especially unpleasant consideration when recalling how open Vilkas and Farkas had been to her before. Vilkas followed me to Falkreath in the middle of the night, for Shor’s sake, and then made clear how foolish he thinks I am. And caught exposed, I threatened to have my way or leave the Companions for good. I wonder, do they hope I reap what I sow and find myself surrounded, powerless, by bandits? And can I truly be angry with Vilkas for what he seems not to know? Is my anger justified without me explaining myself?
At the top of the cobblestone road, at the point just before it began to wind up into the territory near Riverwood, a short while later, she stopped and rested to catch her breath. Her jaw was still clenched tightly, her left hand rested on the hilt of her iron sword. She heaved to take in the air stolen by the steep path, red strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. Through the pine trees, trunks flecked with deep green patches of moss, she observed the walled city of Whiterun, and did not deny the relief she felt at being so far. For now. The moment I return to Jorrvaskr with news of the girl returned home will be glorious, indeed. I still have my own honor to defend and will prove mortal worthiness without lycanthropic intervention.
Away from the bustling city streets and the threatening presences found in Jorrvaskr, she was feeling optimistic about rescuing Nellsea Llanith.
Aerene wandered along the path, following the same route back up the hills into the territory surrounding Riverwood. Along a small ridge she stepped, when the footbridge over a small gap of the river crossed. I should stop for supplies in Riverwood. It would be foolish to continue on the road without food or other goods I might need. As she passed a tall pine tree on her right, a flock of birds flew from it all at once, drawing a yelp from her. She covered her mouth, embarrassed. The last time she’d been startled in the wilds was in the Pale Pass, and that had not ended well.
Riverwood had its usual peaceful nature about it, townsfolk at work or getting ready to start their day. A guard stood atop the town’s entrance wall, eyeing Aerene as she stepped through the entrance. Sounds of the morning carried through the settlement, from the mechanical grinding of the lumber mill to the echo of Alvor’s hammer hitting against the anvil of his smithy. As Aerene passed the Sleeping Giant Inn on her left, she recalled the evening she spent drinking with Hadvar the first night she’d (consciously) spent in Skyrim. A few patrons hung around the entrance, with a couple of children running to and fro playing with a large hound. At second glance, she recognized one of the children to be Dorthe, Alvor and Sigrid’s little girl and Hadvar’s cousin. “Dorthe!” Aerene called to the girl. Dorthe stopped to look around, and her face lit up when she spotted the tall Nord woman calling her name. She came bounding over. “Aerene! Hi!” she greeted, wrapping her arms around the woman’s waist for a hug. Aerene laughed, crouching to meet Dorthe’s height. “Are you here to visit us?” Dorthe asked. Aerene felt a slight pang of guilt at the fact she hadn’t written to the family since her prior departure. “No, I’m passing through on assignment for the Companions,” she said. “The Companions? Wow! Ma always says they’re really tough! I’m gonna work hard around the forge and be really tough too!” Aerene grinned at the girl’s enthusiasm. “I’m counting on it. Now, is your ma at home?” Dorthe nodded happily. “I’m going to say hello to your parents and continue on. Goodbye, Dorthe.”
“Goodbye, Aerene.”
-
“Aerene! Come in! Oh, it’s good to see you,” Sigrid ushered Aerene into the home after the mage spoke to Alvor for a few moments. Once inside, Sigrid invited her to sit and have tea. “I wish I could, but I am on assignment for the Companions.” Sigrid’s expression shifted into wary curiosity. “Oh, so you joined up. What’s the assignment for?”
“A girl was kidnapped from a farm just outside of Riften. She’s being held captive in some shack south of Ivarstead.”
“I know that shack. It’s just east of the snowy pass up near Helgen. Used to pass by it when Alvor and I would go to Riften and trade off his goods there. Do you have a map I can mark the location on?” Sigrid asked, stepping over to a cabinet and pulling an ink pot and quill from inside. She’d marked the shack’s location, and told Aerene she hadn’t been inside it, nor passed by it in years. They’d stopped trading out in Riften after becoming pregnant with Dorthe and started working westward instead. Sigrid had also been delighted to tell Aerene they recently received a letter from Hadvar. He had been preparing to work alongside other Legionnaires to find an artifact hidden away in an ancient Nord tomb. “All those men and women digging in bones for some old crown. Stormcloaks are doing the same thing, though. Beats me as to why both sides of the war want the crown. I just hope our Hadvar stays safe.”
The mage wished the family well as they said their goodbyes, with promises for a proper visit before too long. She’d then stopped by the Riverwood Trader and purchased consumables, a small magicka potion, and a hairbrush that caught her eye. There wasn’t room for much more than that in her knapsack. The general goods store was run by Imperial siblings Lucan and Camila, who were arguing over the display for a large golden claw sitting on the store counter. Before Aerene departed, she asked if the books seen on the shelf behind the counter were spell books, but was told they were not, and that if she wanted spells she’d have to go to the College of Winterhold. And so sincerely, do I want to.
Hours later, she was looking upon a sight she hadn’t expected to see so soon. Helgen.
Chapter 12: I Keep What I Find
Notes:
Two chapters in one day! This one was exciting to write. Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Hidden as though she could blend in with the surrounding forest, Aerene crouched near a boulder just off the cobblestone path leading right up to Helgen. The landscape was snowy, melted around the main road. Aerene took in the scene before her. Bandits had already moved into the abandoned settlement; this was evident with the spikes on either side of the closed entrance gate. A human ribcage, bloody and not devoid of all its flesh, sat impaled by the spike on the right side. On the left was another spike impaling a scorched body. Ugh. It is as though I stand outside the entrance to Orotheim. This hadn’t been the entrance she was carted in on with the other prisoners, though it seemed in tact and with bandits inside, she knew it was locked. The cobblestone walls standing on this side of Helgen were seemingly unaffected by the dragon attack weeks prior. Still, evidence of absence was visible in the overgrowth of shrubs and other plants nearing the entrance.
Aerene began to sneak forward, silently stepping over the snow ground, just slow enough to hide noise of her footsteps. She crept up through bushes, of which the snow fell off when she brushed past. Pulling herself up over a sizable stone lab jutting out from the hillside, she stopped for a moment. Just ahead, as if the gods were smiling down on her, there was a lightly worn path leading along the outer wall. She wouldn’t have to go in through Helgen if she could simply sneak around. Looking over the path, and to the wall, she noticed wooden posts made from sharpened and pointed tree trunks making up a large section, where cobblestones should’ve been. Did this portion of the wall get destroyed during the attack? Onward she made her way, stepping cautiously over the dirty, hard-packed snow; there had been many who left their tracks here, she could see, and hurried to get away before any more made it through. On the other side of the wall, which she couldn’t see through, she heard multiple voices, and paused. Her hand settled on one of the cold wooden logs in that portion of the wall to steady herself. Once it seemed as though the voices faded, she began walking again. Thank you, Adrianne Avennicci, for these warm socks. After sneaking past a guard perched on the lookout wall, and avoiding running into pokey, leafless shrubbery, she passed a patch of purple mountain flower in bloom and hurried eastward up the road, the very same one she’d been on when her execution was imminent.
Skyrim had always been known for its majesty and beauty, and as she walked up the road, where the sides were dotted with worn down, hip-height cobblestone walls, she felt small beneath the huge pines surrounding her. The sunlight shone down its warmth, drawing out sweet scents of mountain flower blooms sprouting up along the road. The woodsy scent of the trees drifted along the mountain path. As much as Aerene reveled being in nature, she wished in part she weren’t here alone. The thought brought her to miss Valdr and his familiarity with Skyrim’s forests, and to stop tears from falling she began to hum an old bard’s song she remembered well. While she hummed, she missed friendship, and secretly wished for someone who’d be at her side without condition or payment. She hoped she’d have this, in time.
And in time, the sunshine was obscured by clouds clinging onto the peaks standing over narrow valley she walked through. It had gotten colder, as expected with how high up this part of the road was; she hadn’t seen a soul since passing by Helgen and hoped things would stay that way until she arrived at the shack. Deep snow drifts were all around now, sticking everywhere but the main road. It fell from the heavens and floated gently down. Aerene held her hand out, and watched a flake fall onto her open palm, the heat of her skin melting it instantly. She pulled her sash into a scarf, and up over her head. She knew she’d grow colder if she stood still, so she kept moving and hiking her way up the steepening road. Her breath visible in puffs of white air as she stopped to catch it, she had finally reached the highest point in the road before it traveled downward to the highlands of the Rift. She figured it must have been the late afternoon now.
Around the next turn in the road, the cobblestone path faded into dirt and snow, leading down into a narrow ravine blanketed with freezing snow. The surrounding rocks had icicles dripping down, frozen in motion yet sharp in appearance. Harsh, icy wind brushed violently down the mountainside and into the ravine, heavy fog snaking down the stones and floating along in the wind. She stepped carefully so as not to lose her footing, and passed by a curious entrance to a cave. Ice hung around the dark crevice, and to the left of the opening was an old wooden cart next to two barrels and a lantern. The lantern was barren inside, and Aerene did not see any footsteps around the entrance, human or animal. She made mental note of the location before continuing down into the ravine. Long shadows of the late day grew below the huge stone hills on either side of the path. The decline of the path lead to unfrozen ground where the cobblestones of the road were visible again. Aerene looked forward, and admired in awe two huge monuments. They were Nordic, facing each other, humongous and tall pillars, the shafts of which were carved topside into bird heads. Eagles, signifying passage into the Rift. Below the monuments were two mountain goats nibbling in the shrubbery just off the path. Aerene passed the eagles, and suspected the work had once been an archway, as there was rubble and broken pillar pieces around the monument bases.
The path emerged into a wider valley, boasting the golden beauty of birch trees and yellow grasses, with green coniferous tree types here and there. The Rift region of Skyrim appeared in eternal autumn, yet was never short of mesmerizing.
That was when Aerene noticed it; a small wooden building hidden among the trees, blending into the nature around it. Had she not looked that way she’d have missed it. Yet, there it was. The previous hours had given her time aplenty to formulate a plan, which was to get as close to the shack as she could and count who was inside before she rushed the small place. Above, the clouds parted, and the early evening sun lit the landscape. Aerene jogged off the path and into the trees to the left, sneaking hurriedly towards the shack until she paused at a vantage point. She had a clear view of the small wooden structure and the enclosed yard area behind. The thatch fence surrounded a yard of tall, dark purple flower blooms and an alchemy table. A small doorway led inside the shack, though from her position she couldn’t see inside. There are no guards around. There should be.
She waited, listening. Only birdsong and rustling leaves from the wind could be heard. Aerene pulled her knapsack off and leaned it against an adjacent tree stump, knowing that things may work in her favor should she approach the shack with no extra items. She began to sneak forward, but stopped in her tracks when a cough came from inside the shack. Where is Nellsea? And the group who kidnapped her?!
Aerene held her breath, pulling the lucky dagger from her waist and stepping over dead leaves on the ground. She met the wall of the shack, leaning against it and listening for any movement inside. If only I had a spell to see through walls. Even if for a moment. I can do this without that, though, and I will prove it to myself.
She quickly jumped over the thatch fence, landing lightly in the yard. That was when she noticed that the flowers were deathbell and nightshade, each poisonous. She held the deathbell bulb in place and stabbed her dagger through. When she pulled it out from the flower’s innards, it was coated in a dark, nearly black liquid that was deadly, damaging health and stamina, while slowing the affected and dizzying their sight. She held the dagger away from her and stepped to peer inside the shack. She spotted a bed, which was empty, and then heard a sword unsheathe. “Who’s there?” a male voice called out. Knowing she’d lost the advantage of a surprise attack, she revealed herself and stood with the dagger in hand. Facing her was a Bosmer bandit, dressed in a full set of iron plate armor. He had a sword she’d never seen before, dark golden-bronze metal with a blade that looked hazardously sharp. “You’ll be easier to rob when you’re dead,” he taunted, and began to step forward. “Where’s the girl?” Aerene demanded, stepping back with each step he took forward. He stopped when she asked this. “Gone. They’re gonna sell her off to some clan over near Markarth. Dunmer girl like her’ll fetch a pretty coin,” he grinned an evil smile that would send shivers down one’s back, made all the more nefarious by the red war paint covering half his face, a stark contrast to his light ashy brown skin and white hair. “What of the ransom?” she asked. “That was a ploy. We were hopin’ her mother would try to come get her, so we could sell her too.” Aerene swallowed the disgust at the back of her throat. I have to find out where she’s been taken to. Before it’s too late.
“You must be disappointed, then,” she contended, adjusting her position into a defensive one. She tightened her grip on the dagger and raised her arm out in front of her, hand in a fist with her thumb nearest her, and the blade of the dagger inviting the Bosmer over for a taste. He chuckled, stepping out of the shack and into the yard. The sun’s last light trickled through the peaks nearby and the long shadows stretched into the first darkness of the night. “Looks like I found myself a hero. Gonna carve those eyes out and mount your head on my wall.”
“Enough!” she spat at him. “Tell me where the other scum have taken the girl, and I may spare your life.”
“To Oblivion. And you’re headed there right behind her.” He’s not going to talk, and I have no time to spare. So I will take the information from his corpse.
The Bosmer roared out, and launched himself forward, sword swinging out into Aerene’s direction. She dove to the side, recovering into another defensive position with one knee kneeling onto the ground and her other leg outstretched. He swung the sword again, and she dodged it once more, leaping backward. Her back hit against the wall of the shack, the impact drawing a cough of breathlessness from her. She spun in a quick turn and rushed into the shack, where space was limited, and where she knew he’d follow. She waited to the left of the entrance, and as expected, he stepped inside. “Cornered yourself, like a lit-“ the elf’s words were cut off when she launched her foot into the wrist holding the sword, crushing the bones inside against the wall to the right of the walkway, drawing explicit curses from the fiend. The sword clattered to the floor. He seethed with anger, and swung at her, with his uninjured fist. She turned and propelled herself into him, and now in close-quarters, as they struggled, they knocked into cabinets and dressers. He’d gotten a fistful of her hair and pulled roughly, and kneed her in the back when he got the chance. She groaned, but kept an unmoving grip on the dagger and, as he held a fistful of her hair with her facing away from him on her knees, she struck the blade into his foot and pulled it out just as soon. “Son of a-“ he raged, and let go of her hair, stumbling backward. Aerene stood to her full height and took advantage of his lost balance, as he knocked back into a cabinet. Alchemical ingredients from the shelves fell onto the floor of the shack. With the dagger in her left hand, she launched her first into his lower jaw. He tried to fight back, but the poison was beginning to effect. The words he spoke were incoherent. Blood began leaking from the corner of his mouth, and she hit him again. He shoved her, but she caught her footing and planted herself in place. “Speak,” she hissed lowly.
“Never,” he choked out, spitting blood at her. “Even with a blade at your throat, you refuse to let up?” And it was not worth it.
He tried to shove her again, but she had him pinned to the wall and his weapons were out of reach. The cup holding her fury ran over, and in a singular motion she slid the blade of the dagger across his throat. Crimson blood poured down his neck and over his armor, and he fell to the floor, choking on the hot red liquid. “Damn you,” she whispered, stepping back out of the pool of blood and falling to sit on the bed. She wiped the back of her hand over her face where he’d spit blood at her, and leaned forward. It was getting darker, and the shack had no light source; neither did she. I need to search for any sign of where Nellsea has been taken to. Gods, not Markarth territory.
Markarth had been mentioned to her by Valdr, and all she knew was that it was to be avoided at all costs. It was apparently full of scheming lords with corrupt guardsmen and criminals roaming free. It sat in southwest Skyrim, at the base of high stone mountains creating a natural land border between the Nordic province of Skyrim and the Breton-ruled land of High Rock.
Feeling at a loss, her head was torn in various directions. She’d just killed another, though deep inside knew he’d only continue his streak of savagery and evil; besides that, what was her other option? There were no jails around, no witnesses to the crimes committed in the shack. He could have lived, if he had told me where she’s been taken to. He made his choice, and now I must live with mine.
She pushed herself up from the bed, using a nearby cloth to wipe the blood from her dagger before sheathing it back at her waist. She hadn’t even used her iron sword, for she left it at the tree with her knapsack. In the settling silence, she took in the shack’s interior. There were two cabinets holding items like plates, bowls, potion bottles, vegetables, and sacks. Dried frost miriam herb hung from a rack next to one cabinet, as well did a garlic braid. A bucket sat on the floor just off an orange-brown decorative rug. To the left of her was a nightstand with an empty lantern and a bowl of orange fire salts atop. She saw then, a map and loose paper sprawled over it. Upon further inspection, the suspected route of the bandits’ plans was drawn into the map. The shack’s location was marked, as was a second location called Knifepoint Ridge, in the wilds northwest of Falkreath. Aerene opened the other pages near the map, reading what appeared to be a dialogue on the plan to move Nellsea to Knifepoint Ridge and wait until the clan from Markarth arrived to take her from there. Each letter was signed off with an initial, and the page in her hand ended with signage from ’T’. Of course, an encampment high in the hills of southwest Skyrim, hidden away like vermin. I am familiar with Falkreath Hold, and may use this to my advantage, however that may be. As she folded the map and letters and stuffed them into a pocket on her belt, she tried to remain unsurprised at the fact she was drawn once more to Falkreath. She looted the shack for any remaining supplies she could carry, including some dried meat still in its wrapping, as well as an apple and some cheese. Just on the lowest shelf of the cabinet, a glint caught her eye. She inspected closer and realized what she was looking at was a jar, with a butterfly fluttering inside. An orange and black winged one, trapped in a mere husk. Aerene stepped out into the yard, and twisted open the lid of the jar. She raised it into the air with one hand, lid in the other, and the little creature inside fluttered away, into freedom. Who knows how long that poor thing has been trapped in there.
Once she picked up her knapsack and set off in the direction of the pass, to venture back the way she came past Helgen, she devised a plan for the assault on Knifepoint Ridge.
The Companion made it past Helgen, and just past the Guardian Stones, when she followed the road left toward Lake Ilinalta. It was here, at the shore of the eastern side of the lake, that the effects of the day began to weigh on her. Her feet ached, having walked all day and now into the night; her legs were tired and muscles strained from the hills she hiked up and down, and her head was still sore from where the Bosmer had pulled her hair. Not to mention, there was that little ache in her heart from the events of that morning. “Hmph,” she scoffed at the thought of what Vilkas said, how his words stung. I’m not sure what is worse-his lack of faith in my ability or his bluntness in pointing it out.
She wandered off the road to stop for a moment, sitting on a rock and digging into the knapsack for a stamina potion. The adrenaline from the earlier tussle had worn away and only sluggardly slowness remained in place. Her eyes were sleepy, the tiredness heavy. After she cast grand healing on herself, she bit the cork off of the potion, and threw her head back to gulp down the contents. It was bitter, but it would get her to Knifepoint Ridge, and it would get Nellsea Llanith back to her family.
The lakeside path was empty of people, as expected for this time of night. Beams of moonlight showed through cloud breaks, and the waters of the lake to Aerene’s right shimmered in the evening lights. Occasionally, a luna moth or torch bug would float by, always in the direction of the lake and emitting an enchanting, soft glow. The entire road was surrounded on the left by forest, with tall trees and small ferns, among other flower and plant blooms all harmonizing in deep greenery. Ahead, further west of Aerene’s location, she could make out the dark masses of storm clouds. It was typical for Falkreath. She jogged along, the time passing by as she ventured past the lake.
Now the middle of the night, she crossed the footbridge just outside Half-Moon Mill on the west end of Ilinalta. The air shifted from humid, with the moisture hovering over the water’s surface, to a dryer nature as she stepped further away from the region. Just past the mill, she turned left to head southwest, towards the foothills of the mountain range running along Skyrim’s southern border. It was eerily quiet, though comfortably so, as she walked under the cover of trees and the fading moonlight lit her path. She eventually found herself overlooking a grove, with a small pond settled over by mist. The trunks of trees in the grove proved indomitable to the mist, which simply flowed around and rejoiced into a dream-like haze. Aerene sat on the ledge she stood on, and scooted over until she landed on her feet just a short drop below. The ground sloped downward, and as she jogged downward, the cool brushing of fern leaves over her legs could be felt. She passed by a small stone tower to her right, seemingly unoccupied, as best she could tell from where she stood. Deciding against exploring the structure, she continued forward.
There was a gap in the foliage, giving way to bare, worn ground. A path. Not a road, but just a path. The long grasses had been worn down, and the ground darkened to expose fresh footsteps. Aerene studied the steps, and began walking eastward, stopping when something caught her eye. She stepped to the left just a bit, the rise of smoke puffing and twirling into the air capturing her attention. But as she took in more of the sight, her stomach dropped and her appetite vanished. There was no living soul left at the scene: a wooden carriage, scorched and cooled to emit a smoke. The ground beneath was blackened, and she knew from Helgen the sight and scent of charred flesh. Unsure of what to do, she carefully stepped closer to examine the destruction. There were horses, too. Her eyes gathered with tears, heart wrenched by the horrific scene her eyes lay upon. What crept into her spirit was an unwelcome and familiar horror when she made the next realization. The carriage and its occupants, all charred to condensed ash, had not the sight of blood, and no footsteps could be seen. She had witnessed this before; an attack leaving that kind of devastation could only be made from above, by a dragon.
“No,” she whispered, eyes immediately darting upward to watch for any movement, ears listening for any roaring or growling or breaking of the skies, as the dragon from Helgen had seemed to command. Only, there was nothing. There exists no other explanation. A dragon preyed upon the carriage, and could still be lurking in the mountains ahead. How long before a city is attacked? Is there anywhere in Skyrim that has answers on what this could mean? Was the dragon at Helgen the first to life after Martin Septim’s transformation into the dragon that was the avatar of Akatosh himself, hundreds of years ago? Even so, the appearance of the avatar took place nearly six hundred years after Tiber Septim’s ascension, before which the last dragons were seen roaming Tamriel. Existentialism attempted to devour her, but failed, as she reminded herself of the task at hand with intention to revisit the subject at a more appropriate time.
Back at the footpath, and after praying to the Divines for the souls of the deceased, she headed westward, jogging along the footsteps left behind by, presumably, the bandit caravan.
I know I must be headed in the general direction of Knifepoint. Bandits this far away from civilization are sure to cause a ruckus, where they do not fear the law and are the dominating predator of the woods.
Her assumption proved correct, as she caught the distant clamor of the group. Up just a bit further, nestled right into the base of the foothills, was an orange glow emitted from campfire. Aerene crouched down, her knapsack securely tightened to her and her weapons ready. She kept her eyes open for any lookout guards, though she doubted she’d find any this far out of the camp, and at this time of night when it sounded as though they were… celebrating.
She neared the bottom of the steep hill, and emerged only as far as was necessary to get a better look at the camp. There was an open clearing around the base of the steep incline, made easier to traverse by the path winding upward and disappearing out of view. At the top of the hill was a makeshift lookout point, where Aerene could barely identify a single guard standing watch. The skies were darkening as storm clouds moved to hide the more forgiving light of the moon. Knowing better than to try and follow the path upward, as if she wouldn’t be shot through with an arrow on first sighting, Aerene quietly unsheathed her sword and stabbed the point of the blade into the dirt, using it to pull herself up the steep hill one long and strenuous stride at a time. She kept at it, knowing her blade would need sharpening after being treated so terribly, and was now in earshot of the commotion. She slid forward, onto her belly, and used her elbows and toes to push herself in a crawl up to the top of the hill, where she peeked over.
There, in front of her, was the encampment that was so much larger than she’d expected. Oh gods. I really am a fool to have come here alone. Dread wrapped its tendrils over her and wrestled her into its embrace.
As she nestled into a patch of ferns next to a tree trunk, body against the ground and eyes watching, she counted at least fifteen bandits just where she could see. In the glow of the firelight, she observed the encampment. Wooden posts were fenced around different sections of the camp, with at least three wooden structures similar in appearance to the alchemist’s shack. Sounds of musical instruments being played carried through the night; she knew she could use the noise to her advantage should she need to, though if she left her position and tried to sneak into the camp, she’d have been spotted. Several tents could be seen through one of the walkways, with figures laying on bedrolls inside. Just a few paces in front of her were two archery target stands, still and without any archers practicing. I need to figure out where Nellsea is being held, she thought, and prayed to the Divines that the girl was still at the camp.
Aerene scooted back down the hill in favor of exploring the eastern edge of the camp, looking for any signs of the girl and any point where she could sneak through undetected. She made her way through a narrow crevice to the side of the hill, and found herself on a rocky ledge. To the left was a steep, stony drop to the ground below; it was most certainly enough to kill any who fell, either along the way or at the very bottom. Jagged stones pointing upward, characterized by steep and rough edges; for certain doom, it was certainly menacing. To the right were the same type of rock slabs, which she could hoist herself up if needed. Knelt down, Aerene took a moment to look out over the forest from the ledge, over the hundreds of trees scattered through the distance, nearly black masses in the dark of the night. Cracking of thunder across the sky above sounded out over the landscape, a flash of lightning casting an electric illumination over the Hold. Aerene took in a breath, readying herself for what came next, and mustering together the strength she’d lost through the day.
“What’s this, here?” a voice called from behind her. She heard the unsheathing of a sword, and whipped around to face the person who to which the voice belonged. The plunderer stood too close, so much so that when Aerene turned she was closer than arm’s reach. “Time to meet your maker,” the woman sneered, and raised the blade before swinging it down. Aerene had no time to decide what to do; her only objective was to survive. Somehow, the woman managed to sneak up on her, and it was only her taunting that saved the redheaded Nord from an early demise. Had Aerene not fallen to the stone just breaths away from the ledge, her own neck would have been gutted open. Her opponent pointed the blade at the throat of the mage, and pinned Aerene with a fur boot. The last moonlight of the hour faded away then, reflected for a second over the skin of the bandit who had Aerene on the ground.
Rain began to pour.
Stuck under the boot of the woman, whose taunting and jeering Aerene could barely make out over the sudden and loud rain, she struggled to decide her next move. Her instinct came automatically, though, as the blade jutted forward toward the delicate skin of her throat. Aerene’s hands were just as quick, meeting the blade and holding it back; in response, the plunderer’s second hand met the hilt of her blade and used double the force to slide through Aerene’s grip. The steel cut through the thin leather covering the palm of her hand, her gauntlets failing her. She whimpered at the smooth, precise pain as the edges of blade slid across her palms.
Come on! Do something!
Another flash of lightning cracked across the heavens and brought brief light to the face of the bandit woman, her teeth gritted and expression twisted in an otherworldly bloodlust. Her eyes, dark as the very night, with pupil and iris as one, were the most haunting. She jerked the blade forward, and Aerene pressed her head back, saving her neck by a hair’s breadth. Her grip tightened on the blade, legs squirming to try and shake the balance of her enemy. The pressure of the boot pressing her own steel armor into her chest squeezed the air out of her lungs. If I move any further back, I’ll be off the ledge! She was so close to the edge of the drop she could feel cool wind flowing upward just from the precipice.
Without notice, she mimicked the electric energy of nature itself and cast sparks from her bloodied hands. The violet and ivory sparks traveled in a flash, up the metal of the sword and into the hands of the wielder. The bandit woman cursed, faltering as she shook from the electric shock. At her only chance, Aerene pushed herself forward, hands spreading to latch onto any fabric she could grab. When she felt the fur armor in her grip, she threw herself backward toward the ground, planting her right foot flat on the wet stone. She thrust her hips upward, and pulled back, the motion sweeping the fiend over her head, her body gliding in a fell swoop over the ledge. Aerene let go, her hands stinging at the rubbing of the fresh wounds of her palms, her back smacking into the cold stone. The scream of the bandit thrown over the ledge echoed upward, rendered quiet by the pounding rain falling all around. The mage lay there, hands shaky as she turned from her back onto her belly. She shuffled backward until she was against the ledge wall, tucked against it in safety. She looked to her hands, her skin seeming grey in the darkness, leaking an even darker liquid.
She closed her eyes, her palms facing each other while she focused her magicka. The warm light of a healing spell swirling around her, flowing out from her palms and shining a near blinding light as it flowed right back in. She felt the tickle of her skin stitching itself back together, the sting of the cuts fading into a pleasant sensation. Once she stopped activating the spell, the light faded, and she dragged one of her fingers over the palm of the opposite hand. The wounds had healed into a scar, warm and tender to the touch but mended nonetheless.
After gathering herself, the woman crept along the ledge, hand tracing the stone wall to her right for proper stability. The next section of the rock she stood on curved upward; she leaned back, and could see that if she managed to climb up, she’d be on a grassy ridge closer to the edge of the camp. The rain pouring over the stone made it slick, though she trusted in herself to take shaky steps on at a time up the slope before she scrambled onto the stringy and wet grass patch waiting at the top. Her hair was soaked, and the raindrops slid in tickling motions down her cheeks. A chilly wind brushed up against her back, drawing chills from her skin.
Now, as she crouched against the rock formation to her right, she could see into the clearing ahead. A few evergreen trees were scattered about, with thick grasses and ferns dotting the ground. One of the small wooden structures she had seen earlier was in clear view; in front of it was a stone fire pit and a smithy; behind the shack was lining of the wooden post fence, resembling the same style of craftsmanship as the fencing in Helgen. Must be vagabond crafting, after all. Past the smithy were hide tents and a walkway into another section of the camp. Men and women alike, each dressed in armors like hide, fur, leather, and iron, wandered about; they chattered, laughed, counted coin, told tales, and drank. Each person Aerene could see had a tankard, bottle of wine, or a bottle of mead, in their hand. What each fiend had in common was that none of them looked her way.
From where she hid, the woman traced with her eyes the wooden posts to see if there were any weak points in the barrier fence. To the very left side of the fence, the posts didn’t actually line up the side of the rocky mountain the camp was nestled against. They only appeared that way, she realized; an opening. When she was sure the distracted louts weren’t looking in her direction, and after she’d checked her surroundings for any more sneaky types, she hurried in a crouched run to the fence. She knelt down, looking to her sides for any signs she had been spotted. Nothing. Now that she was closer, she could hear the conversations being held.
“Gods, hate this damned rain. Can’t wait to get out of Falkreath Hold.”
“Wish they’d play the good music. I’ve always hated the stringy lute sound.”
“Going to your tent alone?”
“Don’t even try anything with me, you drunk bastard.”
“Don’t touch me!”
Aerene’s eyes widened as a young voice cried out that demand. Nellsea. “Straighten up, or I’ll put you back in the mine. You wanna go back in your cage, little dog?” the man speaking had an acerbic, casual tone underlaid by sinister intentions. She knew she’d heard it before, but couldn’t place where.
“No, no! I’m sorry! I’ll behave, I swear!” her voice was shaky and fearful. “Good. Now sit still and I might just let you sleep in my quarters, greyskin. Tomorrow, you’re movin’ to your new home in Markarth.” Aerene’s teeth gritted at what she was hearing. Oblivion is where we make it.
At least now I know where Nellsea is. But if I draw attention to myself, we’ll both end up dead, or worse. I need a distraction. First, I need a visual.
Aerene sucked in a breath, hoping with all her being that there wasn’t about to be someone eyeing her as soon as she peeked around the edge of the fence to see the other side. What she saw were several bandits, plunderers, and marauders sitting on benches around a huge bonfire, the heat of which she could feel on her face just as it was exposed. She quickly scanned the area, searching for the young Dunmer Nellsea. What she saw was sickening: Thrynn, the drunken thief who had been the target of her hired muscle job weeks prior, had his hand on Nellsea's shoulder and was walking them both out of sight, presumably to ‘his quarters’ in one of the shacks. Damn it! I should have guessed that rat would get out of the Falkreath Jail. Look how many friends could have bailed him out. I never noticed he was gone when I was there with…
…with Vilkas.
No, I cannot allow him to intrude on my thoughts. I have to get to Nellsea!
With so much drink, and plenty of ill-gotten merriment, the group of fiends was consumed with themselves. Aerene stared from her hiding place into the flames of the bonfire, the sizzling of flames and raindrops harmonizing in a heated melody. She looked to her palm, seeing the new scar at the center. Aerene looked to the right, to the nearest tree, and aimed her hand at it while summoning flames in her hand. The fire burst from her palm outward, licking at the branches and leaves of the tall pine tree. The hot orange flames danced into the surrounding grasses, exactly as she hoped they’d do. Before long, she whipped behind the fence and hurried along it to get a view of the shack with the smithy out front.
A clamor of screams and commands broke out from the direction of the bonfire on the other side of the posts. She could hear the camp’s inhabitants rise into a panic as the fire spread. The growing flames were too hot to be cooled by the downpour so soon.
The fire-wielding mage stepped quickly to the shack, blasting flames over the wooden walls and thatch roof. It caught effortlessly, sending deep grey puffs of smoke into the air, the acrid scent mixing with the sweetness of the cold rain. All around, the camp turned into a scene of chaos; the crowd enjoying drink and music just minutes previous had turned into a crowd of half-drunk idiots running to safety, knocking into each other with too few of them sober enough to be smart about getting away from the rapidly spreading danger. Aerene stood near the blacksmith’s forge, scanning the chaos for Nellsea or Thrynn. Multiple people bumped into her and shoved past as the group scattered; luckily for her, their numbers were too large for them to recognize she wasn’t one of them, but was the cause of this destruction.
Across the clearing, in another section of the camp, she caught a glimpse of Thrynn, recognizable by the brown leather armor he wore, and his shoulder length hair tied half up. He had Nellsea by the arm, and was pulling her after him. Aerene took a step forward to go after them, ready to break into a sprint, when a sound from the archives of her past caught her attention. A horse’s neigh. The woman knew immediately, that the sounds of protest belonged to-
“River,” she whispered, stopping in her tracks and scanning over the camp. Her heart quickened in anxious anticipation. Then, she spotted her silver mare, in all her glory, across the clearing near the entrance of the camp. She was saddled, but roped to a post at the base of the lookout tower. The rope was tied around her neck and muzzle, tugging her back into place each time she reared up. Lightning struck, the thunderous clapping drawing a roar of terror from the panicked mare, kicking her long legs out as she struggled. Aerene was delighted to see her horse after giving up on the idea of a reunion, but buried the elation as she knew she couldn’t leave without Nellsea. River always hated thunderstorms, which also meant no soul besides Aerene could calm her enough to ride away from the camp. Just stay another moment, girl. I’m here, she thought as she broke into a jog and set out in the direction she’d seen Thrynn and Nellsea vanish.
The sounds of Thrynn's yelling and Nellsea’s responsive sobbing drew Aerene to a shack in a section of the camp not yet touched by the flames. “I said help me, damn it!” his voice boomed from inside the shack. Nellsea screamed back a cry of refusal. Aerene tried the door, though it was locked. She shouldered into it, and heard the wood begin to split. Instead of battering into it again, she began kicking at it, sending a final thrust of her leg outward and sending the door flying open. Nellsea was just on the other side, which meant Thrynn was out of sight. He cursed, threatening to send whoever had busted the door open; before he could get to the doorway, Aerene rushed in, and met him with a furious shove. He yelled out, staggering backward against a dresser in the shack. Aerene drew Valdr’s lucky dagger from her waist sheathe, and readied herself for the tangle against Thrynn. “Nellsea,” she spoke, keeping her eyes on Thrynn as he unhooked a steel axe from his belt. “Y-yes?”
“Your mother sent me to find you. Wait outside.”
Cries of relief could be heard as the girl hurried out of the shack and out into the rain.
Inside the shack, Thrynn looked upon Aerene with disgust. “You. Should’ve killed you back in Falkreath when I had the chance. Guess I’ll just have to do it now, dog.”
“You should be so lucky,” Aerene quipped, preparing to launch forward. That was when she noticed a small chest down near his feet, sitting on the floor underneath the single bed in the left corner of the shack, behind him. It was not just any chest, no. It was hers. Her initial A was carved into the front of the chest, just below the lock; she could make out the carving from where she stood. She’d had the chest with the rest of belongings as she and River caravanned through the Jerall Mountains, when she was caught in the Imperial ambush. Inside was her entire life savings of gold, with some gems she’d… acquired through the years. She was fully aware that traveling alone with so much was utterly foolish, but any other options had not been presented to her.
“You thief!” she accused. “What, that old box was yours? Found it in the hills further south. Same with the horse, damned rowdy thing. Besides, we both know how you gathered all those riches, Aerene.” My name. He knows my name. That means… no, it cannot be. Evidently, the surprise had shown on her face, with the way Thrynn continued speaking, taunting. “Think you could leave the Guild life behind? Get away from it the minute you leave the Imperial City?” His biting words threatened to exhume her past.
“You took what was mine. Stole it after the Imperials ambushed me.”
“Yeah, what are you gonna do? Threaten me with that little dagger? Hit me a few more times?”
She frowned, planting her boots into the floor beneath her. She felt the heat rising to her face, flushed by anger and unbothered by the cold drifting inside through the open door. The grip she had on the handle of the dagger turned her knuckles white, and reminded her that minutes previous, her palms had been sliced open. The rising adrenaline drowned the aches.
“I’m going to steal it all back, you bastard.”
Each of them rushed forward, axe against dagger. Thrynn raised his arm and prepared to swing the axe down into the crevice between her neck and shoulder, but her left hand met his right wrist and held it back. Her right hand, dagger ready, jolted forward towards his torso. He caught her wrist with an iron grip, and threw his head forward, knocking into hers. She grunted, staggering backwards and managing to catch her balance. A dull aching sensation swirled around her forehead where he’d knocked into her. Not one to be stopped so easily, she took another stab at him with the dagger, but in agility, he dodged the attack and before she could turn back towards him, her momentum getting the best of her, he grabbed onto the back of her neck and slammed her head down into a nearby table. The impact was instant, her right eye firing with pain and the cheekbone below echoing the same calls for healing. He had her pinned, and she squirmed, trying to push at him or even pull enough to move. Her face pressed into the splintered wood of the table turned, and in the peripheral vision of her left eye she could see him raising the axe, preparing to bring it down through the steel armor and into the delicate skin of her back. If it he hits my spine, I’m done for. I cannot let that happen! Sounds of war cries, slamming, shoving, and all the like calamity sounded through the shack, as she wrestled both of her hands onto the edge of the table and pushed herself back as hard as she could. Thrynn’s axe fell to the floor, as had her dagger somewhere in the chaos. They stumbled backward, but before she could be free from his grip, he secured his left arm around her neck, pulling her as tightly to him as possible to choke the air from her. He had the grip of a serpent constricting its prey, tight and unletting. She raised both arms, pulling at the skin of his arm and elbow to try and force herself free. Doing it while not being able to breathe in was growing increasingly difficult. Her very sight was darkening, as the dryness of her lungs rose up through her throat and into her head. Her nails digging into his skin were no match. She opened her mouth, instead, and bit down into his arm, biting as tightly as she could manage to the point where her jaw was hastily growing tired from the pressure. Thrynn shrieked in agony, but despite the deafening noise right into her ears, she didn’t let up; the disgusting taste of his blood, tangy, and metallic, poured into her mouth. The hotness was unbearable, but she had a goal, and that was to make her top and bottom teeth meet. As her jaw was nearly shut into his skin, the sudden sending of the knuckles from his right hand into the fresh wound around her eye drew her own cry of pain. His punch drew her teeth from his arm, and consequently, his arm from around her throat. There was blood everywhere she looked; just as red and furious as the expression Thrynn wore, brows furrowed in rage while he cursed at her, his hand below trying to squeeze the bite wound in his arm. Aerene spit the blood in her mouth towards him, stepping back for some distance between them as she looked over the floor for a weapon. Lightheaded indeed, she coughed and tried to suck in as much air as she could, fingers pulsing into a grip on nothing. In front of her, Thrynn bent to pick up the steel axe. Taking advantage of his position, she met him, and gripped his head with both hands, sending her knee straight up into his chin. He coughed out, both of them breathless and bloody. The exhaustion was beginning to wear in. Thrynn fell to all fours, one hand holding him up while the other tapped over the floor in tangible search of the axe. It was not on the floor, nay, but in her own hand, snatched from the ground in a moment’s notice. She kicked at the bastard again, the impact effective but weaker than before. Her head was spinning in pain and breathlessness, but she was still standing. He struggled to, trying to push himself upward and failing each time. We’ve been here before. This is where it ends.
She plunged the axe into his back, plucking it from the squelching and spurting gash that had split open the leather of his armor. He screamed, though it quieted nearly as fast as it had started. She did not stop there; Aerene swung the axe in again, and once more pulled it from the newest wound in the bastard thief’s register. Countless times, she swung it into him, blood splashing out with droplets darting out in every direction, on the furniture, the ground, her own skin. Then, he stopped moving, and she dropped the weapon to the floor; it landed with a clatter. The entire scene was red and hot, but the silence could never really settle with the pattering of rain onto the roof. Aerene stood back, shakily, panting and licking at her chapped lips for some moisture. She retrieved her dagger, and knelt down under the bed for her chest. She tugged, and it was heavy. Heavier than she remembered. She scooted it out from under the bed frame. It was locked shut; she pushed herself to a standing position, and heaved the chest into her arms, leaning for a moment against the wall to catch her balance. Her footsteps sounded as she made it to the doorway. She looked back to Thrynn one last time, and still tasting his blood in her mouth, spit at him again before stepping out into the downpour.
Nellsea was huddled by a tree, and came running over. Aerene looked upon her clearly for the first time, seeing the Dunmer girl’s light orange-red hair, and her eyes that shone like rubies. “Is he dead?” she asked. Aerene adjusted her loosening grip on the chest. “Yes,” she replied, just slightly swaying as her balance was returning. “Are you alright? By the Nine, look at you!” Nellsea reached up and brushed away the strands of hair sticking to the wound on Aerene’s cheek. “I am alive, more than he can say. We are leaving now. Grab on to this,” Aerene gestured to the sash hanging over her shoulder, which she’d returned to its original position sometime in the night. Nellsea reached out and held on to the blue cloth of the sash. “Stay close to me. We’re going to make a run for it across camp, to the horse by the lookout post. Wait for me to help you on. Are you ready?” she asked. Nellsea nodded, and Aerene did the same in response. They jogged to the edge of this section, avoiding the flames that began to ensnare the fencing and trees near the walkway. Once out, they ran through the chaos, shoving past the panicking bandits; some were trying to gather their things, while others helped their less sober counterparts stumble away from the growing fire. The heat drew sweat from Aerene and Nellsea as they sprinted, rain seeming to pound down harder than ever. They made it to the lookout post, where River was roaring against two marauders trying to get onto her saddle. The horse was untamable, rearing and whinnying; the bandits tugging at the rope they’d untied were barely dodging the creature’s defensive kicks. Aerene and Nellsea stood back, the Nord placed protectively in front of the Dunmer.
Aerene tried to remember the commands she’d taught River years ago. It hadn’t been very long since she used them, but her mind was in shambles and utterly exhausted. Only a few words came to mind.
“River!” she called to the mare. She saw the horse’s face flick towards her in acknowledgement, their eyes meeting for a moment. “Come.”
The mare roared again, jumping in a turn and launching her hind legs out at the thieves attempting to steal her away a second time. They could not escape her hooves sending into their abdomens, thrust backward and crying in anguish at her jabs. River whinnied, galloping to Aerene and nudging her muzzle into Aerene’s shoulder. “She’s your horse?” Nellsea asked, as Aerene set the chest down and helped her onto the saddle. “Yes. Can you hold this in place a moment?” Aerene asked, heaving the chest up onto the saddle. Nellsea grabbed on, keeping it steady as Aerene stuck her foot into the stirrup and swung her right leg over the other side. “Hold on tight,” she warned, sandwiching the chest in between them, Nellsea huddled into Aerene as she gripped the reigns, chirping a command.
River began galloping down the path through the main entrance to the camp, rushing past the fleeing bandit cowards, away from the growing fire overtaking the camp, into the thunderous darkness of the night while the rain fell furiously.
Chapter 13: Against Better Judgment
Summary:
oh, the glories which flow in the winds of change...
enjoy, dear reader!
Chapter Text
Up and down, consistently forward, were the strides of River as she galloped through the blazing rains, free from entrapment. Aerene and Nellsea held steady, though the quick pace prompted each raindrop to feel reminiscent of little shards against their skin. Aerene looked behind her, and could no longer see the orange glow of the flames in the far distance. As she twisted to look, though, she was reminded just how exhausted she was; her muscles, joints, and bones ached, and as the stamina potion was wearing down, she was, too. “Woah, girl,” she spoke to the horse, lightly pulling the reigns toward her. Nellsea’s hands tightened on the horn of the saddle as River slowed to a trot. Her galloping patters had grown less frequent, and it seemed the rain had lightened to a soft drizzle. “Have we lost them?” Nellsea asked, turning to look behind them as Aerene had.
They had at first been riding through the trees, though Aerene directed River to the cobblestone road soon after their escape began because she knew it was no good idea to ride so quickly in a dark forest. “I’m sure we have. I didn’t see any other horses. We are many steps ahead, and are the least of their concerns, now,” the woman responded, flicking her head to shake the rain from her brow. “Oh, thank the Divines,” Nellsea sighed, pushing her hair behind her ears. She gathered her arms together and hugged herself, rubbing her hands over her arms to try and generate warmth. “It’s freezing out here,” she said, her breath visible in the settling chill. “And my bottom hurts, miss. We don’t have a horse at home,” she added. When Aerene said nothing, Nellsea spoke again. “Miss?” she asked, turning her head to look at the second passenger on the horse. Aerene’s eyes had fallen shut, and she sat there in a state between the waking and dream worlds. Nellsea grabbed Aerene’s knee, by her own hip, and shook Aerene awake. Aerene jolted up, blinking. How can I have begun to fall asleep?! I need to keep my guard up, now of all times!
“What’s your name?”
Nellsea asked this as Aerene straightened her back and sucked in a breath of the cold air. “Aerene, of Jorrvaskr,” she responded. Hmm, honorable.
“Can we please stop, miss Aerene? I am so cold, the wind has sunk into my bones,” Nellsea pleaded. Aerene noticed the girl’s shivers, and a look of concern overtook her features. Where could they stop? It was soaking wet everywhere she looked, and knowing Falkreath Hold, the downpour might have continued for days. That was when she recalled the cave in the mountain pass between Falkreath Hold’s misty climate and the golden forests of the Rift. There had been no footprints outside the cave, indicating it was likely abandoned. They could rest there for a bit, inside, where it was drier, and warmer.
“I saw a cave earlier. But it is still a bit ahead on the road. Didn’t look like anyone was inside. In the mountain pass, up past Helgen in the hills,” Aerene spoke, thinking aloud. She scooted a bit closer to Nellsea, forward on the saddle, the small chest still between them. “I don’t even know where we are,” Nellsea commented. “They put a bag over my head when they snatched me from the farm,” she added. Her voice was a bit shaky, adding to her prominent shivers. Aerene hesitated, but extended her arms out, and held them there. “May I?” she asked, offering to huddle closer for warmth. Nellsea nodded, and shifted back just a bit. Aerene leaned forward, pulling the girl closer; Nellsea’s skin was ice cold. “You’re going home, Nellsea. You are safe, and I will not let any more harm come to you.”
The Dunmer girl had gone quiet, occasionally moving into Aerene’s embrace in a patchy sleep as they rode up into the snowy hills, where the rain had stopped and snowflakes instead drifted to the ground. Aerene woke the girl once they arrived at the cave, and they walked their tired bodies inside. River was stationed just outside the cave mouth, which was a narrow crevice, her reigns tied around a tree branch with enough room to lay or graze on the icy grass poking through a melted snow patch on the ground.
A couple hours passed as they had traveled eastward in Skyrim’s southern region; through the fog sitting atop Lake Ilinalta, quietly along the makeshift wall of Helgen, and peacefully through the snow drifts up into the mountain pass. They paused briefly at the shore of Lake Ilinalta, where Aerene washed her face and drank from the waters to get the taste and stains of blood from her mouth. Dawn must have been only a couple hours away by now, though the rescued and rescuer were caught up to their knees in tiredness from the day.
Aerene had crept through the cave entrance first, met by a very dark cavern interior. It was as they’d hoped, drier and warmer, and unoccupied. The ground sloped downward and the cavern walls went straight ahead for several paces, before curving leftward. Aerene cautiously looked around the bend, met only with more darkness. The only light in the cavern came from the moonlight outside, just barely stretching through the entrance crevice. Nellsea plopped down against one of the walls, pulling her knees to her chest and tucking her feet underneath her dirtied, stained dress. Aerene snapped thin branches from the couple of trees outside the entrance, and peeled the bark until she met the dry centers. Once she had a handful, she dropped them into a pile inside. She used the last of her magicka to light the wood on fire, and it caught. The cave’s interior was dimly lit and a bit warmer than it had been previously. She spotted ferns growing adjacent to the walls, and plucked them before adding them to the burning pile. Nellsea held her hands out for warmth while Aerene dug in her knapsack for food. Her belongings had all gotten soaked, so she emptied the bag and set everything out to dry. They squeezed the water from their hair, and Aerene asked the girl if she’d been injured at all.
They both knew the fire wouldn’t last long, but relished in its warmth anyway. After feasting on the handful of goods Aerene had packed, down to the apple cores and bones of dried fish, sleep welcomed the escapees into its embrace.
Some time passed before Aerene’s eyes slowly opened awake. It was not because she was ready to get up, no, but rather because her face was throbbing; her eye in particular, where Thrynn and slammed her head into the table and she used the last of her magicka to start the fire instead of heal herself, the potion of minor healing not enough to ease the ache for good. Her hand set into the dirt below, pushing her body upward as she got up onto her knees. Daylight illuminated a sliver of the cave as it shined through the crevice opening. She squinted as she looked up into it, taking her surroundings; Nellsea was curled up, sleeping, and the fire had died down sometime during their slumber. Aerene raised a finger to her cheek beneath her eye, and just the slightest touch caused her to draw a sharp breath in.
It wasn’t until the early afternoon that they were back on the road, drawing near the heart of the Rift Hold. Aerene sat at the back of the saddle, Nellsea in front, with the small chest sitting in between them while River trotted along. The second time Aerene awoke, she had accumulated enough magicka to cast healing on herself and healing hands on Nellsea, as they both croaked awake and instantly felt the effects of sleeping on the cold, hard ground of a chilly cave. Aerene’s eye throbbing had calmed, the swelling fading but the bruising still visible. “Finally, I know where we are,” Nellsea said, after they’d traveled southwest for a while. “My family’s farm is just on the other side of the lake,” she said excitedly. “Turn here, and cross the bridge by the mill,” she instructed Aerene. The Companion tugged River’s reigns into the direction Nellsea advised, and the three emerged into a clearing at the lakeshore. “This is Heartwood Mill,” Nellsea stated. “Want me to mark it?” she asked Aerene.
During their journey through the Rift, to keep them from boredom, Aerene tasked Nellsea with marking any landmarks onto the map she kept; Nellsea was happy to do so, and even drew little pictures of the locations they passed. “Please do,” Aerene replied. Heartwood Mill had a log cabin to the right of the yard, boasting a tall stone fireplace stretching from ground to roof. A chicken coop, chickens included, was placed near the front door of the cabin, while the mill itself sat on the shore of the lake. The dirt path led to a cobblestone bridge crossing over the calmly drifting waters of Lake Honrich. Birch trees with golden leaves surrounded them, even after they followed the road over the bridge and along the lakeshore, an outcrop of rocky hills to the left and the glistening waters to the right. Aerene looked out over the lake, eyeing the various tiny islands sprouting up from the waters; each one had a single birch tree and some rocks. She wagered it would have made for a good swim to make it out to one of the islands and enjoy the warm sun… if she knew how to swim.
“What’s this place?” she asked as they came up to a stone fort, half crumbled into ruin; it looked ancient, especially with the way the cobblestones were begging to be seen under massive ivy and moss growth. “Ma and da call this place Faldar’s Tooth. Old bandit fort, or something like that. The city guards have had to come here and kick out the bandits who try to live inside,” Nellsea explained. I’m sure they do more than simply kick them out, Aerene thought to herself, noticing the iron bars blocking the entry archway into the courtyard of the fort. It looked desolate, yet peaceful.
“And that’s Goldenglow Estate,” Nellsea pointed to the right. Just down on the shore was a dock with a boat, and across the water were three small islands with an impressive log cabin. Aerene could make out beehives on one island, with a footbridge crossing a small gap in the land to the main grounds where the home was. She did not need Nellsea to tell her this was Goldenglow Estate, no… she had heard plenty about it even before her entry into Skyrim. Goldenglow was owned by an Altmer businessman named Aringoth, whose honey, produced at the estate, supplied the Black Briar Meadery in Riften. I imagined it to be bigger.
Even from across the waters, she could see private guards roaming the grounds, keeping a tight watch on any prospective invaders, like thieves.
“That’s my house!” Nellsea cheered, pointing ahead to another home just barely visible further into the forest; it, too, was a log cabin. “Go up this hill here, the path we’re on now ends at the water,” Nellsea instructed. Aerene did as the girl said, and directed River up over the ridge. “Well, no use in delaying your homecoming, is there?” Aerene teased. “Hyah!” she called out, and River broke out into a sprint, galloping through the trees and down a gradual decline to Merryfair Farm. Nellsea giggled the whole ride, the horse hardly stopped before she was sliding off River’s back onto the front porch. “Ma! Da! I’m home!” she called out, knocking onto the door and trying to open it. Understandably, Nellsea’s parents had locked the front entry doors.
They appeared mere seconds later, revealing their daughter to be the spitting image of them. “Nellsea, my dear!” her mother Synda greeted, rushing forward to embrace the girl; her father approached, too, holding back tears, but mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ to Aerene, who smiled to him and stood back to give them their space. “You brought our little girl home,” her father Dravin said, offering his hand for Aerene to shake. She did, and noticed his left arm in a sling. He must have seen her looking, and sighed. “Damned bandits broke my arm when they robbed us. If it weren’t for Synda here, I’d have gone out and tried to fight them myself. But she said the Companions in Whiterun could get our daughter back, and she was right.”
“Did they hurt you at all, honey?” Synda knelt down, inspecting her daughter. “I’m okay,” she said, sniffling and falling into her mother for another hug. “Come on, let’s get you washed up. I’ll make you something to eat, honey,” Synda grabbed her daughter’s hand and began walking her inside. “Goodbye, miss Aerene. Thank you for bringing me home,” Nellsea smiled, while Aerene waved and the girl went into the home with her mother.
Dravin looked to Aerene after the door was shut. “How bad was it?” he questioned, his onyx eyes shining with anxiousness. “She wasn’t at the shack when I arrived. The clan had plans to sell her off to another group in Markarth,” Aerene confessed, knowing it just might have been better to keep that truth to herself. The girl’s father looked away, a mix of emotion in his expression. “By Azura, thank you, sera. You brought her back to us. And paid the price,” he said, gesturing to her face. She suddenly felt self conscious, though she was the one left standing even with a bruised eye and cheek. “The caravan made it as far as Knifepoint Ridge, but that camp is scattered now, for the time being,” she began, deciding now that she shouldn’t say much more than that. It probably wouldn’t do her any good to explain that she tried to burn it down but wasn’t sure if she had been successful. She approached River, who was grazing on some grass outside a pen with a cow inside. “Keep your eyes open,” she advised, pulling herself onto the horse. “I will. Give my regards to the Companions,” Dravin waved with his good hand, before heading inside and closing the door behind him.
Aerene sat with the chest situated between her hips and the horn of the saddle, admiring the patches of cabbage, wheat, and gourds growing in the plots out front of the house. She then looked leftward, to Riften; the city she had never been to, that had already written itself into her story. Inside were most likely fragments of her fractured past, memories she’d revisit willingly if it meant she could get a meal, bath, and bed. The two set off then, on the path to the main gate.
Reluctantly, the woman left River in the care of Shadr, the stablehand; she was worried to leave her mare again, but found reassurance in witnessing the content behaviors of the stable’s current residents, a couple of dappled horses with white spots on their grey-brown hides. After lingering at the stable River would stay in for just a little too long, she faced her grievances and passed through the front gates, wooden doors seated under a breezeway carved from Riften’s antiquated and mossy cobblestone walls.
Through the gates, a brick street stretched forward. Long shadows were cast over the street from a large building to the right, built of logs with glass-paned windows. Next to it was an alleyway that appeared to lead through an iron gate into a residential garden. To the left was another garden pathway and a row of homes, all double story with balconies built out from the second floors. Wooden support pillars stood between the ground and the balcony walkways; golden leaves sat atop the yellow green grass patches off brick walkway, and a warm breeze caressed Aerene’s skin as she made her way forward.
Ahead, the street split into three walkways; two the left were more residences, and to the right, a home at the end of the path. Aerene looked downward, and through the spaces in the wooden boards making up the ground, she could see the dark waters of Riften’s canals below. She stepped forward to the footbridge crossing the canal, and watched as the water drifted into the canal below. She spotted numerous barrels lining the lower walkway, the streets beneath the streets, seeing a few storefronts and homes made in the mossy bricks of the city walls. Light humidity of the water drifted upward, the moisture in the city’s air not unfamiliar to the traveler. Aerene tightened her grip on the chest in her arms, growing tired of carrying it, and decided she could explore the rest of the city after she rested. In front of her was an inn, The Bee and Barb, in the same architectural style as all of Riften’s other buildings, with lanterns containing candles hanging from the second story’s overhang. She caught glimpses of the city’s keep and marketplace toward the south end of the open space.
The Bee and Barb was rather quiet inside, in the late afternoon hours before the city’s patrons left their work for a drink and dinner. Aerene looked around, seeing the staircase to the left as she walked in. The central room was large and open, with a few tables and chairs about. Bottles of mead and wine, tankards, and dry goods like bread and sweet rolls, busied the tabletops and invited any passerby to sit and indulge. Just looking at the food brought an ache to Aerene’s stomach. I’m famished. I should rent a room and get settled in. I have earned it, most certainly.
An Argonian in bartender’s garb greeted her. “Ah, welcome, traveler. Looking for a place to stay? Something to eat?” he asked, glancing her way while he wiped one of the tables clean with a rag. His dark green scales lightened around the center of his face, with a bright orange patch plastered on his throat; horns grew from his jawline and browbone, and the crown of his head, and leaf green feathers sprouted where a human’s hair would be. His irises were of a bright yellow shade, as if the brightness of the sun were contained within. “Both, please,” Aerene replied, walking over to him. He looked down at the chest she carried, and back up her face, especially at her bruise. “How many nights?” he asked. How many nights? How long will I sleep for once I fall into bed? I am in no rush to get back to Jorrvaskr, that much is certain. The job is done, and I will enjoy my time in Riften.
“Let us start with two,” she replied, and the Argonian chuckled. “You came to the right place.” He turned toward the bar, where an Argonian woman was pouring wine into a tankard. “Keerava, two nights for the traveler here,” he called over. Aerene thanked him and headed toward the counter, setting the chest on one of the barstools; both were empty. In fact, as she looked around, she noticed only one other patron in the tavern, an imperial man dressed in mage’s robes sitting on a bench with a tankard in hand. “Two nights, you want meals included?” Keerava asked. Aerene glanced from the chest up to the Argoanian woman’s fiery red eyes with narrow, feline-like pupils. Her scales were iridescent milky white, that turned brownish-grey around her eyes, trailing down the sides of her neck to meet at her throat; her shoulders were the same deep shade. “Yes. Do you have baths, as well?” Aerene asked hopefully. She figured her scent was unpleasant enough already, a mix of dried blood, sweat, rain, and slept-on-cave-floor, with a little bit of horse.
“We do, hon. Down in the basement. Thirty gold for two nights, meals, and a bath. Sign the ledger here,” Keerava pointed to a line in a large book she set not the counter in front of Aerene.
As exhausted as she was, even though she’d slept for hours on the floor of the cave, Aerene couldn’t give in to the urge to sleep; she knew it would only be harder to adjust to her usual schedule if she slept the day away and stayed awake all night.
This was her debate, after she paid for the room and sat in it, chest tucked underneath the bed while she sat in a chair at a small round table. The room was… cozy, ‘but the only one we have left,’ as Keerava had put it. Aerene smiled to herself. Fortune smiles upon me this day, she thought.
Wanting to change out of her armor but having only her sleeping shirt to change into, she asked Keerava downstairs where she might find clothing for purchase. Keerava pointed her toward a general goods store, as Riften did not have a tailor. Aerene visited the shop, The Pawned Prawn, and was greeted by its owner, Bersi Honey-Hand. He sold her a light green dress with a brown corset, soft pants, and a pair of laced knee high boots. The dress, he said, “Will bring out the color in your eyes. That’s what my wife tells me to say, anyway.” Aerene knew her knapsack didn’t have room for her new belongings, and couldn’t leave without buying the leather saddlebag that caught her eye. “Come back to The Pawned Prawn for your purchasing needs,” Bersi waved as she pushed back through the front door of the shop, her arms full. Finally, I can bathe and change into something other than my armor, that isn’t scratchy and hot.
She did just that, and by the time she was all cleaned up, in her new dress and boots, dinner was being served downstairs. She left her belongings in the room she rented, without weapons and armor. Being freed from the heavy steel armor felt unusually breezy, as if she could move around faster and more quietly. Once she had coin in a pocket on the dress’s belt, she took a seat at the bar downstairs.
The delicious scents of dinner and Black-Briar Mead wafted through the air, reminding Aerene just how good it was to dine in a tavern after being out in the wilderness and rain. She sat at the end of the bar nearest the hearth, whose warmth toasted her up, granting her a feeling of lighthearted nature when mixed with the fresh mead she sipped from a tankard. By now, the inn was busy, the city’s patrons flooding in to occupy tables, sit at the bar, or stand and mingle. Keerava ran the bar while her partner Talen-Jei and another tender ran between tables. “Kitchen’s backed up. Dinner’s on the way, but it’ll be a while before it’s served,” Keerava said, wiping spilled wine from the counter near where Aerene sat. “What’s the menu for tonight?” Aerene asked, raising the tankard for another sip of mead. “Venison roast, apple cabbage stew, potato bread, lavender dumplings for dessert.”
The hungry woman’s mouth watered at Keerava’s words. Aerene nodded, smiling to herself at the thought of enjoying a hearty meal before finally sleeping. She noticed Keerava’s expression shift when she looked away from Aerene and off behind her, as though she looked at something-or someone unpleasant. Keerava grabbed the rag from the counter and turned away from the bar. Aerene’s eyes lingered on the woman, wondering that was about, but her question then answered itself.
A husky voice from behind her, in its unique and knowable accent, deep and silky like the finest wine one may drink, spoke.
“Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying, eh lass?”
Aerene felt the way the words mixed with the sweet, tart mead on her tongue and played with the beat of her heart in her chest.
Her lips parted, just barely, and she sucked in a sharp breath and turned to the charming man who spoke his charming words. He looked nearly the same as when she’d last seen him, four years ago in the Imperial City. Instead of wearing his association’s usual leathers, he donned fine clothing. She couldn’t help avoiding his gaze, her eyes falling to his rich dark leather boots, then dragging upward. He wore an overcoat, stitched in a diamond-shaped pattern and of a dark grey, with blue undertones. Underneath, he had on matching pants falling over the boots, and a long-sleeved tunic, a nude orange in color. His waist was accentuated by the thick belt holding the outfit together, keeping in place the coat with a light blue lining that brought out his eyes. Those irises of his, colored a magnificent green as if a small chip of emerald had been melted together with mists floating through the morning over a lake. Once she met his gaze, she couldn’t look away.
“Was wondering when you’d darken my doorstep, Brynjolf,” she greeted, before taking another swig of mead. Brynjolf huffed a laugh. “Your doorstep? You know Riften’s run by the Guild. Eyes and ears throughout the city. I’m just lucky I found you first,” he said. She stared ahead, glad her hair was covering her ears; otherwise, he’d have the chance to yet again make fun of the way they got hot when he flirted, as he’d done when she knew him before. She looked to him again, shifting in her seat. Brynjolf. I had not expected to see him here, but he did as he said he would, and left Cyrodiil behind. That makes two of us. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t happy to see me,” he said softly, leaning up against the counter right next to her, so close his arm brushed against hers. The contact was… pleasant.
She’d been frowning into her tankard, newly devoid of sweet mead. “Keerava,” Brynjolf called to the barmaid. “Another round of Black-Briar Reserve for Aeri, here,” he ordered, sliding coins across the counter. And he still remembers my favorite mead. So what has changed, then?
Then, he turned to fully face her, and she straightened her back to be just a little taller, though she was still looking up at him. “I’m always happy to see you, Bryn,” she replied, fighting the feelings that were growing inside. He grinned, that alluring smile that cost the rich their wealth. “You waiting on supper?” he asked. She nodded in reply, and they both looked over the main room. It was loud, and a rather unpleasant setting to have a private conversation. “I’ve got a room upstairs. How about it? Care to dine with an old friend in a new city?” he asked, pouring more mead into her tankard, and drinking a sip from the bottle after it was full. “Let us enjoy a meal together, then,” she replied, pushing herself up from the counter and grabbing her tankard. She didn’t quite know what to think, except that Riften had different accommodations on offer than the noble Whiterun. Brynjolf’s mouth turned up in a slight smirk, and he nodded. “Keerava, send two servings upstairs, will ya?”
Keerava confirmed, waving the two of them off. Aerene thought she caught a disapproving glance from the Argonian, and as she followed Brynjolf through the crowd of patrons and upstairs, she thought about what this looked like. I know what it appears as. And… I would not mind if that’s what it would turn out to be.
Her mind flickered to thoughts of her shield-siblings in Whiterun, the tension she felt every time she was with Vilkas. She had told herself it would not escalate, as much comfort and allure as she felt in the silver-eyed twin’s embrace. This was an affirmation she intended to uphold. An evening with a thief would be easier to enjoy and end than what she could have wanted with Vilkas.
There they stood, in Brynjolf’s room; a suite, with a desk and chair, a wardrobe, nightstands, a bed with fine linens, and a dining table with two seats. Candles and wall sconces lit up the space, emitting a particular warmth into the room’s atmosphere. Or was that coming from the two familiars looking upon each other in the silence?
“So, Aerene. What brings you to Riften? Better yet, to Skyrim? Have you enrolled with the College?” Damn his good memory, she thought as she recalled telling him how she wanted to study magic in Winterhold. She walked to the dresser, set her tankard down, and leaned against it, while Brynjolf leaned against a corner post of the bed. “I plan on enrolling at the College. I haven’t been in Skyrim a month, yet, and more than I wagered has happened. That tragedy in Helgen? I was there. Was supposed to be executed, and right before the axe came down, the dragon flew above and began its attack on the town,” she explained. Images of the event echoed over her mind. “Executed? How, lass? You were one of our best sneaks back in the City.” I was. It’s how I so often left my room at the Temple to find my way into the City’s underbelly. To him.
“Imperial ambush. I was alone in the Pale Pass when it happened. Scouts had attacked the Stormcloaks in the Pass, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My first thought was to run, after they spotted me, but I slipped on the icy ground. Then lost my wits and woke up with a new beauty mark,” she said sarcastically, her right index finger tracing over the scar running along her cheek. Brynjolf walked to one of the nightstands and poured wine into a goblet, before approaching closer as he sipped. “Well, Aeri, your striking beauty never left. Enhanced by the scars that tell the rest of us you’re the one who survived,” he said in a low voice, studying the bruise formed around her eye. “Fresh as the wounds may be.”
His shoulder length, straight red hair, and the stubble growing round his mouth and jaw, down his neck and over his cheeks, glowed a little more orange in the candlelight. He was even more handsome than the last night she saw him. It was just before she prepared to leave the Imperial City, when time was fleeting and the opportunity at utmost closeness at hand, never seeing reality. He had been in her room at the Temple, slithered into her quarters for once, when a fire broke out in one of the other rooms. They scattered like rats. He had been so close to her, both of them so ready.
Heat rose through her, a blush overtaking her entire body.
She looked at his face, from his blinking eyes to his lips, his broad nose. She knew his body language; there was more he wanted to say. “You have something on your mind. Speak, for we are in a private space,” she invited, sipping more mead.
“What became of Thrynn?”
Her eyes widened, and she nearly spit out the mead she just sipped. She set her tankard down on the dresser and shot him a ghastly look. Her eyes narrowed, mind racing to connect the dots. Thrynn had been wearing the armor. She was at a loss for words. “I was unaware the Guild ran with scum,” she said, the accusation heavy in her words. Brynjolf swirled the wine around his goblet, glancing her way. “We don’t. We exiled Thrynn from the Guild and he started making trouble for us. Threatening to sell us out to bandit clans in western Skyrim. It started in Falkreath. So, lass, we needed someone else to clean up the mess. For the right amount of coin, you see.”
Falkreath. The Guild was behind the job and had paid for the contract that took her there in the first place. “Well, consider Thrynn’s ties to any clan cut. He is dead, too many swings from his own axe into that vermin back of his. I do wonder if the flames from the camp are visible from this far away?” she spoke, boasting her success; she found a different side of herself emerging in Brynjolf’s company. It was the part of her she tried to leave in Cyrodiil. Brynjolf’s expression shifted; he was impressed. “That’s what I like to hear, Aeri. Bastard got what he deserved, kidnapping that farm girl,” he shook his head, sipping more wine. His tone told Aerene the Guild had nothing to do with the robbery which had taken place at Merryfair Farm. Besides, if tradition was the same as in Cyrodiil, the Guild wouldn’t rob a working family’s farm. He set down the goblet of wine.
“Must say, you fit the image of a Companion. Thieves’ Guild sneak, temple acolyte, turned honorable and noble,” Brynjolf added. Aerene thought of her past; she did not regret what she did to survive, to make her life for herself, but she had turned to doing so in an honorable, true way. Honorable? Maybe to some. Noble? Definitely out of her reach. “I don’t steal anymore,” she replied, as she walked just a step closer. River was mine to begin with. I simply reclaimed her. She had to ask him why this all came to be. “If you knew where I was residing, why not say hello instead of have me fix your problems in Falkreath?” she questioned, fingernail digging into the wood of the dresser she leaned against. “And how’d you know I’d be the one to do it?”
“You know how those things go. Nothing’s set in stone. But with it all said and done, it brought you here to me, lass.” She adored how he called her that, how it made her feel. What it reminded her of; the time they had together and how it was left with so much unsaid, the words unwritten. “You’re thinking of the last night we saw each other, aren’t you?” he asked, reaching to the tankard she now had in her hand again.
He took it, keeping her eyes the whole time, and drank a sip from one side of the rim. He then gently pressed the other side to her lips, and she parted them; he tilted the tankard toward her and she drank some of the mead, too. “I am,” she responded, her hand reaching, fingers on his. She took the tankard and set it down, the tension so thick she might just be able to cut it, had she her dagger.
“Is it what you want, to finish what we started so many moons ago?” he asked, now just breaths away, his hand brushing over her elbow. I could relish in what’s in front of me now. Though my mind lingers to the one in Whiterun. Perhaps by acting on this, I will forget the rest?
She nodded to him. “It is.”
Their words turned into action; his hand met her waist, fingers holding the curve. Her hand met his torso, sliding upward to his neck. He wore a jeweled amulet, or maybe it was attached to the finery; she hooked her finger around it and pulled, drawing his lips to hers. He leaned in, chuckling against her. The contact was awakening the craving she had shut down, his warm, sweet kiss intoxicating and alluring on its own. Their hands traveled, her fingers having unlatched the belt around his outer coat and dropping it to the floor. Brynjolf lowered for a moment, his large hands roaming to her bottom. He kneaded his fingers gently into her flesh, and lifted her to sit on the dresser. She did, just at the edge. His right hand was in her hair, the touch tickling at her scalp while his left hand met her back and pulled their bodies together. Their torsos touched, the contact leaving nothing unfelt. Instinctively, she spread her knees apart, the fabric of the dress still draping downward. She pulled away from his lips for breath, gasping quietly for air. Brynjolf’s lips met Aerene’s neck, kindling a low moan from her as her own hands met his hips and pulled them towards hers. The contact of his body against hers drew a low moan from him, and while he began working to hike up the fabric of her dress she pushed his coat open and her fingers began unfastening the belt of his trousers.
A knock sounded at the door.
They froze, and she wondered who it could be. She also remembered the last time someone had knocked at her door at an inn, and began questioning what she was getting herself into. “Dinner,” a voice called from the other side of the door. She grinned, her belly grumbling at the thought of finally enjoying the meal she worked for. She touched Brynjolf’s arm reassuringly, a sympathetic, playful glow in her gaze as she looked his way while she straightened her dress out. She opened the door, glad she was still fully clothed. Brynjolf, on the other hand, was clearing his throat, turned away from the door to pull his clothing back together. Talen-Jei, the Argonian bartender who had greeted her upon first arrival to The Bee and Barb, handed her a tray heavy with steaming dishes. Her hunger for other kinds of satisfaction dissolved, and her stomach twisted, begging for the meal laid out in front of her. Aerene set the tray on the dining table, walking past Brynjolf to grab her tankard and set it on the table. Then, she grabbed her loaf of potato bread and bit into it, before realizing how Brynjolf was standing, dumbfounded. “Oh, Bryn. Don’t look at me like that. Some trysts aren’t meant to be. I am truly famished, and tired. Dine with me?” she offered, sitting down and kicking under the table at the other chair so he could sit down. He rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. “How could I say no, lass?” he asked, shifting the front of his overcoat around before making his way over and sitting.
She watched him from across the table as they began to eat the hot food prepared just for them. She wondered what all he had been up to, other than what had happened in the last minutes. She wanted to know what had happened with Bryn in the last four years.
“Tell me how you have fared, in the time since I last saw you. I’ve been a bad guest, only talking about myself,” she said, spooning stew into her mouth. Brynjolf wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin before speaking. “Ah, come on, Aeri. I’d listen to you speak for hours,” he teased. She rolled her eyes, tossing her napkin his chest. He laughed, then spoke. “I left Cyrodiil as planned. Spent some time in Markarth before making my way here. Their business methods… need work. Found one of my old contacts down at the docks here in Riften and he showed me the way to the cistern.” The Thieves’ Guild. Running the city of Riften. “How’s business here?” she asked.
Brynjolf hesitated, searching for his words. “The Guild’s in a bad way. I never believed in it, but I’m thinking we’re having a bad stroke of luck. Been looking for new recruits. Some, no, most, don’t understand discretion. And Maven’s getting impatient.” Maven Black-Briar, matriarch of the Black-Briar Meadery, noble and dishonest strategist with Riften under her thumb. Someone whose bad side Aerene never wanted to be on. “Goldenglow has supplied Black-Briar Meadery with honey for years, but as of late, Aringoth has decided to shut us out. So now we’re on the offensive and trying to figure out what he’s hiding. There’s been mention that Maven might just contract the Brotherhood to finish him off, but that would leave her without her biggest honey supplier. She doesn’t want to import honey and dip into her profits,” Brynjolf explained.
Though Aerene hid it, she was growing uncomfortable. She had run with these people when she was younger… and more a fool than ever. The Brotherhood was the Dark Brotherhood, an assassin cult with branches standing throughout Tamriel’s provinces for ages. Aerene never knew it existed in Skyrim, but found the thought unsettling. The group worshipped Sithis, entity of the void, and loved killing in all its ways, for payment of various kinds.
The two were nearing the end of their meal when Brynjolf begged a question Aerene never would’ve seen coming. “You ever find anything on your parents?”
She stilled, stunned by his simple words. My… parents. I know not who they are, who they were… their fates. I know not whether I have siblings, or distant relatives. Other than in conversation with Hadvar, Lydia, or Farkas, she made every effort to avoid the thoughts on the matter of her birthplace. She never knew where she was born, in Skyrim or Cyrodiil, nor why she was left alone at the Temple of Akatosh. It was disheartening and awakened an achy loneliness. “Still remember that, hmm?” she stalled.
The both remembered her ranting and raving about how she’d been an infant abandoned, saying that when she found the people who left her, they would pay. ‘With what?’ Brynjolf had questioned. ‘I don’t know! But it’s their fault I’m stuck learning restoration magic! I wanna know destruction!’
Back when she was a frustrated and eager teenager living at the Temple, dedicated to her craft but wanting to know more of the world.
“How could I forget? I’ve been wondering about how it turned out, all this time,” Brynjolf quipped. Aerene sighed. “It’s become nothing. I’ve made no effort to look into anything. I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she confessed.
“I do,” Brynjolf said. This caught her attention. “I have plenty of contacts throughout Skyrim. I’ll look into it for you, since you’re occupied,” he offered. Aerene hesitated. “A nice offer, but I know you speak of business, and there’s always a cost. Name yours.”
“I don’t have anything I want your skills for, at the moment. Goldenglow’s too risky, don’t want you getting pulled into that mess. Why don’t I send for you when a matter of your nature shows itself?”
And so they struck a deal; Brynjolf would begin an investigation into Aerene’s family history, in search of information on her relatives, while she stood by and tended to her own duties in the meantime. He would contact her with a job at a later time, and she was obligated to fulfill her end of the bargain.
The tired traveler had forgotten just how much she feared knowing the truth, refusing to be desperate enough to search. She stared at the new scars in her palms, as she sat on the soft bed of her rented room, alone. She bid Brynjolf goodnight shortly after dinner, complaining of tiredness. But really? It wasn’t just that. She knew she’d crossed a line, accepting his offer-an action for which there would certainly be consequences. As she soon lay in the darkness, under the linens and furs of the bed, she let herself relax into sleep, in spite of recent events.
Over the next day, she idled around Riften, sleeping late into the morning and visiting River at the stables once awake. She knew her duty called her back to Whiterun, yet she couldn’t feel in a hurry. Aerene knew things would pick up in pace again the moment she returned, and she only wanted to pause the quick movements to catch up to the present. By avoiding Jorrvaskr, ‘on job business’, she could avoid lycanthropes and lycanthropy, the clandestine nature of such traits not any concern of hers. As she passed through the upstairs of The Bee and Barb, she saw that the room occupied by Brynjolf the previous night was now vacant.
On the fourth day of her journey, she awoke in a start. Unpleasant, indeed. Aerene sat up in the bed, finding herself sweaty and hot, her hair sticking to her skin. Whatever she saw in her dreams or nightmares fled her mind, and she was left in the stillness. The room seemed stale and humid, yet her throat was dry. I need to get out of here. I cannot deny I miss Whiterun. It is my home now, and I must return.
It was midday when she left Riften, promising herself she’d revisit the city when she didn’t feel obligated to return to Whiterun. Her belongings packed and River saddled, she set out for the home of the Companions, city at the heart of Skyrim.
Much to her dismay, the mountain pass between the Rift and Whiterun Hold seemed colder than when she’d first traveled through. Each hour that passed sent chills through her, the icy wind especially intense where snow was still falling in the mountains east of Helgen. Snowfall turned into rainfall, scent of the damp forest especially potent as Aerene rode through Riverwood and along the road towards Whiterun. Once the cobblestone road emerged from the cover of trees and sloped downward into the tundra, the view of Whiterun was visible. The walled city was clouded with grey fog, no doubt enduring the rainstorms which had moved in, likely up from the south in Falkreath Hold. Aerene clicked her tongue, and River neighed whinnied, breaking into a steady gallop. Whiterun’s stables were quiet, keeping company of several horses and one man. Aerene learned he was the owner and operator, named Skulvar Sable-Hilt. “This is River,” she said, holding the mare’s reigns. “My, what a beauty. She from Cyrodiil?” Skulvar asked. He had dark brown hair to his shoulders, with a thick mustache, his face patched with dirt and streaked with sweat. He wore a sage green tunic tied with a belt, and pants to match. “She is,” Aerene affirmed happily. “Skyrim’s horses are good for war and have the heart for long distance, but Cyrodiilic breeds… now, they’re for speed,” Skulvar said, running his hand along River’s muzzle. “We’ve got room for her. We’ll keep her fed and groomed. Being that you live here in Whiterun and you can visit her anytime you like… how’s 25 gold for the month sound?”
With her knapsack strapped over her shoulders and her chest tucked into her arms, the Companion stepped wearily through the streets of Whiterun. The marketplace was nearly empty, merchants either retired or retiring for the night; only guards roamed the streets on patrol. Aerene guessed most of Whiterun’s folk were in their homes or the taverns. A mug of warm mead would do me well, she thought as she walked up the stairs and past the dead Gildergreen. Her hair was soaked, as was her armor, and probably the belongings inside her knapsack; she had wrapped a few items in the clothing she didn’t have on, hoping to keep some things protected from ruin. What felt truly dampened was her spirit, yet she couldn’t quite place the cause. The priest of Talos, Heimskr, preached into the rain, calling his praises out over the empty courtyard. Aerene watched him as she walked up the stairs to Jorrvaskr, and tried not to take offense when Heimskr looked at her and began stumbling over his words. She knew he was looking at the giant bruise on her face, aching and swollen despite her attempts to heal.
Jorrvaskr had to front entry doors; strangely, one was locked, which Aerene learned only after pulling unsuccessfully. When the first door wouldn’t budge she tugged on the second, and it swung open; she cursed to herself, stepping into the warmth of the mead hall. It was comforting and familiar, all she wanted after being in the elements all day. A bit of the comfort slithered away when she saw that the Companions were all having dinner. She hoped she’d entered quietly, until the door thudded shut behind her and too many sets of eyes turned in her direction. It seemed quieter than usual, but she thought she had only herself to blame, the intruder during dinner. Aerene avoided each gaze, internally groaning while she set off for the living quarters. A single glance in the direction of the large dining table, lit by the fired hearth, caught the silver eyes of a certain person she’d thought of relentlessly since the many almosts with Brynjolf. He did not occupy her mind entirely, though; that honor belonged to the image of the dragon attack she had come across while on the search for Knifepoint Ridge.
She knew what it meant, and only fear grew at the suspicions. There could be more dragons out there, more than the one at Helgen. They not only targeted towns, but also the unsuspecting traveler and the whole caravan, no less. How long until a major city like Whiterun is attacked? Who knows why this has begun now? Do I wait idly by or do I search for answers?
Inside the living quarters, Aerene was alone; she trudged to her bed, setting her chest down and sliding it under the frame with her foot. She propped open the lid of the chest and unpacked her things, shoulders achy from the heavy knapsack she’d been hauling all day. Her facial injury throbbed, her skin cold and clothes wet from the pouring rains, seeming to haunt her everywhere she went. Cyrodiil’s weather is far more delightful than Skyrim’s. With this, she began wondering if dragons had attacked any of Tamriel’s other provinces.
In minutes, she was changed into her sleeping tunic and ready to sleep for the night, too exhausted and chilled to care about supper or getting the gold for completing the job. She’d just tossed back the furs of her bed when footsteps sounded behind her and she twisted quickly to see who it was.
“Easy,” Farkas said, standing in the doorway to the room. His presence allowed her to relax. “Hello, Farkas. Goodnight, Farkas,” she said, sitting down on the bed and eyeing him curiously. “You look a little rough for wear, sister,” he said. Aerene’s mouth flattened into a straight line. As though I don’t already know. If this is all he has to say, I’ll just lay down to sleep and he’ll get the message. Or will he?
She said nothing.
“I knew you had it in ya to rescue that girl. Just didn’t think it would take you so long,” Farkas said. Aerene knew she hadn’t done anything wrong by their standards, and she knew she’d done what they asked. Farkas certainly did not mean the words the way they sounded, and she knew this too; yet still, that didn’t soothe the underlying sting of what he said. This was the first time she felt offended by words he spoke, and she was caught off guard. “Well, it’s done. If that’s all you have to say, I am retiring for the night,” she retorted, turning away from his intense gaze and blowing out the candle on the table behind her bed. That corner of the room darkened comfortably. It took effort to hide the hurt in her voice. What a welcome. Almost wish I didn’t come back at all.
“Come on, ‘Rene, come to the Mare with us. Have a drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.” Liar.
“Suit yourself then,” Farkas finished, tossing a coin purse to her before leaving the room. She was frustrated, exacerbated by her tiredness. Typical conversations with Farkas were usually so lighthearted. Tonight, she only felt insulted, though the line between feeling this way was blurred, lost somewhere between being his fault or hers. Frowning, she tucked herself in and lay to face the wall. In the silence, she wished she could fall asleep to the rhythmic patter of water droplets on the roof. A creaking floorboard cursed her brow with a crease. “Farkas, please leave me be,” she grumbled.
“He left.” That voice managed to surprise and comfort her all at once. Aerene pushed herself up to a sitting position and eyed the doorway, where Vilkas now stood. “He doesn’t have the best way with words. It’s why he fights and lets me do the talking,” Vilkas said, and Aerene imagined a soft smile, though she couldn’t see as much in the dim light. “Probably for the best,” she said. Silence wedged its way into the room for a while, as the shield siblings merely occupied the space in each other’s presence. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” Vilkas sputtered. Aerene’s eyes narrowed at this, as she failed to read the tone behind his words. “Sorry to disappoint you, Vilkas.”
“Disappoint? Aerene, I doubt you could do so if you tried,” he spoke; “I am relieved to see you,” he began again. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the hall, and he looked out before stepping closer to her. No doubt he could sense the way she tensed as he neared. “We need to speak, privately. Come to my quarters for a brief time, and then sleep away your exhaustion,” he invited. Now that he was closer, she could see that he was wearing a black tunic and dark pants over indoor shoes, his eyes free of the black war paint. As usual, his silver irises were daunting and alluring.
She did as he asked and followed him to his quarters, while Torvar and Ria’s loud talking occupied the room where Aerene had just been trying to fall asleep.
Vilkas shut the door and turned to Aerene. “I should never have attempted to assign Ria to your side for the job,” Vilkas began. Aerene stilled, not expecting those to be the first words from his mouth. If he had extraordinary senses, he must have tasted or at the very least smelled the scent of blood as Aerene breathed out that night in the training yard, when Ria fought harsh and unrelenting. “So it goes. No matter, the work is done,” Aerene said dismissively, unsure of what she really should say. She had very mixed feelings about Vilkas as these thoughts came to light, but knew that he was someone she could trust with most matters.
“You have a certain grit, to demand what pleases you,” Vilkas added. He cleared his throat, and continued. “But I didn’t ask you here to feed you compliments. The morning you left, Farkas and I tracked Aela and Skjor’s trail to Eastmarch, near Windhelm to a Silver Hand fort called Gallows Rock.” Aerene listened carefully as Vilkas spoke.
“The two of them were… hunting the Silver Hand together, and in a moment of separation the bastards killed Skjor. When we found Aela, she was the last one standing in the fort, her beast so wrought by grief we thought we might never see her human form again.”
Aerene’s eyes were opened wide, staring downward. Waves of mixed emotion lapped at her, a sudden influx of the complicated feelings she harbored towards Skjor and Aela after they offered her the beast blood. She wondered if that’s where they had planned to take her…
….but this is not about me. Skjor is dead.
She stuttered, a rare instance when she couldn’t articulate the words she meant to speak. Furthermore, she hardly knew what it was she would say. Vilkas spoke instead. “During our return trek to Whiterun, Aela told us how she and Skjor offered you the curse.” Aerene’s ears began to warm up and redden in trepidation. She held her hands together behind her back, nervously tapping one finger against the other hand. “Though I was not at liberty to do so, I informed her of your recent time in Falkreath. Thereafter, the guilt emanating off of her was heavy.”
Aerene’s features twisted, perplexed. “I wish my last moments with Skjor had not been soured as they were,” she said lowly, avoiding his gaze. “As do I,” Vilkas echoed. “We held a funerary service that evening, at the Skyforge. The ashes of Skjor’s body feed the forge now, as with all Companions before him.”
All that contempt in my heart, as I traveled alone, all for a soul already departed from his body. His soul which belonged to Hircine, no less. Though it may have seemed selfish, and while she felt many emotions, none of them were regret. I will always stand by my decision to deny the curse.
“Skjor hunts with Hircine, now,” Aerene spoke her thoughts aloud. There was a silence that settled for a moment.
“I thought you were dead, too, Aerene,” Vilkas confessed, drawing a look of concern and the immediate gaze from the woman in front of him. She stepped closer, and saw the sprinkles of worry within his looks. “If you had not returned tonight, Farkas and I would have set out at dawn to search for you.”
She blinked, feeling cared for, and adored, even. In such a short time, she’d forged a bond with her shield brothers, drawing them to her, and her to them, as though their very spirits were linked by some kind of ancient magic. Or perhaps something present, something deep?
“I did not realize you cared so deeply as to search for me, after the way I treated you before I left,” she said, keeping his eyes. “The kidnapping was intentional. I traveled through Riverwood and near Helgen, now overrun with criminals. The girl had been taken from the ransom shack to a camp in Falkreath Hold, Knifepoi-“
“Knifepoint Ridge?” Vilkas made no effort to hide the astonishment in his voice. Aerene nodded in affirmation. “You went there alone?!” Vilkas stepped closer. The distance between them was shorter than before. “Yes,” Aerene snapped lowly. “And it’s a damned good thing I did, because the scum who kidnapped her was the same thief who I was sent to deal with in Falkreath. His clan paid the bail and hit back at the farm outside Riften, where the girl was taken from. He planned to sell her off,” To really ruffle the feathers of Maven Black-Briar and the rest of the Thieves’ Guild, sending a message and painting the picture as though the Guild were behind the crime. “She is home with her family, now. And he is no more. I had no time to return here and retrieve a shield-sibling to aid me in the fight.”
“Gods, Aerene. What happened out there? What did you see?” His eyes searched her figure for any visible injuries, landing on the bruise her face boasted.
Her cheeks pinked at his concern. She couldn’t keep staring so she looked away, swallowing. “What matters is that I left alive, to stand here now.”
The softness of his hand on her cheek lit a glow within the tired shell of her heart. She inhaled, taking in his scent, the forest that was him. This. This is what she had wanted. He’s right here in front of me, so close. My heart races, my mind seeks, yet what I need now is the care of a shield-brother, not a lover.
He was closest now, just breaths away, his expression of care and concern. The muscles in his jaw clenched and relaxed. Aerene’s left hand raised, and landed on the left half of his chest. Beneath her fingertips was firm muscle, soft cloth of the shirt… just as I imagined. Her inner peace was bombarded by the devastation whose picture she couldn’t push from her thoughts. Vilkas glanced to her hand on his chest, and pulled it off. She tried to retreat her hand, as his fell from her cheek, but he grabbed her other wrist and looked to her palms. At the tender, ticklish scars crossing the centers. “Aerene,” he whispered in a tone she had never heard from him. So used to his stoicism and bluntness, this true, heartfelt side of him was new. “If anyone could walk away from it, it’s you.” His flattery tugged at the strings her heart, but couldn’t create a song loud enough to distract from her shattered, messy thoughts.
“Vilkas,” she said in a whisper. “What is it?” he responded in a voice just as quiet.
“I came across the remains of a dragon attack in Falkreath Hold. In a clearing below Knifepoint Ridge,” she began. The thought was dizzying. They sat hand in hand, side by side on Vilkas’s bed; he listened and she spoke. “A carriage, people, a horse… burned to ashes. There were still embers, the warmth yet remained. As though a handful of Helgen’s destruction had been shot to the ground from above.”
“You’re sure there were no tracks?”
Aerene shook her head. “None, as dragons leave no tracks; only the marks of the magic they speak, the infernos they can breathe.” Her brows creased as she made a point to say what needed to be said and hold herself together as she did. “Vilkas, I cannot remain idle while people of Skyrim are being slaughtered by creatures we know so little about. The return of the dragons is the catastrophic means to an end, surely. It must have been magic that brought them back, for no worldly entity could do so without an intervention from the Divines… or the Daedric Princes.”
“What do you mean to say?”
“I… I want to know more. I must. If anything can be learned, just one answer, the search is worth it. How long until a city or another town is attacked? Every moment wasted is a moment the dragons could gain power to pick us off, as though we were worms beneath them.”
“Magic,” Vilkas grunted. His words were laced with disdain. “The College in Winterhold has a huge library. You may begin the search there. I will accompany you,” he stated. Aerene internally winced. “I would love your company,” she hesitated.
“But?”
“I first ventured to Skyrim with the intention to study magic. To become a mage has been my wish since I first learned of its properties as a girl at the Temple. I believe I could begin my search at the College, enrolled as a student while dedicating my studies to research on the dragons. Winterhold is one of Skyrim’s oldest settlements. Ancient magic lives there, and it may be of the same origin as whatever has awakened the dragons.”
“I see,” Vilkas nodded. He was quieter, pondering her words. She knew he despised magic, as did his brother. Thieves, too, despised by the Companions, described as gutter rats who dealt in underhanded sneaking. Half of her being was what they sought never to be.
“Vilkas, you are dear to me. You know I cannot ask you to leave here with me, as much as I adore your company, and especially now when Skjor has died. You are needed here.” Most Nords I’ve encountered dislike magic, anyway. He would be miserable, to sit around while there are bandits and thugs to be slain.
His mouth moved into a firm, straight line as he thought, staring down at their hands. “I know,” was all he said.
He was the right person; had this been the right time, in an age of peace, instead of the quiet before the storm, she would have stayed. “When will you depart for Winterhold?”
She hadn’t decided that. “I first have matters to take care of. And I will not leave so soon after Skjor’s passing. I wish to remain for Aela and the support of Jorrvaskr. I will know when the time has come.” It will be a feeling I have assigned to come forward when the moment is right. I cannot leave Jorrvaskr when things are awry.
They continued chatting, discussing the last few days, what each had witnessed in the past hours and how they expected events to turn in the future. Aerene left Vilkas’s quarters, upon his insistence after she began to doze off while telling a story; in the hallway, Aela was walking towards her own quarters, in her armor but without her usual war paint; her eyes were a faint red-she mourned the loss of her mate. The two shield-sisters had approached each other, meeting in a wordless embrace, silent in the lower level of the mead hall.
A week passed by, as the Companions mourned the loss of their brother; Farkas oversaw activity in the training yard while Vilkas handled the ledger, always with Kodlak’s guidance. On more than one occasion, Aela would leave Jorrvaskr with Ria or Njada at her side; Aerene scanned her eyes over the ledger to find that they weren’t assigned to a job, meaning they were handling private matters. “Whatever they’re up to, they’re keeping it quiet for a reason. Probably don’t want the old man to find out,” Vilkas had spoken to Aerene as they sat midday under the training yard verandah, “though he likely already knows.”
Aerene handled a hired muscle job in Rorikstead, some kind of land dispute between farmers; it was that moment she was glad to have a bed in a shared room, having not the patience to worry over farmland and property. In the meantime, she practiced sword-fighting techniques with Farkas, recalling the instructions Skjor had taught when they trained together.
It was a sunny day without a cloud in the sky when she dined in the early evening with Ysolda and Lydia, who appeared to be faring even better than before. Aerene departed from the two later in the evening, after rounds of wine and Ysolda’s homemade long taffy candy after a sumptuous supper, the hopeful mage made her way through the streets of Whiterun to Jorrvaskr. She’d worn her green corseted dress to dine with the two women, Valdr’s lucky dagger tucked into her belt. As she turned to pass down the stairs to the lower level of Jorrvaskr, Aela was walking up. She had something on her mind, witnessed in her straightforward tone as she said to Aerene, “Old man wants to speak to you.”
Chapter 14: Harbinger
Notes:
I'm back!!!! this one is lengthy, please enjoy. if you've played Skyrim you may notice some details have been altered per the usual progression of the game story, adjusted to suit Aerene's personality and character. I will be back soon with chapter 15..... dun dun dun!!! see you soon ;)
Chapter Text
Kodlak wants to see me? Not unusual, but not expected, either. Aerene watched Aela walk out through the back doors into the training yard, seeing the way Ria got up from her seat at the dining table to follow the huntress out. Before she could convince herself to wait, she continued down the stairs into the lower level of Jorrvaskr.
As soon as she set foot through the door into the long hallway stretching the length of the living quarters, she felt eyes on her, keeping pace the whole way she stepped down the hall to Kodlak’s space at the very end. There he sat, at the same table she found him seated with Vilkas when she had first been looking to join up. As though that were a lifetime ago. Much has changed since then, yet I still feel much the same.
Kodlak greeted Aerene once she was close enough, inviting her to join him and have a seat. She did. “Thank you for coming,” he spoke. “Aela said you wanted to see me,” Aerene replied, relaxing into the seat. It was a habit and indication of nervousness, the silent bouncing of her knee up and down beneath the table. Silent to her, at least; to someone with superior hearing, well…
“Yes, youngling,” Kodlak nodded, folding his hands together, leaning forward toward the table. There was a tiredness in his eyes, one Aerene hadn’t noticed before. It must’ve appeared recently. “I assume you’re aware of Aela’s whereabouts with your shield-sisters,” Kodlak hinted. Aerene swallowed. ‘Be honest with the old man, just don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know,’ had been Aela’s advice on speaking to Kodlak. Just be truthful. “I’ve seen them come and go, but I know not where to; I suspect they work to avenge Skjor’s death,” Aerene guessed. Kodlak hummed in agreement. “Yes, Aela and Skjor were quite close,” he commented, and they both shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the relationship everyone knew of yet no one spoke of. Kodlak cleared his throat. “I’ve not called you here to gossip. Skjor’s death was avenged long ago, and more lives have been taken than honor demanded. And the sneaking around, it doesn’t befit warriors of Jorrvaskr.” Sneaking around.
Echoes of Aerene’s arrangement in Riften crossed her mind, and her leg stilled, because now she felt small. Though she was not being lectured, the implication of Kodlak’s words put her on the spot, the fact that he did not know of her sneaking around mattering little. When she only watched him curiously, he continued. “In any case, I have a task for you.” This caught her attention. “Have you heard the story of how we came to be werewolves?” Kodlak asked Aerene quietly. She was surprised to hear him speak so openly on the subject, especially when any listening ears were just a few steps down the hall. She looked instinctively in that direction, but saw not a soul. Kodlak chuckled. “Don’t worry, young one. Your shield-siblings are out of earshot.” If either of them knew, it was him.
“Vilkas said it was a curse,” Aerene recalled the time he’d answered all of her questions, patiently and thoroughly. Even the ones Farkas wouldn’t respond to with anything other than a grumble about asking Vilkas instead.
Kodlak shrugged. “The boy has a nugget of truth, but the reality is more complicated than that. It always is.” Hearing the Harbinger refer to Vilkas as a boy invited a faint, soft smile to Aerene’s lips. “I am ready to hear the entire truth, then.”
After releasing a sigh, Kodlak began. “The Companions are nearly five thousand years old. This matter of beast blood has only troubled us for a few hundred. One of my predecessors was a good but short-sighted man. He made a bargain with the witches of Glenmoril Coven. If the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord Hircine, we would be granted great power.”
“And they became werewolves,” Aerene spoke softly, as if she couldn’t believe the fact despite knowing it was true.
“They did not believe the change would be permanent. The witches offered payment, like anyone else. But we had been deceived,” Kodlak explained. Aerene’s expression shifted into perplexity. “The witches must still live,” she said; it only made sense. For the magic to continue on, the witches were living to keep the order straight.
“They do,” Kodlak nodded. “The disease, you see, affects not just our bodies. It seeps into our spirit. You know this already, though,” Kodlak met Aerene’s eyes. She felt singled out with those last words of his, despite their truth. “Upon death, some werewolves, like Aela and Skjor, want nothing more than to chase prey with their master Hircine for eternity. And that is their choice. But I am a true Nord. I wish for Sovngarde as my spirit home.” Aerene suddenly recalled the moments she’d heard Kodlak talk of his old age, his inability to battle. She wondered how long it had been since he last transformed into his beast form, if he did not wish to feed the creature’s existence, sharing his body with another spirit. “Is there a cure? A way to rid yourself of the beast, to rest in Shor’s Hall?” Shor, the Divine who kept Sovngarde, afterlife for the honored Nord dead.
“That's what I've spent my twilight years trying to find out. And now I think I've found an answer. The witches' magic ensnared us, and their magic can release us. They won't give it willingly, but we can extract their foul powers by force. I want you to seek them out. Go to their coven in the wilderness. Strike one down as a true warrior of the wild. And bring me a head, the seat of their abilities. From there, we may begin to undo centuries of impurity.” Aerene was surprised by Kodlak’s directness, finding that he usually spoke with more subtlety. It told her even more how important this was to him. It’s no small matter; the soul is most delicate, and must be treated as such. Kodlak trusts me a great deal to do this, and I shall not disappoint. “It shall be done,” Aerene responded, her hand grabbing onto his in affirmation. He brought his other hand to rest atop hers in a firm shake. “Good. Now move quickly, Aerene, and tread carefully. Those hagravens are as dangerous with magic as with wit. Talos guide you.”
Hagravens, Aerene echoed as she wandered down the hall to her bed. She had never seen one before, but read descriptions of them in literature, and had listened to a story Farkas told about facing one in a cave. They were bird-women hybrids, with hunched figures and grey hair and feathers poking out of their bodies. Their hands boasted long, sharp claws and their feet had talons of the same nature. What made them most dangerous was not their sharpness, but their adept mastery of magic, especially magic destructive in nature. Determined to set off for the den first thing in the morning, Aerene settled into bed a bit earlier than usual. As she drifted into sleep, lapping at her in gentle waves, she wondered why it was that Kodlak wanted her to go alone. He had pointed out the location of the den, called Glenmoril Coven, on her map. She needed only to get there, and kill one of the witches to leave with its head, to set Kodlak free from the lycanthropic curse. I wonder why it is, that I feel like I’m running out of time?
Her sleep that night was plagued with nightmares of dragons and werewolves, endless chases under blood red skies in insufferable heat. When she finally awoke in the morning, her skin was damp from a cold sweat. Aching and tired, but in preference to stay awake and be exhausted rather than sleep and feel as though she hadn’t gotten any, she pushed herself out of bed after staring up into the darkness for a while. This had become typical for her, waking tired; she had occasional nightmares in her life, but they were nearly constant as of recent times, particularly after she encountered the remnants left behind after the dragon attack near Knifepoint Ridge.
Aerene packed her knapsack, dressed in her armor, and set foot outside the mead hall and into the pre-dawn air of Whiterun. It was exceptionally chilly today, she noticed, and pulled her sash up over her head as a hood. She tucked her hands under her arms and looked over the sleepy city, still dark in the twilight hours. She hadn’t seen a soul on her way out of Jorrvaskr, though she wished she could’ve spoken to Farkas or Vilkas about hagraven hunting. As if they’d have let me go on this journey alone. They are obedient to Kodlak, though, would they have truly set their own stubbornness aside for him?
That information is not mine to know.
The Glenmoril witches, predictably, lived far from civilization in the outskirts of western Falkreath Hold, a region which seemed to haunt the woman. In the morning hours, the sun rose to cast a slight warmth over the land, though the air felt thick and smelled of rain, an indication of an incoming flourish of rain clouds.
Aerene tugged on River’s reigns, and the mare grumbled but came to a stop. They stood in the center of a dirt pathway, far off of any main roads and in the foothills of the Hold. Aerene glanced around, readjusting her seating atop the saddle to try and relieve her aching bottom. It was around midday now, and she could see the cave entrance further ahead on the path. Staring at her from the side of the path, though, was an eerie and unwelcoming sight, indeed. A large ribcage was sitting up vertically, antlers perched atop the bones but angled downward to appear as wings, not unlike those of a dragon. Where the bases of the overturned antlers converged was the bare skull of an elk, devoid of flesh with its antlers pointing up to the heavens. By the Divines. I shudder to imagine what those creatures saw before meeting their ends. Tearing her gaze from the monstrous sculpture, Aerene prompted River to continue trotting forward through a hollow of tall, jagged rocks and dead vegetation, spiky grass sprouting near grey, barren trees.
More horrors decorated the entrance to the cave, lit on each side by smoking pyres. Skulls of various types were strewn across the ground and resting along the outer rock walls, while a sharp root pointing upward from the ground impaled the decapitated head of a horned goat. Aerene leaned in closer, and realized that beneath the head was that of a spriggan, one of its large, wooden hands positioned as though it were reaching outward. “Ugh,” she groaned in disgust, dismounting from River’s saddle. She lead the mare over to a nearby tree, which looked harmless and wasn’t decked with skulls or death, and loosely tied the reigns onto a branch. Aerene dug into her knapsack for an apple, and fed it to the horse, who delightfully chewed the fruit and nuzzled into the woman’s gentle touch on her nose. “Wait for me, River,” Aerene whispered, her hands resting on her belt and sword hilt as she wandered past another ribcage and skull sculpture, slipping through the wide cave entrance.
The sunlight faded as the stone walls narrowed, the hard surface cool against Aerene’s fingers that traced along as she walked. Once fully inside the cave, she coughed, the air musty and dirty. A fog sat over the ground, littered with greenish colored rocks and more spiky plants. A lit pyre cast a lonely orange glow into he space. The woman dug into her knapsack, pulling out a cut piece of wood where one end was wrapped in cloth-an unlit torch. She held it over the pyre, the flames licking onto the cloth and catching to create a torch. That was when she noticed an alcove to her immediate left, and quickly swung to face it fully, left hand and torch set forward to illuminate the strange and small space. Inside was nothing special, though the adventurer’s suspicions were heightened.
To the right, the path sunk once more into darkness only lit by the torch in her hand. The cavern space grew exponentially, she realized, the interior of the cave held up by natural stone pillars, mystified by an atmospheric haze. She scanned the cavern for any presence, any eyes watching her, but saw none. Straight ahead, to the left of one of the huge stone pillar formations, was a small campfire. Aerene’s eyes narrowed, attempting to identify the lump next to the campfire. No-there are two. She quietly stepped closer, looking every which way as she walked to the center of the space, and was smacked with fear and nausea as she made out yet another decapitated goat’s head and a dismembered animal’s body, what may have been the skeever rodent variety-large, rat-like creatures who lived in places like this. There was blood on the ground around the scene, not yet darkened or dry. I am not alone, so where are the witches?
The faint scent of destroyed flesh hung in the air, joined with that of musty earth and charred wood. To say the least, it was unpleasant.
She took in more of her surroundings, wanting to see every darkened corner of the central space before she continued. What she found was a human skeleton near a basket of herbs long since dried, likely the result of a misadventure. To her dismay, the corners of the cavern not lit by pyres were instead darkened by more carcass and bone curations, even made with the large, curved and bloody tusks of mammoth. Aerene gathered that the witches were further inside the cave, in one of the multiple divergent tunnels, the entrances marked with singular lit pyres. Akatosh, be with me! she prayed silently. Her approval of Kodlak’s request fell just slightly as she pondered why she needed to be here, of all places, alone. That familiar desire for a traveling companion crept up on her again, and she now more than ever wished for a shield brother or sister at her side.
No such company found her, though, while she sat crouched in the shadow of he cavern, watching any of the tunnel entrances for a sign of activity or indication of the witches’ presence. What I would give not to have to go further into this wretched place.
She’d left her torch at one of the pyres, knowing better than to take it and reveal her presence or location. Perhaps it is better I am alone, for none are here to judge my gutter-rat sneaking. Aerene gathered there were two tunnel entrances on the central floor of the space, while a pathway to the cavern’s right side revealed an upper ledge, a second-floor type space that appeared to trail further into dual directions. Not feeling adventurous or investigative, the woman decided to combat her fear with exposure, and crept through the nearest tunnel entrance.
Doing her best to step silently, Aerene listened for any activity. She felt ferns brush against her legs, eyes mostly adjusted to the darkness broken by a lantern sitting on the ground, two lit candles inside. The candles didn’t have significant wax dripping, which meant they were lit recently. Aerene stuck close to the right wall, her hand against it, the cool, mossy stone a guide in the dim lighting. Her hand met something rough, then, and immediately she turned to look, seeing that she’d touched another severed goat head on a pike. She threw herself backwards, landing against the opposite wall, plagued with a spike in the rhythm of her heart and the loss of breath from an intense, yet miraculously silent, gasp. She gritted her teeth, scooting as far as she could from the head while she wiped her palm against the wall to try and destroy the memory of the hide in her fingers.
Finally, she found the end of the tunnel, which opened into a smaller room, dimly lit. The top edge of the tunnel exit had moss and roots hanging down, which felt like fingers as they brushed over the top of her head while she snuck through. Just as she entered the open space, she paused, eyeing the cavern room. Straight ahead were more pikes, sickening and unsettling silhouettes echoed by torchlight from a source Aerene couldn’t see from her position. She placed one knee into the ground, kneeling as her eyes continued following the sloped path with her eyes, up to a ledge laced by wooden spikes pointing out in all directions, but particularly toward the edge, which meant she couldn’t climb up the ledge without being impaled. Then, she saw in the dim light a truly nightmarish and grotesque monstrosity.
A hagraven stood, hunched over and a true cross between a crone and a bird. Her skin was pale, yet at points a sickly pink, her hands turned otherworldly by terribly sharp, bloody crimson red claws. She wore rags, hanging loosely from her thin figure, skin so thin the outlines of bone and muscle could be seen beneath. Her hair was light grey and stringy, nose reminiscent of a raven’s pointed beak. Her figure moved slowly with growling breaths. Aerene watched the creature look toward the slope, as if waiting for something to lurch out from the shadows. She swallowed, tensing as the creature lifted her nose into the air and inhaled. If she turns away from the light, I can sneak up on her. I must close the distance between us; my armor will protect me from scratching, but not flame or lightning. I know I will be superior in close quarters. It is a complex matter of getting close enough.
Aerene exhaled a quiet sigh, unsheathing her dagger and stepping along the wall of the room, just as the hagraven turned to face another direction. As she crept, her eyes were not on the ground, but on the creature, willing her to face away long enough for Aerene to lunge. This was her mistake, as she stepped on something, a snap echoing through the room. She instantly saw that it was a brittle bone she’d crushed beneath her boot, and a quick glance over the path across the upper ledge revealed many more; she never would have been able to sneak all the way.
She was left with little time to think as the hagraven’s face snapped to hers, empty, clay red eyes piercing into her as she crone shrieked and raised her clawed-hand to summon a spell. Aerene squeezed the handle of her dagger, and prepared herself. She saw orange birthed from the twine-wrapped palm of the hagraven. Fire. The tensed fingers released the spell, and a ball of hot orange flame barreled toward the woman. She hardly managed to dive out of the way, landing in a sloppy roll, scrambling to get up on her feet but closer to the creature, nonetheless. Her sights were blinded by bright explosions of more fire, the heat drawing instant sweat from her skin but somehow without an actual burn. Aerene rose tall over the creature, swiping the dagger forward. She landed a cut on the crone’s upper arm, to which it shrieked and swiped out at Aerene in retaliation. Aerene’s gauntlet protected her from the creature’s claws, though in the moment of defense a familiar sight crossed her vision. A healing spell, but not cast by her; instead, the hagraven had healed herself, done in the midst of battle. Aerene had never seen anything like it, and was faced with the question of just how intelligent these creatures were.
There was no time for such wonderings, though, as she gripped the handle of Valdr’s lucky dagger and held it tight. She kicked into the creature’s shin, and the hagraven stumbled backwards with a cry of pain. She raised her claws again, and began casting another spell of healing. Aerene’s face contorted in frustration, and she plunged the dagger through the hagraven’s palm, pulling it out just as fast. The creature was most vulnerable now, raising her opposite hand to throw out another fireball. Those efforts were in vain, though, as Aerene maneuvered quickly to stab her blade straight through the hagraven’s heart. This drew another shriek of pain from the creature, though no light of healing could be seen as it slowly fell to the ground, crimson blood leaking from the wounds onto the ground below. Aerene took a step back, panting and waiting for any movement. There was none.
Aerene sighed in relief, bending down to pull the dagger from the creature’s chest. Blood squelched out of the gaping wound, a stark reminder of the next steps the Companion had to take. I can think of many other things I’d like to be doing in this moment, but the difficulty is done. She held the blade at an angle to the hagraven’s neck, and began carving.
A little while later, she flicked the blood from the blade and tucked it back into the belt around her waist. In preparation for this moment, Aerene had emptied a sack of apples into a bowl back at Jorrvaskr, and kept the sack; it now held the severed head of a witch formerly of the Glenmoril Coven. She made sure to cauterize the neck of the severed head, which would pause any rampant bleeding for a time.
Wincing at the way the weight of the sack shifted as she walked back through the tunnel, Aerene stopped before entering the central cavern space. The head she carried would set Kodlak’s soul free from Hircine’s grasp. What of Vilkas and Farkas? Do they not also wish to be free of the beast blood?
She had to remind herself of the notion that this idea was hypothetical, yet to be theorized; there was no proof that burning the witch’s head would set Kodlak’s soul free-that was simply the conclusion of his years of research. For the sake of his soul, I pray this works. She glanced oround the corner of the wall and eyed what of the cavern she could see. If Vilkas and Farkas wish to rid themselves of their beast blood, given there is a true way, the decision is theirs to make. Leaving the other witches of the coven to live is a mercy for now, until my shield-brothers follow in my footsteps and do as I have done today.
Much to her luck, the central cavern space was silent, just as before. The cave’s detachment between tunnels and alcoves hid the shrieks of one hagraven from the others. Aerene inhaled a huge breath of air, and sprinted through the dim light, retracing her steps to the upward-sloped entrance. In seconds, the cave mouth spit her back out into the light of day. She panted, jogging over to River, seeing that she wasn’t followed. She strapped the sack to the saddle, and loosened the reigns from the tree branch. Aerene pulled herself up to mount the saddle, and called a command for River to gallop down the path and into the forest below.
Never had she been so grateful to see once more the light of day, or to inhale the scent of fresh air. If ever I must seek refuge, I may not do so in a cave again, she thought, mind recalling the space she and Nellsea had occupied for a few hours in the mountain pass between Falkreath Hold and the Rift. Though I may not have a choice.
River whinnied to the stablehand when Aerene and her approached the Whiterun Stables. It was the early evening now, the sun sunken towards the horizon and hidden behind the distant mountains. Aerene departed from her favored horse, sneaking the mare another apple-there was plenty to go around, anyhow.
While she walked the cobblestone path to the city’s front gate, she heard guards mumbling about Jorrvaskr, only quieted just as she passed by. She quickly had her fill of the hushed conversations when she passed through the main gate and the two posted guards went silent. “What is with the chatter about Jorrvaskr?” she questioned, eyes narrowed as she looked between the two guards. The secret of the beast blood has not been shared, has it?
The guards looked at each other, strangely humorous in that they wore fully facial covering helmets, before looking back to Aerene. “The Companions were attacked by the Silver Hand. Don’t know how the bastards got into the city. No one saw them enter through the front gates. Must’ve found another way in,” one of them said. “Yeah, which means more work for us now,” the second guard chimed in. Aerene’s heart fell to the floor, her face paling and her blood running cold. Her grip on the sack in her left hand kept her in reality. The Underforge. That’s how the Silver Hand got in! Oh, gods, what will I find at Jorrvaskr?!
She pushed through the two guards, who’d gathered in front of her, her focus narrowing and set on getting back to the mead hall. Adrenaline pumped through her, supplying her breaths and muting the tiredness of her legs as she ran through the streets of Whiterun, through the citizens gathered in the marketplace and up the stairs, past the Gildergreen. A crowd was gathered outside Jorrvaskr, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the main entrance. She did not scan the faces of those standing with her, only looked up toward the mead hall. Aela and Torvar were standing on either side of the steps, corpses of Silver Hand at their feet. Aela’s teeth were gritted, her blade tight in her grip as she stared down at the bodies, daring them to try her once more. Aerene watched, speechless, though the yellow glint in Aela’s eye did not go unnoticed. She jogged to Torvar, asking breathlessly what happened. “The Silver Hand. They finally had the nerve to attack Jorrvaskr. We got most of them, but I think a few stragglers made it out.” Aerene’s face contorted in panic, eyebrows twisting in confusion while she acknowledged Torvar’s words with a nod. She rushed up the final steps, imagining what the worst could’ve been, and pushed warily through the entrance to Jorrvaskr.
“Where have you been?” were the words that greeted her as soon as she stepped inside, the doors falling shut behind her. Vilkas stood inches away from Aerene, blocking her view of the dining hall behind him. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his wet, tear-stained cheeks, or ignore the shakiness in his voice. What hurt the most was the accusation in his voice, the defensive and acerbic tone behind his question. “I,” she stuttered. “I… I was doing Kodlak’s bidding,” she said, and found that she was crying too, a mirror of her shield brother’s emotions. She’d never seen Vilkas like this, and dread settled into her aching heart. He frowned, looking away from her as a singular tear slid down his cheek; his brow creased and his jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her when he spoke next, as if he couldn’t look at her. “I hope it was important, because it means you weren’t here to defend him.”
The words struck her and threw her mind into a tailspin. She felt hot suddenly, throat dry. “What happened here?” she managed to ask, moving to look behind Vilkas. He stopped her, his gloved hand placed on her shoulder, a subtle shake of his head telling her to wait. “One of the fiercest battles I’ve ever seen.”
He continued. “The Silver Hand. They finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr. We fought them off, but...the old man...Kodlak...he's dead.” Aerene’s eyes widened, as she was frozen in place, and Vilkas moved out of the way. He had been blocking a devastating landscape of the battle’s aftermath. The glorious mead hall had been turned into a mess, bloodied Silver Hand corpses strewn about. Dining utensils, dishes, and food were spilled from the central tables to the floor, the scattered weapons of pure silver a testament to the ferocity of the bandit group’s actions. Her heart dropped when she lastly saw Kodlak’s lifeless body, near the hearth. His chest was stained with crimson blood, a gaping wound the source of the bleed. Other injuries were scattered about him; he was left in only his trousers. Njada was dragging a wet rag over his wounds, soaking up the blood and squeezing it into a metal bowl of water. Farkas sat cross legged and Kodlak’s side, crestfallen and still. Aerene’s hand met her mouth to muffle a cry, blinded by her own tears. Dropping the tied sack and her own bag of belongings at her feet, she stepped over to Kodlak and collapsed onto her knees next to Farkas, sobbing silently into her own hands. Her crying was not the only sound heard in the sorrowful hall.
She felt a large, warm arm pull her into him, and reached out to hold Farkas while she cried. So close. We were so close to setting his soul free!
When she pulled away, her hot, wet cheeks felt even warmer, thanks to the hearth. Vilkas stood on her other side, arms crossed as he stared down at the Harbinger. Aerene looked around again. “Was anyone else hurt?” she asked. “Athis took a hard blow. He’ll live. But the Silver Hand made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad.” Aerene nodded to confirm she heard Vilkas, remembering her Trial and how she and Farkas retrieved a fragment of the great war axe yielded by Ysgramor himself, the first man to lead the 500 companions who originally built Jorrvaskr. She never knew how many fragments the Companions had retrieved, but it sounded as though there were more than she thought. She said nothing, pushing herself to stand before walking over to Athis, who lay with his knees near his chest on his side. Blood leaked from his nose and the corner of his mouth, while he clutched at his torso. Ria hovered over him, a small healing potion bottle in her hand as she tried to get Athis to move.
“What happened to him?” Aerene asked, kneeling down to meet their level. “War hammer to his side, and I think they broke his nose.” Aerene internally winced at the pain she imagined her shield-brother to be in. “Has he drank any of that yet?” she gestured to the potion. Ria shook her head. “I need to examine his injuries. Cradle his head,” Aerene instructed, taking the potion bottle and pulling at Athis to lay flat. He shrieked in pain, revealing a huge, swollen bruise below his left pectoral, that stretched down to his hip. He was sweating heavily and shaking. “You’re hurting him!” Ria hissed. Aerene ignored her, grabbing a nearby rag from the central table and wetting it with water from a flagon. She gently dabbed at Athis’s bloody nose, needing to see the condition it was in-she couldn’t do that with so much blood on his skin. When he cried out in agony, Ria grabbed onto Aerene’s wrist. Aerene shot the brunette a look, snapping her wrist out of Ria’s grip. “Damn it, Ria, I know what I’m doing. Hold him still unless you want him to keep suffering.”
The next hours were a blur, as the early evening sunk into nightfall. Those remaining in Jorrvaskr worked to clean up the mess, assisted by the city guard in hauling the Silver Hand corpses away for cremation in the fields outside Whiterun. Aerene and Ria managed to take carry Athis to his bed downstairs, after she cast healing hands over him and worked to set his broken nose into place. He would be on bed rest for a day or so, but the healing spell worked wonders in soothing his pains, both internal and external, and he would need to soothe his exhaustion with sleep. Aela, Vilkas and Farkas transported Kodlak to the Hall of the Dead, across the courtyard park with the Gildergreen, where he would be prepared for his funeral. It was late in the night when Aerene stood mopping up blood in the central hall, Tilma the only other person in the room. Her body wanted and needed sleep, but she was numb to hearing those calls. She was wrought with guilt and grief. How long until another is dead? Valdr, Skjor, Kodlak. When is it enough?!
She pulled up the handle of the mop and plunged the woven threads into the soapy bucket sitting on the wooden floor, the water tinted a gross reddish brown. What ate at her, biting nearly as sharp as the grief for Kodlak, the leader of the warriors of Jorrvaskr, were the words Vilkas said to her. ‘I hope it was important, because it means you weren’t here to defend him.’ As though the rest of Jorrvaskr was not present during the attack? As though Kodlak would be alive had I been here? Are none of my shield-siblings capable of defending their home? A sniffle sounded from her, just louder than the swishing of the mops against the near-clean floors. Aerene brought her hand up to her face and wiped the wetness away, though in vain because she couldn’t stop the tears falling. She felt embarrassed, and couldn’t place exactly why. She knew Tilma wasn’t judging, and was just as devastated. “Dear, let me finish this. Don’t think I didn’t notice your bed was empty before the break of dawn. It’s been a long day for you, you need rest,” the housekeep said, walking to the tall Nord woman and taking the mop from her. Aerene couldn’t be bothered to try and argue, knowing what Tilma said was true. “I can’t believe they got to Kodlak,” Aerene whispered. Tilma frowned, shaking her head. “Neither can I, dear. Kodlak was a strong man, a capable leader. His absence marks the first time in many years where a Harbinger has not been named in succession before his death. The Divines will guide us, dear. Now, go and rest,” Tilma ushered Aerene, giving her an endearing smile which Aerene sadly returned.
When she was changed into her night clothes, the witch head sack stored on ice elsewhere in Jorrvaskr, she laid on her back and stared at the ceiling. Kodlak. I am so sorry.
An emotional pressure dug at the woman as she tried to fall asleep, so exhausted yet kept awake in those depressive moments. How much longer can I remain here?
My heart aches in grief and yearns for change.
She may not have been ready to admit it to herself, but as the night had dragged on, her internal turmoil increased. I was not here to defend Jorrvaskr because Kodlak tasked me with a dire request. Why do I feel so at fault?
Though the words Vilkas spoke had quieted down in her head for now, the effect of their iciness still chilled the warmth of her heart.
-
“It’s natural, the yearning you feel,” Lydia said, pouring steaming water from a kettle into a cup of snowberry tea. She’d called on Aerene at Jorrvaskr in the later morning following the night of the attack, insisting Aerene join her at Ysolda’s home. ‘Are you sure Ysolda won’t mind? I don’t want to impose,’ she’d told Lydia. ‘Yes, I’m sure. She’s out collecting flowers for the funeral, wants to contribute however she can,’ Lydia had responded. Shortly after, they’d walked through Whiterun to Ysolda’s house behind the marketplace. It was the first time Aerene had seen the place in daylight. Candles topped with lavender petals burned from an end table, emitting a pleasant, relaxing aroma into the home’s cozy space. Aerene watched the tea grounds float around the cup, the water darkening as the grounds steeped. “I feel as though I’ll be running from all that’s happened,” she confessed, stirring the liquid with a small spoon. Lydia sat down across from her, looking glowy and pleasant, and set down a plate of snowberry scones. She pushed the plate intentionally close to Aerene, who noticed and smiled wholeheartedly at her emerald-eyed friend. “That may be so. Still, you have another reason for venturing to the College of Winterhold. I know for a fact that very few others in Skyrim are actively researching the return of the dragons. Soon you will join the effort, bigger than yourself. Do not forget that. And do not blame yourself for what happened to Kodlak, or ruminate on the harshness of what Vilkas said.”
As Aerene bit into a scone, crumbs falling into her lap, Lydia continued. “Although it may seem as such, I do not believe Vilkas blames you. None are to blame, except the Silver Hand. Remember that, when you feel like leaving is running. Life in Skyrim is vigorous and unpredictable. Death, glory, or love may jump out at you any time.”
Aerene sipped some tea, and set the cup down, feeling eased of her sorrows by the housecarl's reassurance. “I will do my best to tell it to myself. I am lucky to know you for such counsel, and even more preciously, friendship.”
Lydia rolled her eyes playfully, grabbing a scone for herself. “Have you seen him today?” Aerene knew who she was talking about, and shook her head. “I have not. Each of the Companions flock to their own activities in times like this, it seems. They will unite for Kodlak’s funeral this evening,” Aerene sighed. “We will be there. Aunt Tilma must feel terrible. She’s known Kodlak for ages,” Lydia said. Aerene studied the decorations and furniture in the home, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It seemed even cozier than the last time she was here, the small house full of even more belongings and supplies… as if more than one person lived here.
“Lydia,” Aerene beckoned. Lydia’s eyes perked up from her tea cup. “Have you moved in here?” Aerene asked, grinning. The daylight shining in through the home’s windows beautifully illuminated the blush that overtook Lydia’s cheeks. Lydia set down her tea cup, a smile threatening to show itself. “With all these wolves running around, the damsels of Whiterun need to be kept safe,” Lydia responded, and the two erupted into laughter. “I take residence between this home and Dragonsreach. Ysolda started inviting me over for dinners, then breakfast… sometimes one and then the other. Then it was most every day, and she insisted I leave some things here. Not a day went by that she didn’t ask if I’d be joining her again soon… and here we are. I spend the majority of the day in Jarl Balgruuf’s court, and retire here at night. I still have my old quarters at Dragonsreach, of course… but there are far too many rowdy guardsmen there for my liking.”
Aerene thought of the shared living quarters at Jorrvaskr, how the members of the Circle stayed in their own rooms. What of Skjor and Kodlak’s spaces?
“You know what the stories say, no place like home,” she said to Lydia. Lydia nodded, her expression softening as though her mind were elsewhere. “What is it?” Aerene asked. Lydia leaned back, pushing some of her dark brown hair behind her ear. She crossed one leg over the other, a rather artful scene as both women were dressed in their full armor; after the attack on Jorrvaskr, everyone was on edge. “I think I may begin searching for an amulet of Mara,” Lydia confessed, speaking carefully as though she was thinking the words through as thoroughly as possible. Aerene gasped, lifting her cup. “We must drink to that, my dear friend.”
An amulet of Mara was a traditional item in Skyrim, worn by one individual looking for marriage. Any prospective partners might approach the wearer, and a proposal would take place. The engaged couple would then flock to the Temple of Mara in Riften for a ceremony under the goddess’s loving gaze, the she who oversaw love and marriage. Not a single soul in Skyrim was unaware of the amulet’s symbolism; with how short life could be, there was emphasis, but not pressure, on sharing that life with one loved. A celebratory notion, indeed.
-
An hour or two after midday, Aerene left Lydia and found herself laying in her bed down in the second level of Jorrvaskr. She had dug an old book out of her belongings chest, one called The Book of the Dragonborn. She’d had it since the dragon attack in Helgen, but never got around to reading it. Today wouldn’t be the day, either, as she opened the cover before being distracted by her own thoughts, subsequently tossing the book to the foot of the bed and flopping back onto the pillow and the soft furs. The ground floor had been empty; the others were likely in the training yard, or readying themselves for the funeral that evening at dusk.
Though it was unconfirmed, she suspected Aela’s whereabouts with Ria and Njada may have played a part in the attack by the Silver Hand. Whatever they were doing didn’t start until after Skjor’s death, which occurred in a Silver Hand camp. Different from the usual criminals, the Silver Hand were the only faction to be the nemeses of the Companions. I cannot be so ignorant as to blame this attack on one singular event. This had been a long time coming, surely. I only wish I had been here, to defend Jorrvaskr and Kodlak. My efforts with the coven were in vain.
A strange groan sounded, so low that Aerene startled, and yet wondered if she was hearing things. She sat up and peered around the room; just as she had thought, she was alone in the sleeping quarters. Then, another breathy sound could be heard in the hall, followed by the clinging of metal-armor or a sword. Aerene pushed herself up from the bed, hurrying over to the doorway, looking into the hall. Further down the hall, leaning for support against a dresser, Vilkas pulled a helmet from his head, and it dropped to the ground. He took a step forward and slumped into the dresser, the dishes on top clattering as he shoved into them. His sword was already at his feet. “Vilkas, what are you doing?” Aerene asked. He’d just bent to pick the helmet back up when he looked at her, while she approached, concerned. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, and the skin below his left eye was swollen and cut. “What in Oblivion!” Aerene whisper yelled, immediately offering herself as support to her shield brother. She hooked his arm over hers, and he leaned onto her, his body weight supported by hers. He coughed, and she could’ve sworn that when their eyes met, there was an unmistakable golden yellow sheen. Has he been in his beast form? Or does it fight to be known?
As they hobbled into his room, she could smell the tang of blood, and her hand on his waist felt wet. She looked at her palm, and found it soaked with more crimson. She shut the door. “Not a single one of them lives,” Vilkas choked out, collapsing back onto his bed. Aerene worked at the fastenings of his armor, fingers unlatching the leather straps and buckles until the plates were loose. “Where have you been? Of whom do you speak?” she glanced up at him, kneeling at his knees to set down the armor. Vilkas’s brow twitched, but he said nothing. “Speak to me, please, brother,” Aerene said, looking over his bare torso. His toned abdomen glistened with sweat and stains of blood, some small cuts with one larger, concerning wound in his side. Instinctually, Aerene hurried to gather a bowl and rag and water, just as she’d done for Athis the previous night. As she got to work soaking up the blood so she could better understand the severity of his wounds, he muttered. “I sought revenge on those bastards for what they did here last night. Went to their chief camp, and…” Vilkas paused to catch his breath.
“And slaughtered them all.”
Aerene stilled, looking to his face while she sat in a chair at the bedside. He only stared upward, expression contorted in perplexity. There had to be so much more he could’ve said. She looked from his face, so handsome even now, and to the bloody mess to the side of his torso. She began wiping the blood clean, drawing low gasps and groans from her shield-brother, teeth clenched and fists squeezing his bedding. His chest heaved.
Her eyes narrowed at the wound. It was a gash, that much was sure. An unfamiliar sight looking back at her was the growth of dark grey strands away from the wound, like strikes of lightning spreading outward from the red storm that was the gash. “I have never seen this before,” she whispered. “What is happening to you?”
“Their weapons are of silver. Especially deadly to werewolves,” Vilkas responded painfully. Aerene’s heart began beating faster than before, struck by a spike of fear and a sudden need to hasten. “I can heal you,” she disguised her plea as an offer. “Please, let me,” she added. Vilkas grimaced, eyes scanning her. “I know you despise magic, but I will not sit here idly while silver poison spreads through the fibers of your being. I…”
“…I care too deeply to allow that to happen.”
Vilkas looked to her, the silence too deafening to bear. She could tell he was thinking, and she wanted to know what was going on in his mind. He said nothing, but nodded. It was all the affirmation she needed. “Just be still,” she whispered, and stretched her arms over him. One hand hovered over his forehead, where droplets of sweat were drying and strands of his black hair were sticking, and her other hand hovered over this gaping wound. She released a breath, and began to cast healing hands. The spell came to life, washing over his body like a stream over stones of a desert, refreshing and rejuvenating. The spell was so bright Vilkas shut his eyes, relaxing into the bed beneath him. Aerene could see through the shimmery golden glow that his wounds were closing, the spell’s sound like delicate wind chimes in a warm breeze. The swirls began to die down, and the glow faded, as she allowed the spell to wane. Her hand had settled to rest over the wound, and after things got quiet, she moved it just an inch to reveal a new scar. “I feel… so much better. Like I’ve been reanimated back to life,” he said, hand sliding across his chest to the new scar. When he touched it, his hand retracted in surprise at the sensitivity of the scar. “You didn’t have to do this for me, Aerene. But I must thank you,” he said. Aerene offered a smile, but couldn’t suppress the other emotion bubbling within her. “I would’ve gone with you, Vilkas,” she said.
She squeezed the excess water from the rag into the bowl, and raised it once more, this time to his bottom lip, gently wiping the blood from his skin. Their eyes met, and her lips parted to breathe in. “I couldn’t ask you to accompany me. You are not vengeful,” he said lowly. She let go of the rag, and it dropped to his other side. Her fingers landed on the soft, warm skin of his jaw, and his hand raised to rest on hers.
She knew what she wanted in this moment, and also that she couldn’t allow the temptation to be fed; she couldn’t do that to Vilkas, not to herself, not now. She knew she would depart Jorrvaskr soon, but hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.
He knew her well, that was sure. “I would’ve gone,” she insisted quietly, “for none but you.”
He knew her well, but not better than she knew herself.
He’s so close. Here, now.
But my departure is closer.
-
The encounter ended in a tight embrace, Aerene expressing her gratitude that he was safe, before he went into more extensive detail about the war he brought alone to the Silver Hand. To boot, he’d also retrieved all of the fragments of Wuuthrad and left them with Eorlund Gray-Mane, master blacksmith of the Skyforge. Vilkas’s beast blood naturally prolonged the growth of a wound’s severity, explaining how he’d managed to survive the journey from the camp back to Whiterun; that he rode on horseback was a major assistance.
When dusk arrived, the warriors of Jorrvaskr gathered at the Skyforge, which sat in a breathtaking position; one could see the plains outside Whiterun and the lower districts of the city. Aerene watched in the far distance the way the water of the White River caught the last sunlight of the day. Wind blew through the group of people, a sign of an impending cold night. Aerene turned away from the view of the landscape and eyed the various banners on posts erected around the ledge of the forge space. Each displayed a scarlet red fabric, threaded with gold lines and tassel, depicting the image of an assembled Wuuthrad at the center. The banners swayed gently in the wind. Among the attendants, Aerene noticed Lydia, standing with Ysolda and Jarl Balgruuf himself. Irileth kept a wary watch at the Jarl’s other side. Citizens of Whiterun had gathered too, most of whom Aerene did not recognize. At the center of the forge, built high over the ashes and embers of thousands of years past, was the funeral pyre where Kodlak’s body lay fully armored, as glorious in death as in life. Lydia pulled Aerene into a hug, and Ysolda gave Lydia a flower, which she then handed to Aerene. It was a purple mountain flower, lightly fragrant and beautiful in color. ‘Thank you,’ Aerene whispered to the merchant Ysolda, and watched as the final attendants arrived. Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela stood nearest to the forge, while Eorlund was next to the bellow chain. A silence settled and the ceremony began.
“Who will start?” Eorlund asked the group.
“I’ll do it,” it was Aela who spoke up, approaching the forge more closely. “Before the ancient flame…”
“We grieve,” said the group in unison.
“At this loss…”
“We weep.”
“For the fallen…”
“We shout.”
“For the departed…”
“We take our leave.”
Aela, with torch in hand, reached forward and set alight the pyre. Eorlund tugged on the bellows chain, and the flames burst up, swallowing the pyre. Aerene watched the dance of the fire, orange engulfing the wood and textiles, lapping upward to Kodlak before swallowing the scene whole.
The chill in the air was a stark reminder to Aerene that she couldn’t escape her own tears, the wind a low sting against the wetness streaking down her cheeks. The gathered stood in silence for some time, the only constant the crackle of the flames in the forge. “His spirit is departed,” Aela announced. “Members of the Circle, let us withdraw to the Underforge to grieve our last together.” Aerene watched Vilkas, Farkas and Aela part from the rest of the group, and she wondered what they were bound to discuss, but let it rest.
“Wonder if they’re deciding who will lead the Companions next,” Lydia said at Aerene’s side. Ysolda gathered close as well, the three standing out of the way as the attendees paid their respects and left the Skyforge. “Must it all happen so quickly? A pause to grieve may be just what the warriors of Jorrvaskr need. The matter of leadership is sure to arise naturally; often, these things reveal themselves,” Ysolda commented, and Lydia wrapped her arm over the merchant to pull her closer. “More members in our ranks would be good. A strong foundation is necessary to build upon,” Aerene added, curious herself.
Eorlund weaved his way through the attendees and approached Aerene. She excused herself from Ysolda and Lydia, who may have soon forgotten her anyway, and looked to Eorlund. “I have a small favor to ask of you. There is another fragment of Wuuthrad that Kodlak always kept close to himself. Would you go to his chambers and bring it back for me? I'm not sure I'm the best one to go through his things. Vilkas already supplied me the other pieces.”
Aerene nodded without hesitation. Is Eorlund really assembling Wuuthrad? The legendary weapon, made whole again? “Thank you, lass. I’ll be here waiting.”
She told Lydia and Ysolda she had a matter to take care of, and began making her way down the steps to the training yard. On her way she passed Jarl Balgruuf and Irileth, bowing in respectful greeting before continuing on her way.
Jorrvaskr wasn’t empty, but it was quiet. Even more somber were Kodlak’s quarters, the living space Aerene stepped into. She paused to look upon the table where they’d sat exchanging stories before, where he questioned her as she first inquired about joining the Companions, ever welcoming. It was when she left the hallway and entered his bedroom that she saw a plate with a sweet roll, sitting on a dresser at the end of a neatly made bed. It was in that moment grief snuck up on her, in the way she remembered her early days at Jorrvaskr, when Kodlak had saved her a plate of food after she slept late. She smiled at the memory, teary as she looked around the room. There was a corner table with a bottle of wine, cheese, and boiled creme treats, as well as a tall wardrobe. A goat horn chandelier hung from the ceiling, the candles lit. On a tall dresser were plates, a water jug, and cups, as well as a bright pink gem, magically floating in a golden case, openly displayed. She was intrigued, but had another focus. If I had a special artifact, where would I keep it?
Her eyes met the nightstand next to his bed; a place where the fragment would be kept safe, that he would hear the drawer slide open should anyone try to snatch it, where thieves would be drawn to the magical floating gem and forget to check the more subtle areas. She walked over, and pulled open the top drawer. There was the fragment, next to some kind of leather book. Aerene recognized it as Kodlak’s journal, which she’d seen him writing in on occasion. His private notes, his free thoughts. She picked up the fragment, and shut the drawer. Whatever was written in his journal was private, even in death.
“Here,” Aerene said, offering forward the fragment to Eorlund. He was now the only one remaining at the Skyforge. “Thank you,” he said, taking the fragment and setting it on his stone-carved work surface. “Your shield-siblings have withdrawn to the Underforge. They’re waiting for you,” he told her. Aerene blinked, confused, even scratching at a sudden itch at her neck. “But I am not of the Circle,” she reminded him. Eorlund stopped what he had begun doing and gave her an amused look. “Perhaps not by traditional standards. Still, Aela asked me to tell you they’d be waiting for you. Make of that what you will.”
Aerene didn’t know what to say, so she instead began walking, and soon found herself within the dark, cave-like space. It was much less intimidating than the previous time she was there, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that when she fell asleep later, nightmares of that fearful encounter may visit her once more. The air was dry in here, and when she stepped further in, the torchlight revealed her three shield-siblings. The ceremonial bowl at the center of the room was empty. “You’re here. Good,” Farkas said, turning back to Vilkas and Aela. Does this mean I am part of the Circle?
“The old man had one wish before he died. And he didn’t get it. It’s as simple as that,” Vilkas said to Aela, his tone assertive and hard. The archer woman’s features hardened, and she replied in defense, “Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas.” They were discussing the matter of Kodlak’s lycanthropy. Aerene began wishing this was one conversation she could stay out of. She crossed her arms and watched them talk. “That's fine for you. But he wanted to be clean. He wanted to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him.” Aerene could hear the passion rising in Vilkas’s words. “And you avenged him,” Aela argued. Farkas spoke up. “Kodlak did not care for vengeance.” Aerene knew that was true, especially with how Kodlak had spoken of Aela’s ventures to Silver Hand camps; he didn’t see revenge in an honorable light. “No, Farkas, he didn't. And that's not what this is about. We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood,” he asserted. Does Vilkas feel any regret for his impulsive actions? He had to have left for the camp shortly after Kodlak’s passing, which would explain why Aerene hadn’t seen him at all the previous night. It was chaotic, organizing the funeral and cleaning up the mess left by the Silver Hand; it all made keeping track of her shield siblings’ whereabouts less the focus. Without his impulsive actions, though, we would not have all fragments of Wuuthrad in one place. He has done the Companions a great service.
Additionally, it made all the more mystery of where this conversation between the four of them was going.
“You're right. It's what he wanted, and he deserved to have it.” Aela spoke with a quiet, defeated sigh.
“Kodlak used to speak of a way to cleanse his soul, even in death,” Vilkas said this. Aerene looked to him, and felt that now was the time when she should speak up. Farkas stood in silence, observing, but shifted his gaze to her, as did Aela and Vilkas, when Aerene took a breath to speak. “This cleansing of the soul was the last subject of conversation between Kodlak and I. Only a morning ago. He tasked me to travel to the Glenmoril Coven, to slay one of the witches who first lay the curse upon the Companions. He believed that the burning of one head was of equal exchange to set free the soul of one Companion sharing their blood with a beast.”
“And you have it?” Vilkas asked, voice etched in disbelief. Aerene nodded curtly.
“You know the legends of the tomb of Ysgramor,” Vilkas said to Aela. She shrugged, shaking her head. “There the souls of the Harbingers will heed the call of northern steel. We can't even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad, and it's in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years,” she said. The sudden grinding of stone drew the four to look toward the entrance to the Underforge, where the stone wall slid open, and a figure stepped through the shadows into the dim light of the room. Aerene stepped back to make room for Eorlund. Her lips parted in surprise as she studied the huge handle of the weapon sheathed at his back. It was crafted of dark steel, almost black as ebony. Eorlund spoke, in tight hold of the Circle’s attention.
“And dragons were just stories. And the elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be. The blade is a weapon. A tool. Tools are made to be broken...and repaired.” He reached upward and unsheathed the weapon, bringing into light the repaired axe of legend, in all its majestic glory. “Is that… you repaired Wuuthrad?” Vilkas asked.
Eorlund stepped forward, and held the great axe outward, the craftsmanship illuminated by the torchlight. Its two blades were mirrored, pointing away from one another. At the center was a harrowing face, drawn into a permanent expression of shock, or perhaps in a war cry. The head, carved as a relief, had large antlers branching out and stretching down the width of the blades. It had a dark air about it, and she wondered how many lives the weapon had ended, by how many it had been wielded. “This is the first time I've had all the pieces, thanks to your combined efforts. ‘The flames of a hero can reforge the shattered.’ The flames of Kodlak shall fuel the rebirth of Wuuthrad. And now it will take you to meet him once more. Which of you will carry Wuuthrad into battle?” All eyes landed on Vilkas and Farkas, for they were the only two in the Underforge with training in two-handed weapons. Farkas broke his silence and spoke first. “You traveled alone to slay the Silver Hand and retrieve the fragments yourself. You should wield Wuuthrad, brother.” Vilkas’s eyes stayed on his brother, telling of so much without his speaking a word. When he set his sights on Eorlund, he stepped forward, and lowered to kneel before the blacksmith. He bowed his head, and raised his arms for the weapon. Eorlund set Wuuthrad into Vilkas’s grasp, and the silver eyed man stood, adjusting his grip on the axe, looking it over.
Aerene was moved by the ceremonious gesture. There are no better hands to hold such a revered weapon.
Eorlund spoke again, words that would set the members of the Circle on the path to an ancient, near-frozen tomb in the most northern reaches of Skyrim.
“The rest of you, prepare to journey to the Tomb of Ysgramor. For Kodlak.”
Chapter 15: Blue Fire
Notes:
AHHHHHH! I enjoyed writing this. a certain moment in this chapter has been a long time coming, and I'm so happy to have brought it to life.
please enjoy, and as always, see you soon~
Chapter Text
Leaving the Underforge, the Circle agreed to regroup at the stables momentarily.
“Farkas,” Aerene beckoned, touching her hand to his arm. He looked toward her. “Yeah, ‘Rene?” he responded. “Would you be so kind as to ready my mare? She is silver. Her name is River,” she asked. Farkas’s expression shifted in surprise. “How long have you had a horse for?” he asked. Aerene chuckled quietly. “A while. We were only recently reunited at Knifepoint Ridge. It is a worthwhile story, if you should like to hear it while we journey to the Tomb,” she offered happily. Farkas smirked, nudging her. “I will hold you to it, sister.” He gave her a single, hard pat on the back before catching up with Vilkas to leave. Aerene joined Aela as the two walked into Jorrvaskr to gather some belongings before heading off. “River, huh? Noble name,” Aela said, stepping down the stairs into the lower level. “She’s saved my life, for is there a nobler act?”
Aerene sheathed her iron sword at her hip, double checking her armor fastenings and tightening the straps of her knapsack. She tied her sash into a hood, some strands of her strawberry blonde hair falling out from the cloth. She secured the sack with the witch head to the belt around her hips, hoping the cold northern weather would keep it frozen long enough. Footsteps sounded from behind her; she turned to see Aela, dressed with sleeves and long pants under her ancient Nord armor. She held out her hand, from which hung a thick cloak. “Here,” she said, and Aerene took the cloak, fingers running over the thick material. The cloth was light grey, and the inside was lined with fur. “Northern Skyrim is much colder than here.” Aerene smiled, arms raised to swoosh the cloak around her shoulders; in an instant, she could feel the warmth of the fur. “Thank you. I will lend it back upon our return to Whiterun,” she promised her shield-sister. Aela fastened her cloak with a fibula, a small ornament of steel in the shape of a bow drawn, readied to release an arrow. She noticed Aerene admiring the piece, and spoke. “A gift from Skjor.” Aerene knew Aela could smell, or maybe even taste, the sadness Aerene felt at the mention of his name. No doubt Aela felt the same tenfold. “Keep the cloak. You’ll need it during your research in Winterhold.”
Down at the stables, just as twilight settled over the land in the first hour of the night’s darkness, the Circle was readied for departure. Aerene reached her hand down to Aela, who grabbed on and tucked her foot into the stirrup, swinging her leg over the saddle. River would carry them both, while Vilkas rode Thunder and Farkas, Patch. “You’d think the stables for a city as big as Whiterun would have sufficient stock,” Aela said. Don’t listen to her, River. She doesn’t mean you.
“They do… usually,” Vilkas huffed. The group began traveling, Vilkas leading at point while Farkas, Aerene, and Aela traveled side by side a few paces behind him. A chill began settling over the landscape, the moons Masser and Secunda casting a silver light over Skyrim. The sky was clear, a good night for travel. They passed Honningbrew Meadery, and met the road running north and south. Aerene had taken it to Riverwood, though now she would see unfamiliar territory as they followed the left road of the fork and traveled parallel to the White River, toward northern Skyrim. After a short while, the White River diverged east, and on both sides of the four were farm plots and vast plains. After passing Whitewatch Tower, Whiterun Hold’s northernmost lookout, the cobblestone road sloped downward into a valley. In the distance, Aerene could see where the grasses were covered with a blanket of white snow, as far as they eye could see. Huge trees stood tall over the ground, and a lonely farm sat to the left of the road, up a small path and with a single mill. The air in the valley carried light fragrance, the fresh scent of tundra cotton and lavender carried on the occasional breeze. Aerene had been telling Farkas of her reunification with River, when Vilkas raised his fist, prompting Thunder to halt. He was met with immediate silence, and Aerene, confused, looked around, until she saw what Vilkas was looking at.
A mystical, light blue glow could be seen approaching the group. Aerene tightened her grip on the reigns, and wrapped the fingers of one hand around the handle of her lucky dagger. Aela’s hand rested on top of hers. “Easy, there. No harm will come to us.” Aerene turned her head back to meet Aela’s eyes, barely visible in the darkness and especially under the diagonal stripes of warpaint crossing her face. “I do not understand,” Aerene whispered. “Just watch,” Farkas mumbled quietly. Aerene did as directed, and kept her sights on the blue aura as it approached. Finally, when close enough, she could make out what they were looking at. It was a spectral being, a spirit or perhaps a ghost, riding a horse of the same color. Had the spirit a head on its shoulders, the mage woman might’ve been less intrigued. Her mouth fell open, watching as the figure, in full steel plate armor, rode by on the spectral horse. The light of the two beings was cast over the group who sat on the horses on the side of the road, leaving the path to the will of the mystical being. Aerene turned to watch as the figures continued back the way the four had just come, eyes set until she couldn’t see them any more. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Farkas said, and Aerene laughed silently. “What-who-was that?” she asked, guiding River into a trot behind Vilkas once again. “The Headless Horseman of Hamvir’s Rest. Has roamed these parts for ages. His grave is the only place he stops to rest,” Vilkas said. “I’ve seen the horseman many times,” Aela commented. “But have never once conversed.” Aerene got to wondering… without a head, could the horseman speak? Or in his state, summoned by some kind of magic, would words need to be spoken, or could they merely be willed into existence?
As the hours passed, the group mostly rode in quiet, but at times shared stories and the plan for which route they’d follow to the Tomb. Before long, the nearest surroundings were the snow and trees which Aerene had only seen from afar. The tall trees provided shade, even in the moonlight, beams of it shining through onto the snowy blanket over the land. They passed an inn, which Aela said was called the Nightgate, before heading leftward to continue north. They fell into a single line, led by Vilkas with Aerene and Aela behind, Farkas at the back. The path was steep, narrowing to lead between peaks of rocky hills. On each side of the worn path, snow darkened in a mix with dirt and grass, with jagged rocks climbing the slopes. Through the highest point of the Wayward Pass was a natural formation, an opening through a tunnel-like space in the stone of the hills. It was as though passing through a window, or a doorway, giving way to a breathtaking view over Skyrim’s northern sphere. Aurorae danced between the clouds of the sky, stretching in bands of green, purple, pink, and yellow; it was beautiful. From this point, the highest they would reach, the path sloped downward into snowy fields; Aerene could see glaciers at the edge of the land, which broke out into the Sea of Ghosts. It was also less commonly called the Atmoran Strait, a large body of water between Tamirel and the northern continent Atmora-where Nords were said to have first come from. Harsh wind blew over the region, drawing moisture from Aerene’s eyes, with her constantly blinking it away so she could see. From there, the ground was frozen and the snow hard packed.
Having never traveled on horseback in such conditions, trudging through deep snow and down a steep slope, Aerene’s heart picked up at nearly every step, at some irrational fear that River would lose her footing and break a bone, or send them all tumbling down into the glacial valley below.
No such thing happened, and the steep decline evened out into a more gradual one. Aerene prompted River to fall into step last in the line, so she could look around at the huge pieces of ice towering around them. Ever so often, the shifting of the glaciers could be heard. It was enchanting, to be one so small among such fascinating natural formations. How long has this ice been here? How many have traveled through this valley before us? She inhaled a cold breath, chilly yet invigorating. Further ahead, the ice wall opened to a large clearing. The four looked to the right, to see what appeared to be an excavation site; wooden walkways had been built downward to a tomb entrance, sitting at the bottom of a vortex-like site. Not a soul was seen. The ruins were ancient, though nearly as old as the surrounding ice. “Saarthal,” Vilkas said. “Looks like someone’s been excavating recently.”
Before the path lead between another glacial valley, Aerene looked to her left. The surrounding rock and ice mountains towered upward, peaks pointed to the heavens. A stunning statue could be seen to the east, facing southward. Aerene admired in awe, seeing the figure of a woman holding up a crescent moon and a sun. Aerene couldn’t see the face of the sun from the angle at which she was, but knew it was a shrine to Azura, Daedric Prince of dawn and dusk. The allure of the beautiful figure got the best of her, though, when River whinnied and stomped, her head shaking in complaint. Aerene hadn’t been paying attention and got too close to Patch and Farkas, nearly bumping into them. “Watch it there, sister,” Farkas said, and Aerene mumbled a meek apology before stealing one last glance at the shrine, which was soon hidden by high glacial walls.
Finally, they reached the shoreline; calm waters lapped at the shore, made of dirt, rather than sand-an unusual sight when compared to the waters of Cyrodiil. Small islands jutted up from the shallow waters, with a narrow strip of land connecting the main land to a small island just a sprint across the frigid waters. A shrine of Talos stood up from the island rocky outcrop, boasting an intricately carved statue of a man in chainmail armor with his sword ready to plunge into the open mouth of a serpent under his boot.
A few minutes' walk from the Tomb, Vilkas stopped. “We need to leave the horses here. I can smell horkers ahead. Don’t want to deal with a horde of them,” he said. Aerene dismounted after Aela, whispering for River to stay. Once the horses were secure, the Circle made the final distance to the tomb. It was darker now, as the aurorae had faded, and clouds shrouded the moonlight. Aerene cautiously looked around for these ‘horkers’ Vilkas spoke of, but saw nothing.
Ysgramor’s Tomb was of similar architecture to Dustman’s Cairn, a large, mossy cobblestone opening into Nirn with steps leading down to a lower floor, like an open wound in the ground. The door to the Tomb was carved into the face of an eagle with surrounding runes and shapes of both organic and geometric form. Spiky plants dotted the small ground clearing, and urns sat in the snow at the entrance. What will we find in a place such as this?
Vilkas fell back next to Aerene, and she looked to him, wondering what was on his mind. She’d noticed his unusual quietness since their departure from Whiterun hours ago. He had thoughts he wasn’t sharing. Aela shoved her hands onto one panel of the door, and was met with bits of dust falling from the door’s crevices. “Farkas, help me,” Aela said, and began kicking at the entrance. Farkas joined, and the doors split open, sending out a cloud of dust and dirt. Vilkas began to walk inside after his shield siblings, but Aerene gently grabbed his arm. “Does something trouble you, brother?”
Vilkas’s eyes widened slightly, as though he’d been made. Something on his mind, indeed. He frowned, eyes wandering as he looked for the right words. “This is the resting place of Ysgramor and his most trusted generals. You should be careful,” he said, completely deflecting. Aerene scoffed, blocking his way into the tomb. “Why do you speak as though you are not joining us?”
“Kodlak was right. I let vengeance rule my heart. I regret nothing of what I did at Driftshade. But I can't go any further with my mind fogged or my heart grieved.” Driftshade-that must be the camp Vilkas ravaged on his own the night Kodlak was murdered.
All this way, guilt has been gorging on his conscience like a feast.
“I see. If that is the way of your mind and heart, I will not attempt to sway you. We will see this through to the end, Vilkas,” she said, taking his gloved hand in hers and giving it a tight squeeze that he returned. Farkas joined them outside the entrance then. “We need Wuuthrad to enter,” he told Vilkas plainly. Vilkas unsheathed the weapon and handed it to Farkas, who walked back inside and gestured for Aerene to follow. She did, but Vilkas spoke to her again before she left. “Aerene,” he said. “The finest warriors of the original Companions rest here with Ysgramor. You'll have to prove yourselves to them. It's not that you're intruding; I wager they've actually expected us. They just want to be sure that you're worthy. Be ready for an honorable battle.”
“An honorable battle it shall be, then.”
Inside, the air was old and stale; it was a little difficult to breathe, though Aerene knew based on previous tomb-delves that she’d grow accustomed to it soon. A statue of Ysgramor stood proud in front of a gate, on a platform raised a couple of steps from the entrance room ground. Pyres burning coal were on two sides of the platform; a lit lantern sat at the statue base, as well as a large creature skull and a few offerings like dried flowers, a coin purse, weapons, and even a potion. “This place smells more ancient than it looks,” Aela huffed, taking in the carvings around they higher parts of the walls. Farkas stepped up onto the platform, and used both hands to slide Wuuthrad into the statue’s hands. A click could be heard, and the gate blocking the entrance tunnel croaked upward, more dust falling from the contraption.
The funnel was narrow, with candles lighting the way. How do these tombs have lit candles and pyres?
Aerene, Farkas, and Aela stood at the tunnel entrance, looking down inside. Aela took initiative and stepped in first, followed by Aerene, with Farkas last. He seemed hesitant, but Aerene couldn’t tell why. Perhaps Farkas wishes for the company of his brother. As she stepped quietly, Aerene could feel the sway of the head-sack hanging at her hip. Gods, I can hardly wait to be rid of this! Though she’d never say it aloud, she did wonder what price one of these would fetch.
It was when the tunnel sloped down that Aela began swinging her dagger through sticky, stringy webs crossed over the walkway. Spiders.
Instead of spiders, though, there were “Damn skeevers!” as Aela had exclaimed, when two of the large rodent creatures skittered out of the tomb shadows and lunged at them. Once the vermin were dead, Aerene realized that the dismembered rodent body she’d seen in Glenmoril Coven was that of a skeever. It’s a shame it ended that way. I wish we could live in separate spheres, not disturbing each other’s worlds.
The tomb’s layout pushed further downward, a descent below the surface; a set of double doors stood, shut and waiting menacingly to be opened. Aela and Farkas stepped apart, with Aela gesturing in a nod for Aerene to get the doors open.
The woman unsheathed her sword, planning to use her dagger only if necessary, and kicked at the ancient door. The wood and steel creaked, and with another thrust of her leg, the doorway was thrown open. Aerene took point, stepping forward to see a large room down a set of stone steps. Large pieces of organically cut stone made up the floor, edged by green plant growth. Wooden supports framed each side, both where the ceiling lowered a bit from the central open space. Four serpentine, birdlike reliefs jutted out from the upper wall sections of each side, and on the far wall straight ahead from where the three stood were reliefs of human faces, subtle but discernible. Aerene’s eyes drafted down, and she saw vertical tombs throughout the room; there were at least five. I must be ready to prove myself.
All at once, multiple spectral beings, in the same hue of the horseman near Whiterun, appeared out of nowhere, women and men in ancient Nord armor. They unsheathed weapons of various kinds; Aerene counted five warriors in total. The spirits began speaking, and she knew she was in for a fight.
“I sense a presence!”
“All the living should fear the dead!”
“You don’t belong here!”
“Leave!”
“Get down!” Aela cried, and Aerene lowered to kneel. An arrow whizzed past her from behind, striking the chest of an archer in a far corner of the room. Aerene jogged down the steps, shouting a war cry of her own, swinging her sword forward to the spirit nearest her, who was a Nord male equipped with sword and shield. She could hear their taunts in a symphony of steel clanging against steel. The warrior in front of her thrust his shield outward, knocking into her chest, and she staggered backward. He raised his shield to defend from her, sword ready to jab back. Think quickly!
Aerene paid a quick glance to his legs, and she kicked at one of his knees, sending him back with a lowering of his shield. This opened her path to defeating him, and she swung her sword from left to right against his neck. He groaned, and fell back, vanishing into nothingness just as fast as he’d been summoned. It was puzzling, though she had no time to ponder as a second foe approached from behind. Another Nord with a warhammer, which he raised and prepared to swing down. He fell and vanished, just as the other one had, and an arrow clattered to the ground. These spirits have no flesh, yet are dense enough to stab or pierce, and vanish without a trace. Is this an eternal loop in which they live?
Aela walked down the steps from her vantage point, bow in hand. Farkas readied his greatsword, and the three moved to the next. Their descent down two sets of steps led them to a large room, lined with multiple tombs against the walls; the central stone floor was crawling with thick, dead vines, muted gray in tone. A layer of water sat up to Aerene’s ankle. As expected, several more spirits formed and launched their attack. Aela stood back and shot arrows at the archers, who did the same from the other side of the room. Aerene swung her sword at a spirit wielding two daggers, each swiping at her. She knocked one out of the warrior woman’s hand, but tripped on one of the vines at her feet and fell backward. She landed with a yelp, raising her blade to defend from another swing of the dagger. She summoned the strength in her arms and core to push back at the woman, who was ferociously unyielding. Aerene swung her right arm outward, flinging her sword out of her grip; as she hoped, the blade knocked the dagger from the ghost’s grip. Aerene drew Valdr’s lucky dagger from her waist and swiped it at the ghost’s legs, drawing a stumbling pause from the woman, before swiping the dagger up the spirit’s neck. It vanished.
As a first, she found herself casting fast healing over herself mid-battle when another shield-wielding warrior used the edge of his shield to thrust against Aerene’s wrist, immediate pain splintering from the area. She healed herself with her free hand, immediately feeling relieved, before plunging herself back into the fight full force.
Minutes and many panting breaths later, the three regrouped and followed the natural progression of the tomb to the next area. “I think we’ll need to step up training with the whelps back at Jorrvaskr,” Aela commented, sticking the arrows she had gathered back into the quiver strapped over her back. “I can’t go any further,” Farkas said, drawing strange looks from the two women, who approached them to see what he was looking at. He stood in an alcove of the room, where patches of the wall were of stone brick, laden with ivy and drowning in spiderwebs. The webs were even more potent in the next doorway, so thick one couldn’t see through the passage. Two large, white, open eggs sat near the passage doorway, sending the scent of spider through the air. It was gods-awful. Aerene’s face twisted into disgust as she began breathing through her mouth only, imagining how much worse it was for her shield-siblings with superior smell. “What’s the matter?” she asked Farkas.
“Ever since Dustman's Cairn, the big crawly ones have been too much for me. Everyone has his weakness, and this one is mine. I'm not proud, but I will stay back with Vilkas. Give my regards to Ysgramor.”
He wouldn’t hold Aerene’s gaze, as if ashamed, and gave a quick glance toward Aela, who had folded her arms and raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. Farkas fears spiders. I cannot shame him, for I fear werewolves in the same way. They have haunted my sleep ever since that night in Falkreath.
“We will,” Aela said firmly, to which Aerene nodded. In this moment, he and Vilkas do seem quite related.
After Farkas left the room, Aerene and Aela looked to each other, saying nothing. Aerene guessed her shield-sister was listening to see how far Farkas got, as she would occasionally look in the direction which he’d gone. After another few moments, she sighed. “Good riddance,” Aela muttered, readying her bow. “Never let the men of this world intimidate you,” she said with a smirk, placing an arrow along the string of her bow, “but remember what intimidates them.” Aerene approached the thick wall, rolling her shoulders out. “It is you and I, sister,” she said to Aela, before swinging her blade into the mess of sticky webbing. Four small frostbite spiders were crawling around on the other side. Aela launched an arrow into one, and Aerene took another out with the swipe of her sword, cutting through the grey and orange flesh of the many-eyed and many-legged creature. Just the sound of their legs carrying them made her skin crawl, but she was not careful enough and her vision went dark, the most blood-freezing chill running through her entire body. She groaned, doubling over to support herself on her knees, mere seconds passing before she could see again, the chill completely gone. Damned thing poisoned me!
Aela shot an arrow through the third spider, and the fourth one reared up again, ready to spit at Aerene once more. She jogged over and stomped through the creature as hard as she could, a loud squelch sounding as her boot squashed through the spider’s innards. She pulled her foot out, stifling a gag at the goo clinging on as she did so. “Frostbite venom stings like ice, but the feeling fades just as quickly. You ready to move on?” Aela asked, plucking her arrows from the spider corpses. “Now more than ever,” Aerene replied. She was beginning to feel the lack of sleep, in the occasional sluggishness of her movements and the slow blinking of her eyes. She did not need to wonder about Aela’s tiredness, because there was none. Soon we’ll be back in Whiterun where my weariness will be slept away.
Those with the beast blood did not need sleep as humans did. They could fall into a sleep-like stillness, but wouldn’t ‘awaken’ feeling refreshed or renewed. It was sharing one’s body with a wolf and having to keep control constantly that contributed to this sleeplessness. ‘Do you ever miss resting?’ Aerene had asked Vilkas when he explained all of this to her, when he met her in Falkreath in the middle of the night. ‘I never used to, but I feel it now. To be in a constant waking state is invigorating, if it is what you want. The moment you grow unsure, well…’
After walking cautiously through another web covered room, set with more large, open and empty spider eggs, Aela pulled on a chain hanging from a mount in front of a gate. The gate slid upward into the wall, out of view. Aerene looked around, taking note of the vines and roots covering the ground. The ceiling was carved in archways, stretching through to a far wall. Part of the end of the room had collapsed, rubble piled around. The pull of a handle from a large base carved with runes and swirls opened another gate into the next room. Aerene noticed another face carved from the stone, though this one appeared to be wearing a helmet; all of the previous reliefs were not. We must be getting close.
Through the doorway was a space lined with tombs against the walls, each placed into alcoves of the walls. There were more freestanding tombs in the center of the room, as well as a large iron table topped with a large slab of stone. Several funerary urns and old, ruined books were scattered among the tabletop. A huge skull sat leaning against the table, with a large tusk curving down and outward, then back in. Its tip was sharply pointed; it was just the single tusk remaining in the skull. How huge was the creature, if its head is larger than I?
“Heads up,” Aela quipped, readying an arrow in her bow. With a quick turn, Aerene saw four ghosts emerging from the surrounding tombs.
Only a few minutes later, Aerene landed a final blow through an archer, and when she looked to Aela, saw the Nord woman shove back the final spirit, pushed so harshly that the very tusk Aerene was looking at earlier impaled the spirit, for only seconds before it vanished. Its cries of anguish echoed in Aerene’s head, and she had to remind herself that she and Aela had to prove their worth, which they’d miraculously managed. They made their way up a set of steps, pushing through two large iron doors into the last, grand room. It was twice the size of the largest space they’d passed through so far. A large iron chandelier hung from the high ceiling; directly below was a pyre, this one different from the others as it had blue fire, of the same color as the very spirits guarding the tomb. “By Hircine,” Aela exclaimed lowly, taking in the surroundings. Multiple staircases carved into the stone led upward to second levels housing more tombs, with dozens of lit candles illuminating the space. A greenish-blue glow lit the atmosphere of the room, the stone walls cracked and worn away from thousands of years of existence. Moss and ivy broke out of the many nooks and crannies, threatening to someday overtake the room completely. Specks of dust seemed to float in the still air, dry and dense.
“He’s there,” Aela said to Aerene, who squinted to see what her shield-sister was looking at. Through the fire, she could make out a human figure of the same hue. Aela walked to center of the room, beckoning Aerene over. There Kodlak was, in ghostly form just like all of those they’d battled to get here, to get to this moment. Aerene gasped, taking in the sight; the spirit’s hands were outstretched towards the fire, as though warming it. Aerene lifted her hand to the flame, shocked to find that it was cold. “Kodlak,” Aela spoke, truly astonished. In that moment, Aerene felt an overwhelming mix of emotions. The legends are true… his spirit is here, now. “Greetings, shield-sisters. My fellow Harbingers and I have been warming ourselves here. Trying to evade Hircine.” Each of the women looked around the room for the ‘others’ and found none. “There is no one else here,” Aerene observed. The expression on his face was difficult to make out, because Kodlak was transparent, but she imagined he would’ve smiled. “You see only me because your heart knows only me as the Companions leader. I'd wager old Vignar could see half a dozen of my predecessors. And I see them all. The ones in Sovngarde. The ones trapped with me in Hircine's realm. And they all see you. You've brought honor to the name of the Companions. We won't soon forget it.”
Aerene offered a sad smile, for the fact that there were so many more around, who she wished to know, but who had lived before her time. “Vilkas said you could still be cured,” Aela said, looking to Aerene and down to her hip where the sack was tied. “Did he now?” Kodlak asked, hopeful and surprised. “I can only hope. You still have the witch’s head? Excellent. Throw it into the fire. It will release their magic, for me at least.”
Aerene paused, eyeing Aela. They both knew that once this was done, Kodlak would be departed forever. It would be the last time Aela would see Kodlak, for when her time in this life came to an end, her soul would rest with Hircine. Aela nodded to Aerene, who began untying the sack from her hip. She held the rope of the sack in her hands, looking down at it, knowing she had no time to waste. Just as she prepared to throw it onto the fire, she offered it to Aela. The Nord woman took it, and tossed it into the flames. The bag was engulfed immediately, the flames spitting upward in a burst of cold air as intense as that outside the tomb. Both women stepped back, reading their weapons. Aerene looked to Kodlak as he groaned in pain, leaning forward and clutching at his chest. An aura of red swelled out his chest, as he fell to the ground and out of his spirit leapt a beast, a wolf. It was transparent in color, though of a blood red, a clash against the harmonies of blue the spirits thus far had been. A loud snarl sounded from the beast, an it became clear that upon slaying it, Kodlak’s soul would be free.
The creature growled, head lowering to the ground as it walked towards Aerene and Aela, who were slowly and cautiously stepping backwards to keep space between themselves and the beast. Aerene turned her sword, positioning it ready to stab. She jutted it downward toward the beast, beginning the final battle. Quick and angry, the wolf leapt at her, faster than she could predict and rendering her initial attack useless. She maneuvered out of the way. Aela rushed forward and swiped at the creature with her dagger, ripping a gash through its ghostly flesh. The creature seemed only more angry at this, turning its attention to Aela and jumping towards her. Aerene watched as the beast pinned Aela to the ground, its claws threatening to sink through her armor and into her skin. “Agh!” Aela yelped, holding the wolf’s huge jaw away from her face as its teeth gnashed outward, hungry for blood. Aerene took the chance to plunge her sword into the creature’s hind, drawing a yelp of pain. Aela scrambled to stand, swinging her dagger at the creature’s neck. Aerene hurried to pull her sword from the beast, and it began to slow, large paws losing footing. Its teeth were bared until its last breath, when both Companions stabbed their blades into the creature, and retracted them at the same moment.
It fell, the red essence dropping to the floor of the tomb in a vapor that vanished instantaneously.
Kodlak approached in a last display of glory on this plane. “And so you both have slain the beast inside of me. I thank you for this gift. The other Harbingers remain trapped by Hircine, though. Perhaps from Sovngarde, the rest of the heroes of old can aid me in their rescue. The Harrowing of the Hunting Grounds. It would be a battle of such triumph. And perhaps someday, you'll join us in that battle. But for today, return to Jorrvaskr. Triumph in your victory.”
Before either could say a word in response, Kodlak vanished as all the ghosts had before him. Aerene stared at the spot he last stood, as if expecting him to reappear. In his absence, the air felt emptier, as though his spirit’s passing to Sovngarde took the last of the ghostly energy haunting the tomb. Aerene had never noticed how prominent the energy had been before it was gone.
“The old man got what he wanted,” Aela said, catching her breath. She sheathed her dagger, and rested her hands against the bowstring strapped over her torso. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” she said to Aerene, who tucked her hair behind her ears, resisting the urge to yawn. She felt exhausted now, but at peace. “We’ve done a glorious deed today. May stories of this day be told in Jorrvaskr for ages to come,” Aerene replied, and the two passed the blue flame pyre to look upon the Tomb of Ysgramor. It was sitting up a set of wooden steps, with huge stone pillars on each side, carved with more Nordic designs of shapes and facial reliefs. Two steel heads of the same serpent-bird creature from the earlier reliefs jutted out of the pillars, their heads acting as holders for huge pyre bowls burning hot orange flame, sending swirls of smoke upward. The tomb itself looked to be made of iron or a dark stone material, guarded by crossed iron bars and sunken into a spacious alcove. The wall behind the tomb was carved with reliefs of figures facing a central person, who was most likely Ysgramor.
“The others deserve to know of our success,” Aela said, and Aerene nodded in agreement, ready to leave the tomb. When Aela didn’t move, as though mesmerized by the ancient stonework around them, Aerene asked if was ready. “This… this is the tomb of Ysgramor. I want to stay and commune for a bit, feel the history and legacy of this place.”
Aerene gave an affirming nod. “We’ll leave a horse for you.”
“Thank you,” Aela responded, “I will set for Jorrvaskr in a few hours’ time.”
She took in one last look of the tomb, wondering if she’d return with Vilkas or Farkas later on. If they choose to set their souls free of the beast blood, I wish to aid them in battle.
A hidden tunnel could be found in one of the corners of the grand room, which Aerene followed until it spit her out at the entrance. Farkas and Vilkas sat there, each facing her with their light, silvery eyes, anticipating what she had to say. “It is done,” she proclaimed, and relief washed over them. She noticed how they were looking behind her for Aela, and hurried to explain. “Aela is staying back for a while, and will join us at Jorrvaskr later. We must leave a horse for her.” Relief, again.
Not wanting to burden Patch with her weight and Farkas’s, Aerene and Vilkas rode River. She had been debating asking Vilkas to take the reigns, as she felt as though she might fall asleep at any time, but he offered first. “You must be exhausted,” he said. “I am,” she confessed, sighing quietly. He mounted River’s saddle first, and held his arm down for Aerene to hold onto. She smiled, looking up at him admirably, before grabbing on and sinking into the saddle.
“Were here more crawlies?” Farkas asked as they began the return journey. “Yes,” Aerene said tiredly. “Thought so.” Farkas said this with a shudder. Aerene’s arms were already wrapped around Vilkas’s waist, as she held on to keep steady. “Sleep. You’ve earned it,” Vilkas said in a low tone, and she knew he could feel the way her heart fluttered at the invitation. Farkas could too, as he ‘humphed’ and lead Patch to step ahead of River. Aerene allowed herself, although hesitant, to rest, sinking a bit into Vilkas’s back as she got comfortable. When she’d finally leaned her head against him, into his warmth, she could smell that same forest scent, so pleasant and comfortable. If dragons did not threaten the world, I may stay here forever. “Aerene,” Vilkas said to her in her near-sleep state. “Hmm?”
“Look, to the east,” he said. She opened her eyes, and narrowed them, for the light of dawn was cascading over the land. Up, above the shoreline, and nestled into the high stones and ice, was a large structure bridged across the water, on a formation of rock separate from the mainland. It was a huge stone brick fortress, with multiple towers attached to the central space. Huge glass windows stretched the lengths of the walls, some stained what appeared to be a pale teal blue. The structure was magically alluring. She perked up, admiring the beauty of the College of Winterhold.
-
Two days later, Aerene sat with Farkas and Vilkas outside the walls of Whiterun, looking over the plains in the morning light. River was grazing a short distance away, saddlebag packed with Aerene’s belongings and plenty of sustenance for her journey to Winterhold. Her shield-siblings advised her to continue on the road past the Nightgate Inn, rather than cutting through the mountains with the Wayward Pass. The road would take her east for a short time before going north again, and she’d end up in Winterhold before nightfall.
The aspiring woman said her goodbyes to her friends, including Aela, and of course Lydia and Ysolda. She’d paid a visit to Dragonsreach, assuring Jarl Balgruuf that should he need her for any favor, to help Lydia or to work in solitude, she was willing. Farengar, Balgruuf’s eccentric court wizard, seemed to take an interest in Aerene’s departure for Winterhold, but Balgruuf hushed him when he pried at Aerene with questions. Her visit to Dragonsreach also served as a way for her to store her gold, of which the majority would be kept in the Treasury of Whiterun. It would be safe there, while she still carried a significant amount on her person. In Whiterun Hold, she could pay for items with gold on hand or through treasury credit, charged to the Keep by merchants at certain points through the month. It was convenient and safe, one less thing to worry about as she journeyed to Winterhold.
As Farkas and Vilkas walked her out of the city, and out of earshot from any listening ears, she insisted that if they wished to revisit the Tomb of Ysgramor, she would accompany them, describing the way to the Glenmoril Coven in great detail.
Aerene sat, Vilkas on her right, and Farkas on his. She picked at the grass, thankful they weren’t in a rush to see her off. “I will miss you both,” she said, dropping the sprigs she pulled from the dirt. “We’ll miss you too,” Farkas said, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands. The grassy knoll where they sat sure did have a good view of Whiterun Hold. “Vilkas might miss you a little more,” Farkas added, and Aerene looked to Vilkas, whose eyes were slightly wider and cheeks slightly pinker. She laughed, and when she had quieted, sighed. “I must say this now, for I will regret it if I do not,” she began, and both brothers looked to her.
“Write to me, and I will write to you. I do not know what awaits me in Winterhold, but when you are ready, or need me for anything at all, even to visit over mead or ale, come to me. I will do the same.” She continued, this time with a voice of pride. “I have much love in my heart for both of you,” she finished, crossing her arms and looking to her brothers. Farkas wore a soft smile, and Vilkas seemed just a bit misty-eyed. Aerene laughed, and they did too, before she stood up and held out her arms for hugs from each of them. They assured her they felt the same.
The three said their goodbyes, before heading down the road, to a spot near Honningbrew Meadery. “Until next time, Aerene,” Vilkas said, looking up at her on River’s back. Farkas grinned. She nodded, looking at them as long as she could, wishing she had a way to keep that scene forever, in a tangible way outside her mind.
Once more, the plains became snowy forest, and after a few hours Aerene and River passed by the Nightgate Inn. She saw an Orc standing on the porch of the inn, wearing finery and sipping from a goblet. He saw her, and waved, which she returned.
It was further up the road when snow began falling from puffy, light grey clouds above. Aerene had just mounted River again after stopping for a rest and food. Tilma had sent an array of travel foods, including bread and dried meats, as well as fruit like ripe jazbay grapes and snowberries, and apples. Kindly, Ysolda and Lydia had gifted Aerene a water pouch, full and ready should she be thirsty. Aerene scanned her surroundings, while one hand held the reigns and another gently caressed River’s neck. Somewhere around, Aerene thought she could hear something, like heavy breathing or grunts, but couldn’t see anything. The visibility at this point in the snowy forest was low. It was when she looked over to the rocky mountainside at her left that she saw a cave entrance, and the source of the movement. A creature with long arms and short legs, and a white hide that made it easy to blend in, was moving around, growling outwardly and eating from its hand the meat of a deer on the ground. A frost troll!
Aerene had read a book about troll slaying, and recalled that frost trolls were especially difficult to kill because they could resist most damage, and healed quickly anyway. This one hadn’t seen her yet, in the haziness of the snowfall. Aerene silently tapped her foot twice against River’s side, and the horse broke into a gallop. Aerene looked back after they got a little further away, and yelped when she saw the troll on all fours behind them. Fear shot through her, and her hands holding the reigns were shaking a little. “Hyah!” she commanded River, who neighed, but continued galloping along the road.
Aerene frequently turned to see if the troll was still chasing them, and each time she did, it was a bit further away. Eventually, it was out of her line of vision. “By the Divines,” she mumbled to herself, tugging on the reigns for River to slow to a walk. The horse did, quick gallops slowing to a steady trot, her breaths loud and nostrils flared for air.
Eventually, they passed by an old fort up a hill, on the right side of the cobblestone road. Aerene could see Imperial soldiers stationed within and guarding the entrance, some patrolling the grounds. “Keep an eye out for trouble, citizen,” one of the soldiers called to her. She dipped her head in acknowledgment, thankful she’d tied her sash into a hood to hide some of her features. She hadn’t heard from Hadvar, but assumed he did good on his word and cleared her name in Solitude, head of Imperial activity in Skyrim.
She pulled the fur cloak tighter over herself, breathing onto her hands to warm her fingertips. After a while, the right side of forest gave way to snowy bluffs, cascading down towards the Sea of Ghosts. Harsh winds blew the snow downward towards the far shore; glaciers and ice forms floated in the distant waters; to the left of the road were the huge, jagged stone hills, of which the Shrine of Azura was nestled somewhere between. After River trotted past a bend in the road, Aerene could see those same towers of the College, now that she was on their eastern side. She and her mare were no more than an hour’s ride from Winterhold now.
They rode up to the city in the early evening, while the sun was spending its last hour in the sky and sinking slowly toward the horizon, only to find that Winterhold was… hardly a city at all. The central cobblestone path led a short distance ahead to a walkway connecting the settlement to the College by bridge. The snow had stopped falling, and left Winterhold in a sleepy, quiet haze.
Aerene had counted only four buildings when someone spoke from her right. A man with apple red hair, part of it in a braid, and with a circlet around his crest, called to her from the steps of an inn. “We don’t get many outsiders here,” he said. “What’s your business in Winterhold?”
Aerene looked around, seeing only a couple townsfolk wandering around. The circlet indicates this man may the the Jarl. “I am here for the College,” she said in response. His eyes narrowed, but the iciness in his blue irises was not hidden. He crossed his arms, the thick furs over his shoulders making him appear more muscular than he actually was. "Should've known. Not that it matters anymore. No one bothers coming to Winterhold for any other reason." She was taken aback at the edge in his voice. “You have a problem with the College?” she asked in its defense. "I do, and if you count yourself among their numbers then you've blood on your hands as well. There's nothing left of Winterhold. Nothing! Everyone knows it's the College's fault that the sea swallowed our city. Still they deny it, but we all know the truth,” the man spat, his eyes widening a bit. Aerene tapped her foot against River once, and the horse began walking away. “You seem quite sure of yourself,” Aerene said. “As Jarl of Winterhold, I am. You damned mages best keep to yourself.”
Oops.
Aerene didn’t dare turn back, not wanting to risk being exiled from Winterhold when she had literally just arrived. She passed by the inn, which on the sign said ‘The Frozen Hearth’, the same building the Jarl had been on his way to. Well, I hope I won’t need a bed there tonight.
Aerene studied the surrounding buildings, seeing how they were all made of wood and cobblestone with thatch roofs. To her disdain, there wasn’t a stable. I might try my luck seeing if there’s a local spot I can leave River. Deciding against venturing into the inn with her questions, and anxious to get to the College, Aerene set foot inside a two-level structure, with a wooden sign hanging, reading Birna's Oddments.
“Welcome, traveler,” a Nord woman with a thick accent, like the Jarl, greeted. She had blonde hair with short bangs pushed to the sides of her forehead, and wore a belted tunic dress. “Hello,” Aerene responded. “Lovely shop you have here… Birna?” she questioned. The woman nodded with a smile. “Aye, thank you. It’s good to see a new face around here.”
Aerene looked around, seeing display shelves behind the counter where the woman stood. There was a variety of fruit, cheese wheels, as well as wines, potions, and vegetables, with a few baskets and dishes. “What brings you to Winterhold?” Birna asked, leaning against her counter. Aerene was wary about telling anyone around here why she was doing anything, but decided that honesty might aid her. “I am here to attend the College,” she said, and quickly glanced away from Birna when she saw the subtle shift in her expression. “I am Aerene, of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun. I was also at Helgen, when the dragon attacked,” she added, hoping to get some sympathy. “You were at Helgen, and lived to tell the tale?” Birna asked in shock. Aerene smirked to herself, dropping it before she turned to face Birna. “I hope to conduct research on the dragons at the College. I’ve heard the place has many secrets, and plenty of ancient wisdom and knowledge; I want to learn all I can in hope of uncovering why dragons have returned. It is clear they are a danger to the people of Skyrim,” Aerene added. “In that case, I must welcome you here. Most aspiring mages only want personal gain.”
Aerene nodded, though she couldn’t agree. “I have a mare, her name is River. I was looking for a stable when I arrived, but didn’t see one. Perhaps I am mistaken?”
“No, Aerene of Jorrvaskr, Winterhold hasn’t had a stable since the Great Collapse. But… I might strike a deal with you, if you’re open to it…”
And so a deal was struck; Birna had a clearing behind her store, where she kept a horse of her own, a black and white paint horse named Flower; she was an older mare who Birna kept for occasional travel and shipment hauling. Aerene would pay her every week, for full care of River, but insisted she would visit as often as she could.
When she finally began walking up the steps to the first entry archway, a high elf woman seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Cross the bridge at your own peril! The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!” Aerene startled, taking a couple steps back with her hands raised in defense. She eyed the woman; the Altmer had light red hair, pulled back into two separate ties and parted down the center. Her skin was greenish-gold in color, and she was quite tall. Her reddish amber eyes studied Aerene cautiously. “Why are you out here?” Aerene asked, gesturing to the town. “I am Faralda, here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College. And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm, so be it. The more important question is: why are you here?”
Faralda's explanation was sensible, seeing as Aerene had already gotten quite the impression of how the townsfolk felt about the College. Best to keep as much distance between Winterhold and the College as possible.
“My name is Aerene. I’ve come from Cyrodiil to attend the College. It has been my life goal since I learned of its existence years ago,” Aerene claimed proudly. Farad nodded, her thumb and index finger grasping her chin, her other arm folded. “What is it you expect to find within?”
Secrets!
“Ancient knowledge and ages of wisdom, spells and incantations taught by the best in all of Skyrim.”
Faralda hummed in understanding as she considered Aerene’s response. The Companion noticed the robes she wore, long garments belted above the hips, a deep greyish-blue in color with red lines intertwining over the torso, like hot, ruby red fire. Robes of destruction magic.
“It would seem that the College has what you seek. The question now is what can you offer for the College. Not just anyone is allowed inside. Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will.”
Not the first time I’ve had to prove my worth here.
“I am highly studied in Restoration Magic,” Aerene offered. “I see. Cast healing hands, aspirant.”
Aerene did as she was told, and the swirls of golden, warm light engulfed Faralda. When the spell waned, Faralda clapped with a smile. “Impressive. Head across the bridge, and look for our Master Wizard, Mirabelle Ervine. She’ll show you your quarters and get you your robes. Welcome to the College of Winterhold.”
Aerene dipped her head, smiling to herself in contentment. Happily, she set off through the first stone archway, and passed a planter full of water, a deep blue, like the aurorae on some nights. Faralda approached, and cast a spell over the small pond, and a beam of the same blue magic struck upward, lighting that section of the bridge. Aerene continued following the path upward, to the right, where the path rounded and another small pond came to life with illustrious blue light. The other side of it had no protective wall; it must’ve been broken away, and in its place was ice frozen against the stone. Crossing this bridge could very easily become perilous…
She turned left, and followed the upward slope of the path across the icy final stretch of bridge. It went straight ahead to the college now, and Aerene made haste across another section where the side sections of wall had completely disappeared. She made the mistake of looking downward, seeing the huge drop to the Sea of Ghosts shoreline below, and tried to swallow the fear swelling in her chest. It was dizzying, so she pulled her sights back up to the bridge and hurried the rest of the way. There was a last cylindrical light pond in the center of the walkway, and the bridge path widened around it. Aerene looked ahead to see an arched iron gate, bearing the College’s insignia of an open eye with arrowhead-like shapes pointing outward. As though it had watched her pass the last light pond, it swung open just for her.
She inhaled a breath of the cool, fresh air, passing through the grand stone archway entrance and taking in the courtyard in front of her. To her left and right were walkways with entrances into the towers, and straight ahead the walkway stretched to the highest tower of them all. Aerene looked upon it, seeing all of its majesty lit by the setting sun. The sky above was a divine, dark azure, and it seemed as though the central tower may have just reached up and brushed against the heavens. Another pond of light sat in the courtyard, larger and brighter than the others. Behind it was a tall statue of a mage, sculpted from stone. His robes were captured as if blowing back in the wind, skillfully carved in motion as if magic was swirling all around him. His hands were raised and open to the skies, face shadowed by a raised hood. Aerene slid her own hood down, and let the sash fall naturally behind her. The courtyard was snowy and still, full of stones, plants, and some benches. She was prepared to meet the Master Wizard, but had no idea where to go, and feared she might intrude on a lesson-were there any lessons at this time?-and pondered where she might go.
That was when she spotted someone seated on a bench in the courtyard, reading a book in his lap. He wore robes the color of juniper, his hood, collar, and under sleeves a sandy cream color. She hated to disturb someone in study, but hoped he wouldn’t mind. She made her way over, stepping lightly across the snow. “Hello,” she greeted. He looked to her, and offered a charming smile. He spoke then, but she wasn’t listening, too mesmerized by the way his eyes, blue as deep oceans and sapphires, were illuminated by the last stretches of sunlight across the courtyard. When she said nothing, the young Nord man’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Sorry?” she asked. Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?
He kept the smile, and folded his book shut, setting it beside him. “I was asking if you’re new to the College. My name is Onmund.”
Chapter 16: First Lessons
Notes:
Hi!! I have been so occupied with life lately but now have time to write again, so expect more to come soon! Enjoy~!
Chapter Text
Onmund.
Aerene knew she’d never met anyone by that name before, certainly not the one standing in front of her, yet she couldn’t shake the idea of familiarity. Deciding not to daydream any longer, she introduced herself to him. “Ah, forgive me. Yes, I am new to the College, Onmund. I am Aerene, of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun,” she said, happy to have a title behind her name. She was a proud Companion, that was sure.
“It’s a pleasure. Now… was there something you needed?” Onmund asked. “I’m looking for Mirabelle Ervine, Master Wizard…?” Aerene responded, never breaking eye contact, despite that maybe she should have to keep the conversation comfortable. Onmund nodded, knowing exactly who she was talking about. It was rather competent. “Yes, I saw Mirabelle in the Hall of the Elements. Come, I’ll show you the way,” he offered, and stood up from the bench. Aerene took a step back, swallowing when she saw that he was at least two inches taller than her. She didn’t feel small, but rather as though she faced a counterpart.
“It’s through here,” he said, and with his book in hand, led the way. She followed, as they walked from the snowy courtyard onto the stone pathway. “Whiterun’s far from here, Aerene of Jorrvaskr,” Onmund said, glancing back to her behind him. “Did you make the journey today?” he asked. “Yes, I did,” she responded, as they walked past the large light pond in front of the huge mage statue. She held her hand out, and miraculously, could feel the magicka emanating from the pond. It was incredible, and in return gave her the lightest boost of energy. In that moment, Aerene recalled from her previous studies on the College that the large statue was of the first Arch-Mage, Shalidor. It was majestic. “It’s quite a bit colder up here,” Onmund said, to which she hummed agreement. He looks rather cozy in those robes. I wonder if all students are required to wear them?
The thought brought happiness to her heart. Student. I am moments away from calling myself a mage under the College of Winterhold! That was when they walked through two large wooden doors, arched at the top, into the tallest tower of the College grounds, the one Onmund had called ‘The Hall of the Elements’. Just as the door shut behind them, Aerene could smell a light sweetness in the air, the delicate but earthy fragrance of fruit… apples! Strange… I see none around here. Perhaps it is the magic in the air… or the effects of long travel and lack of a hot meal.
Aerene glanced around, seeing the high ceilings in the stone brick entryway of the Hall. On the left and right sides of the small entry space, there were shut doors leading elsewhere. Goat’s horn sconces lit with candles sat in each corner of the room, casting the space in a warm, comfortable haze. It felt much nicer inside than out in the cold, and Aerene was grateful for that. “Ah, there she is,” Onmund said from Aerene’s left, and she glanced to him to see what he meant. He’d pushed the hood of his robes down, revealing raven black hair that almost seemed to have a hue of the deepest burgundy, or the darkest brown. It was a little messy from his hood, but fell just past the nape of his neck. A section from behind each of his ears was braided, falling along his neck. She’d never seen anyone with that hairstyle, but he wore it quite well.
The Companion looked to where he was pointing, and it was into the next room of the Hall. The sight sent ice through her blood; a Breton woman, presumably Mirabelle, was speaking to a Thalmor Agent. The last time Aerene had seen an Agent of the Thalmor was in Helgen, when they were presiding over the execution taking place. Her execution. Panic flashed through her, while she quickly tried to remember if she’d seen this particular agent before. He was tall, with distinctly Altmer features of golden-greenish skin and from this distance, it appeared he had fiery orange eyes. His face was sculpted in sharp angles, though it seemed his brow was creased in irritation at the conversation he was having with the master wizard. To her dismay, she couldn’t remember the face of any Thalmor agent she’d seen, as though the memories had been blurred or erased, like droplets of water mixing against fresh ink on parchment. And to think Cyrodiil is crawling with Thalmor. “Who is that?” Aerene asked Onmund quietly. “Ancano,” he said. “He says he’s working here on behalf of the Thalmor, to build relations between them and the College. His official role is as an advisor to the Arch-Mage; whatever you do, watch your tongue around him. I don’t trust a word he says,” Onmund spoke in a barely audible whisper. His voice was smooth and youthful, though with a layer of maturity and something deeper, more alluring. Aerene’s jaw tightened, wondering what business the Aldmeri Dominion had sending their agents into Skyrim’s only institute for magic. Who am I kidding? The Thalmor stick their noses everywhere. Best not to mention my journey from Cyrodiil or my time at Helgen around the high elf.
“…Very good. Then we’re done here,” Mirabelle could be heard saying to Ancano, who left her presence and walked pointedly past the two huddled in whisper by the doors. Mirabelle turned, with an irritated expression, that softened when she looked upon Aerene and Onmund. “Ah, another new student?” she asked, beckoning them to join her. Before Aerene could speak a reply, Mirabelle looked to Onmund. “Onmund, I thought you’d be having supper in the dining hall with the other students,” she said, a hint of suspicion in her tone. Onmund chuckled nervously. “I had a late lunch,” he said. Liar.
I wonder what that’s about?
“Hmm,” Mirabelle nodded, and Aerene saw that while she didn’t entirely believe what he said, she would accept it. “Thank you for helping our newest addition find me,” Mirabelle added. Onmund nodded, smiling to Aerene before seeing himself out. That left two. “What is your name, dear?” Mirabelle asked. The Breton woman had a commanding presence, despite her short stature. She had mousy brown hair cut bluntly just below her ear, in a side part. She looked to be middle aged, with some laugh lines and a stern gaze under sharply arched eyebrows.
“Aerene,” she responded. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the College, Aerene. Come with me and we can formally add you to our ledger. I’ll also give you your robes and show you where you’ll be staying,” Mirabelle said, and began walking; Aerene followed, and they passed through one of the smaller doors in the entryway, walking up some stairs that were colder, winding and dizzying, before they arrived to a level with fancy wooden desks, stacks of books, and displays of herbs, potions, and many artifacts Aerene did not recognize. There were five desks in the academic space, which also had windows peeking out over the heights of the landscape-Aerene dared not to look outside from this height. Mirabelle led her over to a desk with books stacked neatly, and invited Aerene to sit. “Here you go. These are not required to be worn for attendance, though you’ll find most scholars here wear them. These robes are enchanted to enhance your magicka usage, while also easing the casting process of lower level spells,” Mirabelle said, sliding the garments over the desk. She must’ve pulled them from a drawer on the other side.
Aerene thanked Mirabelle, hands grabbing onto the robes, delighted they were soft like cotton, but thick for warmth in the icy weather. Mirabelle prepared the official ledger, a thick book containing hundreds of names of past and current students. “What is your surname, student Aerene?”
The prospective student looked up from where her fingertip traced the thread patterns in the light juniper colored robes. It had not been a concern of hers since she stood facing Hadvar and that damned list, where the Imperials she walked among her whole life actually settled on executing her. I’ve made it so far, as just as I wished. And I have found friendship along the way, as Hadvar said I would.
I hope Winterhold will not come to haunt me like the happenings of Jorrvaskr and Falkreath.
I hope I will not flee again.
“One of the mysteries of Aetherius,” Aerene jested. Mirabelle’s eyebrow popped up. “There isn’t quite enough space to write that here,” she responded in a serious tone. Aerene stuttered, before Mirabelle cracked a smile, diminishing her stoic exterior. “Where do you hail from, then?”
“As of today, Jorrvaskr in Whiterun,” Aerene responded proudly. I wonder how their evening is going. I hope all is well and peaceful, or positively exciting.
Mirabelle dragged the quill along the parchment of the ledger, the faint scent of pitch black ink wafting through the chilled air of the office. “Sign here,” she indicated. Mirabelle had printed, in quite impressive handwriting, Aerene’s name and the date. Aerene grasped the quill, the point wet with ink ready to be used. She signed her name, Aerene of Jorrvaskr, onto a page with many other names of countless scholars. She wondered briefly if her name would change again, and what it might become.
“Wonderful. I declare you, Aerene of Jorrvaskr, on this twentieth day of Hearthfire, year two-hundred-one of the fourth era, a student of the College of Winterhold. Welcome, apprentice.”
-
“By now, most of our students will have finished the evening meal, but feel free to return to the dining hall and take what you like. Just be sure to clean up after yourself. This is your room, where you may store your belongings and conduct your studies, if you choose. You are welcome to utilize other spaces reserved for studies within the College; remember, necromancy is forbidden and the locals do not favor our practices. Your first class under Tolfdir will begin tomorrow after the morning meal,” Mirabelle said, asking Aerene if she had any questions; of course, she had dozens, but wouldn’t bother asking any of them now. She was tired and hungry, and wanted to sleep in the cozy, albeit dusty, single bed calling her name.
“Good. I look forward to seeing what you can do, Aerene. Good evening,” Mirabelle left the room, shutting the door behind her.
After Aerene became an official student, with her new robes, Mirabelle gave her a quick and brief tour of the College grounds. There were Halls where scholars and students roomed, separated by the classification. The room spaces were in separate towers overlooking the central courtyard; they had stopped by the dining hall of the main tower, a large space underneath the Hall of the Elements; it had multiple tables with benches for seating, carrying the oceanic scent of fish and mud crabs all steamed for eating. There looked to be about a dozen students, not a single soul whom Aerene recognized. It was a rather comfortable idea.
While they were in the dining hall, Mirabelle insisted on Aerene taking food for herself, so she’d acquired a bowl of mud crab stew, with cheese and bread on a plate next to the bowl. It sat on a dresser in the room, as though calling her name while she stood hungrily. Aerene shut the door behind her, looking around her cozy, private space. The College of Winterhold, free of charge, provided her a private room and robes. She set her knapsack on a chair, and looked around the room. The four surrounding walls were made of stone brick, with arched niches on the walls to her left and right. In front of her hung a large decorative hide on the wall. The bed was singular in size, an ornate wooden frame with gem green bedding that looked awfully soft…Aerene walked forward and sat down, laughing quietly in delight when she knew instantly it was softer than the creaky cot she slept on in Jorrvaskr. She linens were fresh, as she’d expected them to be dusty, and they were soft, too. A goat horn sconce lit the space, sitting atop one of the two nightstands placed on each side of the bed. A small wooden square table sat next to the closed door, empty of decoration. I’ll find something to make this room mine. A selection of barrels also sat near the wall, Aerene deciding to look in them later. There was a small circular table with a pitcher and two goblets, all empty. The opposite wall was lined with two wardrobes and a center desk with a chair. Aerene saw a large, light purple crystal sitting atop the desk-a soul gem. She stared at it, wondering about its purpose. Soul gems were used to enchant objects, like clothing or weapons, and an enchantment would only last so long before needing recharged. This specific gem was not glowing, which meant it was not filled with a soul. She looked from the gem to her robes, recalling Mirabelle’s words that the robes were enchanted to enhance magicka usage. Whose soul embraces those robes?
She stayed in her quarters the rest of the evening, dressing in her sleeping apparel and taking her meal, before settling into her bed for sleep. Unfortunately for the aspiring mage, her sleep was haunted by nightmares. One after another, from draugr to werewolves to the hagravens nested in Glenmoril Coven. When she awoke, it was in the darkness of the still room. Her throat was dry, the bed cold, and the air quiet. One of these days, I will sleep well!
Aerene sat up, pushing the linens off of her, staring into the dark room, knowing it was not time to be awake. The first class is after the morning meal. How long will it be until then? Has dawn come already?
It hadn’t, she learned, when she dressed habitually in her armor and slid her sword into its sheathe at her hip, Valdr’s lucky dagger into the belt round her waist. When she slipped out into the open space of the hall, faced with a blue light pond and numerous closed doors of other students’ rooms, she squinted. No one else was awake, at least not in this structure, the Hall of Attainment-where apprentices stayed; her room was on the first floor. Aerene wandered quietly across the cold stone floor, realizing how much noise her armor made when she was careless about being quiet. It was heavy armor, after all, and the subtle clanging was a downside of it.
She found a table in a common area niche, laden with foods for the students to enjoy. It was mostly breads, cheese, and berries, a selection of which she scooped up, wrapping them in a small cloth before storing the bundle in her knapsack. A jug of water was waiting to be drank, and she poured the liquid into the water pouch gifted to her by Lydia and Ysolda, before letting the pouch hang from a loop along her belt. Her hand pushed against the cold, solid wooden door, shutting it quietly behind her. The morning was still dark, though Masser and Secunda’s light indicated dawn would come within the next hour or so. Aerene looked across the snowy courtyard tiredly. She felt both rested and exhausted, but would rather give up sleeping in those restless nightmares any longer for the chance to see dawn rise over Winterhold.
Aerene set off across the bridge, making her way into the sleepy settlement of Winterhold and making sure not to look over the side walls of the bridge. Over the morning, she’d saddled River and ventured downhill to the shoreline west of the college. The path downward was steep and snowy, though she worried not as River walked quietly and carefully. The Sea of Ghosts never slept, its icy, black waves pounding restlessly before gently lapping at the rocky, pebbled shore. Aerene spent the next hours practicing with her weapons as a way of personal assurance she wouldn’t lose grip on her technique. When she decided to take a break and eat the food she’d packed, she sat down on the pebbled ground beneath her, stretching her legs outward and leaning back onto her palms. A damp mist sprayed from the waters over her face, coating her skin in a gentle, salty dew that soaked up the cool morning air. Sitting here like this, looking over the endless stretch of water, reminded her of Valdr and the bandits they’d defeated together that day in Falkreath. I should write to Zaria. It will be some time before I’m in Falkreath again, yet I find I miss her company. I have my very own desk for writing, now, anyway.
A familiar grumble sounded from her belly, and she winced, hungry for more than what she’d brought with. She glanced toward River, who was leaned down grazing over the sparse vegetation. “Well, Riv, I think it’s time to get back.” Her arms were tired from swinging her blades around, playing defense and offense, and she thought that the next time she appeared at the shoreline, she should be more versatile with what skills she trained.
Aerene departed from River in Birna’s yard, returning to find the shopkeep looking flushed and worried. ‘I came by early, and didn’t want to wake you.’
‘Hah! Thank the Divines, I thought a thief had made his way into my yard and made off with your horse!’ Birna laughed, relieved. Aerene said she’d likely take River out in the early mornings, promising to let Birna know if she’d be gone for extensive time.
As though the morning were in her favor, she arrived to find the morning meal being served in the dining hall. Scholars, including students and teachers, gathered in the space, full of wooden tables in a rectangular space. There were huge windows stretching up the walls, clouded with age and muted in color by the grey clouds approaching the College over the morning. It was awfully warm in here, Aerene felt, as she stood and looked over the gathered crowd. Her jaw tightened, as she had never felt so out of place. Everyone was wearing their mage robes, and there she stood, in steel soldier’s armor with not one, but two blades arming her. Mirabelle said the robes were optional. I’m not accustomed to going without armor. It’ll be alright.
She approached a table set off to one side of the hall, in a row with other tables topped gloriously by breakfast foods. One had pitchers, goblets, and cups, with cutlery and dining ware, while another was adorned with fruit and porridge, a third with breads and sweets, and a fourth with cheeses and meats. It all looked swell. Aerene reached out to grab a sweet roll when a voice sounded behind her. “Apprentice, you may not attend in that attire.” I know that voice. Ancano. He spoke in an uppity, snobbish tone.
She turned to face the Altmer, who towered over her. In an instant, she could see him looking down his nose at her. The Thalmor Agent from the previous night who had been in a heated conversation with Mirabelle. Aerene instantly recalled Onmund’s words about not trusting the Altmer. “My name is Aerene. And I was told the robes were optional,” she said, her arms crossing. She made a subtle effort to stand taller than she was. The Altmer raised a brow, his fiery orange eyes hot with… disgust?
“I’m speaking about your weapons. They are not allowed to be worn outside of your room, anywhere on College grounds. If you want to wear them on display like that, you’ll need to venture back to wherever you came from.”
Aerene’s ears were hot. I am from Jorrvaskr! she wanted to cry out. Nowhere else in Skyrim would I be told to put my weapons away. She was embarrassed, feeling like a child scolded in front of a group of other children. The conversations closest to where they stood had quieted. “And what if I don’t do as you ask?”
“I’m not asking, apprentice. I am telling you. Should you choose to ignore my words, I’ll happily escort you off College grounds where you’ll be expelled.”
Some battles are not worth fighting. This is one of those. What can I do, anyway? A single Thalmor agent isn’t worth losing my life’s dream over.
Still, I am humiliated.
She lowered her gaze, quietly sighing, nodding once. She said nothing, blood hot in anger and embarrassment, disappointed. The morning was not going to run in her favor, this became apparent. The control of the Thalmor had extended into yet another space in which it had no place, and she was left the fool.
The apprentice turned away, the ache of her morning appetite vanished, as she left the dining hall and forced herself not to sprint across college grounds to the Hall of Attainment, which housed her private room.
Once inside, she shut the door, and leaned against it, staring across the space as she panted into the silence. She mumbled to herself, furiously dumping out her belongings from her knapsack, to keep her from grabbing all she owned and fleeing the College forever.
“I can still practice in the mornings. Before anyone stirs. And I can continue training after dark. And here, in my room, any time.” She whispered to herself, folding her green corseted dress, before unfolding it when she saw the fabric wasn’t perfectly aligned. No wonder Nords hate magic. Never in any books on the history of the College have I seen writing on a policy such as this. Damn it!
Knock knock knock.
The sound of knuckles tapping gently at her door startled her, and she froze in place from refolding the dress a third time. She set it down on the bed, approaching the door with her right hand on the hilt of her dagger, the left hand on the handle of the door. She slowly creaked it open, squinting in the bright blue light showing from the center of the hall, like a madwoman disturbed from her antics.
When she saw that it was Onmund, she quit the act and faced him fully, composing herself. “Good morning, Onmund,” she said, standing back to give him space to enter. He had something in his hands, this she noticed after a seconds-long glance over him. His hood was down, his hair in the same style as the previous night, but styled more neatly. He smiled softly, looking at her with those bright eyes of his. I wonder what he wants?
“Hi, Aerene,” he replied. He laughed, offering his hand out. “Hm. You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” he said with a pause. She stilled, because he’d practically read her mind. She looked down to the object in his hand, something wrapped in what appeared to be a linen napkin. “I saw you about to grab this in the dining hall when Ancano approached you. We’re only served two meals a day here, and the next is at dinnertime, so I thought you might need it, what with the energy magic takes to cast, and-“
“Thank you,” Aerene stopped him, smiling back. She took it, and as she had hoped, the wrapped bundle was a sweet roll. She looked at it, like a bandit eyeing treasure, and glanced up to the other mage. “You… are sweet. For bringing me this. Would you like to come in? Or… did you want to get back to your meal…?”
It was unlike her, to be awkward, and unsure, and ripped of her pride. Memories of her eagerness to join the Companions flooded her thoughts, the night she proved her prowess in battle. The College of Winterhold is not a group of warriors. They are mages. Before she knew it, the gift-bringer was in her room, face painted with curious eyes; behind them, she couldn’t read him. She hadn’t been listening to what he said, a shame, but assumed he wanted to stay for a chat by the way he entered her messy room and hung back in one corner. “Preparing to run off, then?” he asked jokingly. She shook her head, walking past him to set the sweet roll on her desk. “Quite the opposite, actually. Unpacking to convince myself to stay. I cannot believe we aren’t allowed to have weapons. Does Ancano expect that we’d come all this way, and actually hurt another student or teacher?” she rambled, unbuckling the belt of her sword from around her hips.
“No. He’s afraid they’ll be used against him. He’s a lone agent here. No entourage to protect him should things get messy. Magic is his only defense. Thus, it must be your only weapon, at least in his presence. Nonetheless, you aren’t alone in thinking it ridiculous. Things around here were normal when I arrived five months ago. Mirabelle and Archmage Aren couldn’t have cared less what new students brought when we arrived. Then Ancano came into the scene, and his new policy was put in place. Non-negotiable,” Onmund complained, eyeing the sheathed blade Aerene had leaned against one of the wardrobes. A thought occurred to her, and she turned to face the Nord. “How long as Ancano been playing advisor to Archmage Aren?”
“He arrived last month. In the third week, or so.”
The third week of Last Seed. The day the dragon attacked Helgen was the 17th of Last Seed. The same day General Tullius was gathered with the other Thalmor Agents at Helgen’s gates.
What do the Thalmor know about the return of the dragons?
“Something on your mind?” Onmund asked, and Aerene blinked, looking to him. She shook her head, trying to wrestle away the perplexed expression she wore. She studied Onmund, while he looked at the soul gem on her desk, and decided not to share her thoughts on Ancano’s possible link to the dragon attacks. Not at this time, at least. However, it wouldn’t be long before she would need someone she could trust.
They talked for a bit about happenings around the college, and learned they shared study hours; this was a relief to Aerene-she’d know at least one friendly face in her first class, which focused on alteration magic. Onmund departed to ready for the lecture, and before he left, Aerene thanked him again. After he departed, though, she was left with a fuzzy feeling of familiarity, one she couldn’t grasp nor shake away. Her mind wandered to other thoughts before she could dwell too long.
Aerene held the doughy, sticky sweet roll, her heart prancing at the notion he brought it just for her-an attentive fellow, that much as evident. It reminded her of the day Kodlak saved a plate for her when she’d slept through the morning meal at Jorrvaskr. The feeling she had now was different, though, yet still one of warmth. She all but inhaled the sweet roll and begrudgingly changed into her apprentice robes. They were quite soft, she realized, as she took a breath and left the privacy of her room, without only one weapon, as she’d tucked the lucky dagger into her boot and hidden the evidence under her long robes. She thought she could smell that delicate sweetness of apples again, but dismissed the oddity just as fast. When she walked across the courtyard to the Hall of the Elements, where classes were instructed, she felt exposed, as though nude without the second skin of her armor. At least I blend in, now.
The Hall of the Elements was busy with students eager to get to class; Aerene noticed Ancano off to one side of the grand space, watching each person pass by like a hawk eyeing prey. Every time she saw the Thalmor, she felt a sense of unease.
“Welcome, welcome, we were just beginning. Please, stay and listen,” Aerene was greeted as she walked through a doorway into an instruction room, a round space with high ceilings letting in an abundance of natural blue grey light and a lovely view of the outdoors-despite the height at which the College towered over the icy sea below. The instructor, Tolfdir, stood at a podium straight ahead through the doorway. He faced a group of students, who Aerene glanced towards; she was surprised to see only three other students in this study session, though knew the lesson would be more intimate, that maybe she’d get more out of it. There were wooden desks around the walls of the room, all facing inward, with the chairs at the desks facing inward, too. The north wall past the podium was made almost entirely of windows, an early morning brightness projecting into the space. Aerene stepped inside, admiring hanging displays of maps and banners, some of which were decorated with elemental symbols or College motifs. The three students were standing in the center of the space, rather than sitting at the outskirt desks, so she went to join them. A curt glance told her she’d be joining Onmund, who was first in the standing row, with a Khajiit male on his right, and a Dunmer woman to the right of the Khajiit; Aerene met the Dunmer woman’s side, standing fourth in the row and facing Tolfdir.
“You are Aerene, yes?”
Aerene nodded. “Good. Welcome to the session, Apprentice. Your classmates are Brelyna, J’Zargo, and Onmund.”
Tolfdir was an elderly Breton mage, whose white hair was shoulder length, tied out of his face with framing sections braided into place. His eyebrows were a bushy, dark grey, and the morning light showed brightly onto his face-enough, in fact, for Aerene to notice he had one blue eye and one brown eye, the first time she’d seen a person with such features. He wore master alteration magic robes, which consisted of a deep red shirt with dark orange runic designs and a geometric collar, paired with an open black tunic and matching black pants tucked into standard light grey cloth boots. His clothes were belted above the hips and tied into place; a satchel hung diagonally over his torso and rested at one hip, while his tunic sleeves narrowed to fit the form of his arms from elbow to wrist.
Brelyna, the Dunmer, looked to Aerene and offered a quick smile; she wore deep, grayish purple robes, with the hood pulled over her head. Her eyes were a deep crimson red, shining and of such rich color only the light of the room could prove her irises weren’t black as ebony. Her skin was of a cool, grey-blue tone, and her eyebrows were dark, the rest of her hair hidden under her raised hood.
“So, as I was saying, the first thing to understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you. With this theme of safety, we shall begin with a lesson on magical wards. They are classified as restoration, and are used to block magical spells…”
Tolfdir continued on for a while, speaking about the purposes of magical wards, as well as the varying degrees of protection, before delving into ward history and even speculation about its beginnings. He insisted the group sit, and each student had found their way to a desk, watching Tolfdir at the center of the floor.
Aerene knew little about wards, despite her role as a healer for years; she used restoration magic for just that-to restore. She had never come across someone who offered to teach defense in restoration, though today the lesson was on the lesser ward.
Tolfdir had placed spell books in front of the students, after his lecture, and insisted they begin practicing. It was all valuable information, only Aerene wasn’t truly present; she was realms away, back in Whiterun, testing her blade against Vilkas. Sometimes, she’d recall other moments at Jorrvaskr, but she mostly wondered what the Companions had been doing, or if anything had changed since the previous day. Truth be told, sitting quietly and paying attention, without direct action or insertion of skill, left her attention span far behind. I’m sure this setting will take some getting used to. It should come easy, being something I’ve wanted for so long.
“And what do you think, Aerene? You’ve been quiet so far.” Tolfdir’s voice called her attention to the classroom she hadn’t been in for at least five minutes. Think of something, quick!
“About what part, exactly?” she questioned, sitting straighter in the seat, her leg tapping silently up and down in anticipation. Perhaps now, those skills of speech she’d put to good use in the Imperial City would swim back to her aid.
‘It’s so easy to convince them,’ she’d said to Brynjolf one late night, after a run in with the city guard. They’d been digging in the rubbish bins of a blacksmith’s shop, looking for any scraps of metal that could be taken to the Guild to be reforged and sold. ‘Of course it is, lass. You think they’d arrest a poor girl ‘looking for food’ in these streets in the middle of the night?’
That had been a lifetime ago, and she’d grown from her time as a desperate teenager, running with thieves to gather all the gold she could muster.
“Well, do you agree with your classmates that you should practice something practical? Or would you rather see something safer?” Tolfdir asked. Oh. We must be getting to the live magic portion of the study hours.
She sucked in a breath, glancing towards the other three, who watched her eagerly. “Safety is vital, but practicality is also a necessity,” she said plainly. By the Divines, that didn’t sound like me at all.
“See? She agrees with us too! Why don't you actually show us something?” It was Brelyna who spoke quickly after Aerene finished talking. “We can do it, just give us a chance!” came from J’Zargo, who had a deep voice, thick with an accent native to Elsweyr, the first homeland of the Khajiit. He had light grey fur around his forehead, with deep brown markings, that lightened around his face and neck. His eyes were blue like an icy winter sky, undeniably feline in shape. Fur like a mustache sprouted from his upper lip, on both sides of his muzzle next to his nose. Tolfdir waved his hands, gesturing for the students to quiet. “All right, let's settle down. I suppose we can try something practical. Now that we’re familiar with the lesser ward, we'll see if you can successfully use it to block spells, all right?”
Tolfdir scanned the four students, and his knowing gaze stopped on the only student not looking his way.
“Aerene, would you mind helping me with the demonstration? Are you at all familiar with ward spells?”
She looked to him, eyes slightly wide in surprise. Her bobbing knee stilled, and she stood to attention. “I’ve not learned any ward spells before today,” she said warily, joining Tolfdir in the center of the room. “Stand here,” he instructed, pointing to the ground. She did as asked, though the group ended up leaving the instruction space for the grand room in the Hall of the Elements. Once the five were spaced apart in the grand room, lit by the blue magic pond glowing in the center, Tolfdir instructed Aerene to stand over a circular ground carving, inscribed with the College’s eye motif. He stood next to her, asking her to cast the spell.
Here goes.
The redhead prepared her stance, feet spread apart comfortably, and raised her left arm in front of her, imagining that she held her sword in her right hand. She concentrated the magicka flow, and her confidence grew when the ward appeared; it looked like a warped window of reality, a magic shield transparent at its center and beaming out in all directions, the very edges of the glow a bright white with hints of very light blue. “Good! Now, release the spell, so as not to waste your magicka,” Tolfdir instructed, and Aerene let the spell waver, the energy faded to a still and the glow completely vanished. “Now, to make good use of your skills, let’s break into partner groups. “Brelyna, join J’Zargo there,” Tolfdir pointed to another pair of runes on the ground, and explained what the next exercise would be. “Onmund, why don’t you join Aerene?”
Aerene glanced to Onmund, who nodded in understanding and approached her intently. He looks like he’s done this plenty of times. His expression was focused, and he said nothing as he readied his stance, arms raised and prepared to spell cast. “Good, everyone in position? Now, J’zargo and Aerene, prepare to cast the ward as Brelyna and Onmund ready a mild destruction spell.” Tolfdir’s voice echoed through the hall as he walked up the few steps to the higher level running around the room. “Mild, I said, there shall be no fireballs or whirlwinds cast here today. Everyone ready?” he asked, looking over the anxious apprentices. “Can we do this already?” Brelyna called out from her spot. Tolfdir quietly sighed, and said, “Okay, raise your wards, fire your spells, begin!”
Aerene looked to Onmund, who had his left hand lowered, but ready, while his right hand began preparing the spell. It looked completely electric, from the second the purple and silver glow illuminated from his palm. She watched in quiet awe as she brightness grew, and she channeled the ward from her left palm. It solidified in front of her, completely shielding her from any incoming magicka damage. Onmund’s fingers were tightening, his hand near clenched into a fist. He pulled his hand toward him, as if wielding the lightning in his fingers, pulling it to his body from thin air. He launched his arm outward, keeping his feet steadily in place. The thunderous lightning struck instantaneously toward Aerene’s ward.
When studying spells, mages began with the spellbook. Each magicka class had a color matched spellbook; for restoration tomes, the books were golden, a pale yellow phoenix captured as the central motif-the very creature rising from ashes into healing and second life. There existed a connection between the user and the tome, and unseen knowledge sustained during study of the tome. When the mage had truly absorbed all knowledge to be had from the tone, the book magically disintegrated, its contents absorbed into the magicka of the mage. Aerene had learned several spells, the majority from the restoration class, and had seen them vanish time and time again-healing, healing hands, fast healing, grand healing, close wounds-all spells she’d learned at the Temple of the One.
Only today was different, because while the desks occupied by the three other students were void of any spell tomes, the knowledge completely absorbed by the apprentices, the copy given to Aerene sat lonely on the desk she’d occupied in the instruction room.
When Onmund’s lightning strike delicately touched the ward Aerene’s shaky hand was struggling to hold up, the ward shattered, and a shriek like the sound of ten glass vases crashing onto a stone floor sounded through the hall.
Aerene gasped in the span of a millisecond, the full concentrated power of the lightning blast hopping across each vanishing ward shard, landing into her fingertips, and shocking her helpless, exposed flesh. She muffled a cry of pain, immediately turning from her study partner, who’d already began hurrying over to her. She hunched over. Her arm truly felt like it was on fire, thousands of sharp bolts vibrating up her limb and vanishing suddenly at the joint of her shoulder, leaving behind strained muscles, tiredness, and warmth. The voices of her fellow students and Tolfdir could be heard; Onmund met Aerene at her side first, apologizing in whispers.
In those moments, when Onmund was at Aerene’s side, she glanced into his sapphire irises and saw that the lightning he’d cast outward seemed not to only come from his fingers, but from further within him and tunneled into the farthest recesses of his mind.
Whoever he was, he could cast a powerful spell.
Tolfdir called the lesson to a finish immediately after, instructing the students to continue experimentation and research on their own time. Their next lesson would be the following day.
Aerene sat at the desk she’d first occupied hours ago, returning there after the session was ended. She stared furiously at the spell tome sitting in front of her on the wooden surface, seeming to stare back at her just as angrily. She’d cast her own healing spell over herself as soon as she had a private moment, insisting to her classmates and Tolfdir she was alright and did not need any additional attention. The least convinced of her words was Onmund, whose expression was plagued with guilt and sympathy; he apologized profusely, blaming the error on himself. He was called away by another group of students, as the grand hall flooded with mages after classes concluded and the next sessions were beginning.
Though as the mage sat and stared at the closed book, she knew the only apprentice at fault was her.
She sulked in embarrassment, glued to the chair in the lonely space. My first day, and I have proven nothing but unreadiness. Not only to myself, but to my peers and mentor. In these moments, she couldn’t be bothered to praise herself for what she did know-be it the abundance of healing spells or swordfighting techniques-but was only drowned by her failure and temporary regret to go through with following her lifelong dream.
Why was it so different, when I would stand in the Jorrvaskr training yard, before getting knocked to the ground? I never wanted the sparring to end, despite aches and exhaustion. She desperately missed her shield siblings, and wondered when she’d see them again-when they’d fight their next battle to fulfill a contract and get hefty gold for their successes. Her eyes traced the patterns in the wooden desk, a reflection of the way they’d traced the patterns of the wood framing Vilkas’s bed the day after Kodlak’s murder. When she recalled the way Vilkas left alone, and still managed to return after his bloody encounter with the Silver Hand, her heart swelled.
Stop it! I left Whiterun behind for a reason, she cursed herself. Aerene frowned at herself for sitting here like this, for not minutes but hours, as the rest of the students carried on with the day. It was nearly time for the evening meal, and she decided to stop by her room to leave the spell tome at her desk, before heading to the dining hall.
While she walked, she thought of Vilkas, and the way she knew he would’ve accompanied her if she’d allowed him. He’d have hated it, and would’ve never forgiven the no weapons policy. Surely, Vilkas would have departed then and there, wishing me well in my pursuits with promises to write to me… if I had given into my feelings and the temptation that his him, the fates wouldn’t have allowed simultaneous happiness, and that is why I am here alone. Surely.
Alas, she cared too much for him to bring him to a place outside of Nordic tradition.
I came here with a purpose. To research the dragons and find the answers I seek. I have a centuries old library across the courtyard, and dragons are still flying about. I have no time to waste on failure.
She stood in the dining hall, quietly watching Ancano speak to the Archmage, Savos Aren, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
The Thalmor were at Helgen when the first dragon attacked.
The mage watched the Altmer sip from a mug in his hand, considering that he must’ve demanded private quarters during his stay at the College.
As she settled alone at a nondescript table, where she had a direct view of the Altmer, she knew just where her research would begin.
Chapter 17: Blood on the Snowy Shore
Notes:
Here is a lengthy treat of a chapter. This one largely wrote itself as I went along; I hope you enjoy. Happy October!! I'll be back with ch 18 before long!
Chapter Text
That evening, Aerene took her meal out of the way, eyes on Ancano. He only glanced her way once or twice, though he did watch the rest of the dining hall like a hawk. Why is he really here? He does not seem to be contributing, only observing. What for? In just a short span of time, she’d become highly suspicious of the Thalmor agent. After about an hour, the crowd of scholars began to scatter, groups of students heading to the living halls for the evening. Aerene stood up when Ancano did, watching him from across the room. She slouched, her hood pulled over her head; it was scratchy and confining-she liked her makeshift sash-scarf-hood better.
Ancano stopped to speak to another mage Aerene did not recognize, a wood elf wearing expert robes of destruction magic, a lake blue tunic tied over earthy green garments. His head was shaven on the sides behind his ears, with clay brown hair combed back down the center. Bosmer, wood elves from the province of Valenwood, were known to be nimble and quick, living among vast forests and having immense talent in the skills of archery an alchemy. Valenwood was a woodland region in southwest Tamriel, with Cyrodiil occupying the space between Valenwood in the south and Skyrim in the north. Ancano, being a high elf from the Summerset Isles west of mainland Tamriel, very well towered over the Bosmer, so much so that if the wood elf raised his arm to its full height he may just touch the high elf’s cheek. They spoke briefly, and from the brief echoes carrying Ancano’s voice over the dispersing crowd, Aerene could tell he sounded accusatory. The wood elf waved his hand in dismissal, leaving the room and turning into a doorway leading to one of the upper floors of the Hall of the Elements. Aerene looked back to Ancano, who indeed did stick out. He was walking towards the entry doors of the Hall, and passed through them into the courtyard. Aerene hurried to put her used dishes in the proper spot, stepping across the hall to the doors.
Once out in the courtyard, she could see Ancano’s head over everyone else’s, the students wandering in multiple directions; some went to the outer walkway of the courtyard, which had huge open spaces, like windows, overlooking Winterhold, the Sea of Ghosts, distant glaciers, and the outer shoreline. Others stood together chatting, while some went straight to the residence halls. Her eyes set on Ancano’s tall figure in black robes, Aerene watched Ancano head straight for the tower across the walkway from the Hall of Attainment. The Hall of Countenance was where mentors and instructors stayed, as well as some students who’d been there longer than others. Aerene didn’t know the specific names of the Countenance Hall’s residents…but she saw someone she could ask. Brelyna was leaned against one support pillar of many in the circular courtyard, reading a book. Aerene took in a breath, and set off in step towards the Dunmer. “Brelyna, good evening,” she greeted. Brelyna looked up from her book, an expression of annoyance on her face. Someone doesn’t like her reading interrupted…oh well.
“Before you even ask, yes I have an ancestry steeped in magic, and no I don't want to talk about it. Yes, I know Winterhold used to be full of my kind, and no I don't care they're all gone now. Does that cover everything?" she questioned with tone as icy as the walls of the College. Aerene was surprised at Brelyna’s quick words, but assumed they were coming from a place of necessity. Aerene crossed her arms, leaning her weight onto one leg. “You must get a lot of questions about your Dunmer ancestry. That isn’t what I came to speak to you about, though,” she replied in a casual tone. “Well, then. What did you want?”
“To simply say hello. Since we’re in class together,” Aerene said in a quiet lie. We all have defenses, but it doesn’t hurt to ease them for the right people.
“Oh,” Brelyna said, her expression softening. She marked the page she was reading, and shut her book with a sigh. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Brelyna Maryon, of House Telvanni. And, yes, I do get a lot of questions about my Dunmer heritage. I’m the first of my family to leave Morrowind in a long time. Now I'm here to study conjuration,” she explained in a happier tone than just a minute prior. “Morrowind is a long way from here. I arrived in Skyrim from Cyrodiil, last month. How are you finding the College? To your liking?” Aerene asked, as the two walked to a bench in the courtyard’s colonnaded arcade. The stone bench held the coldness of Winterhold, and was a slight surprise to sit on. They sat, looking toward the setting sun, though it was hidden behind a thin layer of fluffy, light grey clouds. The night air began its first settling then, a chilly breeze brushing up from the sea below the College cliffs. Brelyna sighed out her nose, and pulled her hood down to reveal short, raven black hair tied into two parts that sprouted an inch or two from her head. She closed her eyes, her fingers rubbing her temples. “Truthfully, it’s a wonder to be in a place so dedicated to magic. I just want to learn, and experiment with conjuration. I don’t want to think of what’s expected of me. I don’t know if Mirabelle told you the same, but when I arrived and asked what was expected of us here, she said there are no expectations. The Telvanni family, however…”
The two students continued chatting for a bit, sharing the reasons why they wanted to study the magic they did, as well as the isolation of the College from their home provinces.
“What do you think of Ancano?” Aerene asked, mimicking Brelyna’s action of letting her hood down. The cold breeze picked up again, and her cheeks felt it, reddening with the chill. “I know I don't like the way he looks at me. I can't tell if he expects me to blow myself up, or to try and murder him. But he clearly doesn't trust any of us." So, as it seems, few here believe Ancano’s work is to simply advise. He’s watchful, too watchful.
Aerene nodded in acknowledgment, eyes narrow as she thought. “You must not have a high opinion of him. Telling a Nord to get rid of her weapons, that was a shocker,” Brelyna snickered. “By the Divines, please don’t remind me,” Aerene groaned. “He must have ulterior motives, watching everyone the way he does.”
Brelyna glanced to Aerene, her blood red eyes catching the last of the dim daylight. “No doubt, we’ll find out the real reason he’s here eventually.”
After the dark of night arrived, the two departed. During their conversation, Aerene asked if any students lived in the Hall of Countenance, and Brelyna confirmed her suspicions; the Hall of Countenance was home to older students, instructors, and Ancano. During the appropriate hours, students were welcome to enter and inquire to instructors about spell tome purchases and lesson assistance. ‘Most of the time during the day, it’s hard to keep track of where everyone goes. Last week, I couldn’t find Phinis Gestor for three days. All I wanted was to ask some questions about atronach conjuration techniques, but every time I went in there he was somewhere else!’ Brelyna had complained.
Should I decide to conduct research in the Hall of Countenance, and for any reason be questioned while there, I have an excuse prepared. I’ll have to go during the daytime when the Hall’s residents are scattered about.
Over the next few days, Aerene had slipped into a watchful routine; some things changed, and others didn’t. She had been waking every day before dawn, exhausted by nightmares that plagued her sleep. She’d take River to the shore west of Winterhold, their visit to the spot becoming a daily occurrence. After that, she’d sit at her table in the corner of the dining hall, watching the Thalmor agent from a distance. So far, her surveillance hadn’t proven anything, but she wasn’t going to lighten up on the procedure she’d developed.
The routine of waking in a cold sweat with a dry and thirsty throat would catch up with Aerene in the early afternoon, especially during Tolfdir’s alteration classes. Aerene had purchased a blank book for writing in, thinking that taking notes would help her to concentrate. It did, though since the first class where her ward shattered, Tolfdir hadn’t given them another chance to prove their spell casting abilities. In the evenings, Brelyna would join Aerene in the dining hall, and they’d discuss the lecture from the day. It was all quite different from what Aerene was accustomed to, much slower than the constant changes she’d seen at Jorrvaskr. More than once, J’zargo had stopped by their table for a brief moment, asking if they’d learned any new spells or techniques. ‘J’Zargo, we’re in the same lectures. We’ve learned everything you have,’ Brelyna responded dryly one evening. ‘This is true. But J’zargo must keep an eye on his competitors,’ the Khajiit responded, sipping from a bottle of mead, his tongue swiping over his lips to soak up the alcoholic sweetness. ‘Not everything is a competition, you know,’ Aerene retorted. J’zargo shook his head in disagreement, his feline eyes slimming in focus. ‘That is where you’re wrong. Khajiit are not known as mages, so J'zargo has much to prove. With this said, if this one comes across any new destruction magic, do share with J’zargo.’
Ancano hadn’t done anything atypical in the last few days, and Aerene knew he was clueless about her schemes. She devised a plan to conduct ‘research’ during an evening meal, because that was when the dining hall was busiest, and the residence halls the emptiest.
Aerene left the Hall of the Elements, where others were funneling into, after seeing Ancano enter the first floor of the hall from somewhere upstairs; he had a book tucked under his arm. He must’ve been in the Araceneum, she thought. She hadn’t visited the College’s majestic library yet. The Nord woman stepped hurriedly through the colonnaded arcade, the walkway nearly empty as she hurried towards the Hall of Countenance. As she walked, though, she heard a creak underfoot. The ground is stone, what…?
She stopped in her tracks, turning to trace the sound back to a trap door among the stones of the walkway. It was out of the way, under the west arches of the courtyard, and had a flat pull handle that looked to be crafted of iron. How have I not noticed this before?
Aerene stuffed her note journal into the empty satchel hanging at her hip, and pulled her hood over her head. Light snow began to fall, meaning it would seem later than it actually was. The perfect time is now. She eyed the trap door, planning to return to it later, and continued walking toward the Hall of Countenance.
When two scholars walked out, she stepped out from behind a corner and went in.
Immediately, she was met with the warmth of the Hall, from a hearth burning multiple pieces of chopped wood. It was a dramatic change from the snowy setting just through the doorway. She listened, glancing around to see who else was in the tower. She’d been in the space once already, ‘looking for Tolfdir’ to ask him ‘questions about alteration’. As she did that, she caught a glimpse of Ancano leaving his private quarters-exactly what she wanted to see. When there was no sound in the building other than the low rustling of the light pond in the center of the first floor, and the crackling of the hearth, Aerene cast muffle-an apprentice level illusion spell taught in the previous day’s lecture, by a Dunmer instructor named Drevis Neloren, consequently the same Dunmer speaking with Ancano a few days prior. ‘Now, this spell should only be used when you find yourself in dire need of silent stepping-like when your life is in danger,’ Drevis had announced, as he stomped on the floor of the lecture space without a sound, demonstrating the spell.
Sorry, Drevis.
She hurried up the stone stairs to the second floor of the tower, breathing as quietly as she could. She stopped at the top of the stairs, listening again. No one.
Aerene stepped forward, lowering into a crouch, as she snuck past the various rooms on the second floor, stopping to admire the beam of light shining through a circular opening in the center of the second floor. It was walled, to protect one from simply walking through and falling to the first floor; the light was still gorgeous as ever, and when she reached her hand out toward it, she could feel the energy reaching back toward her. It was refreshing, indeed.
I cannot dwell here. If I am caught…
She turned back toward the room she’d seen Ancano leave. The door was shut, and to her surprise, it wasn’t locked. That heightened her suspicion, but she took one last glance around the common area of the second floor, before pushing her way into his room.
The air in the room was scented with the intense fragrance of juniper before ripening; she scanned the space, seeing a single candle on a decorative plate. Its wax was a mix of melted and solidified, which meant it had recently been lit. Two goat’s horn sconces were nailed to the wall above a single bed, whose linens were neatly tucked in. What Aerene hadn’t expected was the uncleanliness of the space. There was straw on the floor next to two stacked hay bales, and there were a few barrels shoved into a corner of the room. A bedside table sat with nothing on it; to the right wall was a chest, and a wardrobe. There must be something within.
Aerene stood up straight, a rush of adrenaline ploughing through her as she walked over to the chest, unlatching it and peering inside, knowing she could get caught at any moment. I should hear anyone coming before they enter. I’ll have a few moments to spare.
Her fingers pulled the lid of the chest open, and rested it against the wall. The storage container was dusty, and she made sure to keep her hands off of the darker metal parts so her fingerprints weren’t visible.
Inside were only old linens and scrolls of paper without writing. Her brow creased in frustration. She looked to the wardrobe, and closed the chest before pulling the wardrobe doors open. Inside was a pair of shoes that looked much too small to fit Ancano, as well as a folded Thalmor hood. Come on.
She stood back, thinking maybe she wasn’t getting the whole sight, yet she was, and it was nonsense. I don’t believe it. Ancano has done nothing but watch us, and yet there’s nothing to prove he’s done anything with what he’s seen.
She looked at the bed, and pulled back the linens to look in the bedding. She slid her fingers around the inside of the frame, feeling for anything out of place. There was nothing under the cylindrical pillow, either. As a last resort, she got on her back and slid under the bed, looking up at the support beams to try and see anything tucked in them.
Back in Cyrodiil, there had been a time or two when she found incriminating evidence tucked underneath the bed frame. This was not the case here.
She sat on the floor, then, frowning. It cannot be.
She was in utter disbelief, knowing this was Ancano’s room and shocked there was nothing of note inside except for a bitter-smelling candle. The barrels were empty, too.
Not wanting to spend any more time in the Altmer’s space than necessary, she made sure everything was as she’d found it and prepared to walk out. That was when she remembered she hadn’t checked the wardrobe for a false back panel. That must be it!
The snooping woman reopened the wardrobe, and pressed her knuckles against the back wall of it. The wood moved just slightly, and her heart picked up in excitement. Half of the wardrobe’s back panel clicked into place, and she slid it to the left, reveling a second, narrow set of shelving behind the false back panel. There was a jar of ink, a quill, and parchment-different from the scrolls she saw in the chest. Further inspection confirmed there was nothing else in the space besides the writing materials. There were no letters, sent or received, but what she saw told her Ancano had something to hide.
Aerene raised her hand, clenching her fingers to ready a recast of muffle, to ensure she left without detection. Once she was ready to escape back to the dining hall, with nothing but a slice of satisfaction, she stepped out of Ancano’s room; everything was left how she found it, and she shut the door as if never there. She began walking toward the spiral stairs to to the lower level when she heard a door close somewhere in the tower, followed by footsteps. She froze, and quickly realized that wasn’t the best thing to do. She hurried to the ledge where the light beam was shining up from the first floor. Aerene looked downward, and caught a glimpse of golden-green skin and white hair. Ancano. To make matters that much more real, he was walking toward the steps to the floor on which she stood. Aerene jogged to the nearest room she saw, since whoever occupied it left the door ajar, and she hid behind it, waiting in silence. As soon as Ancano went into his room, she’d flee down the stairs and out of the Hall of Countenance.
She waited for one moment, then several, but never heard his footsteps carry up the stairs. It was essential to know where he was, so she scanned the room, and saw he wasn’t on the second floor, nor could he be heard walking up the steps. “Damned latch,” she heard him curse, right when she was at the base of the stairs. It was eerily close, too close. She believed she pinned his location, and her teeth bit anxiously into her lip as she peered around the bend of the stairs into an awkward space that would’ve led to the floor beneath, only there wasn’t a floor beneath.
Or was there?
Aerene hadn’t noticed it before, yet she stared at a trap door, with a latch, where she thought Ancano would be. He’s gone into wherever that leads. Could it be the same space that the trap door in the exterior walkway led to? She quietly sighed in relief, boots still stuck to the last step of the staircase, as though at any moment Ancano would rise from the trap door and she’d go running back up to the second level in the tower. Another creak at the tower entrance drew her instant attention, and her wide-eyed gaze met another.
It was Onmund, who froze as soon as he turned from quietly shutting the door behind him; clearly, he hadn’t expected to see Aerene, just as she hadn’t planned to see him. Aerene hadn’t spoken to Onmund since her first day in class, where he’d shocked her accidentally because she couldn’t hold up the ward. Who am I kidding? I still can’t do it.
He watched her from across the room, breaking eye contact to look down towards the trap door Ancano had slithered into. He then looked back to Aerene. “What are you doing in here?” he asked in a neutral tone.
Spying on a person I suspect to be involved in the return of the dragons!
“Research,” she replied plainly, and she couldn’t help the way she glanced to the trap door Onmund seemed focused on. “You?” she watched him. They both knew the other didn’t belong.
Onmund hesitated, and looked up, and around the room, making sure no one else was present. “Let’s speak plainly,” he suggested, and approached Aerene. “What are you really doing here?” his tone was hushed, his eyes just slightly narrowed in suspicion.
Aerene stilled, staring Onmund straight in the eyes, deciding how she wanted to handle this. She didn’t know if she could trust him-though she recalled the first day she met him, he said he didn’t believe a word Ancano said, and it didn’t make much sense for him to make his way to the College only to have a secret involvement with a suspicious individual. I could just be trying to convince myself to trust him… what’s so wrong with that?
“You first,” she demanded quietly, crossing her arms to send the message that she meant business. Onmund’s mouth flattened into an unimpressed expression, before he sighed with a playful role of his eyes. “I was just in the Arcaneum when the evening meal started. Ancano entered the dining hall, idled for a few minutes, then left. He went back to the Arcaneum, and stole a book. Then, he came here, and I followed.” Oh.
“Your turn,” Onmund said, raising one hand to rest at his hip, giving her a matter-of-fact look. She stared back at him, hoping she wouldn’t regret what she said next. “I…” her voice trailed off. Do I really want to tell him about how I was digging through someone’s personal belongings?
As she looked at Onmund, though, she didn’t see accusation or any sense of harshness. His gaze was genuine, kind, and trusting. It was alluring, to say the least. She suddenly wanted to tell him more about why she was there at the College, and why she suspected Ancano in the manner she did. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to be so close, so personal, and it took everything in her not to lower her gaze to see closely how his bottom lip was a bit plumper than the top one, and how the blue light pond in the center of the room really showed off his dimples.
“There’s a bit more to it,” she said, nearly breathlessly, her tongue running over her lips as she suddenly felt thirsty. She ran her hand through her hair, pushing the loose strands out of her face and tucking some behind her ear. “I’m listening,” Onmund said, waiting to hear more. He was certainly attentive. “I think the Thalmor may kno-“ she suddenly stopped speaking when the iron latch could be heard jiggling. Both apprentices looked to the trap door on the floor, just a short distance away, seeing it move a bit, as though someone were just underneath struggling to get it open. Aerene’s heartbeat picked up in a rapid rhythm, and both herself and Onmund were instantly making a run for the door. She followed as quickly as she could on his heels, and within a couple seconds they were outside the Hall of Countenance; Aerene didn’t think this was far enough, and nearly took them both tumbling down to the ground, skidding to a stop. “Keep going!” she hissed lowly, “To the Attainment Hall!”
Sounds of panting could be heard, as the two apprentices were huddled in Onmund’s room of the Hall of Attainment; Aerene was leaned against the closed door with her arms stretched upward, wrists resting atop her head. Onmund fought to catch his breath while he leaned against his desk; they’d hurried along the courtyard walkway, into the tower, and up flights of stairs before hiding out in his room.
Aerene felt like a child again, like she were ten and taking sweets out of the Temple kitchen with the other girls, running to hide out in a corridor or closet space to eat as fast as they could. It brought a smile to her face when she caught her breath. Onmund must’ve noticed, with the words he spoke next. “Something funny?”
Her smile turned into a toothy grin, and she crossed her arms and leant against the door more comfortably. She reached her arms out to pull the sleeves of the robes up, the sudden exercise warming her more than expected. Onmund turned his back to Aerene, hands busy over his desk, doing something Aerene couldn’t see, though she heard a ‘pop’. When he turned back to her, she saw he’d poured mead into two tankards, offering her one. She took it, thanking him, bringing the cup to her mouth. She sipped; the mead was cold, and it was refreshing even with the icy and snowy weather outside. “Running away like that… typical for children, not necessarily college apprentices,” she stated, looking around his room. He pulled the hood of his robes down, reminding her he did have hair, though it was most often hidden. He was easy on the eyes either way.
“Well, it’s not often one needs to make a run for it. Now, I’m curious as to what you were doing in the Hall of Countenance when everyone else was out. I told you my reason,” he hinted that it was only fair she explain herself, quite adamantly so. Onmund pulled the chair out from under his desk, and gestured for Aerene to have a seat in another chair next to the door. She pulled it further into the room, just incase their voices carried, and made herself comfortable.
Onmund’s room had a single bed with green linens, the type of bed identical to Aerene’s-which must’ve been standard for each room at the College. The bedding was mostly neat, made into place quickly but not messily. A candelabra with three lit candles sat on a nightstand to the left of the bed, as did a bowl of fragrant and shiny red apples. On the other side was another nightstand with a stack of books and a pretty silver amulet on display. Aerene looked to Onmund, who was now sitting just as comfortably nearer to his desk, which was sprawling with parchment and scrolls, soul gems, and note journals.
“As I was beginning to say, I think the Thalmor are involved with the return of the dragons,” she said in one breath, unsure of how the young Nord man would react. His eyes narrowed, and he looked into his cup, as if the mead would show him the answers to the mystery. “A bold thought. Not one to discredit right away, either. It’d be easier to find out more if we knew what book the kleptomaniac snatched from the Arcaneum. I’m sure the missing piece will be noticed. Urag keeps a close eye on his collection. Learned that when he got on me about a book that I returned a day late,” Onmund recalled the memory, wearing an unpleasant expression.
“What could the Thalmor have to do with the dragons returning? Who knows if those tales are even real, the Thalmor could’ve spread that rumor to instill fear in the citizens of Skyrim just before the civil war breaks out,” Onmund hypothesized. Aerene felt a pang at his disbelief in the dragons, though could she be angry with him for being skeptical, if he hadn’t seen one?
“Have you seen a dragon, Onmund?”
He had been raising his tankard up for another drink, stopping his movement with her question. “I can’t say I have…” he confessed. Aerene sighed, taking a long swig of mead from the cup, resting her hands in her lap. “They’re real.“ She paused, and then told him how she’d been at Helgen during the attack last month.
“You were at Helgen?!” He cut her off in disbelief, his eyes wide. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Yes.” His face contorted in thought. “By the Nine. So you’ve seen one, and lived to tell about it…” evidently, he wanted to ask more questions, but asked Aerene to continue what she had begun saying. “I don’t know where the dragon came from, or why it attacked a village as small as Helgen. Its goal was absolute destruction. It spoke spells to burn Imperials, Stormcloaks, and Thalmor alike. I was fortunate to have a friend help me escape, but most weren’t so lucky.” As she spoke, she found herself providing evidence to disprove her suspicions-why would the Thalmor have a connection to the dragon who attacked man and mer alike?
She had subconsciously averted her gaze from her classmate, eyes staring at her lap as though the scenes of terror were replaying there. “It can’t be easy, carrying the memory of what you saw, with so few of the witnesses left alive and the rest of Skyrim doubting any of it was real,” Onmund said. She looked at him blankly, expression quiet but her mind abuzz. He was the first person to mention anything of that nature to her. Nordic culture could be nomadic, but it was always fast-moving. Any day could be the last, what with a building civil war, political unrest, bandits, thieves, dragons, and the fingers the aedra and daedra stuck into the mortal realms at any time. Generations carried essential values down to the next, preparing children for a harsh life requiring constant effort, building resilience while maintaining compassion. Families were deeply interconnected, openly communicating with each other to protect the unit from outside threats. Culture outside of Skyrim varied greatly, and this was quite evident when experiencing the province for the first time. There was much doubt, and much tradition, though the times had changed abruptly and the people of Skyrim would have to change, too.
Before venturing into Skyrim, Aerene lived a quiet village life for a short while; prior to that, it was the Imperial City, where barbaric ways were outside the walls and a distant dream. She felt now as though she’d truly lived and breathed just a glimpse of the wilds.
Aerene sat there quietly, holding back whatever emotions were fighting to be revealed, realizing just why she may have been suffering nightmares each time she fell asleep. She had taken in everything she saw, and kept it to swell in her heart and mind.
“Such is Nordic life,” she replied distantly. “Hmph,” Onmund scoffed, shaking his head; he took another sip and set the tankard down on his desk. “You sound like my father,” he quipped. Aerene was taken aback, but more curious than anything. Though, the last time she heard something like that, it wasn’t to be taken as a compliment. “Your father? Does he live around here?” Do you live around here?
“By the Nine, no. My family are back in Shor’s Stone.” Was that relief making up the tone of his voice?
“You must miss your family, being so far away from them,” Aerene guessed, incorrectly. He shook is head in disagreement. “I consider it a blessing. My parents were convinced that coming here was a death sentence, or worse. It took years of insisting that this is what I'm meant to do."
She raised her brows in slight surprise. He was straightforward, and ambitious. Most Nords grew up to continue the work of their families, and would take the rare chance to pursue what their hearts truly desired. “Your family didn’t want you to come here? Why?” For years during her life in Cyrodiil, she had read about the legendary College of Winterhold. A place of knowledge, a goal of many in Tamriel; she’d spent the last few days learning more about why studying at the College was so sought after, and how far people were willing to travel for their studies. I’m no different. Cyrodiil is a long way from here.
The Mages’ Guild in Cyrodiil died out after the Oblivion Crisis, and left behind were the Synod and the College of Whispers. Both institutions were known to be more concerned with politics than the sharing of magical knowledge. This left the College of Winterhold as a valued destination for mages and scholars alike. “Isn’t it obvious?” Onmund asked, thinking Aerene spoke in jest. When she shrugged, he blinked in realization. “Forgive me,” he began, acknowledging his ignorance. "Well, look at the evidence. Nords generally don't trust magic, so it's not off to a good start. Throw in the Oblivion Crisis, which was caused by magic-users, and the troubles now with the Aldmeri Dominion who are Elves and magic users. And finally take the fact that the College is practically the only thing left standing after most of Winterhold was destroyed. It’s all fairly damning."
He had spent years convincing his family he had the right to study magic, rather than pursue life as a farmer. She admired his determination, and knew it must’ve been quite the journey to venture from Shor’s Stone, in the easy weather of the Rift, to the constant cold of Winterhold. Their conversation went on, with the two discussing what Aerene found in Ancano’s room-or more what she didn’t find-before moving the discussion to the dining hall where they sat with Brelyna and J’Zargo. While they ate and enjoyed each other’s company, sipping on bountiful mead and clinking tankards, Aerene wondered what her next steps would be-with both her haunted sleep and Ancano.
When she lay in her bed in the darkness that night, ready to sleep, she stared upward and wondered if she’d have endless nightmares once again. Despite the excitement of the Ancano situation, she was still sleepy during class time, though taking notes did help her stay awake.
A thought occurred to her, and she wanted to pinch herself for not having it sooner; I concocted a lavender sleep potion for Zariah the night of Valdr’s death. I should make one for myself, too. I wonder if Winterhold has an apothecary where I can buy herbs. Lavender grows south in the tundra of Whiterun Hold, but not this far north.
Sleep that night carried her once again to the training yard of Jorrvaskr, under a clouded blood red sky. Still. Quiet. Suspiciously quiet. She was perched on the steps leading from the seating area to the open yard space, where many a time she’d sparred and listened and watched. She sat in solitude. Aerene looked from the skies to the clothes she wore, and took a moment to conclude she was wearing the same Imperial leathers she found in Helgen Keep, back when she and Hadvar escaped the destruction with little other than their lives. “So much has changed since then,” she whispered, as though she were in the waking world with full control over her movement and language, and not in a distant dream.
“Shhh! He’ll hear you!”
She startled, eyes wide when she looked to the source of the noise. It was a young girl who’d said it, and she too was looking to the firmament as if it would come to life at any second. When she looked at Aerene, she looked at a mirror. Aerene recalled being a child, seeing her face reflected in a barrel of water at a stable in the Imperial City; the girl looking at her bore the same face. Pale, cold blue eyes and lightly colored hair, more blonde than the red it became over her lifetime. “Who?” Aerene asked, pushing herself from the steps to walk toward the girl. She knelt down, and studied her face, though the dream was becoming blurry and detached-as she fought to stay asleep and obtain the answer to her question. “Him,” the girl said, pointing upward, her eyes open in wide curiosity. The flapping of wings across the sky sounded. Both Aerenes looked upward, Aerene of the past with her index finger extended toward a parting in the thin cloud strands. A dragon swooped through the opening, black as the night with his wings extended in full span. "Zu'u lost daal,” its harrowing voice sounded over the lands, as the creature flew rapidly, soaring across the winds of the night toward the training yard. “We need to get inside!” Aerene of the present beckoned to the girl, though the younger one cried in terror, the winged wyrm swooping over the training yard. Its quick movement sent a spell of wind downward, knocking them to the stone ground. “Come on!” the older one called, scrambling to get back up and move them inside. The beast’s wings flapped as it extended its talons to the ground, settling on its haunches to land. He was huge and bore razor sharp scales with glowing red eyes. As the seconds passed, the woman and girl stilled, sitting on their bottoms and watching the beast in absolute awe. They couldn’t have moved even if they tried, or wanted to. “Yol Toor Shul!” A wave of hot orange flames was thrust from the throat of the dragon and licked out toward the two, who were entranced and still as doom approached.
Her eyes shot open into the dim light of the room, body questioning the instant adjustment from the heat rapidly approaching in comparison to the cold that lingered in the College. Her fingers traced her skin in quick movements, making sure she was really there and without skin on fire. When she stilled, she stared into the room, sleep pulling her into its embrace again, her eyes falling shut. When she entered that state of vulnerability and stillness again, she had no dreams, and she had no nightmares.
-
Aerene’s morning began later than it had been recently. She was not exhausted upon awakening, though she couldn’t shake the feeling of having knowledge just out of reach. She remembered vividly the encounter from that night, seeing her past self and sitting with her as they watched the beast break the skies and speak flames. He looked just the same as that day in Helgen. What is the dragon’s name? What power is held within? As she departed Birna’s yard, leaving River to feast on hay, carrots, and apples, the subject lingered in her mind. Aerene stopped walking from Birna’s storefront to the bridge leading to the College, and turned to look over Winterhold. The town, if one could call it that, seemed to always be sleepy, with its few residents and constant blanket of snow. It was peaceful, even with the loneliness laying under the quiet. Little sounds here and there signaled that the settlement was active, and not only caught in constant stillness, from a young farmer chopping wood to a few voices speaking in gentle tones. Aerene wondered about the future of the settlement, thankful it had survived this long. She didn’t know how long she would be at the College of Winterhold, but found the isolation of the village profound in allowance for utmost concentration. The aspirant turned away from the main road, pulling her makeshift hood tighter around her head as her breaths left in white puffs of chilly air. She began walking the bridge to the College, avoiding the ledges where the stone had fallen away and keeping her eyes forward, for if she looked down over the sides to the spooky drop, she’d surely have gotten dizzy.
Her entrance into the courtyard of the College gave way to a serene sight of snow covered grounds, droplets growing into icicles that refroze off the edges of the stone platform Shalidor’s statue topped. Aerene was scanning over the figures walking to and fro, looking for any sign of Ancano, when someone spoke from her side. “And where has this one been so early in the morning? J’zargo has been up earlier, probably,” J’zargo said from Aerene’s side. She turned to face the Khajiit, noting how she hadn’t seen Ancano in the courtyard. “I was tending to my horse, in town,” she said. J’zargo rather loudly sniffed the air, and his eyes narrowed a bit. “Ah, J’zargo thought he smelled horse from this one,” he commented, and she went a little red in wondering if she actually smelled like horse. She shifted on her feet, and the thought that she hadn’t soaked in a bath since her arrival snuck up on her. “It seems to be true, the rumor that the Nords do not bathe. Well, this one is only one of two Nords in the College, and the only smelly one, though this could change,” the Khajiit continued. Aerene fought off the temptation to kick at his furry tail swaying around behind him. “One can only appreciate your honesty, J’zargo. I will be sure to prove the rumors wrong.” Only two Nords in the College? Who was the other one?
She thought of the mage she had a long chat with the night before. Oh.
“J’zargo is on his way to practice healing spells. Would this one like to join?” his invitation caught her off guard, as it was unexpected, though not unwelcome. She hadn’t planned out the hour of the morning before the first meal, and quite liked the thought of joining the Khajiit in his spell practice. She accepted, and they made way to an unoccupied space along the large, circular colonnaded walkway that ran along the entire courtyard edge. Brelyna met them, joining in on the spell practice despite having little interest in magic other than conjuration. Aerene met them at their now usual table in the dining hall after changing out of her armor and into her mage’s robes, leaving her sword in her wardrobe and keeping her dagger hidden in her boot. The first lecture after the morning meal that day was in conjuration magic, where several students were sitting around the outer edges of the room while the instructor, a scholar named Phinis Gestor, explained techniques and histories from the center. It was the busiest lecture Aerene had attended; she sat between Brelyna and J’zargo; the former was deeply invested, scribbling pages of notes down with hardly enough time for the ink to dry between the turning of pages. The latter J’zargo had been quite fidgety, and his sudden stillness prompted a curious glance from Aerene. He was sleeping. She nudged him, and he blinked awake quickly, straightening himself in his chair with a sudden movement, though in a few seconds his eyes were struggling to stay open any longer.
The next and final lecture of the day took place with Tolfdir, where he taught alteration magic, providing the students with spell tomes for the candlelight spell. “Do any of you know this spell already? Let me see a show of hands, if you’re familiar with casting candlelight,” Tolfdir said, as he set a spell tome on the desk in front of Aerene. She kept her hands lowered, because she’d never cast that particular spell. It was a magical white light that would stick to where the caster pointed their hand when bringing the spell to life, though it would disappear after a single minute. It was a spell requiring little skill; this must’ve been the reason why the other three students, Brelyna, J’zargo, and Onmund, raised their hands in unison to make clear they knew how to cast it. Aerene cringed internally, and Tolfdir turned to look at her with a half-hearted smile. “Well, Aerene, why don’t you study candlelight on your own time, and we’ll move on to something else?”
She nodded, hand pulling the spell tome to her lap under the desk as she slumped down in the creaky wooden chair. Why don’t you give me a sword and I’ll show you what I can do?!
Outside the lecture room, as time went on, the daylight faded, the grey twilight cast through the large windows of the space. Tolfdir walked around the classroom, to stone pyres Aerene hadn’t seen in use before. At each corner pyre, he’d pull his hand into a fist toward his body, and a magical glow would come to life from his palms. He would release the light, and it would burst into a permanent brightness of blue atop the pyre. It was much like the other blue light ponds around the College, though on a smaller scale. In a few moments, the dim room was illuminated. The students had grown antsy while sitting for an extended time, and Tolfdir picked up on this. “Now, I know you’re ready to leave for the evening meal. I think perhaps we're ready to begin exploring some of the various applications of magic throughout history. The College has undertaken a fascinating excavation in the ruins of Saarthal nearby. It's an excellent learning opportunity. I am putting together a group of students to meet at Saarthal tomorrow at midday. It’s about an hour’s walk from here, and each of you are invited to join. Any questions?”
Aerene sat still while the others asked about Saarthal, though she knew she’d seen it before; on the way to Ysgramor’s Tomb, when she was with Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela. It was devoid of any people at that time, or perhaps they were excavating inside by that point. Nordic tombs in the frozen north of Skyrim. A place said to be the first city settled by Nords upon their arrival from the mysterious continent of Atmora.
Undoubtedly, Saarthal was crawling with the same essence that other underground dwellings in Skyrim had-the same liveliness that kept fires within burning for an eternity, that allowed the draugr to wake as though they were never dead. Was it really the best idea to go to a place with such risk? Aerene’s eyes narrowed, finding herself lost in thought at the end of class when she made her way quietly out of the room. I need to remember I am not the expert. Tolfdir has decades of magic use and historical knowledge under his belt; he’d never take us to a place he didn’t believe was safe and worthwhile.
During the evening meal, Aerene sat with Brelyna and J’zargo, who were quite chatty about the next day’s trip to Saarthal. “Perhaps this is a good chance for J’zargo to practice his destruction casting, and for Brelyna to raise the dead he kills,” J’zargo spoke in a sing-song voice. When Aerene looked from him to Brelyna, the glimmer in his eye and the slight smirk on Brelyna’s lips didn’t go unnoticed. She quickly averted her gaze and tried not to think about the fact that all of the students and instructors were indeed isolated from the rest of Skyrim with only each other for company. Her face began feeling hot, and just when her mind drifted to a certain warrior in Whiterun, her hand jolted out to grab her bottle of mead and swiftly press it to her lips, as she chugged the chilly liquid. “So…” a new voice spoke, “what are we drinking to?” Onmund asked, sitting down at the table, seated diagonally from Aerene. She set the bottle down, her thumb wiping a drop of mead that had collected at her bottom lip. “Another day of learning completed,” Brelyna suggested; J’zargo bit the cork out of a bottle of cheap wine, and poured some into tankards for himself and Brelyna. When he offered it to Aerene, she declined. “Nords and their fancy Nord mead,” he commented, a slight shake of his head signaling his disapproval. Each of the students clinked their beverages together and took a long drink of the alcohol. They continued eating, the dinner of that day consisting of vegetable soup, braided and potato bread, eidar cheese, and snowberries. Aerene excused herself early, despite the complaints from her peers about having more to drink. She had her heart set on something else for the remainder of the evening; she bid the three of them goodnight and took one last scan of the dining hall, ripe with carrying voices and merry students, with a few not-so-merry souls in attendance, as well. Ancano was nowhere to be seen, which was a temporary relief and meant Aerene wouldn’t have to concern herself with him for the evening.
The loudness of the dining hall gave way to a silent courtyard, the night clear and lit by Masser and Secunda. How lucky we of Nirn are, to have two moons to gaze upon, in daylight and darkness. The mage walked contently to her room in the Hall of Attainment, and gathered her belongings before finding her way off of College grounds as she wandered toward Winterhold. The night was beautiful and quiet. She was going out of her way to rent a bath at the local inn instead of utilizing the College’s bathhouse, but in a private space there was exactly that-privacy-with no chance of running into someone she knew. Outdoors was significantly colder than it had been a couple hours ago, and Aerene felt the chill of the icy air as she hurried carefully along the walkway from the College, stepping down the slope onto the main street of Winterhold. The Frozen Hearth Inn was on the left of the cobblestone path, stacks of firewood pushed up against the wooden building’s exterior, a thin layer of snow coating the stacks. A few snowberry bushes sprouted from the frozen ground, their deep reddish pink flesh illuminated by the torchlight of a passing guard bundled under furs. “Headed to the Inn, mage?” the guard woman asked, her voice muffled under the pointy helmet she wore. “Yes,” Aerene responded. “I could go for a belly full of warm mead,” the guard sighed, walking off toward the opposite end of the small town. Aerene arrived at the steps of the Inn; the structure boasted warmth. Its front door was on a raised porch, where two elk skulls with antlers were mounted on support beams. Dry, scraggly foliage was tangled on either side of the steps leading up to the porch. The Inn’s signpost was centered with a trinity knot of curved and interconnected lines under an archway with runes, topped with the name of the inn written in clear, fancy script.
The passage into the Inn gave way to a warm interior, thanks to a huge central hearth in the grand space. It had a similar interior design to Dead Man’s Drink in Falkreath. With the huge stone hearth in the middle of the floor, bright and hot flames sweltered upward; it was a welcome relief from the exterior elements. The floor was stone and the walls were wood with support beams holding up the walls. Large deer pelts hung along the walls for decoration, as did goat horn sconces with lit candles. Three sconce chandeliers hung from the rather high ceiling, and Aerene thought to herself the Inn could’ve used all that extra space as a second floor, should they ever wish to do so. Tables lined the walls, all pushed off of the central floor and to the edges. It was much quieter than she expected, though she wasn’t too surprised-why would students and scholars venture (after drinking on College grounds) along an icy slope to an establishment where they’d have to pay for drinks, when the College provided wine and mead?
To her delight, here was no sign of the begrudged Jarl with intense eyes and auburn hair.
“I’m sorry, could you describe the smell again?” A man questioned from the right, on the far side of the room near the bar. Aerene saw a few patrons, one she recognized as Birna, who seemed to be arguing quietly with a red-haired Nord who looked anything but sober. Not wanting to bother the shopkeep, Aerene quietly made her way toward the bar. “Like some horrible monster was turned inside out, then exploded. What did you do?" The presumed barkeep, a Nord with lengthy blonde hair tied at the base of his neck, questioned the mage in front of him. "It was a minor miscalculation. I've already corrected it for future experiments,” the mage, who wore hooded conjuration robes, defended. The Nord sighed, his hand raising to massage his temple. “This, this is why people have a problem with your college, Nelacar,” he said grumpily, before noticing Aerene. Nelacar was an Altmer, who eyed Aerene before disappearing into a nearby room and closing the door behind him. What in Oblivion has been going on around here?
“Good evening. If you’ve business with the College, you’re welcome to stay here. It’s where most of our business comes from, in fact,” the shopkeep said. His attitude was of stark contrast to that of the Jarl Aerene met when she first entered town. He introduced himself as Dagur, owner of the Frozen Hearth. He had tired eyes of a light hazel color, his cheeks sunken in with prominent cheekbones; he wore a standard barkeep’s tunic, a dark cream color with patches here and there, and a belt at his hips with a cleaning cloth hooked in. “I am from the College… and I find your welcoming attitude a little surprising, considering the reputation of the College among Nords,” Aerene confessed, eyeing the bottles of wine and mead atop one end of the counter. On the other were huge wheels of cheese and plates of berries. "Unlike some folks here in town, we have nothing against the College or the people that come and go,” Dagur offered a soft smile. “Now, what can I get for you?”
Aerene was delighted to find the Frozen Hearth did, in fact, have private baths in the basement. She shut the door to the private quarters, finding a rather large stone basin already filled with steaming water. ‘Doesn’t it usually take a while to warm up the water?’ She’d asked Dagur confusedly when he let her know right away the bath she purchased was ready. ‘Not here. We keep the waters hot, since people often come in to get out of the freezing temperatures outside.’
He really wasn’t jesting.
She set down her basket of belongings, and undressed. The water was perfectly warm. Aerene settled in slowly, having not realizing how relaxing it felt to ease the aches she didn’t know she suffered. She sunk into the water, down, down, down, until fully submerged and completely warm.
The time which passed by while she sat was uncounted and unnoticed. Aerene stared at nothing, lost in thought as she let the grime of the last week soak off. Saarthal. She remembered every detail she could from when she and her shield-siblings passed by the excavation site; at the time, they saw not a soul among the Nordic ruins. It would be bustling with scholars the next day. She wondered what they would find within; Dustman’s Cairn was loaded with draugr, dust, and mildew, with strangely lit ancient sconces and tombs. She did not doubt Saarthal would be no different.
Her mind explored the memories she’d made between her entrance into Skyrim and her arrival to the College of Winterhold.
Seeing the steam rise from the water took her back to an earlier time.
-
‘I am exhausted. I may collapse if I do not sink into a bath soon,’ Rialla complained. She had just arrived back to the cottage from her shift as a village guard, during which there was an incident with a duo of forest trolls. The bronze-skinned Imperial woman was dotted with mud and dirt patches, her face just as dirty, broken by streaks of dried sweat. ‘I may collapse from your scent if you do not bathe soon,’ Aerene greeted her at the door, arms crossed. ‘Let me run you a bath,’ she then offered, wiping her hands with a cloth to get the residue of alchemical ingredients off. Rialla scoffed, walking to her makeshift bed in the entrance room, as she began unlatching her heavy armor. ’Thank you, Aerene. Living with you for the last month has been fortunate for my brother and I. Though the jealousy of the troops sleeping in tents rather than the inn or private quarters like yours runs rampant,’ Rialla chuckled. Her voice took on a more serious tone. ‘Though I do wish we had the coin to truly pay you for accommodating us,’ she confessed. The mention of Rialla’s brother brought a tenseness to Aerene’s movements as she carried a bucket of water through the doorway from the well outside. She wondered where Varellus was… yet did not want to be so obvious as to ask. Aerene truly couldn’t have cared less about the coin. ‘You’ve both taught me a great deal about sword fighting and magical technique. The exchange has been more than fair. If I knew more about cooking… then I might demand payment for my services,’ she half-jested.
Most nights, one of the twins cooked, or they visited the nearby inn for supper. Aerene had still been finding her way in preparing meals for herself when the siblings and the rest of their squad arrived in Bleaker’s Way. She had helped plenty in the kitchens of the Temple, but she wasn’t the one cooking; she’d cut up ingredients before moving on to cleaning, without seeing the way the meals really came together. Her diet mostly consisted of dry goods. The arrival of the cooking knowledge-equipped twins was a breath of fresh air from her pitiful meals. Between spending time training with them, chopping wood for the cottage, and hunting mostly small game, paired with better meals, she’d begun gaining the muscle needed in battle.
The two women carried buckets of water in from the well until the wash basin was full, when Aerene brought wood inside to stow in the fire used for heating beneath the basin. ‘We don’t need those,’ Rialla said, drawing a look of confusion from the Nord. ‘Don’t we?’ Aerene retorted. ‘Come here,’ Rialla said, holding the linen around herself as Aerene approached, wood still in her arms. ‘Watch,’ Rialla instructed. She raised her palm, and dipped it into the water; the muscles of her arm tensed, and the water inside the basin clouded with motion before steam began to rise from her casting flames in the water. Aerene could feel the moisture on her face, and she laughed in disbelief. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve known how to do that all this time?!’
‘Ah, don’t pout Aerene, I’ll teach you how to do it, too.’
-
I’d forgotten she taught me that.
She submerged herself into the water once more.
Back at the Hall of Attainment, things had quieted down before Aerene returned. She didn’t catch sight of her classmates as she walked to her room, figuring they were busy studying or sleeping, or even still drinking. She carried a faint, sweet scent of lavender, thanks to the soap she kept, and her hair was silky soft without the grease and grime. Now J’zargo can’t complain I smell like horse.
Aerene lit all of the candles in the sconces of her private room, glad to have some quiet to herself before she slept. She settled for sitting at her desk, which she hadn’t done much of, and flipped open the spell tome for the ward she hadn’t been able to cast yet. Reading the tome after a day of attending lectures and taking notes was not an engaging activity, seen in the way her eyes began to drift closed, before opening again, until she was propping her head up on her hand, only for that to fail, resulting in her falling asleep, slumped onto the desk.
She was not immediately dropped into scenes of terror and anguish-there were no dragons or blood red skies with werewolves lurking about. Instead, she was at the Bee and Barb in Riften. It was like revisiting the memories she made during her time there, after rescuing Nellsea from Knifepoint Ridge-and, coincidentally-where she’d run into Brynjolf. She was leaning against the dresser in his spacious room once more, wearing her corseted green dress, holding a tankard. Brynjolf stood there in front of her again, his hand grasping onto the tankard. He sipped from it, and offered it to her, and she drank.
“Is it what you want, to finish what we started so many moons ago?”
A soft, needy sigh.
“It is.”
In that dream state, things were blurry, though sensations and feelings were very clear. Bryn pulled away from the kiss, and she ran her fingers into his red hair, her lips pressing against his cheek, then to his jaw. He smirked, and leaned in toward her neck; she felt his lips there on the skin of her neck, but wanted to taste them again, so she drew him into another kiss. When she needed air, she gently pulled away, and opened her eyes to look at him. His eyes were not his… no… they weren’t green. They were that unmistakable cold silver. And they were surrounded by black war paint. Her fingers felt his hair was shorter and when she finally realized, she saw Vilkas in front of her. Before she could react in her dream, and draw it along further, her actual body flung itself awake with a jolt. She pushed herself away from the desk, unaware of where she was, but the chair tilted too far back and she went with it, landing on the floor of her room with a smack. “By the Nine,” Aerene grumbled, her voice bringing her to a full state of consciousness.
She groaned, coughing once, staring up at the ceiling from her position on the ground. She knew what she should do-which was to get up and sort herself out. But she didn’t, not right away; she felt pathetic as she lay there on the floor, wishing she could fall asleep, fall back into that dream. She felt warmer than she had seconds ago. Her right index finger touched her bottom lip, and then felt the side of her neck in attempt to retrace the steps which were never taken. There was only one person on her mind, as she pushed herself up from the floor, grabbing awkwardly onto the chair to sit it upright again. She knew it wasn’t time to wake for the day so she flopped into her bed, with a sliver of hope the dream just might continue where it left off.
-
“You’re… quiet today,” Brelyna said from Aerene’s side while they walked among a group of a dozen or so students headed for Saarthal. “I was up late studying, I’m just a little tired,” the redhead lied. The unlearned spell tome back on her desk was evidence of her dozing off. J’zargo appeared at Brelyna’s side. “Be watchful in the Nordic tombs. J’zargo has heard strange tales about the dead who walk under our feet,” he spoke. “Ugh, don’t try and scare me! I’ve conjured up bonemen spookier than any draugr,” Brelyna retorted. Aerene bit at the inside of her bottom lip; she did not doubt Brelyna’s abilities, though it was evident neither of her classmates had been face to face with draugr in their place of rest.
The group moved off of the walkway between the edge of Winterhold and the College, following the main cobblestone path past a few of the stone and hatch structures before turning right to begin a slow and steep trek up the snowy hills surrounding Winterhold. Aerene told J’zargo and Brelyna she’d find them at Saarthal, before wandering away from the group to the yard behind Birna’s shop.
She’d stopped there already that morning to feed and saddle River; there was no way in Oblivion she’d be trudging through a fresh layer of snow when she had a perfectly healthy horse waiting to get out and about. “Hi, girl,” Aerene whispered to the silver mare, who nestled into the hand she rested upon the horse’s muzzle. It was a sunny day, though still cold. She led River along the main cobblestone path, and was securing her knapsack along the saddle when someone greeted her. “She’s beautiful,” he said in awe.
Aerene whipped around quickly to see Onmund standing there, alone, as if he’d been lagging behind the rest of the group. Aerene offered a soft smile. “This is River,” she explained, and secured the final strap of the saddle. “Umm,” Onmund hummed, digging into the satchel hanging at his side. He pulled out a shiny red apple, not unlike those in the bowl in his room, and held it out for River to see. The mare stepped forward, nostrils sniffing at the fruit. “She loves apples,” Aerene chuckled, and gave a nod to confirm it was okay for Onmund to give it to River. The mare sniffed a couple more times, before leaning into his hand and snatching the fruit in one swipe of her mouth. “Are you headed to Saarthal?” she asked the other Nord, who was awfully smiley as he watched River munch on the apple. Aerene thought it was sweet of him to give River a treat. Aerene hooked her foot into the stirrup on one side of the saddle, and pulled herself into a comfortable seated position. “Mhmm,” Onmund nodded, and his eyebrows scrunched together. “I decided to go, last minute. I better hurry if I want to arrive with everyone else,” he said, and turned to follow the group, who had mostly disappeared beyond the peak of the hill.
Aerene sat, knowing it’d take her and River half the time to get to Saarthal even if they took the long way down by the shore instead of cutting through the foothills. She twisted to look at the empty spot behind her, and a thought crossed her mind. “Onmund, wait,” she called to him, and prompted River to follow him. Onmund turned around, and Aerene was taken aback by the glimmer of his eyes in the midday light. “Do… do you want to join me up here? There’s room for another,” she offered, gesturing to the saddle. He looked upward, one eye squeezed shut in the bright sunlight while his hand hovered over his face for mock shade. They held eye contact for a few moments, before his perplexed expression shifted to a smile and he stuck his hand up for her to grab. She did, and he hoisted himself up onto the saddle. They were much closer together now, though it was no hardship. River whinnied, though not in complaint.
Suddenly, Aerene was self-conscious and hyperaware of her movements and the way she handled River. It was quite different from riding with Vilkas or Aela, the shield siblings she’d seen nearly every day for a month straight. Though this was new, it wasn’t bad at all. “Comfortable?” Aerene asked, turned her head to one side without straining her neck to fully face her saddle partner. “Surprisingly so,” Onmund replied in a soft, quiet tone. That was when she noticed the fragrant sweetness of apples. She beckoned for River to move along and the cogs began turning in her head, as though they’d been stuck with cobwebs for days. That sweet scent she smelled wasn’t from fresh baked apple pies or bowls of apples, it was from Onmund. How could I not have noticed?! From the moment I set foot in the Hall of the Elements the air carried that sweet fragrance.
Now that he was sitting there with her, she was overtaken by the delicious, cozy scent, and was impressed and intrigued all at once. She only hoped he didn’t mind the scent of lavender.
“Let’s go,” Aerene quipped, and River broke out into a mild trot on the snowy path sloping down toward the shoreline below Winterhold.
They rode in silence for some time, sitting tight while River trudged through deep snow to the bare grounds of the Sea of Ghosts’ shoreline. Onmund spoke up after the expanse of silence. “What are you expecting to find at Saarthal?” He asked. She figured they’d talk between here and Saarthal, but wasn’t expecting that kind of question, or the way his tone was a little accusatory. Aerene thought of her response, glancing out over the deep blue waters, lapping at the pebbles and dirt of the shore. Large chunks of ice floated further out, with jagged rocks piercing the sky from the sea. Visible swells of snow were blowing northward in the distance, cold winds picking up the snow which was already dusting the ground. “What makes you ask that?” she asked in casual tone. She could feel Onmund chuckle lightly behind her, and wondered if she’d made a mistake inviting him to ride with her.
“You’re prepared for something. Fully armored with your weapons. Some might guess you know what you’re doing,” he answered honestly. Oh. He’s not mocking me, he’s complimenting me.
“I’ve encountered dungeons like Saarthal. The dead don’t really rest in those places.”
“I wonder about the magic withi-“ Onmund stopped speaking mid sentence. Aerene’s eyebrows contorted in confusion, and she began asking if something was the matter. “They’ll hear us,” he whispered. She turned her head to the left, ready to strain her neck to see him. “Look,” he lightly touched her right shoulder, and she looked the other way. He pointed towards figures not he distant shoreline. Ice wolves.
A pack of four were digging at two horker carcasses, low growls combined with snapping barks and the noises of animalistic hunger.
Panic flushed through Aerene. The path leading leftward went up into the same narrow glacial valley where she and her shield-siblings had seen Saarthal previously. The circumstances were different now-more dangerous. River was carrying two, as she had before, but this time, to escape the wolves, River would need to sprint through deep snow as soon as they made it off the shore, and the sound of her hooves hitting the pebbles and dirt of the ground was sure to alert the wolves. Aerene looked from the path into the glacial crevice back to the wolves, and her heart dropped to find one of the creatures already staring their way. Oh gods no! I never thought we’d encounter wolves this way.
I do not truly know the wilds of Skyrim.
“We can’t outrun them,” Aerene remarked, wishing she’d never gotten them into this. River’s head craned to the group, and she began getting antsy; she was never afraid of man or their horrors-wolves were the bane of her existence. Aerene’s armor could protect her from the worst of the wolves’ razor sharp fangs, but Onmund was still wearing College robes, which only protected from the elements and not the rage of wild animals. “By Shor,” Onmund cursed, and they stared at the creatures. The one who’d first seen them tilted its head into the air and let out a spine-chilling howl. The exact thought did not cross her mind, though Aerene was reminded of her shield-siblings when she heard the wolf call out to its companions that new prey was within reach. Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela would’ve been able to shift into beast form and spring at the pack without remorse. For the two humans and horse frozen in indecision and fear, the next decision required more careful consideration. Akatosh guide me!
“This is probably the last thing you want to hear,” Aerene said, hurriedly dismounting from her (mostly) loyal mare, “River has an incredulous fear of wolves and will very likely buck us off if we try to fight on horseback.” Onmund’s eyes widened, and she offered him a helping hand as he quickly dismounted, too. “We’re going to have to fight,” Aerene said. “I’ve never encountered wolves like this before,” she added.
“I have. On occasion, they’d try to make off with the goats from my family’s farm,” Onmund said, closing his eyes. Aerene felt a minute bit of reassurance knowing he might have a plan-because she didn’t. Aerene’s heart began beating faster, while the single howl morphed into a cacophany. Aerene’s face went pale at the chilling sound. Her heart dropped and she knew they had seconds to come up with a plan. “Do you think River can outrun them alone?” Onmund asked, panting in panic. “Yes,” Aerene replied instantly. “Can you command her to run when I say to?”
“Yes.”
I have no judgment to make; I must trust Onmund’s plan. If today should mark my end, I will die fighting!
Onmund opened his eyes and lifted his left hand into the air. His fingers clenched, and Aerene saw a void of magic form from his palm; it was spherical in shape, a purple outer edge centered by a darkness as black as the deepest night-a conjuration spell. She kept looking between Onmund, the wolves, and River. She plucked the lucky dagger from the belt at her waist, knowing she had no time to spare, and with her right hand drew the iron sword from her hip. The conjuration spell’s summoning emitted a low sound, as if multiple chimes by a single, harsh instrument rang out at once, before silencing completely. Onmund’s fingers latched onto the handle of a bow, conjured from thin air; it was a ghastly purple color, as was the magical quiver summoned at his back. He drew an arrow from the quiver and readied it in the bow; the first wolf to begin howling stopped, and began running along the shoreline toward the smaller group. Aerene positioned herself in defense, taking a couple steps back, as did Onmund. River whinnied anxiously, stomping her hooves into the ground while her tail swished around crazily. The other three wolves followed suit, and before long, all four were running towards them.
“Now!”
“River, flee!”
A loud cry sounded from the horse, who reared onto her hind legs before breaking out into a full sprinting gallop in the direction of the glacial crevice. For the first wolf who had begun running, the sight of fleeing prey was delectable. It turned its attention fully to River, as the mare ran away from Aerene and Onmund. Aerene felt a pang of fear for her horse, telling herself to trust in the mare’s speed. A whir flew past her as Onmund fired an arrow at the beast chasing River; it struck true and downed the wolf instantly. River was out of sight. One down!
The remaining three approached in rapid snarls, much larger than wolves of Skyrim’s southern regions. Their pelts had a greenish-grey tint, rather than the dark grey or black colors of forest wolves. Their muzzles were stained red with horker blood, ears tucked against lowered heads as they sprinted closer. Fueled by the fury for survival, Aerene began sprinting forward toward them, eyes set on the ice wolf to the left of the three. She let out a war cry in response to the growls and snarls of the beasts, sword and dagger ready. In a moment’s notice, she jolted out of reach of the nearest wolf’s fangs, and swore she could ear the click of its teeth biting at nothing just a breath from her arm. She shifted her weight to fall on her right hip and back, sliding into the ground to send pebbles, dirt, and sand in an outward flurry. Her right arm, holding the sword, lurched outward as she did so, she felt the blade make contact with flesh. Her next move was to make a quick swipe onto her right knee, as she came to a kneeling position and swiped her sword from right to left at the wolf nearest her. Her blade swiped across the cheek of the beast, drawing immediate blood and a cry of anguish from the creature.
In the blur of colors she saw Onmund near his original position, another arrow pointed at a second wolf snapping toward him. “Behind you, Aerene!” he called over the chaos, and before Aerene could look, a growl sounded from so close it seemed to have come from within her own head. Her eyes widened, and she knew it was behind her, so she thrust her dagger directly behind, unable to see what she was looking at. The jaw of the beast latched onto her armored wrist, nonetheless dragging her backward as the wolf behind her furiously shook its head back and forth, the swaying throwing her into immense disorient. In front of her, the wolf she’d swiped at with her sword was snapping its maw at her legs. She struggled as the other pulled her back, trailing her over the rough ground, but managed to land a kick on the snout of the one near her feet. It whimpered, yellow eyes seeming to glow with rage before it was struck with a bolt of lightning, the deep purple sparks illuminating its hide, courtesy of Onmund.
Aerene could feel the pressure on her wrist increase, so much so that she could hardly keep a grip on the dagger in that hand. It would only be seconds before the wolf would lunge at her jugular. She maneuvered her body around, trying to plant her heels into the ground to get a grip and out of the creature’s hold. Her cries were drowned by the snarls of the creature latched onto her wrist. Her plan came with no time to spare, as she threw her sword out of her free right hand, and grabbed the dagger from the numb left hand, plunging it anywhere she could without seeing what she was looking at. Blood flickered out from where she stabbed her blade into the raging animal above her, much in the same way water shook off the pelt of an animal who’d just been soaked-droplets landed mercilessly. The grip of the creature’s jaw on her wrist loosened enough for her to tear herself away, finally twisting to face the creature as she pushed herself to a standing position, giving it her all not to stumble backward. The last wolf was bloodied and ready to end her.
It lunged forward, face and fangs stained red with a palette of blood from horker and itself. Aerene tightened her grip on the dagger as best she could, and the beast lunged forward. She thrust her leg forward, kicking her shin against the creature’s neck, putting it off plan for a mere moment. In that moment, she landed her dagger in the final blow.
Aerene panted, staring down at the animal, hating what that situation came to. She despised killing animals in their own territory. If she’d been alone, she would have met her demise to make the shore her grave. The companion mindlessly turned to face Onmund, who stood a few paces away, seemingly clean from any wounds, at least by looks. “Are you alright?” she questioned, grabbing onto her left wrist to try and ease the throbbing ache. He nodded, chest rapidly rising and falling as he was breathless too. “It’s a shame that was necessary,” he sighed, running his fingers through his messy hair. Aerene didn’t want to guess how she looked, having been dragged through the dirt; her head ached from all of the pulling in the struggle. “Indeed. I....” her voice trailed off, and she looked away. “I’m sorry I’ve brought you into this. Believe me, had I known anything of this nature would occur, I would’ve followed the others through the hills, instead of comi-“
“It’s not your fault.”
She stopped talking when he spoke those mild, but necessary, words. She opened her mouth to respond, caught off guard, but couldn’t form the words. “I could never blame you. You had no idea. I’m just,” he stopped, hesitant. “I’m glad you weren’t alone. You might’ve been able to outrun them, but if you’d gotten bucked off…” now his voice was trailing, and the rest of the words needn’t be spoken, dismissed by the way he waved his hand in implication. Aerene looked around. Three wolf corpses lay scattered about, with the fourth a bit further away. The shoreline, once snowy and peaceful, was stained with splotches of blood.
They’d encountered a pack of wolves and survived. Onmund approached and met Aerene at her side, eyeing the aftermath as she did. “We make quite a team, eh?”
Chapter 18: At the Edges of My Vision
Notes:
happy new year!! I have recently had more time for writing, so here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoy, and remember-it's good to keep some secrets! thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you soon :))
Chapter Text
“We do, don’t we?” Aerene cast him a quick glance, fighting the smile of satisfaction threatening to form. “Though you’re much a team all on your own, Onmund,” Aerene sighed, returning to the corpse of the last wolf she killed to rip her dagger from its flesh. The sight was juxtaposed-the serenity of the sea in the midday sunshine, the picturesque view tainted by poetry of violence. She approached the water, one eye squinting and burning as blood leaked into it. “I’m impressed by your skills in spellcasting,” she confessed, reaching to the incoming wave of water and cupping some in her hand. She rinsed her face in hopes of getting the splatters off, scrubbing for a good few moments before standing back up. “I must say the same about your sword fighting,” Onmund said as he approached her side. He made sure not to get his fur boots wet, but reached down and splashed his face with water all the same. He ran his wet fingers through his hair and sorted out the tousled dark strands, before pulling his hood up again. “The Companions must be weeping at their loss of you to a College of mages,” he quipped. She chuckled, hoping it was true.
Does Vilkas think of me as often as I think of him…? He surely does not weep for me…
The pair began moving along, trudging from the shore through the snow, following the trail River left as she fled into the glacial crevice ahead.
Aerene broke the silence first. “It’s no wonder you wanted to study in Winterhold so eagerly. I never knew it possible to conjure a bow as you did,” she confessed. This new scholarly environment was a drastic change for her. She was used to orderly procedures as she lived at the Temple, though the arts where she resided were focused largely on education and worship of the Divines, along with the encouragement of acolytes to undertake studies specific to their chosen deity. The Temple of the One in the heartland of Cyrodiil had evolved into a place of worship for the multiple Divines instead of only the One, Akatosh, and Aerene had been under the impression she’d learned a lot about magic.
Aerene knew a great deal about restoration magic and the order of the cult of Akatosh, yet every day since she arrived in Winterhold she realized she knew less and less than actually did. “I could teach it to you,” Onmund offered. Assistance in learning new spells was just what she needed and just what she refused to admit she needed-to herself at least. To the person offering, well… she had to be honest. I’d be a fool to decline his offer. Though it doesn’t seem he wants to learn sword techniques.
“I’d be in your debt, certainly.”
They followed River’s tracks into the crevice, emerging into the narrow glacial valley where the winds were harsh. The two came to a stop, looking around for the mare. They were closer than ever to Saarthal, and could be there within ten minutes should they keep following the pathway around the next bend where the valley widened into snowy mounds. “I could go for warm mead right about now,” Onmund murmured, crossing his arms to try and generate warmth as they stood still, or as still as they could in the sweeping winds. “River, come!”
Her command bounced off the glacier walls, and for a few moments only the glaciers groaned and croaked in response. She was beginning to worry when a familiar neigh sounded from nearby, though it was hard to point the exact location. “That way,” Onmund pointed leftward around a bend in the natural formation. Aerene jogged slowly around, calling out the command again.
To her delight, her beloved mare galloped into view, whinnying greetings to the pair while she approached.
Miraculously, the three arrived to Saarthal just as the walking group was making their way down the final slope to the exterior ruins of Saarthal.
The excavation site looked much the same as before, only now with more spirit as the scholars arrived. Tucked into a corner of tall and jagged glacier walls was the entrance to the ancient city of Saarthal. Aerene and Onmund stood at the west end of the site, while River stood with reigns secured to a wooden fencepost, part of a makeshift display area. Wooden panels had been constructed to form a stable level, on top of which was a table with benches. Barrels were gathered in one corner of the area, while shelves loaded with artifacts stood in another. Are those… burial urns?
Aerene’s attention had diverted from the group trailing down the opposite side of the site as she wondered what the purpose of the excavation was. What did the College plan to do with the artifacts they’d found thus far?
The makeshift rest area also acted as a lookout platform into the site below. Whoever was working had dug through multiple levels’ worth of snow, as the actual entrance door to the ruins was below surface level. Walls of stone edged with icicles encircled the entrance below. Recently constructed wooden walkways lined the paths on the opposite side of the site, which was also the only safe way down. Aerene and Onmund looked across the gaping area, up to another lookout point at a higher spot. Aerene spotted J’zargo and Brelyna taking in the views. “J’zargo sees you Nords down there on the other side!” the Khajiit called from the lookout, his amplified voice echoing across the dig site. Nearly all of the students behind J’zargo and Brelyna turned to look, drawing mumbles of protest from Aerene and Onmund, who hurried to get out of view before they were overcome with embarrassment.
“By Azura, what happened to you?!” Brelyna whisper-yelled to Aerene at her side while they made their way down the wooden walkways to the ground floor of the site. Aerene followed Brelyna’s gaze to see stains of red across her chest plate, and she gritted her teeth while she tried to wipe the small dots of blood away. “Ice wolves,” she stated, earning a groan from the Dunmer at her side.
Lining up at the entrance, the group slowly made their way into Saarthal. While waiting to pass through, Aerene looked upward; parts of the site had crumbled long before her time. The stones arched over the iron entry door were laden with cracks, too. The very ground was a crunchy mix of snow and debris.
“Watch your head as you pass through!” Tolfdir called from up ahead. Immediately inside was a narrow passage between stone walls, with dilapidated steps leading downward. This structure must be thousands of years old.
Even the nooks and crannies between the stones making up the ground were sprouting growths of moss. Bits of dust and dirt fell from the ceiling. Moss and stone ribbed ceilings hung over the expansive space, held in place by dozens of wooden support beams and pillars. Stretching from the nearby ceiling to the ground level two levels below was a central stone formation, off of which more moss hung. Saarthal’s ancient sculptors spared no effort in carving colossal Nordic faces into each side of the four-sided formation. Aerene took one glance over the edge of the wooden walkway before immediately meeting the opposite side against the wall, where the view of the long drop couldn’t stare back at her menacingly. She mumbled an apology to a student she bumped into on accident. Crates, shovels, wheelbarrows, pickaxes, buckets, and other tools lined the wooden scaffolding. The excavation workers had been nearly as busy as the original sculptors themselves.
The original stone walkway lining the walls on a decline to the lowest level below had collapsed some time ago, so panels of wood were put in place as makeshift stairs and flooring all the way down. Coughs could be heard from all corners of the room as thick bouts of dust floated over the crowd of scholars. “Watch your footing, the ground is uneven in these spaces!” Tolfdir’s voice could be heard from the commotion of chatty students, parting to admire exposed mineral ores or large roots sprouted out from cracks in the walls. Aerene stepped hurriedly off the spiral walkway, a little dizzy, but glad to be on safe ground. She did a double take to her left, and stared in concern at a skull sticking partially out of hard-packed dirt ground. A ribcage was nearby, in the same position, frozen in the dirt, waiting to be uncovered. She looked upward, and saw there was no walkway directly above, meaning whoever died there hadn’t fallen-and that they very well may have been killed by something within Saarthal.
In eagerness and excitement, the group of students continued further down through the halls of the supposed first Nord city, hallways and chambers all carved from stone and leading deeper below the surface. The next room was a grand chamber of sorts, and everything Aerene hated in the way narrow walkways across narrower runic pillars towered high above the floors below, all which would have resulted in a deadly drop down with just a single misstep. “Careful through here, watch your step!” Tolfdir called from below; Aerene was amazed to see he’d managed to get down to the ground floor so fast. I will watch every step I take.
Oh, how she hated heights.
Stone bricks laden with ancient shades of green moss crossed the space from one massive pillar to another, turning and twisting about all the way to the ground level. Scaffolding supported the necessary wooden walkways here and there, and it seemed the work hadn’t really began before this room. Freshly picked stones were scattered across the ground floor, accompanied by wheelbarrows, shovels, partially unearthed artifacts, and lots of dust. A flock of students surrounded the central dig in the room, which Aerene saw was focused on a stone incised with runes and lines, which had been buried at some point. The excavation was now working to unveil it, and assumedly, many facets like it. Aerene was crouched and studying a bunch of Namira’s Rot mushrooms, when a thick Elsweyr accent sounded from her side. “J’zargo finds nothing but dust in these ruins,” he reported. She couldn’t help her smile as she looked up to the Khajiit and then back to the mushrooms. “You seem excited to be here,” she commented, the sarcasm potent. “Oh, yes. J’zargo hopes to find things that will make him a more powerful mage here. Hopefully small things that will fit inside pockets, and will not be noticed if they are missing,” he responded slyly, and she needed not to wonder if he was serious. So far, there were no signs of draugr, yet they weren’t very far into the ruins.
“Everyone, gather ‘round for a moment!” Tolfdir called out to the group of students. Brelyna came to stand at Aerene’s left, as did J’zargo and Onmund. Once Tolfdir had everyone’s attention, he began speaking. “As some of you may know, Saarthal was one of the earliest Nord settlements in Skyrim. It was also the largest. Sacked by the Elves in the infamous "Night of Tears," not much is known about what happened to Saarthal. This is an exciting opportunity for us. To be able to study such an early civilization, and the magics they used…” his voice trailed, the awe evident. “Well, are there any questions before we begin?”
Brelyna whispered at Aerene’s side, “To think, my ancestors destroyed the homes of yours and Onmund's ancestors. So much bloodshed.”
Aerene’s eyes widened just slightly, her mind focused on listening to Brelyna’s quiet voice underneath the questions from students and answers from Tolfdir. My ancestors? Aerene’s Nordic ancestry was undeniable, though she had not the tools to trace her lineage. She hoped Brynjolf might find some answers through his connections within the Thieves Guild and across Skyrim, and did not doubt his abilities. Before long, I’ll hear from him about a job as payment for his work.
Business, all business.
Tolfdir instructed the students to look for anything of note, and to speak to him privately should they want a task assigned to them. Feeling the need to get to work instead of dally around thinking about her ancestry, Aerene planned to speak with Tolfdir. She noticed Onmund standing off to the side of the central chamber, looking unsure of everything, himself included. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, stepping over with her arms at rest on the hilt of her sword. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m not so sure we should be here,” he confessed. This was a surprise to hear; the flock of students meandering about jumped at the opportunity to participate in something like this. “Why’s that?”
“I find it hard to believe this excavation was approved. There’s no chance anyone in authority approved this. Our ancestors should be allowed to rest in peace,” he said in a tone of disapproval. She stood in a moment of reflection, thinking of the distant days when she and other guild members would break into the Hall of the Dead of the Imperial City and take their fill of gold and gems left by the City’s wealthiest to honor their deceased ancestors. To think I did that while serving at the Temple. She looked back on her own actions with disapproval, though she in reality scanned over the studious group walking about. “Why do you think we’re really here?” she asked. Even she didn’t have a firm opinion, though she did appreciate the learning opportunity. She had to agree with Onmund, though; the chances of any College superiors approving travel to a site like this seemed highly unlikely, especially a group of fresh students who had little to no experience in this type of work. Onmund’s eyes carried a distance to them, an expression of his discomfort. “Hopefully we can learn something from the experience. How the ancient Nords used magic. Maybe even what happened to this place.”
Soon, Aerene stood in solitude, having wandered down one of the dusty corridors of the ancient ruin; she was lost in thought. This place is rich with history. Could it give any hints about the sudden return of the dragons? She wanted to step away from the group, and just go a little deeper. I won’t know what’s not here if I don’t look for myself. Slinking around in the shadows wasn’t entirely new for her. If there were any answers to be found, they’d likely be stone carvings, either on tablets or walls, or perhaps in tombs themselves-she was willing to do a little grave digging in the unconventional way. She glanced around her, finding no others in sight, with plans to follow the path she was on as far as it would take her. Her feet fell in silence, and as she turned a corner it took everything in her not to shriek, startled. “Ah, Aerene! Find anything of note yet?” Tolfdir asked her, his eyes inspecting her curiously. She maintained a calm demeanor, shaking her head. “Nothing to report” she stated. “Well, follow me, I was just assigning some tasks to your peers,” he said, beckoning her down a hall.
Minutes later, she stood in another chamber further in the ruin, among a smaller group of students with tasks assigned to each. Tolfdir asked Aerene to find Arniel Gane, a Breton master scholar studying the artifacts found thus far. She did not enjoy traversing the narrow bridges across lengthy drops to the chamber ground, though she felt a little accomplished as she turned through the tunnels, past collapsed passageways and mossy, cracked stones. So much dust floated in the air it felt as though the ruins themselves were breathing it out.
“It’s going to take forever to sift through all of this…” Arniel sighed to himself, pushing himself up from the table he’d been leaning on, upon which sat an excavation map and lantern. “Hello,” he greeted Aerene. “Tolfdir sent me to find you. I’m Aerene,” she spoke in a quiet voice. “What?” he asked. What?
Her eyes shifted to the side awkwardly, as she debated repeating herself. Arniel studied her, his eyes deep set and decorated with dark bags beneath. He was mostly bald and rather pale, though the paleness was not surprising, when he spent so much time inside. His light blue eyes had a distance and dryness to them. She opened her mouth to repeat what she said, but he spoke first. “Oh! I remember you. You’re going to help? Very well then… let’s see…” his voice trailed. Aerene wandered what exactly he remembered about her considering they’d never met. “You, uh, you can look around in the chambers just north of here. Try and be careful, all right? We don't want to damage anything. Round up any additional artifacts you find and bring them here,” he instructed, before turning his attention fully back to the map, on which was a detailed drawing of the ruin’s tunnels, and smaller illustrations of the artifacts found throughout.
Aerene followed the path she thought was north-it was difficult to tell underground-and kept her eyes peeled for anything unordinary. Surely there should be some procedures in place for handing ancient artifacts? She hardly found herself worthy of touching whatever she might come across. She wasn’t entirely alone, as she heard her classmates’ voices along with Tolfdir’s nearby. She’d wandered for a bit before stepping through a doorway, facing an old throne-like chair, made of stone and iron, part of it broken away at the top right. A lit torch was stationed on the wall to the right, where a thick iron gate was fashioned shut; through the gaps in the ornately carved bars, she could see other students wandering around the main chamber of the ruin. Ivy hung from the low ceilings, sprouting out from the tiniest cracks. That was when she noticed something unusual-an amulet, sitting in the wall, hanging from a perfectly carved setting. This is something of note, surely. She guessed that removing the amulet from its position would prompt the release of the gate adjacent to the niche where the amulet sat.
The necklace had a tightly woven rope cord, rather than a chain, where sharp, tooth-like shapes jutted out near the centerpiece. The centerpiece of the necklace was nearly apsidal in shape, though a little rectangular to be entirely such. It was carved intricately; she was especially intrigued by what looked to be a simply carved eye watching from the top center. Unusual for her was a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch the piece. She should’ve studied the surroundings more, or reported the find to Tolfidr or Arniel first, but the amulet was latched in her fingers before she even realized it. It was the sharp, unpleasantly loud squeals of metal on metal that caused her to flinch and see her mistake. Though it wasn’t the gate right next to her that had opened as she expected; instead, miraculously, a new bout of iron bars had sprung from the initial doorway into the space, locking her in.
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened; her mind flashed to the time something identical happened with Farkas in Dustman’s Cairn. The day she first learned his secret, and the secret of the Companions’ inner Circle. If whoever created that trap wanted me dead, it would’ve happened already. There’s another reason behind this.
“What in the world was all that racket?!” Tolfdir sounded from behind the iron bars; following him closely were Brelyna, Onmund, and J’zargo. “This one tried to steal the amulet,” J’zargo commented, pointing to the jewelry in Aerene’s hand. Way to have my back! His accusation prompted her to wonder if his fingers had been at all sticky since they arrived. She wished she’d hidden it out of sight before being found. “It was my assignment from Arniel,” she snapped back defensively, a little harsher than intended. “Settle down, you two. Did this gate appear when you removed the amulet from the wall?” Tolfdir asked, the curiosity evident in his tone. Aerene nodded. “Was there a ward you stepped on to trigger it?” Brelyna questioned. “No, it was only the removal of the amulet from the wall,” Aerene replied. Onmund stood behind them, tall and quiet, his arms crossed while his gaze remained studious. “Perhaps the amulet can be of use to you somehow. Maybe try wearing it?” Tolfdir suggested. If there was a way to get out of here, Aerene was willing to try. She was glad her hair was covering her ears and hiding the embarrassed pink shade on them. Cautiously, she eyed the amulet, feeling the grooves with her fingertips. She pulled it over her head, waiting for anything to happen. “There! Do you see that? Some kind of resonance between you and the wall, caused by the amulet,” Tolfdir pointed. Aerene turned to see a transparent, warped aura around the niche of the wall, the color and light being manipulated as though it were being drawn into the niche, yet it was cyclical in that it looped, so the image was generally the same. She felt drawn to it, as if it wanted her to do something. “Try casting a spell,” Onmund suggested, his input coming as a surprise to Aerene. She felt it alright to trust his judgment, especially when Tolfdir seconded the suggestion. A burst of flame cast from her palm against the warped magical pool sent the niche splitting apart, rubble bursting through a newly uncovered doorway through the wall itself. The sliding of metal on metal sounded again, the trap reversed. “Would you look at that!” Tolfdir approached, looking between the amulet and the new tunnel entrance.
“This appears to lead somewhere. Let's see where it goes. Well, this is highly unusual. And very interesting. Why in the world would this be sealed off? What is this place? I'm not sure what to expect here. Please be on your guard.” Tolfdir’s chatter echoed off the walls of a narrow corridor revealed after the niche wall had been blasted away by the fire spell. The dust had quickly settled and the space was dark, though Aerene followed behind the older instructor, who had cast candlelight and set the space aglow as they traversed. J’zargo and Brelyna settled for returning to their earlier duties, while Onmund insisted on following the tunnel, in spite of his belief the College shouldn’t even be in Saarthal anyway. “Watch your step here,” Tolfdir warned, stepping over large vines stationed in a permanent slither across the ancient ground. The corridor gave way to a small chamber; on each of the other three walls were sealed vertical tombs. Disturbing and intriguing was the sight of the just-unsealed room having been decorated with goat horn sconces and candles-each one aflame. Someone has been tending this tomb. She opened her mouth to remark on the observation, but stopped when a burst of bright light nearly blinded her; it was white and brighter than daylight. She put her hand in front of her face, quickly looking to Tolfdir. He was completely still; not just still, but frozen, rather, as if captured forever in the pose with his arms at rest by his hips, eyes looking toward one of the tombs. When she squinted, she could see that the very dust which had been floating about the room was frozen in place, too. “You,” an echoed voice captured her attention. She had complete freedom of movement. What in Oblivion is going on?!
Her thoughts were suddenly racing. “Do not fret,” the voice said again, and the shift of her eyes from Tolfdir to an elf she’d never seen before answered the question of who was speaking. “The Psijic Order,” Onmund whispered from behind Aerene. She startled, unknowing he wasn’t caught in the time-stillness. She stepped forward, closer, hand at rest on the hilt of her blade. The entire chamber was caught in the stilling spell, except for the two Nords and the man who’d appeared from nowhere, for they’d just come through the chamber’s only entry. He had intense eyes, even in the slight obscure of his hooded robes. He was of tall stature and carried the accent of the Summerset Isles, a region of Tamriel south of Cyrodiil and worlds away from Skyrim. The homeland of the Altmer, who referred to themselves as high elves. The closer Aerene got to the figure, the more she studied him, and the way the air nearest to him was brimming with bursts of little light specks, constantly moving, as though the stars were revolving around him. Onmund met Aerene’s side and offered a glance of acknlowedgement at the strangeness of the situation.
“Correct. Listen well. Know that you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped. Judgment has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgment will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mages, and only you, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching.”
Just like that, the mysterious visitor whisked his hand upward in a quick movement and vanished completely. The stunned witnesses turned about in search of evidence of his appearance. There was none.
“I…” it was Tolfdir who spoke. “I felt something strange just now,” he said, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The Psijic Order made an appearance. In what felt like the breadth of a second,” Onmund described. “The mage issued a warning.” Aerene was standing silently, staring at the spot the mage vanished at. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching. Strangely, she felt no different physically, though mentally she was occupied with the very relaxed and quick delivery of very near potential disaster. Why watch at all? Surely, if the Psijic Order can stop time in a room like this, they themselves can prevent this disaster! I have to find answers about the return of the dragons, I don’t have time for this!
She’d begun sweating in the dry, cool air of the tomb. “Aerene, what say you on this matter? Did you see what Onmund did?” Tolfdir questioned. Aerene unclenched her jaw, nodding. “Whatever comes next is something we’ve started. The mage must’ve meant your suggestion of the spell, and my casting it,” she concluded. She still had on the amulet, too. Not anymore!
She ripped the piece from its place around her neck, twine torn as if it were dead grass, and prepared to throw it against the wall. “Wait!” Onmund called out, throwing his hands up in front of her, casting her a look of worry. “I’ll take it, if you don’t want it,” he offered in a gentle voice, gesturing to the amulet. She looked to the engravings on the piece, and wished she’d never picked it up, but placed the amulet in his open palm in silence. Accursed thing!
“Well,” Tolfdir sighed, anxiously looking to the doorway they’d entered through, as though debating running back through it and pretending this had never happened. Or maybe that was how Aerene felt. Perhaps further in the tomb are hints or inscriptions about the presence of the dragons in ancient Skyrim. We can’t stop here, but there’s no way through in this chamber. Where we stand, we have no answers.
A low rumbling, a stirring, even, around the room caught the attention of the three. Aerene’s eyes widened slightly at the realization the sounds were coming from inside the surrounding coffins, and before a warning could be spoken to Onmund and Tolfdir, all three coffins burst open and the room erupted into a clamor of draugr groans and the calls of the three humans caught in the sudden commotion. Aerene drew her sword in the blink of an eye, and jolted forward toward the undead nearest her. The boney mass lurched forward, its haunting eyes eerie and glowing. It carried a handaxe and swung it toward her, an action which she intercepted with her sword in her right hand, her left palm flat against the blade as she shoved forward and pushed the draugr off balance. Behind her, she heard spells being cast, and the creakiness of draugr footsteps. The one in front of her stumbled backward toward the coffin it had busted out of, the sour, old air thick and hard to breathe in. Aerene aimed her sword to point toward the undead and charged forward, plunging the iron blade straight through the ribcage of the creature. It went quiet, axe clattering to the ground as the light faded from its eyes. A quick turn revealed the sight behind her; Tolfdir was kneeling on the ground, breathing heavily and clutching his chest. Onmund was backed into the corner next to Tolfdir, both hands held outward as weak flames licked outward toward the two draugr in front of him. He managed to catch the arm of one draugr who swung at him with a dagger, while desperately firing the spell toward the other one who seemed to have lost its weapon. Aerene, in an outburst of anger at this situation, met the back of the unarmed draugr and latched onto its barren skull, yanking backward in a rough jolt before directing the force to the ground, where the undead creature fell to. She summoned her strength to her dominant leg as she thrust her foot downward, stomping a crushing blow through the draugr’s ribcage, a sting shooting up through the heel of her foot at the sudden contact. She whipped around to face the final draugr, though fell to ease as she saw how Onmund had finished the job, the draugr on the ground, its dagger in the mage’s hand.
A harmony sounded from the three’s heavy breathing. “By the Nine,” Aerene swore under her breath, quickly sheathing her sword before hurrying to Tolfdir. “Are you hurt?” she questioned, helping Onmund to bring Tolfdir to a standing position. A cough sounded from the Breton first, and he shook his head. “My, I’ve never seen anything like this,” he confessed, brow furrowing in concern. He stopped himself from speaking further, and nodded toward one of the coffins. With the outburst of the draugr, one of the coffins was revealed to be a doorway leading further into Saarthal. “You should investigate further and see what lies within,” he instructed, leaning heavily onto a central parapet in the room. “Won’t you come with us?” Onmund asked what Aerene had been thinking. “I think not. That sudden show of the Nord dead has gotten my chest aching, on edge. I’ll head back to the main site. See what you can find and report your findings. If you’ve not returned in… three hours, we’ll send a search party. Are you prepared to do this?”
Aerene was facing Onmund, who’d proven himself capable twice already today, and said, “Yes.”
He wore an expression of doubt; after contemplating his next steps, he agreed, as well. The truth was, Aerene was ready to stop at nothing if it meant learning anything about the dragons, or whatever danger the Psijic Order spoke of, even if she’d conduct the search alone. Luckily, she’d have someone to watch her back.
Tolfdir slowly made his way out of the room, and before long, there were two. The middle wall of the three was revealed to have been a doorway, once the draugr had knocked down the door, or rather the lid, of the coffin. How many secret passageways are etched into tombs like this?
“You’re dangerous company,” Onmund commented from behind Aerene as she led the way through, sword in hand. She refused to validate his sly-and true-comment with a disapproving glance, and instead retorted, “Need I remind you the Psijic mage addressed both of us? I’m no more dangerous than you.” She held back a scoff. At the same time, she recalled the sting of the lightning spell he cast during her first day of class at the College. This is a chance to prove my right to be here. I must wield magic as I face the trials ahead.
It was a little ironic, to think that way despite diving into the tomb sword first.
Saarthal’s next chamber was round and lined with twelve tombs. “Perhaps we can sneak through,” Aerene whispered, taking a step through the space, which had a middle walkway to a door leading further inward. The moment she set her foot quietly in the center of the room, a gate slid down over the next door, as well as the one they’d entered through. “Whatever secret is being protected here must be of great importance to these draugr,” Onmund quipped, the two standing back to back in preparation of the fight ahead. The silence was broken by grumbling of draugr stirring from their places of rest.
The first tomb was kicked open, and a low battle cry sounded from the undead. Aerene heard the crackle of lightning summoned into Onmund’s hands behind her, and raised her sword into a defensive position. “Akatosh guide me.”
Unsurprisingly, the duo proved once more their abilities in battle as only six draugr burst out of the surroundings tombs. ‘Let’s go!’ Aerene had beckoned, running to pull at the chain releases keeping the gates locked. Before long, and before any more waves of undead could creak to life, they were through. That room had been lined with dozens of lit candles. “I’m mystified by the presence of so many light sources here,” she commented. “The draugr tend to these halls,” Onmund replied in a nonchalant manner. She cast him a glance of disbelief. “Don’t look at me like that,” he added playfully. “There’s plenty of writing on it, especially in Amongst the Draugr. Didn’t you read it? One of the College’s own scholars authored it.”
Aerene’s expression had dimmed from curiosity to one of perplexed distance. I spent nearly my entire life serving at the Temple of the One, learning of Akatosh and his Divine acts, the histories of the Empire and the Dragon Cult. Yet never once did I access any texts on the presence of draugr in the tombs of Skyrim, nor on the existence of dragons here. While the Temple’s most sacred depiction is of a dragon, which I saw every waking day, I never saw a live dragon until entering Skyrim.
“I’m getting the feeling you’re not exactly concerned about the book,” Onmund added. Aerene blinked out of the scowl and looked around them, studying the ancient walls. She couldn’t bore Onmund with all of the details on what occupied her thoughts, like a cloudy, grey haze that had suddenly formed in her mind. “No, I am not, though I appreciate your knowledge on this place.” At least someone knows his history.
They moved along in silence, creeping past the occasional sleeping draugr, and many skeletons not revived by magical means. Through the winding halls, past more coffins, wall niches, candles, urns, Nordic facial sculpture, and all the like in between, they made their way. All the while, Aerene thought about a new concern haunting her-has the history of Skyrim truly been hidden from me my entire life?
Even more grave was the question of whether it was intentional.
-
“We’re nearing something sacred,” Onmund remarked as the two studied the chamber they’d just stumbled into after dizzying turns and multiple small battles. “The Nords who built cities like Saarthal constructed puzzle rooms like this to deter grave robbers and other scoundrel types.” Aerene kept her gaze on the wall she was facing to hide the fact she was trying not to smile. She’d very well been a shameless scoundrel for some time.
They’d gotten into a deep part of Saarthal, past any College excavation and into a catacomb area. The walls were full of niches with the dead at rest, some skeletons wrapped in linen while others were without. Even without any visible draugr stirring about, a strange sensation was settled into the room. This place felt so distant, so deep. Aerene had never been so far below the surface. A thick haze sat between the duo and the gate ahead. A lever sat on a parapet in front of the gate, but Aerene knew better than to pull it without studying the room better. The walls surrounding the lever had holes between the niche spaces. Should they pull the lever before the pillars were in their correct positions, poison arrows or something of the sort would likely fire out of those holes. “In your readings, have you discovered anything that might help us get through here?”
She felt a tingly sensation at the back of her neck, her fingers rubbing gently at the skin in hopes of putting the unease to rest. “Fortunately, yes. We’ll need to rotate these pillars to match the carvings above, and once they’re all coordinating, pulling the lever will be safe.”
Aerene turned to face him in a manner of light surprise. He was very well studied, it seemed. She hadn’t even noticed the pillars he spoke of until she followed his gaze. His tall, lean figure, concealed by layers of mage’s robes in the thick, musty air of the room. The candlelight illuminated the part of his face not concealed by his hood, light of the flames gently dancing across his skin. The plumpness of his lips from her view at his side, and the modestly prominent curvature of his nose, they seemed familiar.
She dismissed the notion with the reminder they faced a more important task.
“Ah, see there? This one’s already in its proper position,” he said, taking a step back. She studied the huge stone pillar, taller than her and carved with runes and other lines. There were three sides to each pillar, with six total pillars in the chamber. Each one had an animal figure sculpted onto each of the three faces, with either a serpent, hawk, or sea creature shape. They both pushed at the remaining pillars, working to rotate them until the outward facing images matched smaller carvings cleverly hidden among the ceiling behind the pillars themselves. It was a laborious task.
The students passed through another room, traveling upward a level through dusty iron doors before coming face to face with a second puzzle room. This one had what looked to be another iron gate at the far end, with a leer and parapet contraption. Iron chandeliers with perfectly lit and intact candles lined the ceilings, as did several brick archways. “We must be close,” Onmund commented, stepping past Aerene into the room. She’d been glancing over carvings on the far walls and generally taking in the sight of the long chamber when a purplish glimmer caught her eye from the ground. A rune.
Her scholarly companion was a step away from planting himself at the center of the magical trap. “Wait!” Aerene cried out, hand shooting forward to his shoulder, yanking him backward abruptly. “What?!” he yelped out, eyes scanning over the space. If I keep this behavior up, I’ll paint myself out as a madwoman! She knew she had to explain. “The ground is laden with runes,” she pointed her finger to the one he would’ve stepped on. He crouched to study the magical rune, a circular sigil with Daedric letters hidden right in the center of the walkway. The purple glow meant it was a lightning rune and could very well kill the unsuspecting adventurer. He stood up, and pulled down his hood to reveal studious sapphire eyes, just slightly etched with concern. The look shifted to something different when he turned to Aerene. “You’ve a watchful eye, Aerene. Thank you for stopping me,” the last part came out in a murmur, before he leapt over the rune and ventured away from her. She leapt forward too, in silence. Electrocution doesn’t feel very nice, anyway.
While Onmund got to solving what they suspected was the final puzzle before the grand chamber, Aerene admired four large sections rich with inscription. A hall of stories. These, she had heard about.
The ancient Nords wrote stories into stone to tell of great battles and legendary figures essential to their origin. What fascinated Aerene were the depictions she looked over. Two of the sizeable carvings were the same; the god Tsun, symbolized by the above relief of a large whale. Tsun was a deity of the ancient Nord pantheon, represented by animal totems. He was said to guard the bridge to Shor’s Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. He faced the viewer with spears in each hand. A gleaming sun shined above him, he who was dressed in thick furs and an ornate, horned headpiece. Above the sun was a relief depicting tiny people on a ship facing a huge sea creature Aerene had only read about, a whale. Across the hall was another impressive relief, an image Aerene associated with the dragon priests. This wouldn’t make much sense, though, as the arrival of the Nords from Atmora to Skyrim was dated before the time of the Dragon Cult, and before the time when this ancient city would’ve been built. The priest depicted here wore a menacing expression, as if daring a challenger to step forward. His palms were open, swirls of magic projected upward. Above him was another face carved into the stone, one Aerene couldn’t bear to look at for too long, as it felt she was being watched.
The next set of reliefs in the hall showed Tsun once again, facing a relief of Kyne, now known as Kynareth. Aerene remembered sitting in a lesson at the Temple as an adolescent, learning of Kyne’s associations with flight and animals, shown here with a halo echoing the image of a hawk’s outstretched wings. Two suns, or stars maybe, were depicted near her head, her arms and palms open toward the viewer in blessing and welcome. Above her was the majestic face of a hawk. Aerene reached her fingers outward and traced them along the carving of Kyne’s hand, shutting her eyes in silent prayer for protection in the moments ahead. The opening of the gate at the end of the hall snapped her back to reality. It was time to uncover the secret of Saarthal.
-
Perched on the second level of the grand chamber, Aerene and Onmund knelt as they admired something of which the likes had never before been seen. “What is that?” Aerene mumbled. “I knew we shouldn’t have come here,” Onmund hissed.
Across the room, at the center of a leveled, huge pedestal, was a magical sphere suspended in the air. It was spinning and bobbing lightly up and down. It looked mosaic in nature, as though panels of deep grey and watery blue glass had been melded together by no simple means. All around the stone pedestal, greenish blue magic glowed and crackled.
They spoke in whispers to avoid waking a singular draugr seated in a throne before the sphere, a figure who wore a horned iron helmet and who, in undeath, was wielding an ancient Nord axe. Undoubtedly, the draugr would become hostile upon awakening, and neither student wanted to be responsible for that. “Tolfdir should never have sent us here. Whatever we’ve discovered is not of this realm, not with the interference of the Psijic Order, who were thought to be long dead by now. No one has heard from them in years, yet they appear today,” Onmund spoke. Aerene noticed a glimmer about the sleeping draugr, a magical aura the same color as the sphere. She couldn’t associate the colors with any school of magic she knew. “We cannot wake him. He must somehow be protected by the sphere. See the light coursing over him?”
Onmund narrowed his eyes to see what Aerene spoke of. He looked antsy and uncomfortable just existing in this chamber. Aerene felt that way too, attempting to calm herself by bouncing her leg quietly.
They agreed to leave and report their findings to Tolfdir. Onmund began leading the way out, Aerene following, when she took one last glance over the space. She noticed a doorway on the other side of the room, behind the sphere and pedestal. “Hold on,” she whispered. Onmund turned to her; “There’s yet another doorway there. I don’t want to leave without seeing it first,” she told him. His eyes widened, brows furrowing in concern. “You’ll wake the draugr the moment you set foot on the wooden slope to the ground floor,” he spoke in an urgent tone. He didn’t know she had a history of sneaking around. “I am unconcerned with that,” she replied, and cast the muffle spell over herself-the same one she’d used when snooping in Ancano’s chambers recently. She stomped her foot to the floor, much to Onmund’s concern, whose features flooded with relief when her stomping made no sound at all. Faced with her rationale, he crossed his arms. “I’ll wait here for you. Do be careful, please.”
She held her breath as she jogged down to the ground level, past the draugr, and past the orb in absolute silence. She’d never announce it, but it felt good to know there was at least one spell only in her ledger and not in his.
When she had disappeared from the room and made it into a corridor out of sight, she took a moment to compose herself. She’d foolishly left her water supply with River back outside, yet wasn’t completely sure the thirst she felt could be satiated by physical means. It felt like something was in her chest, a presence of some kind, pulling her deeper into Saarthal. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, yet her scarred palms were clammy and cool to the touch. Her lips felt dry as she raked her tongue across them for moisture, and her teeth ached lightly. She stretched, deciding to blame the dry air, yet that didn’t work for long as she wandered forward and felt the symptoms intensify. That was when she stepped through the last doorway into a cavern, much like those higher up on the surface. It was full of natural stone walls and lush vegetation. An abundance of ferns and thick grass sprouted up from moist dirt. Cool mist snaked around the plants and danced upward. Before Aerene knew it, she was standing among the dense growth, breathing in the cool, refreshing air.
Her eyes traveled upward, entranced by the lush greenery, landing on semi-circular stone wall. Unmistakably, it was just like the one she and Farkas had discovered in Dustman’s Cairn. Yet now… she was alone. She could shamelessly embrace the intrigue of the wall, which had begun glowing that familiar, soft blue light from one set of writing inscribed along its lower half. The top half of the anomaly was identical to the first wall they’d seen, a colossal relief of a face, the eyes of which she could make out. She couldn’t decipher the rest of what she stared at, though. Neither could she stop the darkening of the edges of her vision, nor the glow of pale blue at the center of it, nor the reaching out of her left hand to the glowing words on the wall. A single touch on the cold stone shot ice through her fingertips, and had her bent over, her hands propped on her knees, fighting the faintness that so desperately wanted her to fall into its embrace. She sucked a breath in, and felt as though she’d just breathed in a blizzard, before the next moment brought complete normality. She stepped back from the wall, and saw nothing aglow. The sensations she felt had vanished entirely. The first time I discovered a wall like this, I couldn’t stand, and Farkas said I was mumbling to myself. Here I am again, and I can withstand the energy.
Yet now, I still know nothing of what I’ve discovered.
She felt invigorated, energized. She had a feeling that whatever power the wall was associated with was not aligned with the vision of the Psijic Order mage.
As she looked over the cavern one last time before returning to Onmund in the previous chamber, she made a silent vow to protect the secrecy of her finding.
Chapter 19: Where the Others Failed
Notes:
surprise! here's another chapter. I had fun writing this one. the plot thickens!!! I hope you enjoy :D
Chapter Text
“Thank you, Birna,” Aerene said once again, closing the door of Birna’s Oddments shop behind her. She stepped off the wooden porch of the storefront and onto the snowy road, looking out over the hazy stillness of Winterhold. The expedition into Saarthal took place four days prior, and ever since, Aerene couldn’t shake the constant unease.
‘Find anything of note in there?’ Onmund had asked on their way back to the main excavation site. ‘Just some old relief carvings,’ she lied. ‘Pff. Everything in here is old,’ he replied with a smile.
They had spent the next hour or two venturing back up to rest of the College group and shared their findings. As expected, the discovery of the magical sphere had erupted the College grounds into excitement and chaos. Tolfdir’s daily lectures were on hold while he conducted research on the ‘orb’, as it had become known as, and so the students were bunched into larger groups with other teachers. Many had flocked to Saarthal to investigate the orb themselves. The late morning after the discovery, while sitting in the courtyard of the College, Aerene noticed a group of students preparing to leave. ‘Where are they going?’ she asked Brelyna, who was reading next to her. Breylna rolled her eyes. ‘They’re off to track down a previous student named Orthorn. Apparently last month Orthorn stole a collection of books from the College. And did Arch-Mage Savos Aren do anything? No. So Orthorn and the mages he worshipped made off with the tomes to some old keep. The tomes happen to be the only record the College had on Saarthal. They’re treating all of this like a competition, as if there’s something to be won.’
Aerene kept her gaze on the group of students who looked severely underprepared to track down a rogue mage and his friends. She recognized no one among the group. ‘Knowledge. It’s everything to be won,’ she responded. ‘Mages are nothing if not ambitious,’ she added. ‘I’m surprised J’zargo isn’t leaving with them. He seems like the type who’d jump at this opportunity.’ Brelyna laughed. ‘J’zargo is competitive, but no fool,’ she replied to Aerene, words which rather had an undertone of defense…
It was the late afternoon, a relatively calm day after the recent events transpiring at the College. Aerene had waited every day for something to happen, either with the Psijic Order or the magic she’d discovered in the cavern of Saarthal, yet there was nothing of note. She looked downward to the wax seal tools and paper in the small basket she carried. The truth was, she missed her friends, her Companions. She planned to spend the afternoon writing letters to send out the next morning. That evening, she had plans to meet with Brelyna, who’d asked for help with some experiments she was working on. When Aerene asked for details, the Dunmer didn’t have many to spare.
The strawberry blonde had been visiting the shore with River every morning to train and practice with her sword and dagger, wishing she had a partner to work with. In her less proud moments, she’d flop to the pebbly shore and reminisce about the training yard at Jorrvaskr and recall the exciting thrill of it all. Since she’d arrived to the College, she’d only knocked down dusty draugr, save for the encounter with the wolves.
In all, she felt as if she were anticipating something, yet did not know what.
In the name of productivity, she had finally visited the Arcaneum in the evening the day after the Saarthal discovery. It honestly seemed a little smaller than she had imagined it, and it was an impressive collection, though didn’t match the splendor of the Temple’s library back in the Imperial City. The librarian was an Orc named Urag gro-Shub, who during her first visit mentioned thinking of the place as his own little plane of Oblivion. ‘No, we don’t have any books on Saarthal,’ he’d grumbled as soon as she stepped into the library. She looked to him from across the large central room, imagining an influx of questions on that lately. ‘Yes, I’m talking to you.’ Oh. ‘I’m not here about Saarthal,’ she said. This seemed to catch his interest, and he set down the book he was reading to see what she was actually there for. ‘Any tomes about dragons,’ she’d told him. That evening, she returned to her quarters with two books to start: The Dragon War and Olaf and the Dragon. Urag said to have the books back within the week.
Aerene noticed a group of Stormcloak soldiers talking to some of the Winterhold town guard, and wondered about the civil conflicts. Winterhold was so far north it didn’t catch much news on current events in the rest of Skyrim. It all felt hazy and distant in recent days. She finally began making her way along the walkway back up to the College, staring at the ground as she stepped so as not to peer over the side of the bridge to the enormous drop below. She stuck to the middle of the walkway and hurried along, practically sprinting the last stint of it. Once she made it through the entry gate to the courtyard, she stopped for a moment and took in the surroundings. It had been a more temperate day weather-wise, and the courtyard was abuzz with happy and busy students. It was still blanketed with snow, of course, but the warmth of company helped things a bit. When she dragged her eyes over the space, she saw Onmund sitting with some friends. Aerene knew the owner of the long, furry tail seated at his side to be J’zargo. As if he knew she was watching, Onmund glanced her way, and instantly she continued into the Hall of Attainment, locking herself into her quarters for the time being. You don’t deserve to look at him, liar. What did he do to deserve that? He could’ve helped in your research. Externally, she frowned at her poor choice, a decision Aerene of years past would’ve vied for and validated, yet one Aerene of the present couldn’t settle so easily into. She hadn’t spoken to Onmund since they arrived back to Winterhold the night of the Saarthal discovery.
She set the basket of items down at the foot of her bed, taking in the scent of some pine needles she’d tied into a bundle with snowberry sprigs for display on her desk. She picked up the bundle and brought it near her nose, inhaling the mix of pleasant scents, with the underlying purpose of recalling a memory.
The scent of pine reminded her of the forest, and the scent of the forest took her to Whiterun, to the Companion who’d gone out of his way for her, to help her take vengeance, to offer comfort, to take River’s reigns while she fell into a very human slumber, the kind of sleep he never needed. She shut her eyes, and inhaled sharply. Vilkas. A shiver ran through her and her lips parted in a moment of bliss. In an instant, her eyes shot open and she dropped the bundle back in its spot on her desk. “Have I truly lost my mind? Every time I feel an ounce of boredom, I’m going to think of that? I left Whiterun to pursue dragon research. What in Oblivion am I doing?!” she hissed to herself quietly. Maybe she was going a little bit mad, and she had some uncharacteristic tendencies as a result. Before her eyes could roll completely to the back of her head, she plopped down into the chair at her desk and readied an ink and quill, staring at the paper she’d purchased from Birna. Each letter was dated as: 1st Frostfall, 4E 201. She decided to write the first to Zaria.
Dear Zaria,
I write to you from my private quarters at the College of Winterhold. The school is bustling with eager students and teachers alike, in all pleasantness. I’ve collected some nightshade and tied it into a wreath, on my nightstand. It reminds me of you. How have you been faring lately? Tell me of anything you wish to share…
The next was for Lydia.
My friend,
How goes your occupation of Ysolda’s home? I jest, you know….
And next, for her shield-brother.
Farkas,
The other day, I thrust my boot through a draugr’s ribcage…
She’d spent the last hour writing so eagerly her hand was cramping, and she’d soon need to refill on ink. When it came time to write the final letter for the night, she was at a loss for words after writing the addressee’s name.
Vilkas,
She stared at the page, blinking rapidly as if that would help. Her fingers tapped on the desk, and a sigh left her lips. I must write to him. How cruel would it be to send a letter to Farkas and not his twin? But… what in the world would I say?
Dear Vilkas, I think of you when I shouldn’t be, and I wonder if I ever cross your mind. At least I’m aware of my pathetic moments, and while my dignity fades, my self awareness is sharp as ever. Yeah, right!
“Gods,” she muttered, sliding the page away for the time being. By the time she sealed the letters with wax and wrote out their proper destinations, it was time to visit Brelyna in the Arcaneum. For a couple hours in the late afternoon once or twice per week, Urag allowed students to use the library as a study and work space. Aerene had been with Brelyna once already the previous day to help her learn a healing spell tome, and knew the spot they were to meet at. “You there,” a snooty voice demanded as she made her way along from the Hall of Attainment to the Hall of the Elements, the upper floor of which housed the Arcaneum. She’d noticed the courtyard had significantly less students than there were earlier.
When she turned to the source of the noise, she was put on edge and suddenly conscious of the dagger sheathed in her boot. Ancano was looking down his nose at her. “I would speak to you a moment,” he said, in a tone expressing that he was unimpressed… even though he spoke first. She faced him fully, fidgeting to rest her hand on the hilt of her sword, the same sword that was stored in her quarters because of the College grounds rule. The only reason, in fact, that she’d spoken to Ancano before. She instead rested her hand on her hip. “Speak, then,” she invited. “You were at Saarthal, yes? It was you and the other Nord who discovered the orb there.”
She fought the urge to narrow her eyes in suspicion. “That is correct.”
“Have you been entirely truthful in your report of the discovery? Are there any details you would add?”
No, I’ve not been entirely truthful and there are details I would add, if I weren’t a liar.
“Yes, I gave Tolfdir a full report of my observations that day.” Ancano stared at her, as if waiting for her to fall to her knees and confess her wrongdoings. She stared back. “Very well, then. Have you seen your Companion, this… Onmund, is it? Have you seen him today?” She remembered seeing him in the courtyard after visiting Birna’s shop. And she had just noticed he wasn’t there in the same spot as she was walking to the Arcaneum. “I’ve not seen Onmund today. You may find him at the evening meal,” she suggested. Before he had the chance to question her further or end the conversation, she spoke again. “Why does this matter to you?”
Ancano met her attitude on the same level. “A mysterious artifact was discovered, one that could greatly benefit the College. These things should matter to everyone. And as advisor to the Arch-Mage, especially me.” This time, he cut her off. “Thank you for your time. You may go now,” he said, and immediately turned away. She rolled her eyes, with a new plan to ask Brelyna if she’d seen Onmund, who she wished to warn, and tell him not to go to the evening meal. Aerene hurried along the walkway in the last light of the day, catching a glimpse of the setting sun as it fell into the Sea of Ghosts far below. Once inside, she jogged up the spiral steps to the upper floors of the Hall, hurrying past some other students gathered throughout. She saw that the Arcaneum was mostly empty of people now; the library smelled of books, like leather and ink, with a hint of wax wafting about from the many candles lit and strategically placed to give light to the large space. The Nord traversed the rows of bookshelves toward the private corner she and Brelyna previously occupied. Before turning the final corner, she heard a low laugh, the voice she recognized as Brelyna’s, and was relieved to know she’d speak to a friendly face about the encounter with Ancano.
Only, when she turned the corner, she yelped in surprise at the sight in front of her. Her face flushed with heat the second she approached, only to see Brelyna sitting on top of the table they’d just studied at the day before, with J’zargo standing in a lean toward her, her legs positioned around his hips. She’d hardly seen anything and had seen plenty. In fact, she just might need to rid herself of her eyes to get the image out of her head. ‘Azura’s tits, Aerene, I forgot!’ Brelyna called out, but Aerene had already made it to the stairway and was going so fast down those steps she nearly flew. Nine Divines, hear my plea, rid me of the sight I’ve just seen!
Of all things she expected to see in her lifetime, Brelyna getting cozied up to J’zargo in the Arcaneum was never one of them. She hadn’t even noticed they were affectionate with one another. The way Brelyna defended J’zargo in the courtyard-that was because of her affections for him. She very well knows he’d have done all he could to find those tomes on Saarthal!
She mumbled realizations to herself the entire way back to the Hall of Attainment, her vision tunneled into the search for Onmund, to warn him about Ancano. She decided to think back on the sweet roll she’d eaten that morning to try and focus on anything other than Brelyna and J’zargo, yet those efforts only circled back around to the thought of her friends. “Shor’s bones!” she cursed, pushing haphazardly through the doorway into the Hall of Attainment, when she almost violently bumped into someone. She huffed and quickly looked up to see it was just who she’d been looking for. “Onmund,” she said. His hood was down, and his hair looked neat as if it had just been washed. He quickly knew something was amiss, but before he could ask questions she grabbed onto his hand and led him hurriedly into her room, which happened to be very close by. She shut the door behind them, and turned to face him. The young Nord man facing her was breathing deeply, deep blue eyes colored with a spark of confused amusement as he searched hers for an explanation as to why she’d just dragged him to her private quarters and locked the door. The tomato red shade of her face and her heavy breathing, along with the gentle parting of her lips for air, weren’t helping her case either. “Aerene, are you quite well? Your skin is tinted a deep sh-“ he cut himself off, not knowing if he should continue that sentence. “Are you exasperated, or merely blushing?”
She laughed incredulously. It wasn’t really her information to share, yet she was going to because Brelyna and J’zargo had implanted a forever haunting image in her mind, and Onmund was to be trusted, anyway. “I was supposed to help Brelyna with her experiments in the Arcaneum,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be on your way, then…?” Onmund’s voice trailed, as he was puzzled by the wave of her hand and the shaking of her shoulders as she silently laughed. “No. Brelyna’s experimenting with J’zargo.” Her mouth flattened into a single line in hilarity. Onmund’s brows shot up, his eyes stretched wide, mouth agape. He shut his mouth before long, and tore his gaze from Aerene’s in embarrassment. His hand raised to rub at the back of his neck while he looked anywhere but at her. Now, each of them looked like a tomato. “Shor’s bones,” he echoed, turning completely away from her. She felt like a child then, gossiping about other children in the play yard. “You’ll need to visit a healer, to have your eyes checked after this, I’m sure,” he quipped. “Hmm, I may sooner pluck them out with my own dagger first!”
They erupted into laughter. After catching their breath, Aerene changed the subject. “That’s not the only reason I wanted to speak to you,” she said in a lowered voice. “On my way to the Hall of Elements, Ancano stopped me to ask about Saarthal, the day we discovered the sphere. He was asking about you, if I had seen you. He’s planning to question you..” she said, then debated if she should say the next part. Feeling like she owed it to him, she continued. “I told him to look for you at the evening meal,” she said, teeth gritted in apology. Onmund nodded, looking downward in thought. “Well, then, I know where I won’t be tonight,” he sighed. By now, they were seated. She sat on the edge of her bed, facing him at her desk. The meal would be served in a half hour. “There’s something I wanted to speak to you about,” he said, leaning back to get comfortable. She wasn’t expecting this, but welcomed it anyway. “He’s probably looking for me because I stole something of his,” Onmund said in a quiet voice, the words taking great effort to be spoken aloud. Aerene knew a thief when she saw one, and she never for a second made Onmund out as one. She raised a brow, listening quietly. She slinked down from her bed to sit on the floor, leaning her back against the bed frame and pulling her knees to her chest. “Go on,” she prompted curiously. “Today, during the morning meal, I went into his quarters; with the recent discovery of the orb at Saarthal, I thought I might find evidence of his support for the Thalmor. Everyone here knows his residence in Winterhold is suspicious. No one truly believes he’s simply here to advise Arch-Mage Aren. He’s a Thalmor spy, and is surely reporting to the Aldmeri Dominion.”
Aerene listened closely, visually tracing the stone bricks making up the wall she was looking at. “What was your discovery?”
“A letter,” Onmund said. She looked his way to see him pull a piece of folded parchment from his robes, and he handed it to her. Luckily, it hadn’t yet been sealed with wax. It carried his scent… honey, apples, and a deeper, enticing fragrance she couldn’t quite place.
Without commenting on the pleasantry, she began reading. The letter was addressed to ‘Estormo,’ and was written in super neat script, still smelling of ink. Much to her dismay, she and Onmund were named in the letter for their discovery of the orb, and were noted as being the only Nord students at the College. There were hurtful things written, too, some about the ignorance of the mages in Winterhold and other about the obliviousness of the townsfolk outside the College. Of the most importance was mention of The Midden, and something beneath the College called The Augur. It put a tickling in her spine and an ache at the bottom of her throat. “We never should’ve gone to Saarthal,” she sighed. She handed him back the letter, her mood shifted drastically. “He’ll know it was taken, and he may accuse one of us or another of being the culprit. If we get rid of the letter, he’ll just write another. I suspect he’s been in contact with this ‘Estormo’ his whole residence here.”
Onmund set the parchment on the desk, as though it would singe his hands if he held onto it any longer. “Estormo may be his contact at the Embassy near Solitude. Or, there may be a Thalmor convoy hidden somewhere around the hold. Ancano is entirely dishonest, but none of this is surprising, nor will it incline Arch-Mage Aren to take any action. This is simply evidence of what everyone already knows.”
Aerene sighed, leaning her head back to rest on the plush bed. “What will you do with the letter?”
“Return it. In a way to make it look as though it were misplaced and never gone.” An intelligent decision. “The Midden and the Augur named in the letter, have you heard these names before?” Onmund nodded. “I’ve heard rumors of a cave system with manmade corridors beneath the College, but always thought they couldn’t be of use today. Some students have been rumored to use the Midden as a conduit for contacting Daedra. The Augur… I’ve never heard of.”
Aerene debated whether she’d come across anything that could lead beneath the College. None of the towers had staircases leading to lower levels…
“The trapdoor,” she said quietly. “Remember the trapdoor Ancano went into in the Hall of Countenance?” Onmund’s face lit up at her words. “That must be a way into the Midden.”
“I don’t think it’s the only way. I remember seeing another trapdoor along one of the walkways in the courtyard, near the entrance to the Hall of the Elements.” Going into a trapdoor in the middle of a busy walkway would be an easy way to arouse suspicion. She felt herself getting worked up with excitement and anticipation at the thought of investigating further and finding more on Ancano’s intentions. It was the somber expression on Onmund’s face that stopped that excitement in its tracks. “Is something the matter?” she asked. He sighed quietly, looking down to his lap. “Nothing good has come from the expedition in Saarthal. I know whatever Ancano’s up to must be for the Thalmor, and we know he’s using the Midden for his dirty work.” She sensed a but coming soon.
“But this isn’t what I came here for. I don’t want to be involved in the consequences of disturbing our ancestors, stealing away the magic they hid for a reason. None of it feels right. Yet I feel like it’s only going to get worse from here,” he said, his eyes landing on her with his last words. He had a fair point and reasoning; their actions at Saarthal had set some chain of events in motion, and at the time, they had no answers, and looking into Ancano’s business in the Midden wouldn’t ease their anxiety or frustrations at all. Aerene appreciated the firm stance Onmund maintained on venturing into Nordic ruins; he wanted no part in it, and she respected that. “The consequences of Ancano’s actions…” she began, and our own, “are sure to reveal themselves in the near future without any further intervention on our part.” The reappearance of the Psijic Order decades after their vanishing was no minuscule happening, this much was clear. Whatever was going to happen next was out of their hands, and they’d have a bigger part to play in due time. “We were only doing as asked of us, investigating Saarthal further,” she said, standing up and walking past him to the door. “Anything the College chooses to do with the orb is beyond our control.”
Onmund prepared himself to leave. “Are you going somewhere?”
Aerene offered him a sincere smile. She felt guilty for lying about the wall she’d discovered, and for telling Ancano to find Onmund at dinner. Her plan was to rectify those actions a bit. “Ancano’s going to look for you in the dining hall, and probably in your room. I doubt he’ll think to find you here,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “What are you getting at?” Onmund asked, crossing his arms and leaning back into the chair with a devious smile. “You’re welcome to stay in here for a bit.” The memory of him bringing her a sweet roll when Ancano had humiliated her was summoned to the forefront of her mind. It was only kind to return the favor. “Hungry?” the red haired woman asked, just slightly tilting her head.
-
He accepted her invitation to pass the early evening hours in her quarters. Aerene left to retrieve their meals, packing a suspicious amount of food onto a platter. Tonight’s evening meal consisted of baked potatoes, roasted and buttered cabbage, braided potato bread, snowberry jam, eider cheese, potato soup, and steamed mud crab legs. While the scholars gathered in the dining hall, Mirabelle Ervine announced the feast as celebration of the orb’s discovery, during which Aerene fervently prayed she nor Onmund would be named and credited, before she slinked back to the Hall of Attainment across the courtyard with filled platter in hand.
When she set everything down at her desk and stepped back for Onmund to help himself, she looked to him and grew concerned at the… greenish… tint on his face. “Are you feeling quite well?” His face contorted in disgust, sapphire eyes scowling at the mud crab legs. “Please, eat those first and discard the scraps hastily,” he nearly begged, taking the food he’d picked up only to walk to the farthest corner of her room, which wasn’t very far, to sit down and begin dining. She laughed. “You don’t like mudcrab? But it’s delicious!” she snapped the hard shelled leg open to reveal steamy, freshly cooked and salty mudcrab meat within. “I’m glad you enjoy it. One more person to lessen the mudcrab population in this province.” He spoke the last sentence with particular contempt. When she questioned him further, he told a story from his childhood in Shor’s Stone and how he would often venture with his father to a nearby river for crabbing and fishing. One of the crabs stole Onmund’s boot when he left it on the shore for swimming in the river, and on a course of vengeance he took up excessive crabbing, so much that one unlucky day it seemed as though the crabs took their vengeance on him. He’d gotten terribly sick for ‘the longest week of my life’, as he’d said, and hadn’t eaten mudcrab since. Aerene fought against the urge to tease him about it, though she did like the ring of “revenge of the mudcrabs”.
Over the next couple of hours, they discussed the architecture of Saarthal, their hypotheses about the orb, and the schools of magic they were most interested in. Aerene shared her knowledge of the restoration arts, and described some of the potions and poisons she’d brewed in alchemical mixtures over her life. Onmund emphasized his passion for the magicka schools of illusion, destruction, and alteration. He shared the feeling of relief of living in an environment where the pursuit of magic theory was supported and welcomed, expressing his distaste for the stereotypes associated with Winterhold and the disdainful attitudes of most Nords toward magic. As they chatted, Aerene recognized how she enjoyed hearing about his familial experiences, although in the recent years before finally venturing to Winterhold he struggled to convince his parents it would be good for him. ‘Do you write to them?’ she asked. ‘From time to time. I’ve been feeling the urge to do so more lately, since I made a foolish mistake and gave my amulet away in a trade. It was really all I had to remind me of my family, but Enthir had something I at the time thought was more valuable. I tried asking Enthir to return the trade, but he refused.’
Aerene winced when he described the situation to her. She knew nothing of her blood kin, though did keep an attachment to her shield-siblings at Jorrvaskr-they felt like family. She, in her early adolescent years, had her share of experiences with merchants and being given a bad bargain; when she had enough, she ended up at the door of the Imperial City’s very own Thieves Guild.
Furthermore, she wondered if she’d be able to speak to this “Enthir” about the amulet and get it back. Only if she were successful in getting it would she bring up the subject to Onmund upon her return of it to him. Only in doing another favor for him would she maybe feel a little less guilt about the lie she told.
Why is it eating away at me like this?
Is it because I want to keep the magic from the cavern all to myself, yet I know the deception is immoral? Or is it because I’m painting a trustworthy illustration of myself to someone who does not truly know me?
-
Before retiring to bed for the night, Aerene sat alone at her desk with inked quill in hand. It was the keeping of her promise to herself to write the final letter before dropping them all at Birna’s shop in the morning, where the courier would pick them up and deliver them.
She felt more relaxed than before, and the words began flowing naturally when the quill first landed on the parchment.
1st Frostfall, 4E 201
Dear Vilkas,
Evenings in Winterhold are beautiful and cold, where the aurorae perform their nightly serenade among the firmament. Mornings are a hazy wonder, too. Sometimes I wake before dawn, and each day, I take River to the shores of the Sea of Ghosts and practice my weaponry, much in the same manner as when we would train together in the yard at Jorrvaskr. Does the mention of it remind you of my first day at Jorrvaskr, as it reminds me? When Kodlak had you ‘test my arm,’ and prove my worth to join the Companions. This was not so long ago as it feels, though Winterhold feels realms away from the rest of Skyrim, the rest of you. Not a day has passed where I do not think of you and Farkas, or wonder how Aela is doing, how all of you are faring after the loss of our Harbinger and Skjor. Do you still feel the call of the beast blood?
She paused, wondering if that was too personal a question to ask. When she considered how she and Vilkas had spoken liberally about it in the past, she shrugged off the hesitation and continued to write as her heart desired.
Should you and your brother desire to separate yourselves from the wolf spirit, as we did for Kodlak, know you have my full support. Ysgramor’s Tomb is a short ride away from the College. I cannot pretend to understand the difficulty of a decision like that, but I want you to know I’d stand at your side, even from the northernmost reaches of Skyrim. It is without doubt I declare the sameness of dwelling by the Glenmoril Coven in Falkreath Hold, where you may retrieve their heads to throw upon Ysgramor’s eternal fire, to set your souls free.
On the subject of ancient Nordic tombs, which I recall your interest in, we have recently been into the deepest bowels of Saarthal…
Aerene hoped Farkas wouldn’t mind the fact Vilkas was getting a letter thrice as long as his. Farkas declared he wasn’t much of a reader, anyways, so she wasn’t all that worried about the matter. No intention was lost when she melted a drop or two of lavender oil into the letter’s wax seal, securing its fragrance and sincerity.
The next morning, she left the sealed letters and a generous amount of gold for the courier at Birna’s shop. Hope had renewed itself in her previously dreary person and she walked with a bounce in her step to the morning meal, though the dining hall was much more chaotic than usual. Students were hurrying about, and the noise level was outrageous. It was atypical for the energy level to be so high at this hour. Aerene had just placed a sweet roll on her plate next to a bunch of jazbay grapes and snowberry porridge when Brelyna called her name and waved her over to sit at their usual table. She was without company until Aerene slid onto the bench, moving slowly while avoiding eye contact, nibbling at the inside of her lip. When she finally looked into Brelyna’s dark ruby eyes, the two began giggling like children. “Thanks for stopping by to help me with my experimenting,” Brelyna said with a completely unsubtle cough. Her words doubled as an apology for what Aerene witnessed the previous evening. “Don’t mention it,” Aerene replied, and the message was succinct.
The Nord looked over the crowd, noting there were more students than usual in here. “Has something happened?” she asked the Dunmer, who was sipping snowberry tea from a tankard across the table. “An announcement from Saarthal. They’re preparing to bring the orb here.”
If Aerene had also been sipping when Brelyna delivered that news, she’d be choking by now. “That is absurd!” she complained in disapproval. “Be that as it may, there are very few here who agree with your sentiment,” Brelyna responded, earning a dry, suspicious look from Aerene. “Don’t count me among those numbers. I only wish to study conjuration.” Aerene’s next thought was to tell the news to Onmund, but she guessed he’d already heard from the other students he kept as company. Besides, it didn’t seem like something he’d want to know about, given his expression of detachment from the whole ordeal the previous night.
The first lecture of the day was taught by Colette Marence, an expert in restoration magic. Colette was a Breton mage with short, light brown hair and bright hazel eyes. The class session was a rather exciting one, as Colette invited one of the students to conjure an undead skeleton, which Brelyna was able to do without hardship. Colette cast a turn undead spell, and the skeleton began scurrying through the room, vying for escape, drawing laughter from the gathered students. Brelyna dismissed the summoning with a wave of her hand, and Colette invited each student to learn the spell by providing the tomes necessary. Much to her pleasure, Aerene succeeded in learning the spell and earned praise from Colette, who spoke up about Aerene’s experience in the healing arts, and why restoration was truly a valid school of magic.
Left in an upbeat mood from the positive encounter, Aerene next found herself heading up to the second floor of the Hall of Countenance. Her positive mood was partnered with newfound confidence. When she walked the last step to the second floor, she caught a glimpse of this “Enthir” Onmund spoke of. Her eyes narrowed to slits in suspicion of the male Bosmer she looked upon. Enthir was a wood elf she’d seen before. This was exactly why she approached the doorway to his room, and entered without a word. He had his back turned to her, which gave her time to prepare her next words. “Care to do business, Elordin?” she hissed out the name he used back when he ran with the Thieves Guild in the Imperial City. He immediately whipped around to face her, eyes wide with shock and irritation. “Lower your voice, Aerene,” he snapped at her. “You’re far from home, though still sharp as ever. What brings you here?”
“A favor,” she replied, her words earning a frown from him. Enthir, also known as Elordin, was a wood elf about ten years Aerene’s senior. They worked alongside Brynjolf back in the Imperial City, and she hadn’t seen him in years. It was no surprise he took on a different name in a different place. It probably also helped him to ward off debt collectors and bounty hunters, the likes of which he was surely outrunning.
“The Guild runs no favors, you know that. Well,” Enthir snickered. “You always were one of Brynjolf’s favorites, I’m sure he’d do you a favor.” Aerene ignored the comment, despite knowing its truth. She’d learned to take advantage of Brynjolf’s favoritism toward her, and had once relished the satisfaction it brought her, though in the end it was all to no avail. “You must be his contact in Winterhold, then. Quite the vantage point,” she said, eyes glossing over his collection of trinkets and definitely stolen odds and ends. On a far shelf in his room, on a display bust, was a simple and beautiful silver amulet. She averted her gaze before he noticed her staring.
“I keep an eye on things up here, and I get the information I need. There are always students who come around wanting something. Question is what they’re willing to give to get,” Enthir responded, sitting down in a chair to polish a gem he held in his hand, one he would occasionally hold up into the candlelight for inspection. His attitude hadn’t changed at all since she last saw him.
Neither had her memories of the last encounter they’d had in the city’s market district.
Enthir knew just how desperate these young students could be, and preyed off the most willing like a predator on the constant prowl. It was the very same way the Guild always operated. She felt a pang of sympathy for Onmund, and hoped he didn’t feel too harshly on himself for trading his family’s necklace. He clearly missed it.
“So, you come here to tower over me in silence or to do business?”
“Onmund traded you his amulet. He wants it back.”
Enthir’s expression turned sickeningly sweet. “Oh my,” he purred. “How precious. Onmund is too afraid to deal with me himself, so he’s sent you. I’ll make this simple, Aerene. All my sales are final, and Onmund knew that ahead of time, and went through with the deal anyway. There’s nothing more to be said. You’ll work yourself out trying to get any of these students out of deals and debt,” he smirked, setting the gem on a velvety display pillow before picking up another one to polish. “Why don’t I fight you for it?”
Enthir’s face fell flat. “Im not foolish enough to play that game with you,” he retorted. Aerene sighed, arms uncrossing while she took a couple steps closer, looking fully down at him. “I never forget a debt, Elordin. But it seems you try to. I know you remember that night in the market district those years ago. And you know I’m not leaving here without that amulet. You owe me. Give me what I’m here for, and the slate will be clean,” she demanded quietly, planning her next threats if he didn’t let up.
Some time later, she lay on the bed in her quarters, looking the silver amulet over and feeling every rune on her fingertips. At the center of the circular amulet was a beautiful, summer green gem. The piece reminded her of her amulet of Akatosh, which she’d lost somewhere between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. A grin of satisfaction stretched over her lips at the thought of her accomplishment. When she saw Onmund next, she would return the amulet in an act of selfish selflessness.
She set the jewelry down on her nightstand, pushing herself up and out of bed to pull open Olaf and the Dragon.
In habit, Aerene sunk off the bed onto the floor, leaning against the bed frame with her knees up to her chest, and began reading, knowing nothing of what she might learn.
The tome read:
One of the more colorful legends in Nord folklore is the tale of Olaf One-Eye and Numinex.
Long ago in the First Age, a fearsome dragon named Numinex ravaged the whole of Skyrim. The dreadful drake wiped out entire villages, burned cities and killed countless Nords. It seemed that no power in Tamriel could stop the monster.
This was a troubled time in Skyrim's history, for a bitter war of succession raged between the holds. The Jarls might have been able to conquer the beast if they had worked together, but trust was in desperately short supply.
A skillful warrior named Olaf came forward and promised to defeat the beast. In some accounts, he is the Jarl of Whiterun. In other versions of the legend, Olaf promises the people of Whiterun that he will capture the monster if they will name him Jarl. At any rate, Olaf ventures forth with a handful of his most trusted warriors and seeks the beast out, eventually finding Numinex in his lair atop Mount Anthor. Needless to say, it's an epic battle.
First, Olaf comes at the dragon with his axe and his shield. Some variants of the legend say that Olaf and the beast battled with blade and claw for days, but were too evenly matched for either to gain an advantage. Most accounts hold that Olaf, perhaps frustrated that his weapons are completely ineffectual against the dragon, finally casts them aside. Giving voice to the rage that has been building within him, Olaf unleashes a terrible shout.
Here again, the stories diverge. Many accounts hold that Olaf did not realize he possessed the power of Dragon-speech, while others suggest that he had long possessed this gift, but wished to test himself against the dragon in martial combat first. Virtually all variations of the legend, however, agree on what happened next.
Using the awesome powers of the Dragon language, Numinex and Olaf engage in an epic shouting duel atop Mount Athor. So forceful are their words, they are said to shatter the stone and split the sky. Finally, Numinex collapses from a combination of injury and sheer exhaustion. Somehow - and this detail is conspicuously absent in virtually every account - Olaf manages to convey the dragon all the way back to the capital city of Whiterun.
The people of Whiterun are suitably impressed with Olaf's hostage. They build a huge stone holding cell at the rear of the palace, which they rename “Dragonsreach.” This enormous cell serves as Numinex's prison until his death.
Olaf himself eventually becomes the High King of Skyrim, putting an end to the war of succession. Presumably, his great deed made him the only leader upon whom all the people could agree, and so the land once again has peace.
The remaining text was the author’s point of view, where they detailed their own thoughts on the truthfulness of these separate accounts, in addition to a final note encouraging examination of primary and original sources, the most trustworthy.
Aerene soaked in every detail from the pages, scribbling notes in the book she had next to her splayed out on the floor. She’d sharpened a charcoal stick to a point, like a quill, and had wrapped it in linen to keep her hand clean as she wrote. The detail she couldn’t get over was how Olaf One-Eye had a shouting match with the dragon Numinex. Then there was the question of whether Olaf possessed the ability of dragon-speech long before the fight with Numinex. What remained unclear, as she stared at the last words of the tome, was the question of whether Olaf had been able to weaken Numinex by mortal means.
Her mind shifted to what she saw at Helgen, trying to recall the details she had so longed to forget. The horrors of the Helgen tragedy were unforgettable, that much was sure; unfortunately, there weren’t many left alive to retell the events which transpired. Hadvar, General Tullius, Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof… a couple of civilians, and myself. She was yet again left wondering if there was more than one dragon awakened since the attack at Helgen. She had only seen the dragon whose wings and scales were black as night, the one she saw in her dreams, the one she couldn’t escape. Numinex was written to have perished in the Dragonsreach prison… could he have come to life once more? Could the bards have been wrong, and the scribes too, and Numinex escaped Dragonsreach?
She sighed at the many questions that arose from her reading. Perhaps in my next letter to Lydia I’ll inquire about the dragon’s prison and Numinex. Serving Dragonsreach as a Housecarl must have been an avenue for stories on the subject.
Her focus flickered to the source in this story: Mount Anthor, here in Skyrim. Could a dragon still call Mount Anthor home?
Aerene knew there was only one way to find out what she wanted to know, and that was to visit the mountain herself. She would never take up the task until she was ready, but could one ever be ready to face a dragon, especially after seeing how easily the one destroyed Helgen?
Before long, the grumbling of her belly was reminding her it was time to visit the dining hall for the evening meal, where she hoped to find Onmund to return his amulet. She felt a bit of envy when she picked it up and knew he’d get something of his back, but fought the sentiment; the Divines led me to River after believing her dead or lost. She is my greatest treasure.
Aerene stepped out of the Hall of Attainment to a beautiful evening; the heavens were clear, Masser and Secunda sending an ever glowing kiss of light onto Tamriel. A light, frosty breeze brushed against her robes, as though she were greeted by the night itself. Things tonight were more normal in the dining hall, though as Aerene walked about to gather her meal she heard mumblings about Saarthal, the orb, and the group of students who’d gone to try and track down Orthorn. Much to her dismay, she heard whispers as she passed by a table, “She was one of the two who found it!”
And yet there is nothing for it.
“Just us tonight, hmm?” Aerene asked, setting her items down on the table across from Brelyna. “For now. J’zargo’s going around asking everyone who’ll speak to him about the tomes and Orthorn. Nobody’s heard from them. Not surprising, in the least, damned fools,” Brelyna mumbled, sticking her fork into her venison slice with unnecessary force. “The meat’s already dead, Brelyna, my darling,” Aerene snickered, mimicking the name Tolfdir had for the Dunmer apprentice. She dodged a quickly thrown jazbay grape and didn’t turn around when someone behind them went, ‘who did that?!’
The redhead had just sipped some wine when she saw Onmund sit with J’zargo and some other students at a packed table. “I will be back in a moment,” she said, standing up from the bench to head over. Onmund had an empty tankard in hand and had just stood from his table, presumably for a refill. “Oh, Aerene! Good evening,” he greeted her with a pleasant smile that made his dimples visible. “It is indeed,” she replied, pulling his amulet from her pocket and offering it to him in an open palm. “This belongs to you,” she added in a casual tone. He looked down to her hand, and his expression shifted to one she couldn’t read. She wasn’t able to decipher whether he was pleased or upset…
“Aerene, you… you got my amulet back from him? I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, friend,” he stuttered, and she realized he was in a moment of disbelief. His brows had a crinkle to them she’d never seen before, and his jaw seemed clenched despite the ease of his expression. To her, the return of his amulet was a favor and something he deserved. Never mind why he lost it in the first place, or why he couldn’t get it back himself. Damned Enthir knew what he was doing. “I didn’t think he’d ever give it back, but… well, that’s irrelevant. It’s good to know I can count on you.” When she looked up from his amulet to those blue eyes, she was taken aback by the sweetness in them. “Anytime, friend,” she replied, turning away without another word. She felt bubbly at knowing she also had someone to count on around here. Making friends was easy, as Hadvar had told her.
“So, you and Onmund?” Brelyna asked, her deep ruby irises hardly visible as she watched Aerene through narrow, suspicious slits. “What makes you say that? He’s excellent in battle, and has proven himself a friend, even,” Aerene shrugged. “The way he’s looking at you is what makes me say that. The glimmer in that sorcerer’s eyes say otherwise!” Brelyna whisper-yelled. Aerene rolled her eyes and turned to see what her friend was on about, but Brelyna snapped quickly, “Don’t turn to look!”
Aerene’s face contorted in confusion, “What are we, children? Besides, he has a rather… unique appearance among the students here. Surely, he gets an abundance of attention from the other women here, he towers over nearly all of them,” Aerene said in a mumble and tone that hid her disapproval at the thought. She couldn’t deny his handsomeness… That is not what this is about! Internally, she was bitter about it, because she had the chance for that kind of devotion and put a stop to it in favor of her research. She never believed it would bother her as much as it did. “He does, though I haven’t seen him return any of the affections directed at him,” Brelyna remarked, hiding her smirk behind a large goblet of wine. When Aerene said nothing, Brelyna shared a little anecdote from her homeland. “That was one of the reasons I was so glad to get out of Morrowind. It felt as though every month my family had picked out a new spouse as the other half in the ever inevitable betrothal,” she shared, setting the goblet on the table. “It sounds as though the House Telvanni always expected something of you,” Aerene replied. “Always,” Brelyna nodded, her gaze flitted downward with a glossy sadness. Aerene wondered just how many students here were escaping from the demands of expectant or disapproving families, like Onmund and Brelyna.
“GONE! ALL BUT I!”
Thrust outward by a young, battered mage, the hall’s grand doors slammed open in a cacophony with his cries.
The shouting rang out over the hall and plunged it into a still silence. By the entrance, the young man fell to his knees and wept loudly. A few professors and students hurried to meet him. The large doors into the dining hall slammed into the walls in harsh momentum from the student’s entry. Aerene and Brelyna naturally turned to the noise, and a crowd began to encircle the hysterical Breton. “Give him some space, please!” Mirabelle Ervine shouted over the group. “Anceraud, what is the matter? What’s happened to you?” Mirabelle could be heard questioning the newcomer. It wasn’t long before Aerene and Brelyna joined to see what was going on. This Anceraud looked completely disheveled; his face was bruised, his mage robes were torn and dirty. Specks of blood dotted his appearance and a streak of crimson plagued his light blonde hair. His words were hard to make out between the sobs, and soon Ancano appeared before the group. “What is the meaning of this?! Get back to your tables, begone!” he demanded, and while the crowd of students knew he was in no place to make demands, it dissipated.
“He left with that group of students to track down Orthorn and the missing tomes on Saarthal. Could it really be he’s the only one to return?” Brelyna asked in a low voice after they got back to their table. A heavy unease weighed down the energy of the hall now, and it crept up Aerene’s spine so slowly she could hardly feel it, but so intensely she couldn’t fight it.
The rest of dinner was whispers and speculation about what had happened, and why a group of five students had been watered down to one. Soon after Anceraud burst in, weeping and wailing, the heads of the College ushered him to a private space, soon returning to announce an early end to the meal. “Please, make your ways to your quarters, you may finish your meals there if you wish,” Tolfdir called over the group, as he’d returned that evening from Saarthal. Aerene and Brelyna left, returning to the Hall of Attainment to discuss whatever had happened. So far, the only ones who knew what happened were Anceraud and the College leadership.
It was part way through Aerene and Brelyna’s discussion in Brelyna’s quarters that an Altmer scholar appeared. It was Faralda, who had welcomed Aerene to the College and held some lectures on destruction magic. “Ah, there you are, Aerene. You are needed elsewhere, if you’ll come with me,” Faralda said from the doorway of Brelyna’s room. Aerene and Brelyna exchanged glances, and began getting up. “Just Aerene, darling,” Faralda warned Brelyna, who slowly settled back down into the chair she’d been sitting in, keeping her curious eyes on Aerene’s concerned ones.
“Is something the matter?” Aerene asked; it was unusual for her to be invited elsewhere at this time of night. Faralda tensed up, leading Aerene outdoors, and to the offices where Mirabelle Ervine had registered Aerene officially into the College. “I won’t lie to you, Aerene. Something is amiss, and your assistance is needed,” the Altmer replied, which did not help the Nord feel any better. Aerene swallowed, hands stuffed in her pockets, fingers tapping against herself in anxiety. She was sleepy and eager to rest; little did she know, the news which would be delivered would steal any restful sleep away from her.
Faralda led the way into the private office space, where members of the College leadership were gathered by the central hearth, their voices quieting to whispers and eventual silence when the two entered the space. “Ah, Aerene, thank you for coming,” Tolfdir said. Aerene glanced around; Tolfdir, Faralda, herself, Mirabelle, Colette, Phinis Gestor, and Drevis Neloren were all present. She stayed silent, looking rather like a frightened doe, as she faced the semicircle. The hearth lit the room, the glow of the light dimming certain areas of the office space; however, white mage light was stuck to the corners of the office, hovering above potted plants of snowberry and deathbell, as well as winter fern types. The desks of the room were topped with parchment, pots of ink, quills, and many books, though the whole group of scholars was standing. The intense fragrance of a plant Aerene couldn’t identify wafted through the air and picked an ache at her head.
Even in the uncertain light, the concern, worry, and disillusion of the scholars was clear as day.
She had not a clue what to expect.
“Well, then,” Tolfdir cleared his throat, looking to Mirabelle. “Now, apprentice, you must be aware of the student’s return this evening,” she began. Aerene nodded. “I presume you are also aware of his whereabouts?”
Aerene told what she knew. “I never spoke to any of that group directly, though I heard they took up retrieving lost tomes on Saarthal.”
“The fools,” Phinis croaked. Drevis hushed Phinis from his side, nodding for Mirabelle- wearing an unimpressed expression at the interruption- to proceed. “There’s no light way to put this,” Mirabelle said. “Of the five students who took up the task, four were slaughtered. Anceraud was fortunate to escape, which cannot be said for his friends. He returned with his life, and without those tomes.”
Aerene’s feet were made of the same stone as the ground she stood upon. Slaughtered. Slaughtered, slaughtered. Four of them. The smallest idea of where this conversation might be going bloomed in her mind, and if she had any sense, she would have bolted out of there and hightailed it right back across the border into familiar territory. If she weren’t arrested and nearly beheaded again, that is.
Yet she couldn’t, because the events which were to take place were foreseen by the Psijic Order; her choice to remain at the College and even the consideration of leaving had all been known already.
“So they are dead,” she said to herself, “why am I here?” she asked them. This whole audience was absurd.
The next words from the scholars faded into the background in a fog of dread.
“In the short time you’ve been here, you’ve displayed curiosity. Eagerness. Valor,” Mirabelle responded. Aerene shook her head. “This is false. I have merely attended lectures and practiced spell casting, as any other student. I cannot even maintain a ward,” she argued. “No.” Mirabelle’s response silenced the student. “This matter is about more than magicka, Aerene. Tolfdir told us of your immediate agreement to explore Saarthal when he was unable, while the remainder of the student group was completing tasks of a simpler inclination. This is not about your spell casting, Aerene. It is about your abilities in battle, be it with your blade or your bare hands. Unusual for a place such as this, yes. The students who failed to retrieve the tomes were excellent mages. Whatever you have experienced up to this moment, in your time as a Companion or elsewhere, has brought us to deem you worthy of this task. We would not ask you to succeed where the others failed, if we believed you would fail, too.”
-
The next morning arrived in the blink of an eye. Aerene’s own eyes were red, her face looking hollowed by the little sleep she got. As much as she wished to tell her professors off for asking her to do this, she didn’t. She could never. It wasn’t entirely the task they’d asked her to complete that caused the ache in her heart. It was what occurred after she left the office and returned to the Hall of Attainment, seeking the help of those closest to her. First, she’d stopped by J’zargo’s quarters, expecting that he’d be up to the task, the chance to show off his hold over magicka. ‘J’zargo knows when to leave the issue to others. That is what must be done now. J’zargo values the bliss of life over the coldness of death, as the other wizards found.’ She accepted a first defeat and then told Brelyna what had happened. She did not know if Brelyna held resentment over Faralda’s words, or if for another reason she wouldn’t help. ‘I’m sorry, Aerene, but trying to get those tomes back is the means to an end. I know my limit, my boundaries. Set yours and refuse this task, please.’
A second defeat did more than a little damage to her heart and ego, and drove her all the way back to her quarters in disappointment. She tossed and turned in her bed, and finally gave up sleep altogether when the morning came. She stood over her bed, stuffing her belongings into her knapsack in preparation for the journey to Fellglow Keep; it was an old fort in the northeast reaches of Whiterun Hold. Whatever I may face ahead, I will do it under the view of the Divines. I infiltrated Thrynn's camp back in Falkreath, and returned Nellsea to her home, safe and sound. I can succeed again.
I must.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, tightening the final strap of her full armor set, the familiar weight of the steel plates and leather straps a strange comfort and reassurance of protection against whatever may go her way.
A knock at the door sounded, drawing her to the reality she’d drifted to the outskirts of. “You may enter,” she said, turning to pick up Valdr’s lucky dagger from her nightstand. Behind her, the person entered, and shut the door. Then there were two. She tucked the dagger into her belt, turning to find Onmund standing by the door, eyeing her knapsack, and her full suit of armor. “You can’t go alone,” he said quietly.
She knew what he meant by that, and watched him from the corner of her eyes while she shoved a sweet roll into her pack. He was wearing his amulet, the sight of which brought a soft, but fleeting, smile to her lips. “By the Nine, Aerene,” Onmund pleaded, his tone taking the redhead aback. “You could get yourself killed!” the concern in his voice earned him her full attention. She stopped what she was doing, her hands falling hopeless to her sides. “I asked Brelyna and J’zargo to accompany me, and they each declined. There is no more for me to do,” she responded, aching to do busy work, as this conversation was quite difficult for her. He could tell she was distracted, so Onmund stepped closer, never once breaking eye contact. “Do you think them your only friends here?” he asked. His tone was unmistakable, hurt.
“I…” Aerene was rendered speechless. Her mouth wasn’t working properly but she shook her head. “No, of course not. I requested their company in the name of friendship, hoping they’d know I’d be there, were they to do the same and ask for my help.”
“You didn’t ask me,” he responded. Detached. Hurt. Betrayal? She tilted her head, searching for her words in a busy stream of thought, the waters muddied and rushing. Seeing him this way was a first, and she didn’t like it one bit; she quickly began to hate the hurt on his face and in his voice, all because of her. She knew she’d been avoiding him, but not without reason.
“I wanted to,” she confessed. “You told me you did not want to be involved in the consequences of disturbing our ancestors. I sought out Brelyna and J’zargo instead, out of respect for your wishes.” And now it’s come back to bite me in the ass!
His brows shifted in thought at her point. “My feelings have changed,” he said dryly.
Naturally, Aerene assumed he was talking about Saarthal.
She maybe should have kept the next part to herself, so she compromised by looking away from him and saying it anyway. “You know your skill in battle is unmatched by any friend I have here, Onmund. If I’d known you to make yourself available in undertaking the retrieval of these tomes, as I think you are doing now, I’d have sought you out first.”
“Divines help me,” he muttered. A sigh of agony. An exchange of glances.
“I wish to join you, Aerene. To fight at your side, and you at mine. The Psijic mage addressed both of us in Saarthal. I believe this,” he said, finger gesturing between their alliance, “is as it should be. Whatever happens next, you cannot be alone.”
The promise of his help was a tremendous relief, the weight of the College’s shocking demands vanishing from her shoulders. It was strange; at that moment, she wished to embrace him in a hug and thank him again and again, but exercised self restraint and decided it better not to cause his discomfort before they’d even departed for Fellglow.
After the morning meal, they would depart from the College. The two sat alone together outside, picking at the food, away from prying eyes and questions, and at a distance from Brelyna and J’zargo. A couple hours before midday, Aerene gave River a few loving pats, earning a whinny from the mare. “You remember Onmund, hmm?” she talked to the horse, and as sure as the rise and fall of the sea’s tides, he brought an apple into view, offering it to the mare. River made a noise of satisfaction as she swiped the apple from his palm. So easily, he earned her love. “Good girl,” Onmund said, fingers delicately tracing the mare’s nose.
Aerene extended her hand down to his, and he grabbed on, mounting the horse with a grunt. She signaled for River to get a move on, and guided her reigns in the direction of Fellglow Keep. Rather than traveling along the shores of the Sea of Ghosts, they’d head directly south out of Winterhold until they had to go southwest through the Wayward Pass. It was the same route Aerene, Farkas, Aela, and Vilkas had passed over on the way to and back from Ysgramor’s Tomb when they put Kodlak’s soul to rest. The Nord’s mental wanderings lingered on the subject as River trotted up the slope heading out of Winterhold. The patter of her hooves trudging through the snowy path echoed into the background, the breaths of the travelers spoken in puffs of white, near-frozen air. River was capable of carrying two people a necessary distance, but any hope of running fast through the deep snow with the weight of two Nords on her back, that hope was a dying candle. “You mentioned growing up on your family’s farm in Shor’s Stone,” Aerene spoke, looking across the snowy slopes and sea in the distance. It was absolutely serene. Cold, and damned windy, too. Her blue sash was once again a makeshift hood, protecting her cheeks from the icy winds. Her face had already reddened a bit from the chill.
“Mhmm. My whole life, spent in one place. In a farmhouse. With my parents and two younger siblings,” Onmund described; he didn’t seem displeased to talk about it, so she continued on the subject. “You must have yearned for privacy,” Aerene guessed. “Ha! Always. Sharing a room with a younger brother and sister was… well, it could be fun. It could also be exhausting,” he said.
So. Onmund has a little sister and a little brother. Cute. Aerene didn’t have any siblings, and lived in the shared quarters for the Temple servants until a later age when she was given a private space. It was a great privilege and was not easily earned. “What about you?” he questioned.
They were now headed southwest across the snowy slopes, toward the distant Dwemer ruin atop a hill, indicative of the path which would lead further south through the Wayward Pass.
“What about me?”
Onmund huffed. “Where’d you grow up? Whiterun?”
“No,” she replied. “Oh,” he said, disappointed she didn’t add anything else. She felt a little guilty for prying and then refusing to reveal any detail about herself. I don’t have to be so secretive. Nor do I need to be an open book.
Still, today wouldn’t be the day when details of her past were revealed. “I do adore Whiterun,” she said, slightly changing the subject. “From the Skyforge at Jorrvaskr, in the evening, there is a beauty about seeing the mountains tower above the plains, where you may stand and see the reaches of Whiterun Hold. Not unlike this view, now.”
-
As they approached the final incline of the road up to the mountain pass, it was as if Aerene had stepped into the past. There were mixed footprints in the snow and a trail of crimson following along. “Be ready for a fight,” she said to Onmund in a low tone, slowing River’s pace. The trail of footprints and specks of blood led to a brutal scene, one that first silenced Aerene and Onmund.
In her chest, there was a tightness; in her belly, a wave of disgust; in her head, a twisting of dizziness. There was a dead Stormcloak soldier, slain and left on his stomach in the cold. His skin was pale and had a grayish blue tint. The struggle which took place was evident, as a large battleaxe was plunged into the chest of a nearby Thalmor agent, who wore black and gold patterned justiciar robes. Aerene’s eyes narrowed at a clue she noticed within the scene. She leaned downward, and noticed one additional set of footprints that led north. “That’s a Stormcloak courier,” Onmund observed. “They used to pass through Shor’s Stone. I recognize that bag,” he pointed to a leather satchel a short ways from the Stormcloak corpse. He dismounted and stepped carefully over to investigate, with Aerene’s warnings for him to be careful. She’d been keeping an eye on their surroundings, and believed they were alone, though that could change in the blink of an eye.
“Strange,” Onmund got her attention from where he stood over the corpses, blood, footprints, and all. She tore her eyes from the grotesque appearance of the slain Thalmor justiciar, her jaw tight and her breaths shallow. The courier’s message satchel was in Onmund’s hands, his brow furrowed in concern. Even in the gruesome image of the small battle’s aftermath, her companion stood with an air of something she couldn’t exactly name. His essence was noble and respectful with a haze of humility. The harrowing disturbance of their discovery was echoed across Onmund’s features as he said, “This satchel is empty.”
Chapter 20: Dark Waters
Notes:
here is another chapter, now that I finally have free time, and I'm using it for writing!! be warned, the following content gets violent and graphic at times, as pertaining to the selected archive warnings for this work. nevertheless, I hope you enjoy reading and I'll be back soon :))
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Empty?”
Aerene echoed her companion’s words. River moved beneath her, sniffing at the messy scene in front of them. The Nord woman dismounted her horse, boots landing with a light crunch on the soft, powdery snow. More low crunches sounded with every step she took over to Onmund. He handed her the satchel, which was streaked with more blood, and devoid of any contents. She stared at the leather, waiting for something to appear, something to give them a clue as to what had happened here, besides the obvious. The two mages shared a glance, each wearing an expression of unease, dismay. Aerene handed Onmund the bag back, and walked over to the prints leading north.
Wherever these lead… we should find out.
Making a quick decision, she inched along after the footprints, careful not to disrupt the trail; it was no use, though, as a heavy gust of wind blew over the snowy landscape and the trail vanished in the blur of white. “Damn it,” she muttered, trudging back to where Onmund stood, observing the Stormcloak’s corpse. “Find anything?” Aerene asked. “No,” he responded. She pulled at the heavy, limp Thalmor corpse, looking to see if there were any pockets or items to be felt under the Altmer’s justiciar robes. It was a little difficult to do any real digging with the battleax sticking out of the Thalmor’s stiff, near-frozen flesh. The coldness lingering in the clothing chilled Aerene’s fingertips, and when she found nothing, she stood up again. “Nothing. We should not linger,” she advised, heading back to River.
Wasting no time, the two mounted River and followed the path upward.
Soon, they were entering the Wayward Pass, and the chilling winds of the snowy bluff halted. The pass itself wedged through a rocky outcrop, the path following through a narrow crevice between the rock formations. It was well used, as seen in the way the snow had been stepped down to the dirt underneath. There were too many footprints to tell which may have been part of the altercation they passed. To Aerene’s untrained tracking eye, it all looked the same. On the left of the pass monument was an altar to Arkay, though Aerene did not recall seeing it before. Upon passing the altar and following the slope downward, Aerene feel a sudden pang of sadness in remembrance of Valdr. She associated Arkay, lord of the dead, with Valdr and his burial service in Falkreath. Knowing that if she should linger on the subject for long, it would hurt her more than she could bear today. She sucked in a deep breath and looked onward.
They were now heading completely southward and were welcomed with an illustrious view. A snow-laden valley glistened as far as they eye could see, the white blanketing the far mountains and the tall trees below. Each breath Aerene took in was crisp and clear, a stark contrast to the warmth and occasional humidity of the Imperial City and the easy weather of Bleaker’s Way. “By the Nine!” Onmund quietly exclaimed behind her, and while she couldn’t see him looking around, she imagined it all the same and smiled to herself at the thought. A waterfall of clouds misted over the distant peaks and down into the lands below. It felt good to be on the road again, Aerene could not deny this.
As the day went on, the mages and mare passed by a pond on the property of the Nightgate Inn, which they planned to return to after retrieving the tomes, however long that would take. The road continued southward through a distance of snowy, quiet forest, undisturbed save for the tweeting of birds and passers through. This was the same area Aerene and River had been chased by a frost troll before, though they were lucky not to meet such a fate again on this day. It was a comfortable journey.
“My mother makes snowberry crostatas every winter,” said Onmund as the three passed a bunch of snowberry bushes, full of the dark red berries. “Does she? I would imagine they’d be tart in flavor,” Aerene responded. Onmund laughed quietly from behind her on the saddle. “She uses nearly all the honey in the Rift to sweeten the berries.” Aerene hummed in acknowledgment, and wondered to herself if she’d ever get to try one of these snowberry crostatas. There were no such thing where she was from, for the Imperial City never got cold enough to grow snowberry bushes like in Skyrim’s colder climate.
-
Eventually, they couldn’t stay on the path any longer and cut through the woods on a gently inclining slope; through here, the trees weren’t as densely placed and the plains of Whiterun Hold were visible, though far away. Skyrim was flat by no means, but on a clear day, or on a night lit by Nirn's two moons, one could see hours’ worth of travel ahead.
“You’re sure it’s this way?” Aerene questioned in a quiet, suspicious tone. “Mhm,” Onmund affirmed from behind her. She’d put him on map duty while she navigated River. Onmund had also taken up marking any notable monuments on the map; he’d already marked the location of some ancient stone ruins they passed by a little earlier.
They were going up a steep hill when Onmund spoke up again. “It should be just up this ridge and around the bend of the hill,” he reported. “Good. The sooner this is dealt with, the better. Still can’t reason why the College leadership didn’t come here themselves,” she grumbled. “They don’t want to get their hands dirty. They’re mages, not typical Nordic fighters,” Onmund responded. Typical Nordic fighters? They should be so honored. More so, she considered what that meant for Onmund. “What does that make you?” she teased. He scoffed from behind. “A mage who occasionally fights.”
What does that make me? I haven’t learned any new destruction spells yet. I can’t even keep my ward spell steady.
She fought not to put herself down for what she couldn’t do, and instead focused on the abilities she did have. Yet, I can hold my own with a sword or dagger, and am an expert in restoration magic.
“There, nestled into the hillside,” she pointed outward.
They’d made it to a vast clearing at a higher point in the hillside; the area was dotted with a few trees, patches of unmelted snow, and various stone formations rising up from the ground. “Let’s dismount here,” Aerene said.
She was considering how they’d move forward from now, as she readied her knapsack with the items she’d take into the keep-a few potions and a very light supply of food and water. “We should attempt diplomacy before engaging in battle with whoever’s holed up in the Keep. We don’t know what the other students tried, or how they ended up dead, but it would be wise not to repeat their mistakes.” Aerene advised, lowering her makeshift hood and allowing the blue cloth sash to flow freely in the light wind of the clearing.
“Are you going to leave River loose?” Onmund questioned, gesturing to the horse, who was not tied down and was grazing on the grass below. Aerene nodded. “She won’t go anywhere.”
-
“River, stay.”
The first day those words had any effect on the mare was a long while previous, during a warm spring day. “You really think a beautiful, wild, silver mare like her is going to listen to you?” Ancunin asked, sipping from a goblet as he stood next to Aerene, who was getting comfortable underneath a tree in the courtyard of the Temple, near the stables. “Yes. She’s starting to like me. Bet she wouldn’t do any tricks for anyone else,” Aerene replied, keeping a close watch on the antsy horse, who seemed unsure, but was in fact staying in place. “Oh, please. You’ve only been at this a week,” Ancunin responded, offering Aerene the goblet. “Maybe a week is all I need,” she took the goblet and sipped the deep red liquid-a dry wine, his favorite.
Ancunin was a Temple acolyte as well, one of Aerene’s dearest friends during her time there. They’d met one night during the communal evening meal, coincidentally in the wine cellar, where neither of them should have been. He was the same age as Aerene, though he seemed centuries older at times, that which he blamed on the mannerisms of his parents and Altmer traditions. Ancunin himself had pale golden skin and deep orange eyes, with silky blonde hair he kept at a length just below his ears, and took very good care of. He was on the shorter side for an Altmer, though that was because his mother was of Bosmer ancestry. ‘I’ll be damned if I don’t become a Dominion agent by the end of all this. They probably wouldn’t want me. Thalmor hate half breeds anyway,’ he remarked once. From time to time, Aerene wondered what he’d been up to since leaving the City. Ancunin always seemed cut out for a more lavish lifestyle than what the Temple offered, yet there were occasions when he’d have an odd show of compassion now and again.
There had been many a time Ancunin was lectured by the older Temple acolytes for the language he used and the way he’d flirt with other students at inappropriate times. He had an elegance about him, some kind of quiet flamboyance mixed with distance.
He’d never admit he was hurt Aerene left the Temple and the Imperial City to study in Skyrim, but she didn’t need him to say the words. She wouldn’t ever forget the wistful look in his eyes when she departed from the Temple months later. “Promise me, my darling Aerene, that you’ll find me if you’re ever around here again,” he pleaded, offering his pinky to her. She hooked her own around it and pulled him into a hug, one he accepted despite complaining about when others wanted the same thing. “I promise.” She hoped to never let go of the scent he carried, of finely aged wine and leather. She imagined the way he’d have cackled upon hearing she became a Companion.
-
River whinnied to Aerene in response to the command. “Soon, she’ll speak Tamrielic just like you and I,” Aerene joked to Onmund. He said nothing, which she brushed off, but when she glanced his way, she saw he’d wandered a bit from where she and River were standing. He was looking down at a fallen log, the top of which was dusted with a thin layer of snow. She stepped over, and her mouth fell agape when she saw he wasn’t looking at the log, but the body laying in the snow on the other side of it. They stared at the lifeless Breton, his skin marked and scorched, left burned by what could have only been magicka damage.
The discovery had shifted the mood of the quest entirely, the air now somber and still. Neither of them had said a thing while they stared for minutes; Aerene was wondering if Onmund knew who this was, yet couldn’t bring herself to ask. She couldn’t recall ever seeing that face before… before it was contorted with lifelessness. The stress of the situation showed on Onmund’s features, as he turned away, burying his face in his hands, running them upward over his hood, before they fell to rest at his hips. As he took a moment to himself, Aerene contemplated what to do. They couldn’t move the corpse, and the others, should they find them-all the way back to Winterhold. The ground here was too frozen to be disturbed for burial; they would have to be burned. The idea was grueling and it made her heart ache. She couldn’t stop staring at the student’s glossy blue eyes, and all in a moment’s notice she was transported back to that day in Helgen when she saw something similar, horrified yet unable to look away.
Onmund’s hand on her shoulder startled her, and she turned to him, the hopelessness settled into her own eyes. “I shudder to think what else we will find here on this day,” she spoke, shutting her eyes. “Whatever way you want to go about this, I’m with you,” Onmund said, arms crossing while he turned away, sniffling. She didn’t see him crying, but she heard the light falter in his voice. There’s hardly a chance at diplomacy now.
She wanted to scream, to ride all the way back to the College and force the leadership to see what had happened to their very own student, left a lifeless slump in the freezing cold. Was this why most Nords despised magic, despised the College?
That painfully familiar lump formed in her throat, aching and rising, threatening to spill icy tears along her cheeks; she swallowed it back down. Now, what unsettled her most was knowing this wouldn’t be the first harrowing discovery of the day. While she gazed ahead through the trees, and upon the old stone fort, she knew a bloody battle was inevitable.
-
Fellglow Keep may have been a full defense fort in its prime, yet now it was a ruin; the mages inhabiting the place made their home in crumbled stone brick structures which had partially collapsed. In the late afternoon sun, Aerene and Onmund crouched next to a tall tree, eyeing the ruins from afar before making the final approach. The exterior of the fort had no protective wall, and the only portion which wasn’t collapsed and in the open air was a three-story structure to their left, built into the rocky hillside. Scattered ruins dotted what would’ve been the central courtyard, now overgrown with random plants sprouting up. “I’d have thought their security to be better, after what Anceraud and the others attempted,” Onmund said lowly. Aerene looked out over the courtyard, watching for any movement or indication of activity about the exterior. Across the courtyard at the southernmost tip of the fort complex was a single remaining tower, lined with crenellations. Each gaping embrasure was rather airy, and within the structure, Aerene could see the orange, moving glow of a campfire. “There must be someone in the tower there,” she suspected. She had turned to look elsewhere when Onmund corrected the observation: “Not inside… but atop,” he said, pointing. A figure had emerged from below, and stood looking out over the southern plains, in the opposite direction of the two.
They settled on a plan for an attempt at diplomacy, expecting it would not go well but willing to try. As Aerene crept through the rubble across the courtyard, hidden from the two mages they’d come to find patrolling the area, Onmund was perched out of sight to intervene and attack if needed. She stepped silently across the dead grass and dirt, past the entrance to the hillside structure. She stayed leftward, where there was a small fenced area of vegetables being cultivated and a small patch of hay with a chicken’s nest… with no chicken.
When Aerene turned to the right toward the tower, she got a better view of the structure itself. It was leaning heavily to the left and was next to a stone archway with a flat walkway atop. Both structures were connected with makeshift wooden steps reaching from the ground upward, and between the two.
From the corner of her eye, she also got a view of a second student corpse, face down on the shore of a small, murky pond. She covered her hand with her mouth, eyes wide and burning. By the Divines, what a terrible fate. His robes were a deep grey, fully saturated by the dark waters. A hand resting on the dirt edge of the pond was pallid and discolored. She sent a prayer to Arkay for the poor, brave soul in front of her.
She continued forward to step up the makeshift stairs, and decided this was a safe enough distance to make her presence known. From the lower platform, she could see the mage just across the wooden walkway and standing on the roof of the fallen stone tower. He hadn’t noticed her sneak up; she glanced back to the pond, to the dead mage within, and considered how easy it would have been to sprint forward, pummeling into the mage and watching him fall from the tower.
“You there!” she called, hand resting on the pommel of her sword. In an instant, the mage in black robes clenched his hands to summon a spell the moment he turned her way. “Begone! This is no place for you!” he snapped to her, taking a few steps forward. She watched the orange, fiery glow in his hand burn brighter. “I approach with peace,” she declared, hands raised. “State your business here, else I’ll char you where you stand.”
“I seek an audience with the leader of your faction,” she called back to him. A chill ran down her spine, flushing through her body. Her hands felt clammy and cold; anyone next to her would’ve been able to see the slight, anxious trembling. “For what reason?” he challenged. She swallowed, glancing in the direction of where she’d last seen Onmund. “I believe you have something I seek. Tomes,” she replied.
The laugh he belted out brought a frown to her face. “Look to the pond. Do you wish to end up like those other stupid mages? From the College, aren’t you all?”
Her jaw tightened, and when he continued to prepare the spell, she unsheathed her sword and began stepping forward. “I’m not leaving without those tomes,” she spat back. As she stepped closer, he stepped further away and said, “You’re not leaving here at all.”
In the blink of an eye, he launched a burst of white hot flame in her direction. She maneuvered out of the way, leaping in two strides up the wooden steps to the tower roof. From below, a thunderous bolt shot upward and its purple and white lightning shocked the mage in front of her. He yelped and turned to the distraction; before he could launch another fire bolt at her, the lightning summoned from below vanished and she plunged her sward through his back. He shrieked, and she gritted her teeth, splashed by crimson droplets when she pulled the blade back and sliced against his flesh, launching her foot into his figure as hard as she could. Down to the stones below he fell.
She peered over the ledge, chest heaving, and saw Onmund below. “We make a good team,” she said in a quiet voice, mostly to herself, but loud enough for him to hear.
The entrance to the hillside structure was locked and the guard’s person had no key. After searching the courtyard, they found another entrance leading underground, through more collapsed ruins. “I’ll take point,” Aerene stated, her sword ready while she prepared to open the door at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark and musty down there. “I’ve got your back,” Onmund replied. She nodded in affirmation, and pushed the creaky, mossy wooden door forward. It groaned at the movement, and opened to a torchlit corridor just as ruined as the courtyard above. There were cobwebs stuck to the stone brick walls, moss popping out from the nooks and crannies within. Old baskets and barrels made the path busy.
Aerene moved forward down a set of steps; the path led to a humid chamber where water was puddled over the ground, flowing in from some crack in the dilapidated structure walls. She cringed at the feeling of stepping into the chilly water, just past her ankles, with her boots on, but it was better than being barefoot. On the other side of the chamber, out of the puddle, the corridor stretched on. The place was a mess laden with old crates and rotted baskets. They even passed a full bear trap set with a large cheese wedge, waiting for the unsuspecting rodent. When Aerene heard Onmund’s movements behind her, she turned to see him approaching the trap. He picked it up carefully, and tossed it against the wall where it snapped shut, devoid of any flesh to bite into. Now, it couldn’t trap any creature.
The next room was similarly flooded, except the water was knee high now and just as cold. The two moved quietly as they could through the sloshing liquid; there was a set of stone steps across the room, leading up to a balcony-like second level. This space had partially collapsed ages ago, Aerene noticed, as they passed half of a stone support pillar.
Her belly burned with anticipation at what would come next, and her feet were freezing in the frigid water they trudged through.
Though they were being as quiet as they could, it was too much noise. Aerene had just set foot on the steps when another mage appeared at the top of the balcony. She froze in place, Onmund too. “What’s this? More experiments, or feed for my pets?”
The mage readied ice spells in his palms, indicated by the frosty blue magic he summoned forth. His brows were clenched and he bore a wicked grin with eyes of a madman. He looked to be Breton, yet spoke in a language that was not Tamrielic. From the deeper bowels of the Keep behind him emerged two sizable frostbite spiders, crawling rapidly towards the two on the stairs. Onmund quickly backed off the steps and hurried across the room to maintain distance. Aerene swung at the first spider with her blade, but the wretch of a creature was too fast. For a moment, she thought she saw her own reflection in the frostbite spider’s eyes, black and beady like ebony. Its huge mandibles, lined with multiple sharp protrusions, moved in an otherworldly way. It distracted her.
From atop the steps, the mage launched a spell of frostbite; it was a blast of pure cold. Enough could do more than just slow someone’s movements- it could freeze them solid.
The unexpected blast of extreme icy pressure prompted her to quickly turn away to protect her eyes, leaving herself vulnerable. The spider leapt forward and its weight tackled her down into the water.
Full submersion into the murky water ran a shock through her as she struggled to keep the spider off, her sword lost somewhere out of reach and her vision blurred in the chaos. Her hands were occupied with keeping the spider’s razor sharp teeth from biting into her, each of its eight legs working holding her down. By now, she’d swallowed way too much water, splashing and bubbling about, trying to get air.
It was only the quick slipping of her lucky dagger into the spider’s head that allowed her to get up, gasping for air and choking out the excess water. It all happened in the blink of an eye. She surveyed the room; the second spider was dead in the water, and the sounds of struggle ensuing drew her attention to the steps she’d somehow scrambled farther from than she thought. The last sight before silence fell over the room was that of Onmund driving Aerene’s sword through the chest of the mage at his feet, who stilled when the blade punctured his chest.
It brought her relief, odd as that was. She groaned, turning over to haul herself up and out of the water. She was soaked from head to toe, shivering from the cold. Miraculously, she was without wounds-except to her ego, that is. The exasperated woman moved past her companion, stepping over the dead Breton to head up to the second level of the room and get this all over with. She neared the top of the staircase when she noticed Onmund hadn’t moved. The only noise in the room were the droplets of water falling from her armor and underclothes to the stone below.
Onmund was still as the statue in the College courtyard, hooded head tilted down toward the corpse at his feet. The sword was hanging on for life, loosely gripped in his hand at his side. “Are you alright?” Aerene asked. She wiped the excess water from her face with the back of her soggy gauntlet covered hand. He only nodded, and said nothing. It was unlike him, as far as she knew. With his confirmation, she scanned the way ahead. The second floor was dotted with shelves of old, dusty books and wine bottles, even a plate of grilled leeks on a nearby table. Aerene snatched potions off the shelf in front of her, kneeling to empty out her knapsack. She tossed aside some soggy bread and dried meat, stuffing the potions inside. She had been scanning for any signs of the stolen tomes when Onmund approached from behind and handed her back her sword. She took it and sheathed it before they kept moving, their footsteps an unpleasant echo of wet squelching.
Along the corridors ahead, there were a variety of traps laid out, including a pressure plate which would launch something from multiple nooks in the wall, and a lightning ward just barely visible in the low torchlight-both problems avoided by the pair’s keen eyes.
The next rooms were taken straight from Oblivion, for there could not have been any other explanation for the atrocities found within. The first was a dungeon like space, complete with iron jail cells and torture mechanisms; there were no prisoners being held, but stains of varying freshness lining the floors and walls of the chamber were evidence enough of a select horror. The warden of the dungeon was not pleased with the visitors.
It was the following chamber which struck its claws into the sanity of the two young students sent into that den, full of necromancers who would never let the dead die. The mention of experiments by the wizard with the spiders was no exaggeration. Whatever these fiends were doing here started in that room, where tables of bloodied cadavers lined the walls and cages hung from the ceiling. It wasn’t until after the occupying mages were slain that the two students realized who was here. The final two missing students were splayed on tables, picked apart like an elk by starving bear. The stench of the horrors alone nauseated the two companions to misery.
When they finally moved out of that room, they knew they’d soon be back to cremate their fellow students.
Aerene had adopted a permanent shiver by the time they found Orthorn, who she’d forgotten all about in the chaos getting to this point. He was sorry looking, but not as much as she, yet he was the one behind bars in another jail-style room, the walls lined with prison cells and a collage of iron bars. Orthorn wore College robes, an Altmer with tired bright green eyes and high, hollow cheeks. “You, please let me out!” he begged as Aerene approached. Onmund stood back. It was like he wasn’t even there, and she was beginning to wonder why he’d suddenly quieted. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t odd to be out of sorts.
“You must be Orthorn,” she said to the Altmer. “Yes! I am. Please, you’ve got to help me get out of here!” So, this is who caused this whole mess. A hive of necromancers ripping into flesh of unknowing students and passers-by, and he made a beeline for this place after stealing the books. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he joined up. So why is he being held here?
She had very little patience left and his pleading was not helping. “Where are the books you stole from the College?” her eyes were narrowed to slits as she studied him. “You… you’re from the College? Arch-Mage Aren must’ve sent you to rescue me, didn’t he?” Orthorn’s enthusiasm was not returned. “We were sent to get the books. Where are they?”
Orthorn’s features were plagued with worry. “The Caller. She’s the one who threw me in here. I didn’t come here for this, I thought they wanted my help! Not to experiment on me!”
Aerene took a step back, head tilted in disbelief. Does this fool mean to say he came here to experiment on others?
“Have you seen the horrors in the next room over?” she asked, stepping toward him. “Do you know what they did to the students who came here first?!” she shrieked, slamming her hands against the iron bars, Orthorn slinking further back into his cell. “They shouldn’t have followed,” Orthorn retorted. Aerene gasped, huffing in further disbelief at his indifference. “They came here to retrieve what you stole, you maggot,” she seethed. “You don’t even know a hint of what’s occurred since your cowardly sprint to this place,” she couldn’t be any closer to the cell without being in it. Still, nothing from Onmund who watched silently from behind. Orthorn stared and said nothing for moments. “Let me out of here, and I’ll help you find the tomes,” he bargained. Aerene stepped back again, unsure of how to proceed. She looked to Onmund for advisement, and while he stood just a few paces from her, he was in a very faraway realm. Something is amiss with him.
By now, she felt chilled to the bone, even to the heart.
Orthorn knows this place and is desperate to get out alive. We have leverage over him.
She hoped her actions weren’t a mistake when she pulled the lever from the control parapet, and the door to Orthorn’s cage lurched open.
The three continued through the complex; Orthorn often glanced nervously to Onmund, whose presence was rather intimidating; his height, the way the his eyes were hidden under his hood, the way he muttered for Orthorn not to leave their sight.
They fought through a library style room, where the shelves were lined with more useless junk rather than books and the scent lingering in the air was of mildew. Through what felt like countless twists and turns through the old structure were around a dozen rooms-dormitories, a kitchen, old storage nooks, all plagued with necromancers hiding out and attacking on sight. Orthorn had proved relatively useless in the battling, often cowering in a corner while Aerene charged head first and Onmund fired spells from a few paces back.
Some time had passed by the time they arrived at the base of a wide, tall stone staircase gradually twisting up and to the right. “This is it,” Orthorn reported, leaning onto his knees for breath. “The ritual chamber is just up ahead. That’s where the Caller is keeping the tomes.”
Aerene and Onmund exchanged a glance, and Aerene spoke. “Let’s get this over with.” She’d begun walking but Orthorn begged her to wait. “She’s not going to let you have the books once she sees I’m free. Let me leave from here. I’ll… I’ll head back to the College and meet you there.” He was pitifully desperate. Aerene doubted they’d have a pleasant encounter with the Caller in any case; who would she be if she left the Caller alive after witnessing the crimes against humanity hidden away within this awful place? Orthorn would never be welcome in Winterhold again after the report she’d provide to the College leadership. She opened her mouth to protest but Onmund spoke first. In fact, he did more than just speak. His rage at Orthorn took her by complete surprise.
In an instant, the kind-hearted and mild-tempered Nord she knew had his hand latched on Orthorn’s throat, holding him pinned against the stones of the wall. Orthorn’s eyes were as wide as a meadow on a summer day, his teeth gritted as he tried to push Onmund away to no avail. “You’re not leaving my sight,” Onmund hissed at Orthorn, “you filth. The only freedom you’ll ever feel is a trial in Winterhold. I’ll drag you there myself.” He slammed his fist into the stones right next to Orthorn’s head, and the Altmer winced at the sudden movement, lips quivering while tears slid down his dirty cheeks.
Onmund secured a grip on Orthorn’s arm, and turned to Aerene. “Right behind you.”
Let me remember this moment before I ever think Onmund is more mage than Nord.
She lead their ascent up the mossy steps, and into the ritual chamber.
The closing of the door behind them echoed in the large, circular room. The curved walls were lined with dozens of lit candles, their light casting orange and yellow flickering about the space. A huge iron chandelier with more candles hung from the center of the ceiling; on the other side of the room was another door. To the left and right of the doorway were niches, where Aerene could only see more candles. A half dozen steps lead down into a sunken floor space, inside of which was carved with a large octagram, with a second, smaller one atop. A black iron parapet with a book on it stood in the center of the smaller octagram, and the Caller just behind.
She was an Altmer woman with pale golden-green skin and fiery orange eyes that struck from a distance. Deep blue mage robes draped over her figure, tied at her hips with a rope; her hood hid most of her face. She spoke.
“So, you're the ones who barged into my home and laid waste to my projects. How nice to meet you.” Her speech was laced with contempt. She sounded just like Ancano, each of them carrying the accent of the Emerald Isles and the Aldmeri Dominion. Onmund shoved Orthorn forward into the light between them and the Caller. “And what’s this? My only surviving pet, dear Orthorn,” she observed, looking over the elf. Orthorn hurried away, to the side of the room, standing back like he’d melt the second she got too close. “You two. Why have you come here?”
Aerene addressed the Caller. “For the books from the College. I see you’ve kept them in your care,” she added, noticing two other tomes on display in the niches of the chamber. The Caller sighed. “So you're just one of Aren's lackeys? That's disappointing. You show real promise. You come here, kill my assistants, disrupt my work. You've annoyed me…” she replied, and glanced to Orthorn. “And you’ve let my pet out of his cage. But, he is alive, so not all is lost. Why don’t we strike a deal? Leave me Orthorn, and I’ll let the two of you escape with your lives,” her mouth widened into a wicked grin.
“No! I won’t have it!” Orthorn cried out suddenly, and made a run for the door on the other side of the room. The Caller instantaneously struck a spear of ice through his back, eliciting a sound of sharpness as it flew through the air and into his flesh. The striking of the ice through Orthorn mimicked that of a pickaxe piercing a block of ice. Aerene’s lips parted in surprise at the rising temper of the room. Orthorn felt to the ground, blood soaking through his mage robes as he groaned his last breaths, before falling out of his misery into the stillness of death.
“How unfortunate. Though, I am feeling generous. Leave now and you’ll live,” she offered. Aerene walked forward, down the steps to meet the Caller on the central floor. She unsheathed her sword, raising it to striking position. “I’m not leaving this evil, gods-awful realm of Oblivion without those books!” she screeched, swinging her blade at the necromancer just a step in front of her. The sword swung through nothing but an eruption of a conjuration-summons, the large sphere of dark purple light signaling that the Caller had teleported out of reach. In her place was a flame atronach, the heat of which Aerene could instantly feel as she stumbled back the creature’s blasts of fire. The sound of lightning shot through the room from behind her, and she saw Onmund with his hands outstretched towards one of the niches. Aerene landed a slice of her sword through one of the atronach’s arms, the creature crying out a piercing yelp in response. Another look toward the Caller revealed the nullification of Onmund’s spells, for she was maintaining a ward deflecting his magic. Aerene met the atronach’s flame burst with a response of sparks, sending the electric damage right back to the atronach. “Onmund!” Aerene called, and with no further words he understood her intent, and turned his casting toward the atronach.
Sweat beaded down Aerene’s skin as she sprinted toward the Caller, who shot out another icy spear toward the Nord. Training with the Companions was coming back to her with every moment in battle. She dove forward into a roll, dodging the icy spear and landing on both feet, her left hand planted on the ground to steady herself. She panted, just a second from being close enough to attack the Caller again. She swiped out the tip of her blade, and it sliced through the Caller’s robes to draw blood from her leg. “Damn you!” the Altmer cursed.
Another summoning sphere, and the necromancer was teleported elsewhere. No! Damn you!
“There!” Onmund called, and Aerene followed to see the Caller preparing to blast out another icy spear from in front of the second niche. While the necromancer had no ward, and Onmund turned his attention to atronach, Aerene rushed close enough to cast sparks again, effectively disarming the necromancer for a moment.
It was a moment enough to get within reach.
The Nord kicked at the knee of the Altmer, who cursed again, before Aerene summoned the last of her battle fury and pointed her blade to the ground, swiping it upward and tearing a gash from the Caller’s abdomen to her chin. A final bloody splatter signaled the end of this twisted struggle.
-
After securing the tomes, which Onmund carried because Aerene’s napsack wasn’t yet dry, it was discovered that the Caller had a key to the locked door leading directly out of the Keep; Orthorn’s efforts were doomed from the start. The work of the two students did not end with the retrieval of the tomes, but with the fire they lit upon the collected forms of their deceased fellow students, in the clearing they first arrived to, near where River awaited their return. They sat a short distance away under one of the tall pines at the edge of the clearing, watching the flames, listening to the crackling as the figures within were engulfed entirely.
Aerene stared ahead, half-present after the nightmare of a day they’d somehow survived. She wanted to thank Onmund for being there, but felt she had no right. He must regret his insistence upon coming with. We got the books… whatever comes next must be worth the sacrifices made here.
Her hair dried in clumps around her head, some strands sticking with sweat to her face. Her feet were cold and aching from all of the walking, both in and out of water. Her mouth was dry, belly aching for food yet without appetite to hold any down. Her shivering had quieted yet not completely subsided, her chest feeling tight and full. Her head ached the worst, yet she had not the energy to do anything about any of it.
Aerene turned to Onmund, whose head was buried in his arms, propped up on his knees as he leant against the trunk of the tree. “Onmund…” she started. She didn’t know what to say.
‘I knew all four of them,’ he’d told her earlier, just before they lit the funerary fire. She internally winced upon hearing this, heart aching for him. Divines, rest the souls of the fallen.
He pulled his hood down and looked to her, awaiting further words. It was the first she’d seen his eyes since they got to Fellglow. Those beautiful sapphire blue irises were marred by a surrounding redness, his cheeks stained with streaks of dried tears, lips puffy and slightly quivering. “I…” he began. He shut his eyes, and another crystalline droplet slid down the surface of his skin. “I’ve never slain another person before today,” he confessed. Her brows heightened in surprise, and she was taken back to that day in Helgen. The way she and Hadvar were so happy to get out of the cave alive, to feel the sunlight once again with the promise of another day. How he listened so patiently when she began to cry, exasperated and overwhelmed after they were left with no choice but to truly fight for their survival. Hadvar.. a kind soul.
Now, what felt like a lifetime later, she looked to Onmund as he sobbed quietly, in the same dreadful position. She didn’t know what to do, but wanted to comfort him in some way, so she went with what felt natural, and inched closer. She touched him, and he raised his head. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him gently into a hug. He didn’t fight it, but raised his arms and embraced her, too. “It’s okay,” she whispered, while he cried silently into the damp sash on her shoulder, while he held her and she him. He still carried a faint scent of sweet apples, even amid the waves of blood, sweat, and tears. To feel a living person in her grasp, after seeing so much death that day, was a true comfort. Her fingers gently caressed his back, feeling the softness of his clothes and the way his flesh gently moved with every breath. It was into that tender embrace she let herself relax.
By now, Masser and Secunda were high in the night firmament, casting aglow the still landscape of Skyrim below. The two survivors mounted River and cast a final sorrowful look to the dying flames, before heading northeast toward the Nightgate Inn. The further north they got, the lower the temperature seemed to rapidly drop, before it began snowing. Aerene was shivering again, feeling as though her senses were dulled by the extreme cold and the exhaustion. She barely kept her eyes open while leading her mare. She was nearly asleep when the back of Onmund’s hand felt her temple and she winced in surprise. “By the Nine, Aerene, you’re freezing,” he gasped. Their breaths escaped in puffs of white. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, though in actuality it felt like she was freezing solid. She felt movement behind her, and was surprised to a more awake state when Onmund flung her bed roll over the both of them. “You don’t have to do all that. We’ll be inside soon,” she complained tiredly. “But we’re not inside now,” he insisted. They could only be so cozy atop a horse in the falling snow, yet when Onmund’s hands held the bed roll, awkwardly shaped as it was, over their shoulders, and they shared the warmth generating within, she quit complaining entirely. I’d be frozen stiff or dead in the pond if I’d done this alone. She relaxed into the warmth.
The Nightgate Inn had a small stable on the property, whose details were hard to make out in the tired dark. It must’ve been midnight by the time they dismounted and headed inside. In the heavy snowfall, they trudged along the near invisible path to the front porch of the inn, past empty fish racks and snowberry bushes. It was Aerene’s tripping over the top step to the porch that really did her in for the night and drew a curse from her.
Inside was a warm hearth burning life into the communal space. Tables and benches lined two walls, and wooden support pillars boasted mounted goat horn sconces and deer skulls with antlers and all. “Ah, welcome, travelers!” the innkeep called from the left. He was leaning against the bar, above which on the wall was mounted a huge mammoth skull with large, curved tusks. Aerene mumbled a greeting, walking past the hearth to the counter. The closer she neared, the more visible became the concerned look on the bartender’s face. “Uh…” he said, glancing between the two Nords. Their clothes were stained with blood and other filth from the day, and haggardness had set into their faces. “You look worse than I feel,” a drunk farmer said from his seat at the bar. “We need beds, baths, and dinner for the night,” she said, setting a coin purse on the counter, ignoring the farmer. “Right. I’d be happy to throw in a set of spare clothes for each o’ ya for a few gold more,” he offered with a sly smirk. Aerene noticed a scar stretching from a cloudy eye down his cheek, where it disappeared into an ashy blonde beard.
Onmund dropped a few more coins on the counter.
Within the hour, the duo had bathed, eaten, and bid each other goodnight.
Aerene shut the door to her room, which had a small corner table and a single size bed, a chest at the end and a dresser next to it. The redhead dropped her things, blew out the single candle on the corner table, and flopped into bed. She fell asleep within seconds.
Her exhaustion was exhibited by the fact she woke up many hours later in the same position she’d fallen asleep in. Her neck hated her for it, this she discovered when she flipped onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. Her eyes traced the patterns of thatch bristles in the roof, and when she tilted her head back a little, she was staring at the underside of an elk’s head mounted on the wall.
When her contemplative staring was complete, she got up and put her (now dry) boots on. The innkeep, Hadring, sold herself and Onmund comfortable, albeit scratchy, shirts, pants, and socks. They were like wheat in color, and she was surprised he had any clothing available, to which he responded that his wife Heirla was a seamstress who made clothes for a larger shop in Windhelm, and that she sold spares from the inn.
With a low groan, she pushed herself to stand and go out into the main room where the hearth and bar were. “Ah, good morning! Sleep well? I’d think so, by the snoring sounding from your room all night,” Hadring said with a grin. Aerene’s soft smile fell. Snoring?! I’ve never done that a day in my life! “Uh.. sorry. Long day yesterday,” she replied suspiciously, scratching the back of her neck. “No problem, lass, heard much worse within these walls,” Hadring replied, wiping a cloth over the bar. Aerene stepped to Onmund’s room, and found his belongings, but no sign of him. “Your companion went outside a few minutes ago.” Soon, she thanked Hadring for the tip and stepped out into the wintery morning.
It was serene, snowy and white. In the daylight, she could see River on the far end of the property, standing in the stable with her head leaned down toward a pile of hay. Snowberry bushes and shrubbery lined the stairs down to the main path, which split between the way to the main road and to the pond a short walk ahead. It had a short covered dock stretching into the waters; Onmund was sitting at the end of it, his legs hanging off the edge. Aerene made her way over and sat next to him, offering him one of two tankards she carried. He took it with thanks, and sipped the liquid within. His eyes widened. “Mead, at this hour?!”
Her brows raised in surprise at his liveliness. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back,” she said, attempting to reach for the tankard, but he swiped it out of reach with a laugh. It was the first she’d seen him smile since they arrived at Fellglow the previous day. “Drink up, then. This isn’t just Nord mead, it’s warmed, spiced, Black-Briar mead,” she muttered, staring into her tankard with a devouring look in her eyes. “I think we’ve earned it,” Onmund replied, raising the mug to his lips and swallowing the mead down.
They sat, legs dangling over the water below, looking over the partially frozen pond. Maybe in summer, there’d be fish swimming within, and fisherman perched here waiting for a nibble.
The thought of summertime reminded Aerene of when Rialla and Varellus left Bleaker’s Way, sent elsewhere in compliance with their duties to the Empire. She remembered that day like yesterday, and it reminded her of the time she first slayed another. It was the previous winter, when the twins and the rest of their guard squad took up residence in the village. Bandit attacks and mumblings of a smuggling operation between Skyrim and Cyrodiil were rampant, thus the village and Bruma had a near excess of security. It was never stated explicitly, but Aerene knew the heavy Imperial presence helped to keep the threat of border crossings down, until it didn’t, and she was thought to be a spy captured alongside Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebellion and root cause of the developing civil war in Skyrim.
She’d never shared the story of that day with anyone, and so she spoke it to Onmund, now.
“When I lived in Bleaker’s Way-“
“You’re from Cyrodiil?”
Her mouth flattened at the interruption, but she called herself to patience. I’ve interrupted plenty of people plenty of times. I’ve no right to moan about it.
“Yes.” She adjusted her sitting and got more comfortable. “When I lived in Bleaker’s Way, it was because I couldn’t yet cross the border into Skyrim, and I had no wish to settle in Bruma in the dead of winter. Bleaker’s Way is a small village, yet the weather is agreeable and so are the people; I decided to pass the time there. I did not know of the bandit raids which occurred now and again, and the problem attracted the attention of the Imperial Guard; a squad was deployed to the village for some time, and I made friends with two Imperial siblings. One was skilled in battle magic, and the other in smithing, heavy armor, and weapons training,” and the Dibellan arts, she didn’t say. “My cottage was too big for I alone, and so I welcomed them in; we agreed upon an exchange of training in the skills they offered, while they took up residence with me for a few seasons. As one might predict, the raiders descended upon our village again, yet this time we weren’t defenseless. But the battle was not easily won, by any means. Fires raged on a few huts, and the night was shattered with screams of the other villagers, watching their homes get pillaged. I was lucky, I suppose, to have found one of my companions when I did. His sister was at the other end of the chaos, and I found him fighting an orc who seemed twice his size. I stood, paralyzed with fear, watching, hoping. It wasn’t enough,” she said. “The orc brought his Warhammer down against my companion’s shield, and split it in two. I’d never seen anything like it, the way orcish people have the ability to berserk. His rage was unbridled, and just as he sunk his fingers into Varellus’ hair, and prepared to snap his neck, I made use of the dagger that had been sitting in my hand, and struck first. Varellus was alive, after all, but I had taken away what I could never return. I dreamt of that night for months,” she confessed. Onmund spoke. “When did you stop? Encountering that happening in your sleep,” he asked. “I haven’t. It still comes back now and again, but it wasn’t until an unassuming day at the beginning of the last summer, when I saw Varellus laughing with his sister Rialla in the training yard of the village, that I realized the true alternative, had I not taken action. A twin would have been without her other half, taken so young. That’s no way to start a life,” Aerene sighed. “I cannot say how long the guilt will stay with you, or how long it will be before you sleep without thinking of it all. But I must say that nothing changes when evildoers like those necromancers act without consequence, at the expense of others’ lives, and without acceptance of negotiation for peace. You avenged your fallen peers, and while you may not be proud, your effort is admirable.”
Goodness. I don’t remember the last time I spoke so much.
“Thank you,” Onmund said, staring down at the tankard he held in his lap. He met Aerene’s gaze with one of sincerity and even… relief. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
-
They arrived at the College with the stolen books early that afternoon and were summoned to give an extensive report of their findings to the College leadership, who were shocked to hear about the harrowing discoveries at Fellglow Keep. Over the next seven days, Anceraud dismissed his enrollment with the College and set off for his home in Evermor, a settlement in the Breton High Rock province east of Skyrim. Brelyna showed at Aerene’s room the minute she heard they’d returned, and threw her arms around the Nord in relief. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’
Aerene and Onmund looked with dismay at the College’s newest sight-the orb, the Eye of Magnus-had been moved to the Hall of the Elements from Saarthal and drew a near constant crowd of busybodies conducting their own research. It all signaled that the events set in motion couldn’t be stopped, just as the Psijic Mage had declared back in Saarthal.
Lectures were held as usual, but there was no denying everyone was wondering what the next occurrence would be. The worst part of it all? Only one of three tomes retrieved from Fellglow keep had information on the Eye found at Saarthal, and it was nothing Tolfdir hadn’t already read.
Aerene was dejected, fallen into a sea of hopelessness as she wondered what it had all been for. It didn’t help that while she had received letters back from Lydia and Zaria, she heard nothing from her shield-brothers, whose words she sought to read the most. She ached for Jorrvaskr and the more simple living without intervention by mysterious mages and necromancers, yet sat slumped against her desk around midday. She had finally learned the ward spell, thanks to help from J’zargo a couple days previous, but felt no sense of accomplishment. She now stared down at a blank slip of parchment, that which some ink had already dripped onto from the quill she had in her hand. She moved the quill into the droplets and began writing, for she knew not what else to do in this depression of boredom and indifference.
Dear…
Knock knock knock.
The sound at her door drew her attention from the letter, and she put the quill in the ink jar, stepping to open the door. Onmund was on the other side. “Hi,” she greeted, and stepped aside for him to enter. “There’s… uh… someone here to see you.” He gestured with a pointed thumb behind him. “Oh,” she said, and followed him past the light well at the center of the dormitory, out onto the walkways outside. It was a rainy day, not quite cold enough for snow to fall over the College grounds. Who could be here to see me? she wondered this as she stepped out through the dormitory entry. Who she saw immediately lit a fire in her heart and brought her a joyful, warm feeling.
A wide, happy grin lit up her features when she met the silver eyes of Farkas and Vilkas.
Notes:
surprisingly, the happenings at Fellglow Keep are taken exactly from the game, and so is the matter of the books basically being useless. lots of pawning and scheming, methinks!!!
also, if you've played balder's gate 3, you may recognize the name of a certain elf mentioned in Aerene's memories... astarion is one of many from that game who has my heart <3
anyway, onward! until next time!
Chapter 21: Mirror
Notes:
here's another chapter~~~this was fun to write, please enjoy!! I'll be back soon with another ;)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been some weeks since Aerene arrived at the College of Winterhold, since she departed from Jorrvaskr and bid her shield siblings goodbye.
But it felt like years, and her first action upon seeing the faces of Farkas and Vilkas was to throw herself upon them in a burst of laughter and elation. “I’ve missed you,” she breathed, smothering the two brothers with a tight embrace. “I can tell,” Vilkas managed to huff out, as though she squeezed him breathless. “We missed you too, ‘Rene,” Farkas said. Aerene grinned, pulling away to look them over. In that moment, she saw only them, their faces glimmering with a bloom of light amid the rainy grey courtyard behind them. Farkas looked even more muscular than the last time she’d seen him, he who was unbothered by the frigid temperatures with his bulging arms out on display between the gaps in his steel armor. She couldn’t contain her excitement and hugged Farkas again first. He chuckled, giving her a gentle squeeze while he set his hands over her arms. “Hmm,” he hummed in faux disapproval. “Think your sword arm’s gettin’ flabby,” he teased, and Aerene scoffed, lightly smacking his hand away. Then she looked to Vilkas and offered a sincere smile. “Hi, Vilkas,” she whispered. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk, and he raised his arms in welcome; she fell into him and inhaled the forest that was him. Divines, I missed them.
His embrace was so comforting, just as it had been when she hugged him before. It was a perfect remedy. “You gonna introduce us to your friend here?” Vilkas asked, giving a nod to the person behind Aerene, poor Onmund who she’d forgotten was standing there. “How could I not?” she said, eyes settling on the Nord mage who’d sweetly stood by in patience. But when she looked back to Vilkas, she was dumbfounded about how she’d missed the huge handle of Wuuthraad, as it was sheathed at Vilkas’s back. Could it be… are they truly ready to purify their souls? “Let us go inside first.”
The four had made their way back inside the Hall, where they didn’t have to shout over the hard rain falling outdoors in order to hear each other. It was nice and quiet inside, and warm, too, though Aerene wouldn’t mention that to her shield-brothers, Nords who were accustomed to the cold climate.
“This is Onmund,” she said, her hand landing on the Nord mage’s arm. She didn’t realize it, but she was proud to know a mage as talented as him, and it was a bit like she was showing him off. “I’ve never met a sorcerer with such immense skill in battle,” she added. Vilkas and Farkas eyed the sorcerer cautiously, but relaxed when they picked up on her emphasis of his abilities and person. “I’m Vilkas, and this is my brother Farkas, of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun.” Onmund was rather bashful, and shrugged off her compliments but nodded his head toward the twins respectfully. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ll take my leave then, I’m sure you’ve plenty to catch up on. See you later,” he smiled, leaving without another word.
After he’d wandered away, she faced Farkas and Vilkas again. “I know I’ve expressed this already… seeing both of you brings me inexplicable joy,” she confessed.
“We feel the same,” Farkas said. “You got somewhere private we can talk?” he asked. Aerene’s nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Follow me,” she insisted, and led them through the Hall, to her private quarters. Once the door was shut, she released a breath and relaxed a bit. With the three of them in there all at once, the room seemed smaller. She invited Farkas to sit at her desk chair, and when he did, it creaked under the weight of his muscle, and looked nearly miniature beneath him. Aerene dragged an extra wooden chair in for Vilkas, and she plopped down onto her bed, eyeing both of them curiously. “I assume that’s the reason you’re here,” she began, nodding her head to Wuuthrad. Then, she glanced to the letter on her desk. Vilkas was seated right next to it, unknowing she’d almost wrote him again that day. Thank the Divines I never wrote the name after ‘Dear…’, where would my dignity be if I’d actually gone through with sending two letters in a row, no answer to the first? And if the addressee saw it with his own eyes?!
“I wrote you both, but you didn’t send anything back,” she said in a tone that revealed more hurt than she intended. She mindlessly let one leg move off the bed to gently bounce on the floor below. Farkas immediately looked to Vilkas with a rather accusatory glimmer in his eyes, as though his brother were the reason behind this. Vilkas spoke next. “Things have been a little… chaotic at Jorrvaskr. Balancing jobs without-“ he paused and corrected himself, “there’s been more to manage than what we’re used to. Couple more whelps running around,” he said tersely.
Balancing jobs without the Companions as a whole. Without Kodlak, Skjor, and I.
“You have been busy of late,” she assured her understanding. “But I know you didn’t come all this way to make small talk about changes at Jorrvaskr.“
Vilkas set into view a sack Aerene hadn’t even noticed before. “Astute as ever,” Vilkas said. The burlap was stained with the unmistakable crimson of blood. Two Glenmoril Witch heads are contained inside. Her jaw tightened with surprise, and she inhaled a breath. “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” her voice was tinged with uncertainty. “Before Kodlak’s death and purification, we’d been searching for the means to free our souls from Hircine’s grasp,” Vilkas explained. “We wouldn’t be able to do this without you, ‘Rene,” Farkas added.
This was the confirmation she needed.
She stood from the bed in a second and pulled her armor from her wardrobe. “I’ll need a few moments to suit up, and we can depart for Ysgramor’s Tomb.”
“Told ya,” Farkas said to his brother. Vilkas didn’t look entirely convinced. “You’d really drop everything just to help us?” he asked in disbelief. Aerene looked up from where she was arranging the steel plates of her gear on the bed, before she’d fasten them over her figure. “Of course,” she replied. “I meant every word I wrote in your letters.”
Farkas opened the door, and when he saw Vilkas unmoving, nudged the shorter twin. “‘Rene probably doesn’t want ya gawking while she changes,” he said bluntly.
Within minutes, she had her armor on as if it were a second skin, her sword and dagger sheathed, and her knapsack strapped onto her back. When she stepped into the hall, preparing herself for what was to come, she figured she should let someone know she’d be out the rest of the day. Her first thought was to tell Onmund, but when she came across his doorway she found his room neatly kept with him nowhere to be seen. He must be busy studying elsewhere.
Aerene was leading the way out of the Hall when Brelyna met her in the doorway, about to enter the building. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you. Earlier, these two hunky Nords were in the courtyard, my first thought was that they were brooding in an attractive, mysterious way, and the second was that-“
Oh, Brelyna.
Aerene moved aside, and Farkas and Vilkas stepped into view, smiling slyly down at Brelyna. “Aerene, you could have told me you had company!” Brelyna hissed. Her cheeks were dark with flush.
Within the quarter hour, River was saddled up and ready for travel. Aerene would be sitting solo, as Farkas and Vilkas had ridden in on steeds from the Whiterun Stables. Soon, they were headed west on the path leading down to the shoreline below Winterhold. “Your wizard friend likes you,” Farkas’ gruff voice broke the pitter patter of the horses’ hooves trotting through the snow, while they moved along the beach. Of all things to say, that’s what leaves his mouth?
Naturally, she scoffed. And he’s a sorcerer, not a wizard. Though Vilkas and Farkas would likely fall into a slumber should I ramble on about the difference between the two. “I remember you being funnier, last I saw you,” she retorted in a tone of disbelief. “Hah!” Vilkas chirped, looking over at Aerene with a glimmer in his eye. “But Farkas speaks the truth,” he added. Farkas glanced to Aerene with a matter-of-fact expression, saying I told you.
“Even so, I enjoy his company, too. He’s formidable in battle and a worthy ally,” she shrugged. Farkas loudly groaned at her words, causing her eyes to widen in surprise. “Aerene,” Vilkas said, “the beat of his heart nearly shook the ground we stand on, with just the touch of your hand.” Aerene was now gawking at her shield-brothers, and she didn’t think there was a time before when she had been so doubtful. Then she wondered, what are they talking about….?
…Oh.
When she introduced Onmund, she’d barely touched his arm. This got her thinking in a new light. “You don’t believe us now. But in a matter of hours, that supernatural hearing of ours will be gone. Consider this as us making the most of it while it lasts.” Aerene rolled her eyes at Vilkas’ words. “I believe your words about the quickening pace of his heart, but is it not a natural response upon feeling the touch of another? In any capacity. I’m sure I react the same way when I embrace one of you. It is not a matter to dally on about,” she said, in complete and utter denial.
“As you wish. No further dallying,” Vilkas said. “For now,” Farkas huffed.
If Aerene hadn’t been riding atop River, she’d have launched a snowball right into the back of that head of his.
Some time later, they departed from the horses and stepped across a patchy stretch of shoreline part way into the Sea of Ghosts, to the Tomb of Ysgramor. In the time since the twins’ supposedly false claims about Onmund, Aerene had learned the Companions had kept up their efforts in the quiet war waged with the Silver Hand; there were final rumors of a couple last hideouts housing the fiends, and plans were being made to eradicate the group completely. It was mainly the efforts of Aela, Njada, and Ria that launched the initiative into place. Aerene wondered if their proactive stance had anything to do with their attacks on Silver Hand dens leading up to Kodlak’s death during the attack on Jorrvaskr, and the fact that all that noise was the likely cause of the attack.
A couple times during the ride to the Tomb, Vilkas would wince, and his gloved fingers would push at his temples, eyes squeezing shut. Aerene asked him about it, but Farkas responded that their wolves knew what was coming, and would do their best to stop the purification process.
Aerene tried to imagine the position they were put in; never in recorded history had a living Companion rid themselves of Hircine’s curse. Kodlak had died before he had the chance and took solace in the warmth of Ysgramor’s Tomb, among the spirits of his predecessors. The quest to cure him was successful. What the three of them were traveling to do was a first, and there was no telling how things would go. Do their wolves feel fear? Are they aching to break free?
Now, it was time to find out.
The Tomb looked the same as it had before, ancient and dusty yet carrying countless stories from the Companions’ history. It was a place of legend, yet there the three of them stood, facing Ysgramor’s statue, arms static in position to carry Wuuthrad. Vilkas held the axe in his hands, fingers tightly gripping the dark steel. Aerene stood between him and Farkas, worried about what would come next. They were walking into this blindly. She and Aela had been able to defeat Kodlak’s wolf spirit, though the circumstances had been drastically different then. Kodlak had already passed on and was relying on the comfort of his predecessors in their own place of rest. The wolf spirits residing within Vilkas and Farkas were still ferocious, and were not about to meet their end without a fight.
“Once you place the axe in Ysgramor’s arms, the shortcut may open, allowing us to bypass the main throughway of the tomb to the final chamber. I believe this place must recognize us as having been here before. Surely, the days since we’ve been here last are mere seconds to the Nords who’ve been at rest thousands of years,” Aerene spoke, and was met with silence. Unusual.
Farkas had his eyes on Vilkas, who was sweating, despite that they’d just come in from the freezing cold, and the inside of the Tomb complex wasn’t exactly warm, either. Vilkas’ jaw flexed when he tightened it, eyes darting back and forth over the ornate design on the axe’s blades. Farkas stepped over and put a single hand on the handle of the axe, meeting Vilkas’ gaze. Something Aerene couldn’t read was exchanged perfectly between them, when Farkas took Wuuthrad from his brother’s hands and slid it into place in the statue’s grip.
Clinging of metal and grinding of stone against stone was heard, and seconds later, the shortcut to the main chamber was revealed. Aerene wanted to speak, but felt as though the quietest whisper might bring the dungeon down completely. Farkas stepped off the platform where Ysgramor’s statue stood, and disappeared behind the turn in the entrance through the shortcut. Vilkas’ eyes were set on Ysgramor, yet he wasn’t truly looking. Aerene lightly pushed at his shoulder to get his attention, and he snapped out of it. “You can do this, Vilkas. We’ll handle this one moment at a time. You have come so far already,” she said, before leaving and following Farkas’ path through the corridor down to the main chamber of the Tomb.
Still burning at the center of the ancient room was that blue fire, waiting to purify a tormented spirit, to free it from Hircine’s lycanthropic grasp. Aerene took in her surroundings; she and the twin brothers had entered from one corner of the chamber and walked down a spiral wooden slope to arrive at the main floor, where the ground was made of uneven stone slabs and was dotted with green moss. At the center of the floor was a circular space a step lower than the rest of the ground, at the center of which the blue flame pyre was. On the outskirts of the chamber were staircases leading up to two raised platforms on opposite walls, atop which iron tombs stood. Candles burning with fire lit the room to life, as did sconces and chandeliers having about. Huge stone brick support pillars stood at the four corners of the space, and at the furthest, deepest end within, still behind an iron grate wall, was the very Tomb of Ysgramor himself. Getting here this time was almost too easy.
Once Farkas and Vilkas were standing by the pyre, Aerene made her way over and took in the blue flames, the lively warmth emitted by their ancient magic. She felt a mite more comfortable than before, and felt refreshed, despite the dustiness of the Tomb’s interior. She felt as though she belonged, like her ancestors had stood there, too.
Farkas reached into the crimson stained burlap sack he carried, and pulled out a Glenmoril witch head. Aerene cringed at the sight, the creature’s eyes which were glossed over and the mouth hung agape, revealing sharp teeth and a long, pointed, grey tongue. It was an image of hatred, the proprietor of cruelty and cause of the curse holding Vilkas and Farkas’ spirits ransom. “Here goes nothin’,” Farkas said, and tossed the head into the flames. He immediately unsheathed his great sword, and the flames blasted out as a howl rang through the air. The noise was coming from the end of the room opposite Ysgramor’s coffin; Aerene drew her sword in an instant, sights landing on the huge creature across the chamber. Just like Kodlak’s wolf spirit, this one was translucent and of a color the most menacing red. Aerene recalled a nightmare she’d had before, where the skies were blood red and a dragon had descended upon the Jorrvaskr training yard. Farkas’ wolf spirit was made of that same twisted hue. Its howl stopped, and it growled, large, furry head lowering to the ground while it bared its teeth and slowly walked to the right. Farkas screamed out a war cry, charging forward and swinging his blade down furiously. Aerene sprinted forward, aiming to flank the creature, who dodged the swings of Farkas’ blade as if it leapt like a springtime breeze. She’d just swiped at the beast’s haunch when it abruptly jerked around to face her, huge fangs lurching toward her as it aimed to bite, jumping in her direction. She’d performed this dance before, though, and moved back every necessary step. This gave Farkas the leverage to plunge his blade through the creature’s side, drawing whelps and cries from the wolf. Die, foul beast!
Just when Farkas pulled the blade from the wolf spirit’s flesh, the sound of metal in sinew a disgusting cacophony, the creature lowered itself to the stones below, expected to give out at any second. Aerene stood back to let Farkas finish the kill, when she realized Vilkas hadn’t partaken at all. The next moments were a blur when she spotted Vilkas kneeling on the ground, struggling to hold himself up, one hand leaning onto the floor while the other gripped the hair of the second witch head. So close to throwing it into the fire. But her attention was torn back to Farkas, who had his arms raised to free his soul from its prison, when the beast low to the ground leapt with an unnatural agility back into Farkas’ chest, and thus back into his body. Aerene’s eyes widened, fingers tightening around the hard handle of her sword. What just happened?!
Farkas yelped out, and she approached, but couldn’t get any closer as he dropped his greatsword and began breathing heavily. She’d seen him in this state before… back when she’d first learned he carried the beast within. He leaned heavily to one side, before throwing his head back in the most horrific roar Aerene had ever heard from a human, as she saw his hands clenching, his nails lengthening into claws. “No!” he growled in a deep, inhuman voice, stretching his hands out, fingers extending as far outward as they could, the claws shrinking back to regular nails. She stood there, petrified, not sure what to do. “Akatosh, guide me,” she whispered, blade shaky in her hand. Vilkas hadn’t moved. Farkas stumbled to the central pyre, clearly fighting for control over his body. He nearly tumbled to the ground, yet caught himself by leaning heavily onto the pyre; it was the light from the chandelier overhead that shone on his hand, gripping the side stones of the pyre, the hand which was human but the nails which were once again claws. Farkas cried out again, and stuck his wolf-like hand over the flames, emitting a growl that turned once more into a deafening roar. There was a flash of red, and then he collapsed.
Aerene’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open as she called his name, scurrying to his side. She was breathlessly shoving at him, pleading for him to wake up, relieved to find he was breathing yet was locked in this temporary slumber. By the Divines, this can’t be happening! What has gone wrong?!
“Vilkas, we must end this before the situation worsens!” she hissed to her shield brother, who was lightly shaking a few paces away. “Aerene,” he managed to squeak out. He had never sounded so weak. “I’m here,” she said, kneeling at his side, hand on his back. “Vilkas, get up!”
He shook his head, breaths falling heavily. There were growls hidden underneath. “Do it,” he gasped, pushing the Glenmoril Witch head to her feet. She nodded in acknowledgment, fingers grasping the hair of the head, before she quickly stood and tossed it into the fire. Just like before, the flames licked upward in a singular burst. “We can do this, Vilkas. We’re so close,” she spoke, turning to face him in preparation for the wolf spirit that would leap from his body. Only, when she looked upon him, he was no longer kneeling, but standing. Though the being she looked at was not the man her heart knew. His void black hair fell around his face, sticking with sweat to his pale skin. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly as he breathed at an unmanaged pace, his figure hulking in a most haunted way. Through the whole beastly facade were the wicked yellow irises of the werewolf that refused to leave the body it had known for so long. I cannot stop now. Vilkas is within! He must be!
Vilkas unsheathed the Skyforge steel sword from his hip, and raised it in an offensive position. Aerene raised her iron sword into a position of defense, her breaths growing quicker as the realization of what would happen next struck her like a bolt of lightning. “Vilkas, you cannot allow this beast sanctuary, do not allow your body to become a mere husk!” she spoke in a desperate, low tone. It was more a short letter to herself, as she was rapidly losing hope that Vilkas could hear her words, however much of his spirit was fighting to exist in his own body. “Damn you, Hircine!” Aerene cried out as Vilkas charged toward her, swinging his blade straight at her neck. She brought her blade down against his and a sickening clang of metals echoed through the chamber. He’d never pushed as hard as he was now, teeth gritted, wolfish fangs completely exposed as he pushed with all his might against her blade; she had to use her left hand to push back, but it wasn’t enough. She lost her grip and his blade swung straight forward, yet she pulled an evasive maneuver and ducked out of the way. He nearly got my neck.
She had no healing potions here. She’d left her knapsack with the horses, never thinking she’d have to battle her own shield brother in this twisted turn of events. If she were injured, she had only her own magic to save herself. But how could she do that, if she were to take a lethal hit?
All that destruction at Fellglow Keep. The necromancers who sought to treat others as playthings. And the draugr at Saarthal. The Silver Hand. Thrynn.
I have faced that all and more, yet I have never felt so afraid as I am now.
Her battle against fear was short-lived, as she continued fighting Vilkas. Yet she wasn’t truly fighting-she was only defending his attacks to save her own life. “Farkas! Are you battle ready?!” she screeched out, as she put more distance between herself and Vilkas. Farkas remained a slumped figure in the background. Damn it!
Vilkas was the best swordsman she knew, and his rapid movements were quickly draining her stamina. Aerene’s sentiment that the distance was a good idea, was proven wrong when Vilkas actually gripped his sword with both hands, raised the blade above his head, and threw it in her direction. She dove out of the way, landing hard on the stone floor, knowing she’d just escaped impalement by a few paces. This wouldn’t stop unless she could actually land a few hits, and she couldn’t do that safely with a sword. Neither can he.
The redhead spotted Vilkas’ sword, and scrambled to stand. She put herself between him and his blade, and upon seeing this, his eyes darkened, teeth gritted to bare freakishly long and sharp fangs. A deeply unsettling growl sounded from him, so guttural, so animalistic. While she breathed heavily, she tossed her own sword to the ground behind her, where his had landed.
The moment of her raising her fists in front of her mirrored the days she’d spent with him at the Jorrvaskr training yard. She never went down easy, and treated each spar with this sincerity. Vilkas raised his fists too, and charged toward her. She stayed in his target aim until he very last second, when she swayed out of center and abruptly turned, swinging her fist into his right cheek. The impact threw him off track for a moment, and it was enough for her to catch a glance of his normal eyes, but the color was gone with another blink that revealed that wicked amber. I have to keep this up!
Another glance toward Farkas revealed nothing new.
“Come on,” Aerene challenged Vilkas. His mouth stretched open to emit a nasty snarl, the likes of which only a place like Oblivion knew. In an instant, he swung at Aerene, and she moved to dodge again, turning her back to him, but this time, he was quicker, and there was a sudden pressure at her throat. It was tight, tightening, tighter… too tight.
She wheezed for breath, as Vilkas stood behind her, his arm positioned over her torso, hand latched onto her throat. She tried to speak, but couldn’t, tried to loosen his grip, but couldn’t. Just one of his hands was doing her in. She was suffocating. Aerene jammed her elbow into him, but his armor was so thick and protective it was no use.
It was when he started to stand, and kept his grip on her throat, that she was able to steal a quick breath. Her judgment was clouded as she felt herself get lightheaded in just a few seconds. He moved his arm, so now they were facing each other, her struggling to find her footing and doing everything she could to push away from him. Her brows were furrowed in desperation, hands pushing hard to the side to try and loosen his grip. If this weren’t her shield brother, she’d jam her thumbs into his eyes, or smash her fist into his nose. She had never known a foe like this. I’m sorry, brother.
Aerene squealed out a groan of desperation, and threw her fist into his cheek. Much to her demise, his eyes darkened, but she did it again. And again, and again. By the third hit, the skin below his eye was cut; while one hand held his arm that as at her throat, the other landed in a hard smack against his cheek, before she pressed her thumb hard against the cut. In an instant, she saw a falter in the hardness of his expression, a twinge in his brow and a twitch in his left eye. It was gone before she could escape his grasp, yet his grip had loosened enough for her to catch a breath of air. It was all happening in a span of seconds, and it was terrifying. His grip tightened tenfold, her jaw tightening and her eyes squeezed shut. Think! Think…
What thoughts could she think when her own shield brother was now holding her by the throat, raised at full height, her own boots no longer on the ground? She swung her leg at him, but without enough distance to prepare a full force kick, it was no use. A flash of terror flooded through her when she saw her shield-brother’s jaws open, tongue running over those inhuman fangs, mouth opening wider and wider… just like how a wolf would rip at the neck of a deer. A quick glance down revealed just how much closer to the heavens she was getting. It cannot end like this! I know Vilkas is fighting the accursed within himself! Hircine will not have this hunt!
She knew she had to make her decision fast.
Lucky dagger.
It had been tucked into her waistband when she pulled it free and struck it into the arm holding her up. Vilkas yelped in pain, and she fell to the ground like a sack of stones, coughing and gasping for air. She cast fast healing over herself, feeling some of her life-force flow back instantaneously. That was until she looked to where Vilkas had been standing, only to find that he hadn’t given up.
Divines, no… please…
He’d grabbed onto the blue sash tied at her neck, the very same one he brought to her in Falkreath the night Valdr died. As she was held up from the ground, legs in a weak, crumbly pile below her, his hand a fist in the material at her neck and pulling tightly, her eyes watched his other hand tighten into a fist and launch like steel into her temple. She cried out, head hanging limply as the impact of the hit echoed through her skull in waves of shocking torment. Another hit, into her mouth. Her lips were cut against her own teeth. Another hit to her cheekbone. That whole half of her face stung in a plea for relief. “Vilkas, please,” she croaked. She had the taste of blood in her mouth, and her vision was blurred, when she lay at his feet. He’d let go, but as she began to crawl toward their swords, just out of reach, he hit her with the blow of his boot into her back. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, lips shaky, as she pushed herself onto an elbow for support, only for another kick to bring her back down.
The Nord woman was flat on her back now, staring blankly up at the soul she no longer knew. This isn’t over yet, she promised herself. Silent prayers to the Divines banished the fear that had consumed her, and she found once again a strange comfort. It was the same place her mind roamed to when she lay her head upon the executioner’s block in Helgen. Maybe it is…
Vilkas stood tall over her, and planted his boot against the center convergence of her collarbones, before letting his foot slide forward to her throat, where he began to increase the pressure. “And to think,” she coughed out with a dreadful smile, “you let me think I bested you those sessions at Jorrvaskr.”
In the desolation of her thoughts, the near hopeless realm within, her last resort was her hopes and dreams, that power she could wield from time to time, mastered by a sound mind and eager heart, that power most of her kind despised, the very thunder which her dearest magic-wielding friend weaved as though he commanded the firmament itself.
She brought her hands to rest on the shin and calf of the leg holding her down, as Vilkas pressed his boot harder and harder at her throat. The beast within him means to kill. I mean to live!
I have no tools left at my disposal… my weapons are out of reach… there are seconds left before I’m departed evermore from this plane…
No.
I have spent the last month learning means of survival beyond steel. Beyond the tangible. It is within me.
She sucked in as much breath as she could before summoning forward all the magicka she had, casting not sparks, but lightning bolt, the thunder bursting from her palms into the flesh of her shield brother above, a burst of supernatural violet light blinding her from all comprehension. Her fingers spread, palms wide, mouth agape, eyes an icy, bright reflection of the glorious magic cast from within. The sparks of lightning danced up Vilkas’ leg and seized control of his flesh in its entirety, causing those yellow irises to gleam brighter and wider than Aerene ever believed possible.
That sight was the last she saw before her vision tunneled to black and the battle for purification was a drifting memory in the unconscious sea she floated within.
-
The next time she opened her eyes, it was because of the swaying motion of her arm hanging down. Even in such a distorted state, where she saw glimpses of the Tomb’s main chamber, and couldn’t form words, she knew she was in Farkas’ arms, as he carried her through the Tomb. She fell unconscious again within seconds.
Her own wheezy breaths sounding as loud as a dragon’s roar awoke her to an actual quiet reality. She was laying on the ground, facing a wall just inches from her face. Her head throbbed with an excruciating ache, lips chapped and throat dry. Somewhere behind her, she heard voices.
‘I told you, I checked her belongings. She doesn’t have a healing potion.’
‘We can’t take her back to Winterhold in this state. You’re lucky she’s even alive, brother.’
‘I know what I’ve done, Farkas. What matters now is her. If we do nothing, she won’t leave here alive.’
A pause.
‘I know that look. You’ve thought of something.’
‘Stay here with her. I’ll be back.’
The final words were distant echoes as she gave in to the urge to sleep.
-
“Aerene!”
A voice came from somewhere nearby, yet it seemed so far away. Her vision was a collage of dim light, fading darker and growing slightly brighter again. Someone was gently shaking her, shaking her awake.
Her eyes opened to see she was still on the ground in the Tomb. Across the room she could make out a figure, whose back was turned to her. Her vision focused out of a blur. He was crestfallen, arms folded. Vilkas. He’s alright.
“Aerene,” the voice said again, and while she didn’t move her head, her eyes lifted to see the person kneeling at her side, the one who’d been prodding her to wake up. His face brought a soft smile to her lips. She spoke his name in a barely audible acknowledgment. “Onmund?”
He nodded, pushing her hair back out of her face, behind her ear. “Mhmm,” he hummed yes. “Lift your head,” he said, placing his hand at the base of her neck, gently assisting. She winced in pain at the movement of lifting her head, but was relieved to feel that he’d placed something soft below her skull. Behind him, Farkas appeared, standing and watching from over Onmund’s shoulder. She had her eyes on him, wondering if he was solely human now. It had to have worked. Thank the Divines. Farkas turned his head to watch Vilkas, who was unmoving from his spot further back, as though stepping any closer wasn’t possible for him. “Aerene,” Onmund said lowly again, and she turned her focus to him. He wore a soft, gentle expression, so pleasant to see his face when most of the time, his hood was up over his head. Seeing his features this close, it reminded Aerene of the fine statuary back in the Imperial City. “Don’t move your body. I’m going to turn your head. It’s going to hurt, okay?”
A wiggle of her finger out of view revealed a sore right hand, her dominant one, that she’d used to break free of Vilkas’ hold before. How long ago was that?
She inhaled sharply when Onmund’s fingers rested against her jaw, and turned her head to face the ceiling above, blurry stones of a dusty grey brown. Even the frantic darting of her eyes back and forth felt grainy and as though she’d stared in a squint at the sun for far too long. She heard a cork pop out of a bottle, and a light cough after. A magicka potion. “Hold still,” Onmund could be heard saying. Then, a spell was cast, and a blissful golden light engulfed her entire body. Every facet of pain picking at her vanished one by one, and she could blink without hurting, breathe without feeling pressure against her lungs. “Thank the Divines for you,” she said, leaning on her elbow to push herself up from the laying position. Onmund supported her weight, and she was now sitting, back leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her. This was a better angle to take in her surroundings.
Onmund was facing her, still kneeling, while Farkas stood still, both men watching her carefully. Ysgramor’s statue was ever still behind them. She blinked, and then her gaze landed on Vilkas, still in the corner. Her expression was perhaps more wicked than ever intended, as the moment Vilkas caught her eyes from further back in the room, his head fell to face the ground and he left through the Tomb entrance. Farkas spoke then. “Sorry, ‘Rene. You’re a damn strong woman,” he said. “We’ll give you some time to wake up,” he added, following his brother out of the Tomb. Aerene tore her gaze from the iron doors at the Tomb entrance, facing Onmund. “Thank you for healing me,” she said. “How did you end up here?”
Onmund settled down adjacent to her, leaning to sit against the dusty wall behind them. “I was on my way to a lecture at the College when Vilkas found me. He asked if I knew any healing spells. Normally, I’d have said no, but then you taught me healing hands a few days ago. When I told him I did, he said you needed a healer, but wouldn’t give me any details.” He said. He sounded entirely uncertain. And for good reason. Which also means Onmund knows nothing of what happened here today. He doesn’t know that Vilkas was the reason. That we came here to purify their souls of lycanthropy forever, to release them from the snare of Hircine. Onmund seems to be open-minded, but how would he react to that?
No details.. “Yet you came anyway,” she breathed. Even that thought caused her heart to beat with a little extra warmth.
“I imagine you must’ve been… surprised… to have been brought to Ysgramor’s Tomb,” she added. Onmund scoffed. “Until today, I thought the place only existed in legend. To be in a place so ancient, so sacred to the first Five Hundred, none of the stories do this place justice.”
“I know you’re probably wondering why we’re here, of all places.”
Onmund laughed incredulously, “Yes, the thought’s crossed my mind.”
Aerene slowly heaved herself up to stand, though Onmund beat her to it and pulled her upright. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know when we’re back at the College,” she promised. “I’m going to speak with my shield brothers. I’ve had enough of this place,” she said, exhausted.
Although she’d been healed, the spell couldn’t cure exhaustion. Her body didn’t ache nearly as much as it had been just moments previous, but it took more effort than usual to make her way out into the later afternoon. She found Vilkas outside the tomb entrance, past the entry area that was carved into the ground, subterranean in nature. He was watching Farkas ready the horses for travel, while seated on a collapsed pillar. His hair was dusted with snowflakes. It had stopped snowing before Aerene got outside. As though he didn’t hear her approach, her greeting startled him. “Are you alright, brother?”
She settled down on the pillar next to him. It was rather cold on her bottom. Vilkas sighed, and she noticed he had her lucky dagger in his hands, looking down at it. He won’t even look at me.
“I beat you within inches of your life, and you’re asking me if I’m alright?”
“I know you would never choose to bring me harm. And I also know what it feels like for thunder itself to strike the flesh. Surely you are feeling the effects? And besides, it was out of your hands. You know what I aim to ask, Vilkas. What we came here to do. Was the ritual successful?” He had no bruising on his face, but she remembered all she did to try and pull him out of that feral state. It was a nightmare, yet he showed no effects of it.
Vilkas shut his eyes. He nodded. “The pain… I don’t remember any of it. But, yes. I… It’s like waking up out a dream. I can breathe more deeply now. I can’t smell your heart beating the way I used to. For the most part, my mind is.. clear.”
“Talk to me,” Aerene told him. There’s more he’s not saying. Vilkas frowned. “I could have killed you today. After everything that’s happened. I couldn’t control my own body, the beast would not depart. I believed my soul was ready, but perhaps my spirit was not. Yet, it’s finally over. Thank you, Aerene. I am sorry.” Aerene shook her head. “The Divines did not want me today. There was a better course set in motion. Now your soul is yours, Vilkas. And when your time here is over, you shall commune with Kodlak and Ysgramor in Sovngarde. You can live peacefully now,” she said optimistically, lightly nudging his shoulder with hers. He moved away immediately, and she lightly flinched. He saw this, and blinked heavily. His reserve surprised her, but it hurt her more. He stood up and faced her, looking down at her with that unreadable expression. The only giveaway was the glossy mistiness in his eyes. I can’t tell if he hates me or adores me. “You’ve done Farkas and I a great service today. We won’t soon forget it,” he handed her back her dagger, the one she’d stabbed into his arm. But she saw no struggle-it must’ve healed before he was fully human.
Vilkas cast her one final glance, before turning his back to her completely and stepping through the snow toward the horses. Aerene stared after, dumbfounded. Why did that feel like a goodbye? Are we not traveling back together?
She was too confused to speak her thoughts aloud. The ache in her head and body didn’t help, either. Everywhere was starting to hurt again, so soon.
Farkas walked over, and she stood up. “Farkas, what is this? You’re leaving so soon? But it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other. Today is an occasion to celebrate. You know I hold no grudge, why the haste?”
“‘Rene, I’m not ready to go, either. But Vilkas says we’re going back to Whiterun. I think he’s angry with himself over what he did today, and I do what he tells me.” Farkas stated plainly. “Vilkas must cast aside his lingering doubts. I am alive and well,” Aerene was nearly begging. “Yeah… but you don’t look well.” Farkas’ words stung. He pulled her into a hug, and she held him back. “Being free of the beast blood is like slipping into a warm mug of spiced mead, ‘Rene. I feel alive, like a warrior should, with no thoughts of the hunt. Vilkas’ll get over this.” He set his large hands on her shoulders and watched her a moment. “Thanks again. Keep your wizard friend around. I like him. Bye, ‘Rene.”
“Goodbye, Farkas,” she barely muttered, swallowing the lump formed in her throat. She stood still in that spot, when the snow began falling again. When Farkas got on his horse. When Vilkas wouldn’t turn to look at her. When they set off, their backs to her, horses carrying them through the thick layers of snow underfoot. When they left her sight, still, there she stood.
After all these years in the hand of Hircine. I sought out the day when they could occupy their bodies solely. Here it is, and it’s worse than I could have ever imagined.
She knew not what to make of any of it. Her chest ached, but not from the earlier battle-from the departure of her shield brothers. It was the anger overcoming her sadness that stopped any tears from falling. For now.
She looked downward to the dagger. The lucky dagger. How many more times am I going to fail, and lean on this as a last resort? It had saved her life again today, but she felt none the luckier.
A quarter hour later, she and Onmund were stepping toward River. Aerene had stood in the falling snow for at least ten minutes, and didn’t tell Onmund her shield brothers had departed earlier. A part of her had been hoping they’d come back, that they could move past the events of the day. But there she stood, and all that moved around her was the snow from the sky to the ground. “I’ll take the reigns,” Onmund said, and Aerene nodded. He mounted River first, the mare shaking the snowflakes from her mane and face, neighing in greeting of her two favorite people. “Hi, girl,” Aerene said. She grabbed onto the saddle and stuck her foot in the stirrup, and for the first time in a while, her attempt to get up on the horse was unsuccessful. Bites of soreness struck through her when she moved one certain way or another. She fumbled back down, ready to collapse into the snow and let it bury her.
“Here,” Onmund offered his arm. She looked at it and then at him, and took his hand, where he hauled her up onto the horse. Finally, they were on their way back to Winterhold. On the way back home… because if there was one thing Aerene was sure of now, it was that Jorrvaskr is no longer home.
The trek back to Winterhold was quiet, and Aerene sat comfortably behind Onmund the whole way. She didn’t know she’d fallen asleep until she woke up, leaning against the soft cloth of his mage robes, the warmth of his figure and that sweet scent of apples. She inhaled before realizing just what in Oblivion she was doing, quickly jerking away from him. He acknowledged this, “I don’t bite, you know.” She hesitated at first, but then settled her cheek against his back, where it was warm. She pulled her blue sash further over her ears, and accepted the shared warmth. She knew he didn’t mind, because he said nothing else about it. As she let herself relax, hesitantly, she was overcome with a wave of sadness. It was so sudden she couldn’t stop it, and while she watched more snow fall, the world slowly passing as they moved along, tears fell down her cheeks in silence.
Her cheeks and nose were already red from the light wind and snow, and she’d managed to stop the tears before getting to the College. She managed to stop anyone from noticing she’d been crying.
They arrived to the College during the evening meal, just in time. Aerene was about to suggest they head to the dining hall, as they passed one of the glowing blue magicka ponds near the College entrance, and a glance downward caught her reflection. She gasped, seeing the unrecognizable person staring back at her as she leaned over the wall of the light well and stared into the essence below. Half of her face was discolored with bruising, of various pinks and some yellow. The space around her upper cheek and eye was the darkest. It was nauseating, seeing herself. No wonder Vilkas couldn’t look at me. I don’t want to go into the dining hall like this. I don’t want the looks, the eyes that will dart away as soon as I catch them staring.
She prepared to get Onmund’s attention, but he was already paused, facing her sympathetically. She didn’t know what it was that he really wanted to tell her. She didn’t know that when he looked at her, he saw not the damaged skin, tired eyes, and scarred cheek, but that he saw beauty. “I’ll… uh…” she scratched the side of her neck. “I’m not hungry.” Onmund crossed his arms at this, quirked up a brow. He sighed. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he responded. “I know,” she replied. Her head fell into her hands, before her arms fell limply to her sides. “I know.”
Aerene shut the door to the wardrobe of her quarters, her armor set stored inside next to her sword and dagger. She dragged her hands over the mage’s robes she changed back into. A short walk through the Hall of Attainment brought her to Onmund’s quarters; to think, she’d been there earlier in the day, looking to tell him she’d return later. Where would I be if he hadn’t gone to Ysgramor’s Tomb? Did he hesitate for even a moment before agreeing to follow Vilkas? She wondered these things while staring at her friend, who bit the cork out of a bottle of Nord mead, and had just taken a drink before noticing Aerene in the doorway. “Here,” he offered her a separate bottle, one that had already been opened. She took it and sat at his desk, where a plate sat, on it a plentiful portion of stew, braided bread, a baked potato, and… a sweet roll.
She went for the sweet roll first, nearly inhaling it. Onmund sat against the headboard of his bed, his plate sitting in front of him. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re welcome. Nothing you haven’t done for me,” he added lowly. A quick recovery, “I wasn’t sure if you like horker stew,” he said. “I’m not just talking about the food, Onmund.” Aerene set the partially-eaten sweet roll on her plate, before she walked over the door and closed it shut. Onmund’s expression was cautious, then, like a deer spotting the sabre cat approaching through the brush. He let out a quiet breath when Aerene settled back into her chair. “Thank you for… well, saving me today.” Gods, how do I say this? I’m past the point of wondering if it’s my right. “I’ll answer any questions you have. Where do you want me to start?”
“Anywhere you’d prefer. You don’t owe me any answers, Aerene, but it’s generous of you to offer,” Onmund said, tearing his bread into pieces. She scoffed. “I think it’s the least I owe you. Onmund, the Tomb I went into today.. Ysgramor’s Tomb… it’s the home of the ancient harbinger fire. Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve read about it, yes.”
“So then you’ve read about why it exists.”
“To purify, supposedly.”
“And you know what is being purified?”
“Well, the scribes declare it was the Glenmoril Coven who cursed one Harbinger with the blood of a beast. Something about cursing the warriors of Jorrvaskr for generations to come, but the legend’s authenticity is debatable past that point. Text on the issue is contradictory, but it’s been suggested that the fire can somehow play a part in purifying a spirit.”
There was silence between them, while Onmund pulled another section from his bread, and Aerene’s palms were sweaty but cold. Then, he stilled, and set the bread down. He looked up at her, swallowing. He knew. “You’re not saying…” his voice trailed. It’s not easy to put into words.
“The legends are true. The Circle, for hundreds of years, have all carried the curse, borne from an exchange of blood, to give the accursed the power to take on a lycanthropic form once per day, under the sun or under the moons. Each Companion who drank.. their soul was sworn to Hircine at the first moment, the first taste of another Companion’s blood.”
“You didn’t… you aren’t…?” Onmund began, watching her with pleading eyes. As if it would make a difference now. “I did not, no. To hunt for Hircine would be to betray a life of service to the Divines. Vilkas and Farkas, though… they’ve lived at Jorrvaskr since boyhood. It was Kodlak’s teaching and encouragement that led them to suppress their beast forms in recent years. Kodlak, he asked to see me one day. I sat at his usual table, down in the lower level of the mead hall. He told me his research had led to a new discovery, but he needed me to retrieve a Glenmoril Witch’s head first. He wished to be purified before long, before standing across the way from Shor’s Hall where he wanted to spend eternity, in Sovngarde. So I left, and sought out the coven. By the time I arrived back at Jorrvaskr that night, the Silver Hand had attacked, and Kodlak was killed. I went with my shield siblings to Ysgramor’s Tomb, and we fought our way through to the main burial chamber, the location of the harbinger fire. We set Kodlak’s spirit free with ease. Today, though… today was different. Even with the three of us, from the start, it was a struggle. Vilkas and Farkas’ wolf spirits would not let up easily. Farkas was incapacitated. Vilkas… well, he lost control over his body. Like a middle realm between the cruelty of the lycanthrope and the helplessness of a human against one, but with the abilities of both. I didn’t think to run. Maybe I should have. I couldn’t hold him off. His boot was at my neck when I recalled how you taught me the lightning bolt spell, and the shock was enough to shake his spirit free.
To learn your limit… how much you can take, is one issue. A humbling experience indeed. But I’m safe again because of you. You saved my life today.”
Onmund stared blankly. “No.” His voice was determined. “You saved yourself. He would’ve killed you, if you hadn’t. Here I thought you’d lost a fistfight with a draugr, but it was Vilkas who did that to you,” Onmund groaned, his face falling into his hands, elbows propped up on his lap. “It’s no wonder why Vilkas spared every detail. How could that happen, and then they just leave you? I mean, he asked me to escort you back here, which I would’ve done anyway, but-“
“Wait. He asked you to bring me back?”
That means Vilkas had been planning to leave for Whiterun from the Tomb before he found Onmund here in Winterhold. He planned that far ahead? He planned to leave me without a word? She thought he had been suddenly overwhelmed when they spoke outside the Tomb, that being the reason he left abruptly. To not even consider staying. To abandon me. After all we’d been through. Coward!
“Yeah. By the sound of it, that wasn’t your original plan.”
“No. I expected them to stay at least the night in Winterhold. Yet, here I am, and here they aren’t.”
While they ate, he asked questions about the beast blood, and she enjoyed answering. There was no other she’d tell such secrets to. But a friend like him, well, for him, she was turning into an open book.
-
“Good morn-by Azura! What happened to you?”
Brelyna greeted Aerene in the dining hall the next morning. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she replied, sitting across from her at the table. Brelyna didn’t press the matter. She looked rather sullen today. “Are you quite well?” the Nord asked. Brelyna’s ruby gaze flickered between her snowberry porridge and the table, like the words she searched for were written there. Then, when she looked across the room to J’zargo, Aerene began to understand. The Khajiit apprentice seemed to be in some kind of competition with another student, as they each had a small flame summoned in their hand and were waving them at each other. “What is the matter?” Aerene asked, taking a sip of her juniper tea. Each time she smelled it reminded her of Falkreath. Brelyna swallowed a mouthful of porridge. “That’s the unusual part. I’m not quite sure. I think I’ve been too deep in my studies for too long. And, unfortunately, there are few others studying conjuration here. At least, that aren’t insufferable. And this place is cold, always. Morrowind, albeit ashy with congested air, at least it’s warm.”
“Do you mean to say you are planning a return?”
“Hah! Not if I can help it,” Brelyna exclaimed. “Sometimes, I find myself expecting his ambitions to lessen. But I know they won’t,” Brelyna confessed as she watched J’zargo. “Better yet, I can’t lessen myself to meet him at his level.”
Aerene felt a pang of sympathy for Brelyna. J’zargo was a fantastic study partner… and, well, probably talented in other ways, too… but he was competitive in a way that might see his hubris cost him some day. “Let him meet you at yours, then,” she shrugged. Brelyna rolled her eyes. “I value your optimism, Aerene, but if you were there during his last round of experiments, ugh, don’t even get me started. I wish our magic practices were complementary, like yours and Onmund’s.”
The Nord’s ears, thankfully hidden under her hair, went pink at this. “Nonsense. Perhaps you need some time in the sun to actualize yourself,” she suggested. “Oh, what? You know it’s true. The two of you are very alike.” Aerene scoffed. “Only in that we are the tallest students here,” she retorted. “You wound me with your feigned ignorance, my sweet Nord friend,” Brelyna finished off her tankard of snowberry juice. “Perhaps a journey to the Shrine of Azura will set me right again. To commune may be what I need. I stopped at her shrine on my way to Winterhold, but haven’t returned since.”
“There’s a Shrine of Azura nearby?”
“Yes. It is the most magnificent in all of Skyrim. You’ll see, one day.”
-
Later on, Aerene stared at the letter on her desk, in her quarters. Even though she hadn’t written his name after ‘Dear’, she considered the whole page ruined. Crumpling it, she dropped it in a bowl, and blasted it with fire from the palm of her hand. Dear he-who-flees-when-difficulty-arises, I always knew I liked your brother more.
“Divines help me,” she groaned.
When she found out the next lecture offered was about basic healing, she decided to skip and head into Winterhold. The sun was out, and working a little at a time to melt the snow blanket over the old, sleepy settlement. She made her way to Birna’s shop to find the woman doing chores. Aerene offered to take over scrubbing the shop’s floors, as Birna complained about her back aching, but Birna said the real chore was bathing the horses. So, Aerene spent the afternoon trying not to get kicked by Flower, Birna’s mare who was not happy to be washed up when the day was so nice. When she’d stopped in to let the shopkeep know the horses were cleaned after, Birna had a pleasant proclamation. ‘Tell you what. In weeks you can spare a little time to help with chores, I won’t take any coin for carin’ after River. Shor knows you ain’t makin’ any extra gold up there with the College. Matter of fact, you’re best for my business in this half rotted nook.’
Some time before the evening meal, Aerene stood near the wash basin in a basement room of The Frozen Hearth Inn. ‘Here for a bath?’ Dagur asked as Aerene walked up to the counter. ‘How’d you know?’ Aerene asked, dropping a few coins on the counter. ‘Lucky guess,’ he replied.
Lucky guess, my ass. She almost gagged after catching a whiff of her soiled clothing, carrying the fresh scent of the miniature farm behind Birna’s shop. The water inside the wash basin was steaming and warm; she had her soap, a fresh set of clothing, a clean linen for drying, and a bristle brush she’d purchased from Birna a couple weeks back all on the stool next to the tub. She was ready to get in. What she wasn’t ready for, though, was the occasional throb in her face or sting in her neck. She persisted, and set one foot over the wall of the large tub, before submerging her other leg in, too. She stood there, and looked over her body in its most raw form since the day before. Her barren flesh was devoid of clothes but not bruises. A light touch into the supple flesh of her waist drew a sudden wince, and if she strained her eyes to look close as she could down her torso, she could see a glimpse of the discoloration around the base of her neck. She turned, slowly, achingly, sinking into the tub to sit. It felt so welcoming and warm, yet the aches were irritated before they were soothed soon after. She flexed her hand flat open and back into a fist to exercise out the stiffness; she’d cast a healing spell before heading back to the College to try and lessen the swelling of her knuckles.
At this rate, as she soaked and washed away as many problems as she could, she couldn’t be bothered to care about a thing in the world.
In the quiet hours of the early evening, as the sun was shining its last and casting long shadows over Winterhold, Aerene made her way back across the bridge to the College grounds and found herself once more in her quarters. It felt good to be in freshly cleaned clothes and skin. The air in her room carried a relaxing aroma. That morning after she’d come back from a visit to the Sea of Ghosts with River-part of her usual routine minus any exercise today-she got rid of the previous fragrant herb bundle and made the space completely hers-no scents to remind her of anyone. She set down her bathing supplies and noticed a letter on her desk. It hadn’t been there previously, nor was it sealed.
Someone was in here. Who?
Aerene’s paranoia bit at her, telling her to look under the bed and see if someone was hiding underneath, but she dismissed the thought in quick recognition that she was taking things too fast. She picked up the piece of parchment, and read over the finely printed ink:
Aerene,
I was looking for you earlier, but I guess you’d gone fishing.
If this was from who she thought it was, he knew very well she hadn’t gone fishing. She smiled, and continued to read.
By the time you read this, I’ll be out of Winterhold to take care of a personal matter in Falkreath Hold. I don’t expect to be gone long, but I hope you won’t mind catching me up on lectures and spellcasting I’ve missed when I return. Be well.
Your friend,
Onmund
She’d sat to read through the short note, relieved it wasn’t someone scheming or leaving threats. Not that she had any reason to expect that sort, but she was a little on edge lately.
Huh. So Onmund’s gone to take care of a ‘personal matter’ in Falkreath, then? He said his family lives in Shor’s Stone… maybe he’s got more family in Falkreath. Or… someone else, perhaps?
She decided to believe she’d hear all about it upon his return, whenever that was. But as she sat and brushed through her hair, the dampness trying its best to persist, she wondered how long he’d be gone. He doesn’t owe me any explanations or estimations. It was generous to even write a note. Whatever he left for… it must be important.
Right?
When she spent the evening meal sitting across from Brelyna and J’zargo, with no one at her side, she missed her usual companion. “You shouldn’t let your mudcrab legs get cold. J’zargo can eat them, instead…” the Khajiit stretched a hand toward her plate. She lightly swatted his hand away and he snickered. “Where’s Onmund? He’s usually right there,” Brelyna pointed with her fork to the empty spot next to Aerene on the bench. “He didn’t tell you? He’s out on business for a little while,” Aerene said, snapping a mudcrab leg open to reveal the cooked meat inside. She flinched when a drop or two sprayed at her eye in the snap. “Ah yes, the tall Nord was looking for this one earlier,” J’zargo added between sips of wine. Brelyna turned to look at Aerene, her eyes narrowed, her face smug. Aerene’s brows furrowed, as she wished to dismiss Brelyna’s speculation; she pushed the Dunmer’s tankard toward her. “Drink your tea,” she said in a faux-stern tone.
They were part way through the meal, scarfing down the food and wine, when Aerene caught sight of Ancano entering the dining hall. He entered, and was scanning the crowd, looking between each table, eyes darting to the next in seconds. He’s searching for someone. She set her tankard down, and pulled the hood of her mage robes on, turning her face toward the stone brick wall next to the table. I hope it is not me.
She’d taken a bite of bread when J’zargo hissed, “The Thalmor approaches this table!”
Followed by, “You there.”
Instantly, Aerene recognized the voice. Of course he’d single her out, over something or other. What does he want this time? She looked up at him, meeting those stern eyes. Not liking how he towered over her seated figure, she stood up to give herself some leverage. “I need you to come with me immediately,” he demanded. Aerene’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you state your purpose,” she replied, crossing her arms. “State my..” Ancano huffed a laugh, his lips curving into a frown, eyes flickering with accusation. “Allow me to clarify the situation, since you do not understand. I'd like to know why there's someone claiming to be from the Psijic Order here at the College. More importantly, I'd like to know why he's asking for you specifically. So we're going to go have a little chat with him, and find out exactly what it is he wants. Where is the other mage who hangs about your little group?” Aerene hid her surprise behind a calm visage. The Psijic Order, here?
Oh, Divines…
“He departed earlier today,” she explained. “When is he coming back?” Ancano questioned. “I do not know. Could be tomorrow… could be a tenday,” she shrugged. Ancano rolled his eyes. “Well, this… monk….asked for both of you. I guess you’ll suffice. And the minute your friend returns, I want an explanation of his whereabouts.” With that, Ancano turned and walked, expecting Aerene to follow. She looked between J’zargo and Brelyna, who watched her worriedly. She said nothing, but followed the Altmer out of the dining hall and to the Hall of the Elements. ‘Find out why this monk is here. And then he will be removed from College grounds.’ Ancano spoke the instructions in that snooty voice of his, demanding authority without any right or reserve. They turned leftward and went through a door near the Hall entrance, up a spiral of stairs to an area Aerene hadn’t been before. The buzz of the Eye hovering in the main Hall faded with every step taken upward.
It was true; a mage of the Psijic Order, the same one who appeared in Saarthal, was here, in the flesh. He stood tall, facing Archmage Savos Aren. These are the Archmage’s quarters, she realized, taking in the high walls and banners hanging from them, eyes darting over the garden of magical plants and mage light in the center of the rounded room. She caught glimpses of a desk, bed, and wardrobe behind a the wall separating the garden from the living space. The Psijic mage spoke, and brought her attention to himself. “Please, do not be alarmed,” he announced, and while she had her eyes on him, she heard his voice, but his lips weren’t moving. Things all around her went silent, and one blink revealed the quarters warped by a smoky blue haze, the same kind that she and Onmund had encountered at Saarthal. She tested her own ability to move, and found that her body functioned normally; Archmage Aren and Ancano were frozen in place. “You are alone?”
This time, he was speaking the words. “Yes,” she nodded cautiously. “You’re the same mage as before, but you’re not a vision this time,” she observed. “This is unexpected, but at least one of you must receive this message. It is good to meet you in person. I am Quaranir, of the Psijic Order.”
“What’s going on?” Aerene questioned, gesturing around them. Quaranir sighed, looking between the tiny light particles floating about-dots never seen outside the casting of this spell. She hadn’t even seen him cast it. The mages of the Order comprehend magic in a way the scholars here could never understand. “I’ve given us a chance to speak privately, but I'm afraid I can't do this for long. We must be brief. The situation here at your College is of dire importance, and attempts to contact you as we have previously have failed. I believe it is due to the very source of our concern. This object...the Eye of Magnus as your people have taken to calling it. The energy coming from it has prevented us from reaching you with the visions you have already seen. The longer it remains here, the more dangerous the situation becomes. And so I have come here personally to tell you it must be dealt with.”
A spark of anger ignited in her chest. How many times am I going to encounter this? This vortex of, ‘We need you to handle this. See that it’s done.’? Can no one act for themselves around here?
“Don’t look at me that way, Aerene,” Quaranir said, a curious glimmer in his eye. “If the Eye is such an issue, one that brings you here, you certainly have the power to correct this course yourself,” she snapped, “so why are you here talking to me?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You must understand, the Psijic Order does not typically...intervene directly in events. My presence here will be seen as an affront to some within the Order, and as soon as we have finished, I will be leaving your College. I'm all too aware that my presence has aroused suspicion, especially in Ancano, you Thalmor associate. Nevertheless, my Order will not act directly. You must take it upon yourself to do so.”
Aerene’s hand clenched into a fist at her hip. “And if I do nothing?” Please tell me everything will be alright.
“This Eye is immensely powerful, Aerene. The future is as obscured to us as it is to you. But one facet remains sure: the world is not ready for the power of the Eye. No amount of research, the depth of any study, the combined brilliance of this entire College-will warrant an understanding of that orb. It may have already been misused. It cannot remain here,” Quaranir rapidly explained. Aerene stepped closer, jaw clenched. “Speak all you will on that. But you’ve yet to tell me why you’re right here, telling me that I need to do something. Why not speak to the Archmage?” she tipped her head toward Aren, who wore a blank, still expression, deep ebony eyes reflecting the hazy light of the room. “Because you set this course in emotion by discovering the Eye at Saarthal. As did your associate,” Quaranir snapped in a way that warranted a flinch from Aerene. His voice softened. “I know you never intended any of this. I wish I could do more to help. I have already overstepped the bounds of my order by coming here to speak to you. Many within the Order believe something will happen soon, as thought before. All I can offer is this-seek out the Augur of Dunlain.”
-
Soon after, Quaranir released the spell, and played Aren and Ancano well, simply muttering about being at the College mistakenly before taking his leave, ignoring Ancano’s demands. Aren pointed Aerene in Tolfdir’s direction. It seemed that the Augur was a story, the way Aren spoke about him, but Tolfdir’s sentiment was even more strange. He told Aerene of the Augur’s presence in the Midden, that he’d once been a student but was now something else.
Aerene had been tasked with seeking the Augur out for any guidance on the situation. Her mind, as she sat at the edge of her bed, facing the wardrobe, was a blur of questions and confusions, and like usual, without any answers. Tolfdir’s mentioning of the corridors beneath the College confirmed Aerene and Onmund’s hypotheses about the Midden as a sinister place, yet Onmund wasn’t here to learn this truth. There was also the chance that Ancano might choose the next hours to slither away into the Midden, as he had before. Aerene recalled the time she and Onmund happened to be in the same place at the same time, over shared suspicion of the Altmer’s motives and whereabouts. She’d have to take on the next part of this quest without him. Regrettably so.
There was so much on her mind, too much. She felt like she’d been suspended midair, and the visit from Quaranir with his prophetic warnings finally snipped the string holding her up. She’d fallen and shattered into a thousand fractals. The plan to research the dragons, the true reason she’d wanted to come to this place, was lost in the grey current of this deep, dark lake. She’d let her head hang into her hands, hunched over into her own lap, wondering.. if she were still enough, could she vanish?
“There you are,” Brelyna greeted, and Aerene looked up to the doorway, where the Dunmer stood, hand resting on the door handle in hesitation. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” Aerene nodded, and pulled her legs to fold beneath her on her bed, more comfortably. “What in Azura’s name happened? You look… distraught,” Brelyna said. Aerene was reminded of her bruised up face, which must’ve been a clear read that the meeting with the Psijic mage wasn’t all sunny days and springtime blooms. Brelyna sat next to Aerene, flopping down onto her back to stare at the ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach. Aerene did the same, except she leaned her legs against the wall where the headboard rested against, for it was strangely comfortable. They stared upward together. Aerene had shared with Brelyna the information about the previous Order encounter in Saarthal, and she took it upon herself to recount tonight’s experience.
“So you’re going to the Midden?” Brelyna questioned in wonder. “It is the only lead. I must,” Aerene replied. She felt shifting as Brelyna sat up, and appeared in Aerene’s vision upside down, peering down at her as she leaned over while Aerene remained laying. Aerene, not expecting to see Brelyna’s large, ruby eyes in such close proximity so suddenly, laughed, grinning widely as she sat up to face Brelyna. “If Ancano is using the Midden, as you saw him do before… you’ll need someone at your back. And since your usual company isn’t around, I’ll see to it that the hero of this story doesn’t get an elven dagger in her back,” she said affirmatively. Brelyna stood up, stretching her arms upward and outward, stretching her hands with a pop of her knuckles. “Hero? You tell a twisted tale, Brelyna darling,” Aerene retorted. “In this game, we are but pawns,” she said, opening her wardrobe to ready her armor.
-
The entrance to the Midden wasn’t easily accessible, but they fortunately knew where to start. Aerene and Brelyna slipped into the trapdoor in the walkway of the courtyard, tucked away enough not to be seen at this time of night. An old ladder took them down to a subterranean level, where they stood in a narrow, icy and frozen crevice beneath the College. Up ahead, the mossy stone brick walls were lined with torches. “I’m not taking any chances,” Brelyna said, and summoned a mage light to follow them through the tunnels. Aerene drew her sword, taking the lead, not knowing what to expect down here. It was musty and stunk of mildew, air that had rotted in itself for who knew how long.
The icy tunnel gave way to a larger room, devoid of any frozen ground. Aerene stared across the chamber, seeing the human skeletons hanging on the far wall across the room. She swallowed, nudging Brelyna and gesturing ahead. Brelyna’s eyes widened at the sight; they noticed the disturbing image of a deer skull in place of a human one atop the shoulders of the bone display. They had entered on a balcony-like level of the room, and were left with two options; they could travel through a tunnel on the left, or continue downward into the belly of the tunnels. Aerene spoke. “I want to know the layout of this place,” she stated, cautiously stepping into the tunnel on the left. She stepped slowly, her footsteps nearly silent as she walked. Her shadow accompanied her, Brelyna right behind. Torchlight danced on the walls of the narrow corridor, which split in two. The first was revealed to be another doorway-which led up to the Hall of Countenance. “This must be the path Ancano uses,” Aerene observed, before turning to face the leftward path, and she stilled. There was a niche, not a full room, carved into the wall. A bed roll was on the ground in a cell walled by iron bars. Old, dark brownish read stains of blood marked the bed roll. A glance to the right of the niche revealed a chair, fashioned with the same stains. Behind the chair, the mossy nooks and crannies of the wall were splattered with the same stains; two iron cuffs were bolted into the wall, a wicked setup for wicked actions. “This place reeks of evil,” Brelyna said quietly. Aerene nodded. On the way back, they passed a pyre, behind which was a stomach-twisting sight. Someone had efforted to take a human ribcage, and lean it against the wall; atop it was another deer skull, and on each side, pointed downward, were huge elk antlers. The very scene took her back to that time in the nest of the Glenmoril Coven. The memory sent a chill down her spine. “Let’s keep moving.”
Quietly, they returned to the larger chamber, where the skeletons hung from the bricks. How can the College stand atop a place as heinous as this? Proud mages walking over ruin.
This larger, central room was also dimly lit. and the wall to the right, opposite the tunnel, had numerous large grates cutting the space off from something on the other side. The sound of rushing water filled the room, and was louder the closer she stepped to the grate wall. A chilly breeze swept through the grate wall, and Aerene peeked through the iron rods. From somewhere above, an icy waterfall-of sewage, or what, she did not know-poured downward. She could make out what appeared to be an ice cave, perhaps a natural formation from ages ago, whereas the chamber they stood in had been constructed later.
Just how long has this Midden been in use?
As she began leading the way into the lower level, through another tunnel, she thought she heard footsteps. That weren’t hers or Brelyna’s. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. Brelyna looked around, but shook her head. Her deep ruby eyes looked black as midnight in the poor lighting. Aerene looked as though she’d seen a ghost-or like she was one herself. Aerene tightened the grip on her sword, and continued through the darkness.
Soon, they entered another room, an orange glow of firelight revealing old, dirty walls, cobwebs, and lots of dust. It was a circle of lit candles across the room that was most intriguing. “This…” Brelyna began, walking past Aerene, “I didn’t expect to find this here.”
Aerene took in the room; a wooden table, chair, and cabinet were shoved into one corner of the space. Just past it was a round room, like a larger niche, with a circular ritual platform, where all the candles lined the edge of the circle. At the front of the platform was a fire pit constructed of bricks, where a low heat was emitted. Aerene felt the urge to look behind her every few seconds, but was more interested in the huge, unfamiliar skull sitting in the pit at the front of the platform. It looked like it had come off a creature of Oblivion, with huge teeth and horns that curved in a way not known to this realm. Atop it was a smaller crevice, that looked to be made of the horn material. The longer she stared, the sicker she felt. No good can come from this ritual circle. She had learned plenty in her time at the Temple about those who channeled Daedra through portals and rituals connecting this realm to that of Oblivion. This was one such conduit for these activities. Aerene acknowledged the power of conjuration spells, and recognized their strength and usefulness, but drew the line at soul trapping or dremora summoning. She didn’t, however, know Brelyna’s thoughts on the subject, but it was evident based on Brelyna’s excitement in the discovery of the summoning circle.
After a few moments of taking the summoning platform in, Brelyna was ready to continue. Aerene led the way forward, and found that the open tunnel paths led downward. Eventually, they stood at a tunnel exit a few floors below where they’d entered. She knelt down, looking upward; they were now in the icy cave area on the other side of the grates, and could clearly see the water spilling into a murky pond a few paces ahead. Straight ahead, a dark door awaited opening. The pounding of the water was louder here than anywhere else. Just when she thought she heard footsteps, and prepared to look behind them, a draugr stepped into view at the tunnel exit. Aerene cursed, quickly stepping back to avoid the swing of its axe, knocking into Brelyna and mumbling an apology all in a few seconds. Aerene instinctively blocked the next swing of the axe with her blade, and kicked at the knee of the draugr. Her foot struck true and the undead fell into a kneel, groaning and yelling in its ancient language. She swiped her sword in a flash, and in one clean hit, she beheaded the beast. It fell with creaking and clattering to the ground. Breaths heavy, Aerene stepped over the corpse, only after ensuring the room was now safe. “Damned pile of bones,” she complained, sheathing her sword. Brelyna knelt downward, studying the eyes of the draugr-the way they’d stopped glowing as soon as it was killed, genuinely. She wore a curious expression, head tilted while she looked over the corpse. “How could a draugr end up all the way down here? As far as I know, this space isn’t connected to a Nordic tomb,” she wondered.
Aerene and Brelyna stood in front of the dark door now. The Nord lifted her hand to grasp the handle, taking in a low breath. Before she’d opened it, a voice sounded, as though echoing off the walls, spilling out of the students’ minds. “Your perseverance will only lead you to disappointment.”
Notes:
on the menu today: a stack of angst topped with a dollop of longing~yum!
Chapter 22: The Debt of My Spirit
Notes:
annnnnd here is another chapter! it is lengthy, as an offering of apology for not putting anything out in TOO LONG!! I had fun writing this and just had to get it out, so I can continue working on the next part. please enjoy~!! and thank you for reading.
Chapter Text
A vicious thrust of Aerene’s foot against the wooden door had it slammed open, revealing nothing.
The Nord and the Dunmer cautiously stepped through the doorway, Brelyna’s hands raised and ready to cast, Aerene’s blade drawn and ready to swing. As they followed the dimly lit blue corridor to the left, they found nothing. The path ahead was empty of people or footsteps. “Did the sound come from behind us?” Brelyna questioned, retracing a few of their last steps. Aerene recalled the resonance of the voice, trying to imagine it sounding again. There couldn’t have been a physical vessel to which the voice belonged. It had to have been magical. “We need to keep moving forward. Keep your wits about you,” she muttered lowly. They stilled for a beat, both noticing a haunting creation posed on the wall to their left. Among the old, nearly crumbling stone bricks, etched with moss and grime, was a space that looked to have been a walkway sometime ago. It was packed full of dirt from floor to ceiling now, and from the top downward hung moss and cobwebs. A lantern with two lit candles emitted a dim orange glow from the floor upward. Aerene felt a pit in her stomach form as she glanced over the bizarre formation. What is that? Who would do that? And who lit those candles?
At the center of the mud-packed corner was a skull, a human skull, packed hard into the dirt that must have been mud at some point. Around the skull were skeletal hands pointing outward, with a sixth resting over the cranium. Reaching out at the two looking at it. It was as if the digits of the hands had tried crawling away, only to be eternalized here. From the skull’s mouth erupted an amalgamation of leg bones. Pointed in four directions were sets of femur bones, still connected to the individual patella, and followed by the tibia and fibula. Not just one leg… four. And six hands? Yet only one skull. Done so intricately. Were the owners of these bones willing? As a cult offering, or an unwilling sacrifice? “Whoever put these here worked very carefully to make sure each bone was undamaged,” Brelyna noted, leaning downward to come to face the skull. It was an image of contrast, the way Brelyna blinked and moved about lightly, lips slightly parted, eyes squinting as she studied the pieces. Aerene shifted her focus to the bones, and felt sadness wash over her. She wondered who had given their life-or had it taken-only to end up here, like an unworthy scare measure meant to spook any passersby. A frown formed on her lips, as she considered if this was the skull of a Nord, a strange and unfamiliar feeling of responsibility confronting her suddenly. She felt an obligation to the bones, to take them from their cold place in the dirt and bury them. To correct what felt so wrong.
But she wouldn’t, not now. This could’ve been intentional, wanted. This wasn’t the task they were facing. We have bigger issues to handle.
Without a word, Aerene stepped past Brelyna and continued ahead. Brelyna called for her to wait a minute, but Aerene was so occupied by her internal issues she didn’t hear, especially not when the next passage gave way to an open, icy cavern with a narrow, frozen bridge traversing across a rocky gorge below. It wasn’t a huge drop, yet it was far enough to break a bone. The stones below certainly wouldn’t make for a pillowy landing. The longer the student stared, the further the ground below seemed to well deeper. She shook her head, shook herself out of the fear just enough to hurry across the walkway, one foot directly in front of the other. There was a crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch as she scrambled over the icy sludge below, breaths short and stiff while she trudged across and up the next passage into a colder, narrower tunnel.
The further they made their way into the Midden Dark, the further any hope of an answer faded. Perhaps it was left with the warmth of the halls way above on the surface, not subject to the frozen stillness of whatever this place was.
Later on, after more tunnels and cold, they were met with two choices-the left or right path. Aerene and Brelyna looked outward, then to each other. Brelyna prepared to speak, but that voice could be heard instead. “Seek further unto the depths.”
Instantly, they were ready for an attack, frantically looking about as they backed up to the nearest wall. “Divines,” Aerene muttered. Brelyna, with suspicious eyes, cautiously began to look around. They each listened. Only the loudness of their anxious breaths sounded. “That time seemed so much louder,” Brelyna commented, her fingers rubbing at her forehead in light circles. “And like it was coming from that way,” she added. Aerene studied their options. The right walkway had steps leading into another icy crevice, while the left had two steps leading onto a brick walkway through a stony facade where icicles hung. Neither looked more welcoming than the other. Brelyna had pointed to the left, ready to move forward. Aerene nodded leftward. “I’ve got your back.”
Brelyna led the way down a steep set of white stairs, through a small, dark cavern space. Leftward was another tunnel, with a faint orange glow of another questionable lantern. “We must be almost there,” Aerene commented, sword hanging downward but gripped tightly in her right hand.
BOOM.
A thunderclap echoed through the cavern, rendering Brelyna’s mage light spell vanished, like the wind blowing out a torch. The women reacted in sounds of anguish, hands darting to cover and protect their ears as their figures contorted closer to the ground. Aerene felt like her body was vibrating, head rattling and heart pounding. The pitch black darkness was terrifying, and it was only the embrace of Brelyna and herself that offered comfort. “By Azura!” Brelyna yelled, voice muffled in the material of Aerene’s sash.
Suddenly, a stillness, and a bright light just a few steps through the final corridor. It was painful to look at, like staring at an entity brighter than the sun, but it dimmed in seconds. “Come,” the voice echoed. Aerene reached to pick up her blade, and Brelyna tightened her fists. They walked through the corridor into a small room, at the center of which was a well, like those around the College. Hovering above the iridescent blue magicka pond was the light, a lifetime dimmer than it had been seconds ago. It was pure blue light with splashes of white bouncing through, fed by what looked like-but couldn’t have been-flames, from the surface of the mystical pool of the well. Even now, the two students were squinting to protect their vision from the entity’s beams.
“I am that which you have been seeking. Your efforts are in vain.”
Aerene’s hand, which had been in front of her face to hide the light, fell, in frustration, and she faced the entity with accusatory eyes. “It has already begun. But those who have sent you have not told you what they seek. What you seek.”
The Nord looked to the Dunmer. Brelyna’s crimson irises were beautifully illuminated in a manner Aerene had never seen before. She nodded, affirming Aerene to speak for them.
“If you are the Augur of Dunlain… we were told to find you.”
“Indeed. And so you have come looking. Though… you do not know why. Like others before you, you blindly follow a path to your own destruction. The Thalmor came seeking answers as well, unaware they will be his undoing. Your path now follows his, though you will arrive too late.”
The Thalmor. Ancano. He was here first. Flashes of the night he used the interior trapdoor to access the Midden were recalled to her memory. Damn it!
“We thought we’d be the first to come see you,” she spoke. A confession.
“You may be the last,” the Augur said, drawing her attention. The dots of white light dancing in an upward spiral were mesmerizing. It wasn’t enough to stop the fear spreading through her mind. I do not have the mental fortitude to grasp what this means. Have all our efforts been in vain? Will the end of all this only result in more death?
“The one who calls himself Ancano has sought my knowledge as well, through very different methods. Your path differs from most. You are being guided, pushed toward something.”
Aerene facepalmed, turning away from the Augur and Brelyna as she held back a frustrated groan. Her other hand landed to rest on her hip. Of course Ancano has been here already. That slimy bastard.
“It is a good path, one untravelled by many. It is a path that can save your College. I will tell you what you need to know to follow it further.” This. . . now, this, lit a fire of hope. Brelyna glanced to Aerene, who still had her back turned in potential defeat; she then glanced to the Augur and spoke: “Say what needs to be done.”
“You wish to know more about the Eye of Magnus. You wish to avoid the disaster of which you are not yet aware. To see through Magnus' Eye without being blinded, you require his staff. Events now spiral quickly towards the inevitable center, so you must act with haste. Take this knowledge to your Arch-Mage.”
Knowledge. It was all the Augur of Dunlain contained, all that was had to offer.
All the Augur gave before the well became devoid of light, and the entity evanesced.
We came all this way, just for a minute long conversation. Splendid.
Wasting no time, the two students backtracked through the Midden and to the welcoming surface world once more. They bid one another goodnight, with Aerene expressing her sincerest thanks to Brelyna for her insistence on going with. Not many would take the risk, and such is what made Brelyna special among Aerene’s peers. The next morning, Aerene would speak to Arch-Mage Aren and discuss the Staff of Magnus. Aerene, in all her studies at the Temple, had never heard of such a thing. She knew not the origins of the staff or the orb, and had yet to find out any additional information on the orb since it was brought to the College.
In the quiet of this night, while she did her best to push the thoughts of the Midden from her mind, she fiddled around and delayed sleep. She did this in spite of her fatigue. She’d kicked off her boots and stored her blades in her wardrobe, changing into her comfortable sleeping clothes and thick wool socks. She swore there was an extra chill hovering about her spine since wandering through the icy depths beneath the College. In the cozy warmth of her private quarters, she laid on her back in her bed. Movements of the day reminded her of the afternoon before, the battle with Vilkas back in Ysgramor’s Tomb. Aerene stared up into the darkness, save for the little candlelight emitted from her nightstand, her mind wandering over everything that had happened lately. Despite regular healing spells cast throughout the day, she only needed to move a certain way to wince from an achy pain. A throbbing would find its way to her upper cheek for a bit before vanishing, only to return later; she couldn’t comfortably sleep with her head turned to the side even as it rested on the plush pillow beneath. And still, I wonder what Vilkas is up to. Probably sleeping.
Way down south from Winterhold, in Whiterun, Vilkas’ bedside table was laden with empty Nord mead bottles, plus one empty alto wine bottle. It wasn’t like he had anyone around to impress with a tidy room, anyway. Mead, wine, and the attempt to forget what had happened, how he’d reacted. How terrible he’d done with the situation. The man himself was shirtless, but not pantsless, splayed out over the bed shamelessly in a wine-and-mead-induced coma.
Sometimes, it was better to have some shame.
Aerene told herself not to think about the current situation with the orb and the staff, as she’d gotten ready for bed, yet her mind drifted to it. She faced the fact that the College leadership would likely send her to retrieve the staff. And like the loyal lapdog I am, I’ll do as I’m told. The woman found herself scowling at nothing as she recalled Ria’s words from a while back, when Aerene had done some work for Jarl Balgruuf. Whatever it was about running around Skyrim like Balgruuf’s dog. Pff. She didn’t get a furrow in her brow until she considered that Ria might continue her efforts in wooing Vilkas. Wasn’t she supposed to be going to sleep? Yes. Was she thinking of all the things that kept her awake? Definitely. Vilkas isn’t mine to begin with. If he wanted Ria, he would’ve done it already. I know him, he’s not one to wait around for what he wants.
“I left that in Whiterun!” she whisper yelled to herself with a huff, turning to one side to try and get more comfy. She then considered Lydia, and wondered if the emerald-eyed woman had found an amulet of Mara for Ysolda. Lydia, in her most recent letter, had promised to tell Aerene of any ceremonies, should one be planned for the union of the two women. Aerene expected to receive a letter from Zaria soon. The thought of her alchemist friend brought a pang against her heart, the remembrance of Valdr and that devastation in Falkreath. She shut her eyes and did her best to imagine that day they sat together on the lakeshore, just enjoying each other’s company. They didn’t know each other very well, but well enough to call one another ‘friend,’ and that was more than enough for her. Now, and for evermore, Valdr must be hunting with Ari and Niels in the stars. She’d heard from some other students that the College towers had an excellent view of the skies, and that there was nothing like the beauty of a night sky with a close seat to the dancing aurorae. While she remembered her friend, and his departure from this realm, she decided that on the next clear night, she’d dress warmly and do some stargazing.
She’d felt more calm now, more sleepy, ready to embrace rest. Before she blew out the candlelight, though, she’d reached underneath her pillow and pulled out her favorite letter, reading it over with a small hope the author of it would return soon. After all, she couldn’t think of Falkreath without thinking of her friend who’d left for that sleepy, quiet town.
‘I was looking for you earlier, but I guess you’d gone fishing….she smiled just like she did the first time she read those silly words.
…I don’t expect to be gone long, but I hope you won’t mind catching me up on lectures and spellcasting I’ve missed when I return.’
She sighed, and slipped the parchment gently back under her pillow. How long is not long?
It was as she counted her guesses on what his message meant that she fell asleep, hoping her friend would return sooner, rather than later, so she could hear all about his journey.
Her routine the following morning consisted of taking River to the shore, as she’d been doing since her arrival to the College. It was a temperate morning on the shoreline, albeit foggy and without snowfall or rain. Aerene slid down from the saddle in a cautious manner, so as not to strain her muscles. River took a couple steps back, lowly whinnying and grunting, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed loudly along Aerene’s hand. Thinking the mare wanted caressed, Aerene ran her hand over River’s nose, but the horse kept sniffing, sniffing. It was when her nose poked into Aerene’s other hand, and assessed that it did not in fact have any treats, River grunted again and turned her head away before following with the rest of her body, and in a few moments her rear end was facing her owner. “Divines help me,” Aerene muttered. “No, I don’t have any apples with me today,” she said to the horse, as she stepped across the pebbly shore to begin a light training session. “I’ll bring two tomorrow, I promise,” she added with a look back, seeing the horse sniffing at a lump of seaweed strewn over the rocks. Today, she was without her blades, including Valdr’s lucky dagger, in a new initiative to practice spell casting and magic usage combined with the bodily movements she typically applied in battle. She sought to strengthen her casting and lessen her need to rely on a last minute save with her sword or dagger.
Aerene spent longer than usual at the shore, returning to Winterhold only when she felt she’d earned it. Casting spells cost no physical strength but rather mental aptness. The process of imagining the matrix of the spell, the sequence of thought to complete the mental incantation, the envisioning of the spell cast into Mundus- this realm- from Aetherius- the magicka realm- followed by the final expression of the spell from the caster’s body outward, was a mentally draining practice. I can only improve with effort. This is what I came here to do.
She did not overexert her magicka this morning, as the act of doing so could drain her of magicka completely. To overuse spells, to overdo the casting, strained the channeling of magicka from Aetherius and would temporarily leave the caster without magicka, rendering them unable to continue casting. Aerene’s usage of spells she understood at a minimal level- yet that she had not mastered- drained her magicka and left her reliant on her blades in battle. She sought to arrive to a state where she could balance both, as a true battlemage.
For now, she would continue a shore routine that ensured better, practical application of gesture practice.
She had become more comfortable sitting through lectures than when she first arrived, as she continued to take notes to keep herself engaged as she listened. Sometimes, the lecture might’ve been taught by Tolfdir, who spoke a little slower than the other professors, but was attentive to the needs of the students and offered fun anecdotes. Other times, Colette Marence demonstrated uses of restoration magic, and often argued for the importance of the restoration school, sometimes with an excitable student who liked seeing a rise out of the woman. Aerene’s favorite classes weren’t Faralda’s lessons on destruction magic, the way Faralda challenged the students but offered unique ways of assistance. Aerene’s favorite classes were whichever ones she sat next to Onmund in. She hadn’t realized this until today, when he wasn’t around to offer a soft smile when she glanced to him occasionally, or when he wasn’t there to whisper a brief, but insightful, explanation when she cast him a look of confusion because she was lost in the lecture. Still, she took the most detailed notes ever written in her book, because how could she catch him up on what he missed if she had too little to go off of?
When things had quieted down around the late afternoon, when students had flocked to their own corners of the College grounds for academic research, as well as the Brelyna and J’zargo type of research, Aerene finally found Tolfdir. She hadn’t seen him all day, and neither could she find Arch-Mage Aren. Tolfdir was sat in his office, which was rather neatly kept; Aerene expected it to be messy, but reminded herself not to be presumptuous. The Nord woman was sat in a chair across the desk, where Tolfdir was marking the page he’d been reading in a book. “I do not mean to interrupt your reading,” Aerene said in a half apology. “Nonsense, Aerene my dear. I suspect if you’ve gone out of your way to come here, there’s something of importance you wish to discuss. Is this about Saarthal?”
Aerene cleared her throat, glancing down, and then toward the window to the right of the office, where faded orange sunlight burned through the thick glass. “In a way, yes. Brelyna and I followed the Midden to the Augur of Dunlain, yesterday evening.”
Tolfdir’s eyes widened a little in surprise. “Already? My, you wasted no time investigating the only lead you had. But I suppose that is one of the reasons why you were tasked with the matter,” he spoke his thoughts aloud. She forced a smile, glancing away awkwardly. Like I had any choice in the matter. Well, I could always choose to skitter away like a skeever through a Riften sewer, but I didn’t earn my place here just to run away. “Ah, I digress. What were your findings? How was the Augur?”
How could she even explain what she saw? She hardly knew where to begin.
“The Augur of Dunlain was…” mystical, she wanted to say, but settled for, “insightful. I was told to seek out the Arch-Mage with the information we were given. I have been looking for him today, but I have not seen him.”
“And that is why you are here, hmm?” Tolfdir pieced it together. “I’m sorry to say, dear, but the Arch-Mage left this morning for Solitude.” Aerene’s mouth fell agape. “Solitude?!” She echoed. “Yes. You see, as Skyrim’s capital, and with its rather pristine reputation, Solitude is home to some of the College’s most supportive patrons, as well as one of Skyrim’s most talented mages, Sybille Stentor. She’s the court mage to High King- excuse me- Jarl Elisif.” Aerene winced internally.
In the expanse of a lifetime, Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude had lost her husband very recently. High King Torygg, who ruled out of Solitude, was challenged by Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak for the throne of Skyrim. Many believed Torygg too young, too inexperienced to manage a province like Skyrim, full of hearty warriors and hardworking folk who also wanted religious freedom-that to worship Talos, the Ninth Divine-rather than the Imperial position of accepting the ban and outlaw of Tales Worship, demanded by the Thalmor. The issue was anything but simple, as some argued that the Imperial Empire’s acceptance of this condition was what kept the Aldmeri Dominion and the Thalmor completely out of Skyrim, while others argued it wasn’t worth the price. Ulfric was the leader of the rebellion, and as far as Aerene knew, was still alive. She was not entirely a stranger to this land, but was not swayed in one particular direction or the other-just yet. What really plunged Skyrim further into Civil War was the way Ulfric killed Torygg. Ulfric fought in the Great War, which took place a couple years before Aerene was born; he was an experienced fighter. For young Torygg to back down from a fight he knew he’d lose would’ve been an immense dishonor to Nord tradition. This type of challenge was customary, and for Torygg to decline would’ve been seen as cowardly and cause to call a moot between the Jarls to vote for a new High King. The way Aerene saw it, Torygg had no choice but to offer his best during the duel. Unfortunately, Ulfric had the trick of the Thu’um up his sleeve. Aerene understood little about it, but knew it was like speaking spells, or rather shouts, that had magical force and were an ancient art. Some said that during the duel, Ulfric shouted Torygg apart. Torygg was doomed either way, and Ulfric’s use of fear over diplomacy only further divided Skyrim.
The Nord woman’s sympathies rested with Jarl Elisif, who was left to rule Solitude in her late husband’s place; she couldn’t have been as old as twenty-five, yet. Aerene could’ve wondered further about Elisif’s position in all of this, but Tolfdir’s voice brought her to the present.
“Each quarter, the College and the patrons alternate between hosting, allowing the patrons an up-to-date understanding of their support’s impact on the College. This convening, it is the Arch-Mage’s responsibility to meet in Solitude.”
Aerene sighed quietly. “How long will he be gone?”
-
‘Oh, no more than four or five days, I’d presume. Rarely has the process ever taken longer than that.’
Tolfdir had explained this two days ago.
Aerene felt a little powerless about the situation, feeling it had been labeled as too dire to delay taking the next steps in finding the Staff of Magnus. However, she wasn’t just impatient about the return of Arch-Mage Aren to Winterhold. She was still waiting for Onmund’s return. For someone as capable as she was, Aerene became bored frighteningly fast without her Companion, and instead of sitting in front of the pitiful gazes of Brelyna and J’zargo during time in between lectures, she stayed in her quarters or a corner of the Arcaneum.
Her restlessness manifested in the way she could hardy sit still during one of Drevis Neloren’s lectures, her leg bouncing up and down as a means of finding comfort. It came to an end when a Breton woman sitting to Aerene’s left hissed, ‘Do you mind?’ with a scowl at Aerene and her bouncy leg. The Nord mumbled a sorry before instead tapping her finger silently on her opposite knee, under the table. It was a little harder than usual to concentrate these few days. Fortunately, nothing else of note had happened, which was comforting, but left her on edge, thinking things were too calm for the time being. Not that chaos would be good. But chaos has been typical around here lately.
What pushed her off the edge of this calm precipice was the letter Birna handed her during Aerene’s visit to the shop in the early evening, a half hour before tonight’s meal. She’d been smiling to the shopkeep, and that smile fell as soon as she recognized the handwriting on the parchment. It was the same handwriting she’d seen in the business ledger at Jorrvaskr, neat script with precise and quick lines. Divines, this better not be a letter telling me Farkas has been murdered.
Aerene left the shop hastily, and hurried back to her quarters. She shut the door behind her breathlessly, dropped her knapsack on the floor, tossed her sash onto her bed, and yanked the chair out from her desk to sit. She scanned the front of the sealed parchment one more time. It was addressed to Aerene of Jorrvaskr, Winterhold.
She turned it over, and eyed the red wax seal with the imprint of a front-facing image of a wolf’s head. Shakily, she began to tear it open, but stopped. Maybe I should wait to read this?
She shook her head, convincing herself that wasn’t a good idea. She was torn though, as while she’d been bored the last few days, she certainly wasn’t without an attitude over what had happened at Ysgramor’s Tomb. She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and took a long swig of the mead bottle on her desk. Then, she began reading:
Aerene,
I’m sorry.
Her accusatory squint lightened up upon reading the first line written. She continued.
Since your arrival in Skyrim, and at Jorrvaskr, the lives of my brother and I have been changed. Seeing you on the bench beneath the Gildergreen that day you asked Kodlak to join the Companions, I knew there was a wit about you that would earn you a spot with the warriors of Jorrvaskr. You were unwilling to lose the spar that would decide your acceptance with us, and were unafraid to challenge my initial decision. Since that day, you have strengthened the Companions, and brought us honor.
You brought peace, too. Not just to Kodlak, but to my brother and I. I was in disbelief when you were ready to drop everything just to take us to Ysgramor’s Tomb and purify our spirits. Farkas, though, he never doubted your willingness to do what we needed you to do. I do not believe we would ever have achieved purity from Hircine’s curse had you not intervened. Not only do I owe you my life, but the debt of my spirit, too. Which is why I am writing to you now. I am sorry for leaving you behind at the tomb. When you saved us, we abandoned you. I couldn’t stand to look into your eyes, or upon your face, and see the damage I had done. I couldn’t fathom the thought that you nearly died because of me. Such a fate doesn’t befit warriors like you. Shor, there is no warrior like you. The part I struggle with most is that I think you would’ve given your life if it meant saving my brother and I. That thought had crossed my mind when you asked about my state of being, when you’d limped over and sat next to me like I hadn’t almost murdered you earlier in the day. I was so close to taking something away, something so precious that I could never give back. But I didn’t, because you wouldn’t allow it. You’ve always been stubborn, and that day you demonstrated prowess I’ve never seen. How you managed to battle a man in the ruin of a wolf, without that same lycanthropic blood in your veins, it’s something only you could do. It’s why I never want to hurt you that way again. I was a coward to flee, and for forcing Farkas to follow. I should have stayed. But I didn’t, and this is my means of an attempt to piece together what I broke. When you are next in Whiterun, please come visit me. You always have a home in Jorrvaskr.
Take care of yourself, and those who care for you.
Yours,
Vilkas
A teardrop fell onto the parchment, leaving a small, wet splotch. Aerene set the letter on the desk, folding her arms and resting her head down onto them. She stared, and stared longer, her mind racing with a cacophony of thoughts. Of everything she was thinking, at the forefront was that she knew he was right. It hadn’t come down to it, but she would have given her life in the fight for the freedom of Vilkas and Farkas’ spirits. Later on, they could reunite in Sovngarde and share stories of the feat for eternity. That was what she was willing to do for those she loved.
And it was why reading Vilkas’ letter brought her to tears, but good tears. She missed him now, wished she could hug him and then his brother. What he did, leaving like that, was cowardly; to admit it was anything but. She felt hopeful, knowing that whenever she ended up in Whiterun again, she wouldn’t have to give Jorrvaskr a wide berth. Whenever I venture to Whiterun, I will seek Vilkas out, and make this right.
She read over it a couple more times, becoming late for the evening meal in doing so. What puzzled her a little was the line about taking care. Of herself, and those who cared for her. Does he mean...? No…
….Oh.
Aerene smiled to herself as she realized the meaning behind Vilkas’ words, a smile that lingered while she stored his letter safely in her desk, before heading out to the dining hall.
The atmosphere in the hall was calm, students talking amongst themselves around the tables of the space. In the air, the scent of chicken stew wafted about, a warm perfection for the frosty evening. Aerene dined solo, as Brelyna and J’zargo were nowhere to be seen, and she hadn’t really taken up close friendships with other students about the College. As she ate, she read over the spell tome for lesser ward, hoping that the next time she cast the spell, she’d be able to maintain the ward. It seemed like a quiet evening, one she relished as she kept reading during her walk through the courtyard and back to the Hall of Attainment. It was dark now, but there was enough moonlight to read over the last page of the tome. Aerene’s eyes glanced over the last words, and before she could flip back through the pages to an earlier chapter, the book magically disintegrated. What?
She stared at her empty palms, looking around her while she considered the possibility. Have I really come to grasp the lesser ward spell?
A big, wide grin stretched across her features, as she laughed to herself, unable to stop from smiling. I did it! Finally!
She kept her cheers to herself, but had an extra spring in her step as she pondered over the fact that she’d studied the lesser ward tome to its fullest potential, soaking up all knowledge there was on the spell, thus destroying the book. It happened each time a new spell was fully understood, but she hadn’t expected it so soon with this one. That time when she’d been shocked to Oblivion and back during her first day at the College seemed a bit more distant now. Aerene let out a sigh of happiness, looking upward to the night sky. The very beginnings of the dance of the aurorae were visible, and an idea came to her. I must celebrate.
An hour later, she stepped once again into the chilly night, her breaths crisp, white puffs of air. Only, this time, she was dressed warmly, and had her heavy cloak on, the one Aela had gifted her. She pulled the cloak tighter over her shoulders, and pushed her hair behind her ears and out of her face. The view from here was breathtaking. Aerene carefully walked to the center of the top of the tower, which was a circular platform walled on all sides with battlements only as tall as she was. She knew the stone bricks would be freezing to sit on, so she brought a blanket and the necessary provisions to make the evening enjoyable. She spread the blanket over the center, thankful there was no one else up here. A couple of empty wine bottles off to one side of the space told her someone had been here before. But now, it was just her.
Happily, she began unloading her arms, full of her favorite things: she set down two bottles of Black-Briar mead, and a plate with jazbay grapes and a sweet roll. I hardly ever believed there could be nights like this. She arranged her setting neatly, and before settling down, she wanted to take in the view. It was a night without wind, thankfully, as the air was already icy. In any case, she’d warmed up with some mead to calm herself from being up so high. It was a view that would scare her, but not one that she could miss. She first walked to the northern side of the tower, heartbeat quickening the closer the got the ledge. She took deep breaths, and finally allowed herself the enjoyment of seeing. Far, far below, the Sea of Ghosts stretched northward, full of frozen glaciers and dotted with snowcapped formations poking out of the water. Along the coast were barely visible Nordic tombs, stony structures arched up from the ground below, nearly blending in with the snowy landscape. A light breeze washed up that side of the tower and brought a glossiness to her eyes, cold from the chill. She blinked it away, inhaling the sea air.
Next, she went across the space to the southern end; the space was wide enough for a duel, and stretched the length equivalent of eight or ten of her laying head to foot across, from battlement to battlement. Still, to her, it felt a little narrow. Now, she could see Winterhold, a settlement with few buildings, tucked safely into the hillside of jagged, stony peaks. There was such a contrast, she saw, with the way the soft snow was blanketed over the craggy slopes ahead. If those mountains weren’t there, she might’ve been able to see the plains of Whiterun on a very clear day. When she drew her gaze downward, closer to the College, she could see the shorter towers of the residence halls and other structures. The trees of the courtyard struck upward like spires, as did the magical light pond at the center of the courtyard, that gorgeous blue beam at its center in its constant stretch to the heavens. Normally, she’d have been too spooked by the height, but she was more relaxed, thanks to the generous amount of mead she drank-just enough to feel courageous and just too little to be wobbly. This is beautiful.
Aerene took in the view, leaned up against the protective wall, arms neatly folded while she observed all she could. By now, the College’s residents had all mostly gone indoors to escape the frosty night. Nearly all, but her. And whoever it was that entered the College grounds through the grand archway from the bridge to Winterhold, a person who looked tiny from this high up. They were wearing familiar mage robes. But so does everyone here. Yet… not everyone here enters the college grounds at this time of night. She squinted, a thought crossing her mind. Could it be….? No. She tried to deny it, but she knew it was him when he pulled his hood down to reveal that unmistakable dark hair. “Onmund,” she whispered. Somehow, a grin even bigger than earlier claimed her face, and she laughed to herself. “Onmund!” she called downward to the courtyard, yelling as loud as she could. The figure stopped moving, and she could just barely see him moving while he glanced around. “Up here!!” she shouted again, waving her arms and jumping once or twice.
In an instant, his head turned up toward her. She couldn’t read his expression from so high up and in the dark, but she was delighted when he threw his arms up in her direction and exclaimed, “Aerene!”, in a manner she’d never forget. “I’ll come down to meet you!” she yelled back down, hands planted firmly on the brick wall she was leaning on. “No, I’ll come up!” he replied, and continued walking across the courtyard, toward the entrance to the tower below. Now, Aerene was all smiles, as she walked to where she’d put her things down and waited for him to show. She crossed her arms, eyeing the sweet roll on the plate below, as it begged to be devoured. She licked her lips, forcing herself to turn away. I would hate to have a mouth stuffed with sweets right when Onmund and I begin catching up. She hmmed as she considered whether she should go and retrieve her notes, so they could go over what he missed. Have I gone mad? It’s nearly the middle of the night, and much too dark for any reading. Divines, calm yourself, Aerene!
The sound of the door creaking open near the south end of the tower top caught her attention, and she turned to see Onmund shutting it behind him. “You’re back,” she couldn’t hold back the wide smile she wore. “Yeah, finally,” he said, walking to meet her halfway. She really wanted to hug him. Really. She had so many questions about his journey to Falkreath, but she was still enraptured by how… handsome he looked. She blinked, eyeing him up and down in a completely unsubtle matter. “Scanning for wounds,” she lied, when she met his gaze and realized he saw her gawking. He wears those robes quite well, no? “Ah, well, luckily for me, the frost troll I encountered didn’t lay a claw on me,” he shrugged casually, and her eyes widened in surprise. “A frost troll, huh? No surprise you could handle it by yourself,” she said. For the next few moments, they stood there, awkwardly, eyes darting around, sometimes landing on the other’s gaze at the same time. Aerene’s finger tapped a few times against her thigh, as she debated whether to do what she wanted to do. I’ve hugged him before, once. Outside Fellglow Keep. And he embraced me back. But I’d hate to make him uncomfortable.
-
“Those bastards!” Rialla cried out, as she approached the cottage in a hurried limp. She threw her arms over Aerene, squeezing her tightly and holding her close. Aerene knew what this was about. The raid on the village had been devastating, and amassed more casualties than expected. Bleaker’s Way would’ve been obliterated had it not been for the legionnaires stationed there. Rialla’s skin carried the scent of blood and ash, and Aerene pulled away to look over her for any injuries. “I’m alright,” the Imperial assured the red-haired woman. “I haven’t been able to locate Varellus. He’s not been accounted for where the remaining legionnaires and villagers are gathered,” Rialla said, her deep brown eyes plagued with worry. “I’m right here, sister,” Varellus said, meeting the two women at the doorway. “Oh, Mara, you’re alive!” Rialla spoke in exasperation, stepping to meet her brother. Aerene’s attention turned to him, her eyes sweeping over the toned surface of his abdomen. When Aerene dragged her gaze upward, she met his eyes, and saw the curve of a light smirk on his lips. His arm was resting in a sling she’d tied around him, as his shoulder had been severely injured what felt like mere moments ago. “As are you,” Varellus replied, leaning his forehead to touch Rialla’s, his good arm embracing her. “Damn plunderers. I’m surprised the cottage is still in one piece,” Rialla said. She unexpectedly then pulled Aerene into another smothering embrace, despite Aerene’s muffled complaints. “I know, but I can’t help it. I could’ve lost either one of you today. When you care for someone, you must show it,” Rialla responded, letting Aerene go. She led the way into the cottage. “Now, I need wine,” she announced. Aerene glanced to Varellus, who swiped out a quick hand and yanked her to him, planting a sweet kiss on her cheek. She laughed, and they continued inside, where they were safe from raiders and bandits.
-
She couldn’t stand it any longer, and it took one last glance into his friendly eyes before she stepped forward and threw her arms around him. Much to her pleasure, she felt him return the embrace immediately, his hands wrapped around her upper back, fingers lightly squeezing as she shook gently with low laughter. She could’ve stayed there for hours. He was warm, and it set her heart alight. And to boot, he somehow managed to smell pleasant after days of travel. When it was time to pull away, she turned and began walking to the spot she’d set up. From behind her, he spoke, and his words were more charming than she believed she’d hear from him. “I take it you’ve healed nicely, in the days since the events at Ysgramor’s Tomb?”
It was his way of saying, ‘Your face is no longer bruised and drained of energy, and you look like yourself again.’ She didn’t have the nerve to look at him as she responded, “That I have. Enough downtime to keep the healing spells cast consistently.” Followed in a lower tone by, “It’s been boring here without you, Onmund.”
Aerene plopped down onto the blanket, patting the spot next to him. Who am I kidding? He’s probably exhausted and wants to sleep. “You’ve got yourself set up nicely, here. Though I’ve heard these bricks aren’t comfortable to sleep on,” he joked, settling down next to her. She laughed. “You’ve heard that? Gods, can’t say I’m surprised. Though, I did not come up here to sleep. I came up here to celebrate, and take in the view,” she replied happily, eyeing his side profile as he looked up at the stars and moons. “And to… well…” her voice trailed as she gestured to the bottles of mead and the sweet roll, “indulge.” Onmund looked over the goodies she’d brought and smiled. “I’m surprised to see you up this high,” he remarked, taking the bottle she offered him. He popped the cork out of the bottle and got to drinking. I don’t recall ever telling him about that.
“I’ve seen the way you stare at the ground when you cross the bridge here from Winterhold,” he added, seeing her expression. He’s quite observant, isn’t he? And he knows me better than I thought. She never realized the habit he pointed out. It made sense, as they’d crossed that bridge together before. “With enough mead to drink, I can manage a few surprises,” she teased. They stared upward, leaning back onto their palms as they observed the beautiful firmament. The aurorae danced vertically and swayed horizontally, a constant rhythm of illustrious color. Mesmerizing hues of green, yellow, pink, and purple stretched and shrunk, as if putting on a show for the two with the best seats on the tower. She must’ve been wearing a telling expression, because Onmund asked her about it. While she was watching the skies, she wondered about everything. Saarthal, the orb, the staff, the Psijic Order. The dragons, the war, Whiterun…. Vilkas. Onmund’s calm voice was a reminder she didn’t have to continue through all of this alone. “Is there something the matter, Aerene?”
She turned to face him, but couldn’t hold the eye contact. She stared down at her boots, at the unaesthetic stitching crossing overtop of the foot. “The night you left, an agent of the Psijic Order arrived here. Quaranir. He expected to find you here, as well. He was the one who appeared to us in the vision at Saarthal,” she began, and continued to detail the ordeal with Ancano, the Augur, and the Arch-Mage. By now, they’d taken to laying flat on their backs, as they stared upward, just talking. “This is worse than I thought,” Onmund confessed. “I guess it’s easy to try and bury it. But if the warnings are true, the events have been set in motion, and we’re given no choice but to float as the wave sweeps us along,” he said. “I imagine the Midden was unpleasant. But I…” he stopped himself. This got her attention, and she sat up to look at him. She swore she caught a doubtful expression on his face for just a second before it eased. Not like he was doubting her, but rather something he stopped himself from saying. “What is it?” she asked. He cleared his throat, and she could tell he had wanted to say something but stopped. “Come on!” she pleaded, shoving at his knee that was propped up. He laughed, and sat up, too. “If it’s half as scary as other students have said, I’m glad you and Brelyna made it out in one piece,” he covered. It wasn’t what he was going to say, but it was all Aerene was going to get. She didn’t push the matter further. She picked up the sweet roll, and tore it in half. She offered a piece to Onmund, and he swiped it quicker than she expected. “Are they rationing food down in Falkreath?” she jested. “No,” he said through bites, “travel starves me.”
There are many things one can be starved of.
“You missed a hearty evening meal,” she said, “but I won’t hold it against you.” Aerene picked at the fur of her cloak, looking down at the soft grey material. She’d gone quiet again. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.
She blinked, noting his astuteness. “I received a letter from Vilkas,” she said. Onmund was intrigued by this, his tone becoming more serious as he told her she could tell him more, if she wanted to. If he had questions, though, he didn’t ask just yet, and she continued to speak. “He apologized for what happened. For his actions after the purity ritual. When I got the letter, I swear… my gut fell through my ass,” she confessed bluntly, breaking the serious tone as they laughed. Onmund hummed. “At the very least, he owed you an apology. Do you think you’ll be able to move past what happened? He hurt you pretty badly, but you… well, you seem all right,” he spoke in a softer tone.
Aerene considered the question, eyeing the stars as if she’d find the answers among them. “Yes. When the time comes. He asked me to visit him in Whiterun. A bold request, considering what he pulled,” she replied with a narrowing of her eyes. “Will you go soon, then?”
Soon. It meant urgency, focus on that matter. But the issue with Vilkas wasn’t her biggest concern right now. He wasn’t her biggest concern right now. Now, she had her friend back, and it meant they could face whatever College issues came next, together. “No,” she responded. “I am here, now. Winterhold is my home. I have wanted this for as long as I can remember,” she said longingly, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. Onmund watched her with a sweet gaze, eyeing her features while she talked, chose her words carefully. “I cannot respond to every matter demanding my attention; I will pay Vilkas a visit when I stop by Whiterun, but I have no plans to go out of my way to rectify his mistake.”
She turned her head down from the heavens and to the view sitting next to her. “There are matters of greater importance to me, here,” she finished, looking directly into his eyes. The silvery moonlight cast an illustrious shadow over his irises, that gorgeous color, topped by those long lashes… I’ve always thought Onmund was a sight for sore eyes, but here, now, I don’t think I’ve ever been so captivated.
He said nothing, but kept her gaze with a smile that grew enough to accentuate those darling dimples of his. Neither of them could deny the heat growing among them, keeping them warm in the night that was only growing colder. Thank the Divines it was dark now, because each of them had cheeks reddened with fluster. But under the night sky, most of Skyrim looked the same shade of moonlight.
“So…” Aerene began a few moments later, “will you tell me about your journey to Falkreath?”
-
The next day before the evening meal, a special class was taking place and had gathered a rather large crowd of students into one of the College’s lecture halls. Rarely did three instructors ever teach a class together, but today was an exception. Aerene sat next to Brelyna and J’zargo, squished into seating with a few dozen other students anticipating the beginning of the lecture. “You’d think there would be less people interested in dual casting,” Brelyna commented, her arms crossed. J’zargo spoke from her side, after hissing at someone behind him to watch where they stepped. “And this one would think the other mages to be more careful where they walk!” he complained, tucking his tail over his lap to protect it from getting stepped on again. It was moments like this Aerene realized she forgot he actually had a tail, being a Khajiit and all.
The busy voices of the gathered students sounded loudly in the space, which seemed to be growing smaller by the minute, with every additional student who hurried in through the door to try and find a place to sit. This lecture hall was a bit grander than the ones Aerene usually sat in; the seats were arranged like those of an arena, each row of benches placed higher than the one before to ensure all had a view of the lecture floor. The three students were seated a bit higher up, toward the back of the room, where the view was better. Aerene hadn’t planned on attending the session until J’zargo and Brelyna showed up to her study table in the Arcaneum and insisted she go with them. Tolfdir, Faralda, and Phinis Gestor stood on the lecture floor, preparing a fancy demonstration combining their expertise in alteration, destruction, and conjuration magics, respectively. As Tolfdir began speaking, and hushing the talkative bunch of students to listen, Aerene understood the excitement. Rarely did lecturers teach together at once, but more rarely did they go over the top with their casting. The bunch of students erupted into cheers when Phinis Gestor conjured a storm atronach. The atronach itself was a temporarily summoned entity, which first appeared in a deep purple sphere of light and materialized into its full form. It looked like thundercloud in which stones were held up in spite of gravity, forming a vaguely body-like shape. Crackles and flickers of lightning swirled about the floating stone pieces, some larger than others, as the mass moved around the lecture floor. Aerene had never seen anything like it, except a flame atronach or a spriggan, but she was glad to be up where she was. Tolfdir quieted the students down and proceeded to inform them of the power found within dual casting, that was, spells concentrated through both hands rather than one. Faralda reminded the eager crowd of students that the act of doing so drained one’s magicka reserves rather quickly, unless they were truly an expert in their field. The instructors had knowing smirks on their faces as the crowd of students began cheering, “Show us! Show us! Show us!”
Aerene was on the edge of her seat as Tolfdir and Faralda exchanged nods, and then began a sparring session with the storm atronach Phinis had summoned. Tolfdir and Faralda stood side by side, Tolfdir’s hands stretched outward, palms wide as he channeled a powerful ward spell. The ward created a frontal barrier, behind which he and Faralda stood. It was like a shield of inverted light that one could somehow see perfectly through, like glass with slightly warped edges. The docile storm atronach floated indifferently, uncaring of the ward Tolfdir held up, until Faralda began casting next. Mischievously, Faralda held her hand up to her ear, a gesture saying ‘I’m listening,’ telling the students she awaited their command for what spell to cast at the atronach.
“Fireball! Fireball!” the crowd cheered, the three sitting together chiming in with the chaos. Faralda smirked, then pulled her hands together; in her palms, the iconic orange glow sparked, and with a grand sway of movement, she thrust her arms forward toward the atronach and unleashed a fiery blaze at the atronach. The next moments were an exciting and intense demonstration of the raw power found within dual casting. As Faralda unleashed more spells at the atronach, which launched lightning bolts and sparks back, Tolfdir maintained his ward and deflected all of the atronach’s attacks. Faralda kept up her destruction casting, launching frostbite and flames at the storm atronach, until one final icy spear from her palm struck through a crack of the atronach’s stonework and it blasted apart, falling into scattered rubble across the floor. The students erupted into wild cheers and applause at the sight. Aerene was amazed. Dual casting means double the power. Like attacking with two daggers instead of one.
The excitement did not end there, though; Phinis departed to attend other tasks, while Faralda and Tolfdir invited pairs or trios of students forward to demonstrate various kinds of spell casting. After a few rounds of demonstrations, Tolfdir asked if anyone would like to demonstrate their talent in conjuration magic. Aerene immediately turned to Brelyna, who’d pulled her hood tighter over her head as if to hide. Despite being shy about it at first, Brelyna made her way to the lecture floor and beautifully demonstrated her abilities in conjuration, where she’d summon a familiar or flame atronach, and another couple of students would fire destruction spells at the conjured beings. Aerene watched her friend with eyes of adoration, as somehow, Brelyna kept managing to conjure while other students were unable to keep firing spells, despite their combined efforts. “And so you see, dual casting makes for a highly impactful spell, but drains the magicka reserves exceptionally fast,” Tolfdir spoke to the group as the few students returned to their seats. Brelyna sat down, all smiles as Aerene expressed pride in Brelyna’s talents. “House Telvanni better be proud of you,” Aerene whispered to a bashful Brelyna, who could hardly contain her excitement about how well she did.
“Now,” Tolfdir began, “the final portion of this lecture. I would like two students to showcase the use of spells for defensive and offensive casting. One of you will dual cast and maintain a ward spell while the other dual casts a destruction spell. And I cannot emphasize this enough-this must be done carefully! We have managed thus far, we cannot have any injuries today. Who would volunteer to show the rest of us their talent in the school of destruction magic?”
A show of eager hands thrust upward, several students aching to be picked, to match the exemplary casting that had been showcased over the last hour. Tolfdir gave Faralda the floor, as it was only right for her to select the student, being the designated lecturer for the destruction school of magic. Her rusty orange eyes were lit with intrigue as they narrowed, looking over the students wanting to be chosen. “Onmund, step forward,” she spoke. Aerene perked up at this; she hadn’t even known Onmund was in the room. I assumed that if he were here, he would have sat with us. Maybe he did not expect us to be here, either. It is a crowded room, anyway.
Despite her disbelief, she saw him rise from the second row and make his way to the lecture floor. A soft smile formed on Aerene’s lips at the sight, a devious thought creeping its way into her mind. From her spot up here, the view was good, but there wasn’t anything quite like being in action. So when Tolfdir asked who’d like to go opposite Onmund and showcase their ward abilities, Aerene was nearly trembling in excitement while a bunch of the students—many of which must’ve vied for his favor and attention at some point-stuck their hands up. “By Azura, I don’t need a scrying glass to know what you’re thinking. Please do this, don’t make me beg you!” Brelyna whisper-yelled, and Aerene quickly debated volunteering to test her magic against Onmund’s. This can either go wonderfully or terribly, she thought, and before she knew it, her hand was raised. But just because I raise my hand does not mean I’ll be pick-
“Aerene! Good to see you’re eager to learn, as usual. Come,” Tolfdir invited. After scanning the crowd, his eyes just had to have landed on her. She would not admit it, but she felt a deep satisfaction as she squeezed past her classmates and walked down the stairs to the lecture floor. She ignored the sighs of defeat sounding by the students who wouldn’t have their chance to face off against Onmund today. Lucky me!
Aerene dipped her head in greeting to Tolfdir and Faralda, before turning to face Onmund. She could feel the eyes of the students on them, and it was getting to her in the best way. If she were to do well here, her head might not fit through the door after it was over. Back at Jorrvaskr, when the Companions would spar in the training yard, she detested the feeling of being watched. But here, today, she welcomed it. Despite the havoc with Saarthal, the Psijic Order, the Thalmor, the Augur, the Midden, and all else that bothered her these days, she felt a new pride in her abilities. I am an expert in restoration magic, she told herself. While she had mastered healing spells, she hadn’t learned any ward spells during her time at the Temple of the One. There wasn’t much use for defensive magics there, at least not that she was shown. Akatosh guide me, she prayed, and let this be as easy as a warm breeze on the springtime wind.
The pitter-patter of her heart picked up, as she met Onmund’s eyes. And by the Divines, was he actually worried?! He had that unmistakable wrinkle in his brow, or what little Aerene could see of his expression, under that hood he always wore. “Good. Onmund, you may begin casting when Aerene has put up her ward.”
Aerene had her hands behind her back, facing Onmund with a calm expression. She could tell he wanted to say something, and even looked a little antsy. He is nervous because of what happened last time. Herself, she was as cool as the snow falling outside. With a final shift of her jaw, eyes narrowed in thought, Aerene stepped back and began to channel the magicka. She caught Onmund’s gaze one last time, and looked him up and down in one fell swoop, the middle of her brow quirked up in a subtle but detectable challenge. “Onmund,” she said quietly, and he gave her his attention, his hands clenching in the kindling of a spell. “Don’t hold back.” He nodded an affirmation, and the corner of his mouth curved in a smirk. Trust me, please. She backed away, and stepped across the room before facing him fully again.
In a sudden movement, she moved her left hand up, throwing the magicka power outward and casting the ward into existence. She could feel its strength channeling through her now; she never felt it the last time they practiced, on her first day at the College. Her magicka bled into the barrier formed in front of her, the trembling of the ward casting a wind about her hair and her mage robes. Onmund answered the call without another moment of hesitation. He hadn’t said a word through this, but his silence spoke volumes. He stretched out his hand, and pulled it back to him; it was as though he pulled lightning out of the very air around him, as sparks and bolts of it began crackling about his wrist and fingers before he thrust it against Aerene’s ward. This time around, there was no shriek like the shattering of glass, no sudden electrocution after a failed test. This connection was maintained as Aerene held the ward steady, even while Onmund continued blasting lightning; her magical shield was impenetrable.
“Excellent! Keep going!” Tolfdir called over the sounds of spellcasting. Aerene kept her breaths steady, watching her counterpart’s jaw clench in concentration. And next, dual casting. Like defending with a sword and a dagger, how I’ve done countless times. She met Onmund’s eyes through the ward, and gave him a nod to signal she was ready for the next part. He returned it, and his other hand raised, palms with clenched fingers facing each other as he channeled an even more powerful burst of lightning bolt. Aerene mirrored the movement, keeping the ward up with her left palm while her right hand moved from her hip, and up next to the left hand, and she began dual casting the ward.
It was incredibly empowering to feel the magicka channeled through her being, her spirit invigorated and her gaze firm. Simultaneously, maintaining the rhythm with her dearest friend, as he continued firing away, spell after spell, teeth clenched and eyes focused, she felt alive.
As they kept it up, they began stepping closer, their arms not as outstretched but now closer to their bodies as they pushed with all they had in this dance for dominance. The middle convergence where Onmund’s lightning struck against Aerene’s ward grew brighter, brighter, and brighter…. until in an instant, both caster’s spells wavered at the same time and they arrived to a standstill. The gathering of students clapped and cheered, Aerene swearing she could hear Brelyna and J’zargo’s hollering the loudest over everyone else’s. “Excellent! Just excellent!” Tolfdir praised the two students, before stepping to address the rowdy crowd and dismiss the lecture. While he spoke, Aerene and Onmund stood behind him and Faralda, breathless, drained of magicka, and sweaty. Aerene wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, and Onmund pushed his hood down to reveal slightly messy tousled hair. Then, he finally spoke. “Shor’s bones, Aerene,” he managed to say. I may not match Onmund’s ability in destruction casting, but I have finally redeemed my previous failure.
Aerene patted him on the shoulder, and said in an echo of words that he’d spoken to her previously, “We make a good team.” With that, she turned tail and left, falling into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall.
Brelyna all but slammed her dinner plate onto the table as she sat across from Aerene at the evening meal. “By Azura, Aerene, I don’t think I’ve seen something that sensual since Miras Telvanni’s rite of convergence-when she conjured dremora and atronachs for a reenactment of Saints and Seducers.”
When Aerene only sighed in skeptical satisfaction and brought her wine goblet to her lips for a drink, Brelyna added, “I haven’t been able to look at Miras the same way since.”
“I guarantee you are the only one who saw it that way.”
“Oh, I didn’t just see it. I felt it. You may deny it now, but it’ll come around eventually. And then I’ll sit in satisfaction knowing I, as usual, was right all along.”
“Mmhmm.”
Soon, J’zargo and Onmund joined them, and the four students talked among themselves as they enjoyed the meal together. It was then Onmund asked Aerene about her magic studies.
“So… when were you planning on telling me you’d learned lesser ward?”
“Telling is not as satisfying as showing.”
“No… it’s not.”
-
“Is the matter really so dire you must come to me now? Can it not wait until the morrow?” Arch-Mage Aren griped as Aerene stood in the doorway to his quarters, having just heard of his arrival a few days later. It was the evening now, when most of the College had retired for the night, and Aren was feeling the effects of a day of travel. Aerene’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “How nice it must be, to think we have the luxury of time to dally about this. Does the issue of a visit from the Psijic Order not alarm you? Do you feel that unconcerned about the growing power of the Eye?”
“If you think we’ll learn anything of use about the Eye in such a short time, you are sorely mistaken. Study of such an artifact takes months, even years of commitment. I assure you, the matter can wait until the morning-“
“The Augur of Dunlain would find your lack of haste disappointing. Finding the Staff of Magnus is no small matter, yet you treat it as such.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I am not going to repeat myself.”
“Mind your tone, when addressing your Arch-Mage. The Staff of Magnus?” Arch-Mage Aren forced a laugh. “I’d certainly love to have such a powerful staff, but I’m not really sure any of us need it.”
“How can you say that when the Augur informed us that Ancano is also looking for the staff? Does his involvement here not bother you?!”
“Ancano is here on Thalmor authority and is within his rights under the Concordat. In any case, I must say, I’m impressed with your initiative in seeking out the Augur. Tolfdir was right in recommending you for the retrieval of the books from Fellglow Keep.”
“I did not take on that work alone.”
“No, you didn’t. You and that lightning mage managed quite well, despite the circumstances. Which is why I have no problem asking you to follow up on the matter of the Staff.” Of course!
Aren rubbed his fingers against the apex of his nose bridge and forehead, as if rubbing the tension out of a headache. “To find something as specific and ancient as the Staff of Magnus…” he began, turning and pacing about in thought. “Mirabelle! Yes, she was the one who mentioned the Staff recently. Seek her out, and see if she can tell you anything.”
Aerene said nothing but nodded in affirmation, and turned to head away from his living space, which was quite a large space for one person. It looked to be the size of the entire floor housing her room in the Hall of Attainment. She couldn’t see much from the outside of the room entrance, though. “And, Aerene?”
She stopped, glancing back to the Arch-Mage.
“I’m quite pleased with your progress, you know. Both yours and your companion’s. You’ve certainly proven yourselves to be more than mere apprentices. Well done.”
Even though it came from the Arch-Mage of the place she dreamed of attending her whole life, the praise felt shallow, an attempt to butter her up after asking her to take on another task with a small lead.
“I’ll be sure to pass your words along.” She then continued onward, setting out for the Hall of Countenance.
It’d been a long day up to this point. Her eyes were tired from all the reading she’d done all day, on the subject of conjuration, with the goal of learning bound bow. It would have been excellent for its long-range abilities, rather than the additional carry weight of a bow along with her blades. She didn’t even know where to find a bow for purchase in Winterhold; there was no blacksmith. To boot, she’d been fighting off a migraine with healing spells through the day, but it seemed that no matter what she tried, it was no use. What was even stranger was that Brelyna felt the same, and resorted to resting all day, not even attending lectures. ‘It’s unlike you, not to attend a lecture on conjuration,’ Aerene had mentioned to Brelyna during a visit to her quarters earlier that day. ‘Tell me about it. Funny, though, how we’re both feeling unwell today, isn’t it? J’zargo mentioned cramping in his tail during the morning meal. Who knew Khajiit got tail cramps?’
‘Me.’
‘Well, of course you know, being a healer and all. Leave some learning room for the rest of us!’
‘You don’t seem ill.’
‘You do. Okay, you don’t, actually, but that must be your acclimation to the climate. I swear, it’s colder than Molag Bal’s… well, nevermind. I suppose a nap won’t hurt this ache behind my eyes.’
‘I will leave you to it, then. Sweet dreams, Brelyna darling.’
Today was one of those days Aerene wanted to be over, and she just needed to speak with Mirabelle before heading to bed for the night. When she knocked on the door to Mirabelle’s quarters, a voice sounded from behind her and she startled. “Is it not late to be interfering with instructor’s personal time?”
She knew that snooty voice everywhere. Before she could defend herself, the door to Mirabelle’s quarters swung open, and the short Breton woman was glaring up at Ancano with a feisty expression. “Ancano, I can handle my own business. Come in, Aerene,” she invited, stepping aside. Aerene did, and watched in satisfaction as Mirabelle closed the door in Ancano’s face. She saw the flicker of a smirk on Mirabelle’s lips before the woman cleared her throat, maintaining her professionalism. “Now,” she said, turning to The Nord. “Was there something you needed?”
Aerene explained everything there was to tell about the Augur, the Arch-Mage, and the Staff. By the time she finished, they were sitting across from each other at a small table Mirabelle had in the room. The quarters were quite neatly kept; she had an abundance of books stacked on shelves, as well as a display of magical staffs on one wall, and a collection of pretty soul gems in a tabletop display case. Aerene from a few fears ago would’ve died trying to pick the lock of the display case open just to nab those gems and sell them to the nearest black market dealer. I can’t believe I used to do that. But I cannot change what I did. Only what I do moving forward.
“By Julianos,” Mirabelle sighed under her breath, looking away in thought. That was a name Aerene hadn’t heard in quite some time. Julianos was the Divine patron deity of wisdom and logic. Aerene, during her life at the Temple, came to learn that it was mainly in Cyrodiil Julianos was regarded as the god of law, literature, history, and even contradiction. It made sense that magic-users worshipped him. While he had no dedicated chapel at the Temple, he had a shrine there, and it wasn’t uncommon for those steeped in magicka studies to stop by the shrine for blessings to their wit and intelligence, key to magic usage. Aerene had heard tellings of a Wayshrine to Julianos deeper into Cyrodiil, but hadn’t seen it for herself.
Mirabelle set her arms on the tabletop, and folded her hands together. “I’m not really sure what Savos expects me to tell you about the Staff. I only mentioned it a few months back when the Synod showed up looking for it. They were apparently under the impression we were keeping it in a closet somewhere.”
The Synod? They have no business here in Skyrim. Of course they are involved in the search for a powerful artifact like the Staff.
The Synod were an institution of mages formed after the fall of the Mages Guild centuries ago. They, at times, seemed one and the same with the College of Whispers, as both factions were known not for their magical innovation, but for their obsession with politics among magic-users and their constant stride to steal and deal in secrets. To be on the search for the Staff of Magnus meant they must’ve had invaluable information on it, and once they found anything of true importance or even the Staff itself, it’d be just short of impossible to access the findings. Luckily, they worked mainly in Cyrodiil; as far as Aerene was concerned, despite their creation of a magical script language they used to communicate with each other, they were a band of jesters.
“If the Synod are here, if they arrived here months ago, they could have uncovered something drastic on the Staff’s location by now,” Aerene stated. “Indeed. When they were here, at our doorstep, their line of questioning made me rather uneasy. It became clear they’re trying to hoard artifacts, looking to consolidate power.”
“And garner the Emperor’s attention all the while,” Aerene sighed, leaning back into the chair. Was it just her, or did the pulses of the migraine grow stronger in just a few moments?
She noticed the way Mirabelle was rubbing both of her temples, her eyes closed as she did so. Does she feel the ache, too?
Mirabelle caught Aerene looking, and spoke. “Excuse me. My head has been aching today. Usually, I don’t feel this way until deep into winter or summer,” Mirabelle added. Aerene wondered what it could’ve been. But that wasn’t the main issue now. The Staff was. “Does anyone know the location of the Staff?” Mirabelle shook her head. “No one here does, but I do recall the Synod mage mentioned the ruins of Mzulft. Their research is always thorough; if they began a study in Mzulft, they’re likely still there.”
Aerene stood, one hand set on the table. “Then that is where the search begins.”
-
By the sun’s height the next day, she and Onmund set out from Winterhold, and a couple hours later, had made it as far as the road to the Nightgate Inn, some distance south of their usual whereabouts. Only now, they were going to head eastward, rather than continue west to the Inn. Their journey was going to take some time, and it was likely they would have to stop before getting to Mzulft. ‘We’ll see how far we get, and make camp if needed. Bring any supplies you might need on the road,’ she’d told him the previous evening when she stopped by his quarters to inform him of the turn in the story on the Eye. Much to her pleasure, there was no chance she’d be making the journey to Mzulft without him.
She couldn’t lie, it was refreshing to get out of Winterhold. The wintery landscape was gorgeous, sure, but she could’ve sworn that the air felt fresher away from the humid Sea of Ghosts and in the crispness of the lower valley.
They’d been riding in the near quiet, save for the light echo of River’s hooves as she carried the two along the cobblestone road. Aerene rubbed her fingers gently between the mare’s ears, on the top of her head, and the horse grumbled in approval. In the surrounding trees, birds tweeted and called to one another; the snow wasn’t piled up on this part of the road, as it was in Winterhold. It was here, in the quiet, that Aerene was getting a little bored. She was in a talkative mood, feeling much better than the previous day. It was as if she felt better the further they got away from Winterhold.
“Thank you for joining me,” she said. Facing forward, it was like she was speaking it to nobody, and a little awkward for conversation, but Onmund didn’t seem to mind. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he replied. She chose not to reply right away because her mind was not forming cohesive sentences-and if she tried to respond to his flattery she definitely would’ve stammered. Instead, she cleared her throat and continued talking. “Is there anything you know about Dwemer ruins that might help us out?”
“Hah! Nothing you’ll be happy to hear. From what I’ve read, and heard from Urag in the Arcaneum, they’re deep dwellings that go far below the surface of Nirn. They have an otherworldly appearance, using a lot of dwarven metal in their construction. It looks like bronze, but it’s immensely more durable. Mzulft, and the other Dwemer cities around Skyrim, are obviously all devoid of the Dwemer themselves, but their machinery remains. The passageways are constructed of dwarven metal and stone, built to survive through millennia. Bandits and falmer are usually found within, since there are valuables in the ruins and they can be accessed at times by connective underground caves and cavern tunnels. The machinery was built to defend, so it’ll be no surprise if we come across some kind of metal construct attempting to shoo us away. Traps also serve the same purpose. More advances than the simple tricks we’ve encountered so far. The cities are powered by ancient technologies employing the use of steam, and it’s rumored that those ruins deepest below the surface have used lava in their craftwork.”
“Well,” Aerene said, trying to fight off a sudden sense of impending doom. Divines above. What am I to make of all that? How did I never learn a thing about the ruins other than that they were left behind after the sudden disappearance of the Dwemer four thousand years ago?!
“I do not really know what to make of all that,” Aerene confessed, staring at the road ahead. “I never learned any of what you just explained in my history lessons at the Temple,” she said. “The disappearance of the Dwemer is a subject that I have always been curious about. All we have is what they left behind, and it cannot be studied if it is destroyed or disturbed too harshly. I wonder if the risks about bringing the Eye of Magnus to Winterhold were ever given a second thought by the College.”
“If only they would let you talk some sense into them,” Aerene responded lightheartedly, but she meant it sincerely.
“Fat chance. What makes you think they’d listen to one of us? They don’t value our opinions. We’re tools to them, just kept around to do their bidding and clean up after their mess. It is not an issue of jest,” he responded, his tone growing more serious. Aerene stiffened subtly in hesitation at his flare of temper. She knew he wasn’t angry at her, but it felt as such, with the way his tone grew heavy.
“Onmund, I did not speak in jest. You are more aware of the delicacy on these matters than anyone at the College. You deserve a space to present your concerns to the leadership. I’m sorry to have offended you,” she said. Great. We’re not even to Mzulft yet and I’ve pissed him off. I knew the matter was sensitive for him, but I thought he’d know better than to think I’d make fun of him for his beliefs.
She could feel that he was a little tense behind her, and Gods, what an awkward position to be in! He’s probably staring daggers through my head as we sit! The back of her neck was hot.
Then, he sighed, and spoke in a softer tone, more like his usual self again. “Sorry. I’ve heard wagon loads of ridiculing for my beliefs from other students who don’t value Nord heritage. I assumed that’s the position you were speaking from, and I was wrong.”
Hearing those words reminded her of the days when Imperial trainees would pass by the Temple gardens and shout insults about the ‘softness’ of the acolytes within Temple grounds. She specifically remembered how she and Brynjolf had gone after the trainees’ coin purses after nightfall. Now, that was a night to remember. I wonder if Ancunin ever deals with that nowadays.
“Don’t let their ignorance change your perceptions. I’m on your side,” she responded. Behind her, he responded, “And I, yours.”
-
Soon, the road swung right out of the trees and they were traveling alongside a river; the shimmery waters were rushing eastward. Parts were frozen, the banks here still snowy but not as cold as Winterhold. “I did not know there was a river here,” Aerene exclaimed, eyeing the flowing waters with intrigue. She swore she could see movement beneath the surface, thinking this would be a good spot for fishing. As she scanned, her gaze moved upward, across the river, and over the trees on the other side. There was a hill that stretched into a peak, laden with snowy trees, jagged rocks, and some distant stone structures peaking out from clouds caught on all of it. But much closer, at the edge of the opposite river bank, she noticed a tent. “Look there, through the trees,” she pointed. “Is that a war camp?” Onmund asked. “I’m going to mark it on the map,” he added, and she could hear him unfolding the parchment behind her to mark the location. “Stormcloak, by the looks of it,” Aerene said. The tent was rather large, but the structure was topped with tons of hides and furs. Various coat colors could be seen, but got harder to distinguish the further they kept moving in the opposite direction. Who knows what they could be doing there? She remembered the dead Stormcloak courier she and Onmund came across some time back. She bet that there were just as many Imperial camps dotting the wilderness of Skyrim, all hidden away from the main cities and towns, keeping the true progress of the war unknown. In any case, they couldn’t stop to ponder any of it now.
Further along the road, they travelled lower into a valley extending eastward with the river. An icy breeze swept downward, over the snow drifts on the nearby surrounding hills and over the river. They passed through a lumber mill situated on the river’s edge, set with a few workers and chickens. Aerene was scolded by an older woman in miller’s clothes for River nearly stepping on a chicken that wandered right into the middle of the road. She was mumbling sorry! even as they hurried away from the mill, Aerene’s face red with embarrassment. When they finally got a good distance away and crossed a stone bridge to the other side of the river, Onmund spoke, asking Aerene a question which she thought the answer for was rather obvious. “So… why'd the chicken cross the road?”
Aerene’s face contorted in confusion as she kept looking forward. “I do not know, it nearly got run over, though. I doubt that’s the first time that has happened, why does that lady let them wander there, anyway?”
“Uh… yeah. Nevermind.”
The further they traveled into the valley, the lower the temperature sunk, and eventually, the River Yorgrim had larger parts frozen over, but had also widened dramatically. The bridge Aerene stared at from here along the shore was longer than the expanse of Winterhold itself. The crossing was built of large stone bricks, some of them looking to be the size of the horse the two sat on. It stretched all the way across the river, where the stone bricks met an even more monumental city wall. It looked more like a fortress than a fortification. Across the river, the snow was piled up heavily against the exterior wall. The entire scene looked unfriendly and frozen. I never expected anything different of Windhelm. The city most loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak, out of which he runs the rebellion. That is, if he is still alive. I hope to never set foot within, if this is how unwelcoming it appears on the outside.
When they passed the Windhelm stables and took the road south and out of the valley, the sun was beginning to set. “We’re not going to make it to Mzulft by nightfall,” Aerene stated. They both knew better than to keep wandering in unfamiliar territory under the cover of a dark night. “Kynesgrove is nearby. We can rest there for the night, at the inn,” Onmund replied.
The Inn was all Kynesgrove had to offer. Literally. It was the singular building in the township, which Onmund explained was a malachite mining village. The workers slept in tents in a camp outside the mine, and the inn was a place of gathering after shifts were done at the end of the day. Now, a distance south of Windhelm, the air was warmer and there was no snow on the ground. “It’s temperate here,” Aerene said, as she dismounted River, removing her cloak. She tucked it to hang from the saddle, turning to take in their surroundings. The Braidwood Inn sat on a crest a few minutes’ walk up a path diverging from the main road to Windhelm. The views up here were lovely. Aerene closed her eyes, taking in the sweet scent of the plants all around, and the lingering scent of what could’ve only been bread baking. The sun had just set beneath the distant mountains, casting all she could see in a pinkish, orange glow. All around, the various trees looked greener than ever, the sky above a light yellow with clouds of a greyish pink. A gentle breeze swept over her, sending a chill up her spine, but warmth over her back. “Divines, it’s beautiful up here,” she said, turning her back to the views as she turned to face Onmund. She was caught off guard then, unexpecting the way the faint orange light glazed over his features, adding a warmth to his cheeks and highlighting his dimples when he glanced to her with a smile, while he began securing River to the post outside the Inn. Gods, he looks to be glowing. Has he… has he always looked that way? When he looked back to what he was doing, her gaze moved along his sleeve and she studied his hands, his fingers. Even the subtle veins that were more visible when he moved his fingers a certain way. She swallowed, wanting to smack herself out of whatever this was. Lydia said that the more you drink, the thirstier you become… yet, here I am, without a taste, and…. nevermind.
“Ready to go in? Or you want to take in the rest of the view before it’s dark?” Onmund asked. Aerene’s heart sped up in panic, until he gestured behind her to the sunset. Right. That view. “I’ve seen plenty of those,” she waved off the sunset with her hand, and stepped up the porch, into the Braidwood. Inside looked about the same as most other inns of Skyrim, with high wooden panel walls and a thatch roof, along with a central hearth. It was almost too warm inside, and busy with workers at most tables. At the counter across the central room, a Nord woman was tending the busy bar. Her chestnut brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, her bangs tucked behind her ears. She had thin brows and warm hazel eyes, and laugh lines with echoes of hard work beneath her eyes. Immediately when Aerene and Onmund approached the bar after weaving their way through the crowd, she gave them her attention. “Ah, newcomers. Welcome to the Braidwood Inn. What can I get you?”
Aerene could go for many things right now, including a hot meal and a comfy bed to soothe her sore rump after being on horseback all day. “Have you got any rooms for the night?” she asked, looking over the crowd of patrons. “Always do. Most of this bunch is too cheap to rent a room, and they’d rather sleep outside on the ground. They all come in for drinks after working the mines. Keeps the coin coming in, though,” the innkeeper said. “What a way to talk about the people who keep your business open, Iddra,” a Dunmer woman in deep blue mage robes said from across the bar. Iddra dismissed her claim with a wave of her hand. “Drink your wine, Dravynea.”
“Alright. Two rooms and dinner for us both, please,” Aerene gestured to Onmund. “Coming right up,” Iddra responded, and showed them to their rooms.
It was loud in here, but Aerene was comfortable. Her room was standard, with a single bed and bedside table. Atop, there was a goat horn sconce and candle, and a carafe of water. She’d dropped her satchel in the one chair of the room before flopping down into bed. Dinner was a suspiciously tasting stew with the fresh bread, and she just hoped it was the seasoning that gave it a funny taste. She was settling in to continue reading the bound bow spell tome when a knock sounded at her door. She was in her sleeping clothes, which was, for now, her regular clothes without the plates of armor strapped over top. Without hesitation, she set the book on the table and pushed herself out of bed. “Hi,” she greeted Onmund on the other side. He had changed out of his mage robes and had on a black sleeved shirt with black, loose pants, as well. The dark tone suited him nicely. “Do you have a minute to talk?” he asked. “Of course,” she replied, and moved so he could enter the room. She walked over and moved her satchel out of the chair, letting it slump on the ground, and gestured for him to sit. He did, and she sat on the bed, cross-legged, looking at him. “What’s on your mind?” she, of course, noticed how he carried two bottles of nothing other than Black-Briar mead.
“I was wondering about you, actually,” he said. Oh?
“Go on.”
“You mentioned a temple earlier. I was wondering if you’d tell me more about it,” he sounded hopeful, and offered her one of the bottles with a cute smile. I do know more about him than he does of me, huh? He deserves to know who he is traveling with.
“Mm, you brought my favorite drink just to butter me up, huh?” she teased, taking the bottle and trying not to cackle at the way Onmund’s cheeks reddened at the accusation, as he said, “What? No, that’s not- I just- I figured you- hm. You know what? Sure,” he shrugged plainly, and she laughed. From there, she began to tell him more of her past, rather select parts that pertained to her service at the Temple. She spared all incriminating details but went into depth about what she studied there and what life was like for herself and other acolytes. She said nothing about her family, or lack thereof. He didn’t ask many questions, as he usually did not, but listened intently. Of course, as always with them, it was never just a minute of talking. They kept up the chatter for a half hour.
“Living in the Imperial City, you must’ve encountered many nobles,” Onmund said some time later. “Indeed. Being cosmopolitan, the City is full of wealth and individuals looking to flaunt or invest. Old families, too. I’ll never forget the Emperor’s visit to the Temple when he wanted to show off the statue of Akatosh in the Temple rotunda to the royal family of High Rock, and the way he scolded for the family’s little boy not to touch-“
“Hold on, you met the Emperor?”
“Yes, what was it… five years ago. A select few of us where chosen to tend to the Emperor’s party as he and the other royals toured the grounds.”
By now, the two were sitting side by side on the floor of the room, backs against the frame of the bed. Onmund turned to Aerene with narrowed eyes, a slight smirk, and an accusatory look. “You’re pulling my leg,” he said. “What?” she asked, looking down between them. “I am not even touching you,” she complained. “No, that’s not-“ he began to say, but was laughing too hard to continue. When he caught his breath, and she was sitting there, watching, still as a statue, he elaborated. “You’ve never heard that before? It’s an expression, to mean that you are jesting… playing around.”
Aerene nodded in understanding. These Skyrim types are a bit odd. So that is what Vilkas meant when he said it in the training yard that one day, when I told him how I found River again after becoming separated in the Pale Pass. This makes sense, as that might be hard to believe for someone who was not there.
“Do they not have humor in Cyrodiil?” Onmund asked teasingly. This drew an absurd look from Aerene, and she challenged through laughter, “I was wondering the same about Skyrim.”
-
Out of Kynesgrove the next morning, the duo and River traveled southeast through the region of Eastmarch Hold. On foot, this journey would have taken double the time at least, but they were well on the way to Mzulft. The lowlands through which they traveled were of volcanic tundra; the air all around was dusty but humid, and carried the scent of sulfur. It was foul at first, and entirely new to Aerene. The hot springs were bubbly pools off the sides of the main road, scattered through rolling, small hills sparsely dotted with tall trees. Shrubbery and other vegetation wasn’t very thickly sprouting from the hard-packed ground, but Aerene was happy to find some creep cluster sprouting along the cobblestones. In alchemy, the tendrils could be pressed into a pulp with other ingredients for potions to restore magicka, or a poison concoction to damage an enemy’s stamina. Just the contact of such a liquid against one’s skin would leave them feeling sluggish and incredibly fatigued-a temporary but devastating effect in the heat of a fight. Creep cluster sold on its own was worth as much as dirt, but in potions it was more valuable. They treaded carefully, as much of the road was not well maintained in these parts; the ground was ruptured by the spreading of the hot springs and a horse or person could easily break a bone. All sides of the low valley were surrounded by mountains, some closer than others. Ruins and structures could be made out if one searched the horizon well enough, or looked far enough into the trees. Huge, curved mammoth tusks jutted out of the grounds off the road, echoes of the creatures who inhabited this area long before men or mer fought for occupation of the land. It was when they began traveling into the eastern hills Aerene knew they were close to Mzulft.
After a couple hours on horseback, they were stood on the side of a steep incline in the road. Aerene held River’s reigns in her hand, looking over the arch off the side of the road. Stone steps placed over the dirt lead up a path off the road, behind more trees and tall stones along the hillside. The woman studied the arch itself; it was more geometric than anything she’d seen before, completely symmetrical. It had unfamiliar organic runes carved on each side, and the top crossing of the arch was a straight line. It was not a true arch, but was very close to one. “This must be the Dwemer architecture you mentioned,” she said to Onmund, who was studying the work up close. “Yes. No doubt, Mzulft is somewhere up this path,” he gestured to the steps ahead of them. Aerene was excited, but frowned, as she knew she’d have to walk River up the uneven grounds off the side of the main path up the hill, to prevent any injury to the mare. “Well, we did not come all this way to stop now,” she said, and began the climb.
A quarter hour later, she was sweaty and already tired, having put in twice the effort than going up regular steps. River was happily grazing on long grasses and flowers that were in abundance outside the entrance to Mzulft. Aerene flopped down next to a patch of blue mountain flowers, sipping out of her water canteen she had recently purchased from Birna’s shop back in Winterhold. It was a lot more reliable than finding a stream or river to sip from. “I suppose we’ll learn whether the dwarves really built armor that walks like people,” Onmund said, standing over Aerene, and looking down at her. She strained her neck to glance back at the structure behind her. Facing it was a reminder of the trials sure to come ahead. Carved into the mountainside was the entrance to Mzulft, a dwarven city, where the entrance was a set of two ornately carved dwarven metal doors. Cylindrical lantern posts were fixed to the sides of the entrance exterior. All over the walls were more symmetrical carvings in the stone, not a single line out of place. To the left of the entrance was a rocky overhang, and atop that, a small tower stretched upward. Huge pipes jutted out from the lower half of the stone tower, spitting out a constant stream of steam. The pipes themselves also looked to be made of the same special metal. The fact of the broken pipes, and huge sprouts of weeds among the path to the entrance, indicate this place is not being actively maintained. There is no sign of the Synod here. No horses, no gear tables.
Aerene pushed herself up off the ground, dusting her hands off. They approached the entrance, and glanced to one another before pushing against the heavy doors with the strength of their full bodies. Gods, these are heavy!
Inside was a small foyer room, where more of the huge pipes stretched from wall to wall, and some kind of chandelier Aerene had never seen the likes of lit the room. The clanging of metal grinding got her attention, and she glanced to the right corner of the space, and gasped. A man in mage robes was leaned against the wall, and coughed out words Aerene couldn’t make out. “Shor,” Onmund muttered, and the two hurried to the Imperial’s side. “What’s happened here? Who are you?” Aerene asked, kneeling at his side as she prepared to cast healing hands. The man had a devastating wound on his torso that was bleeding heavily. “Crystal… gone,” he coughed. Aerene paused her movements. If she began to heal him before he finished speaking, and the spell drowned out his voice, they might never get the answers they needed. He was struggling to speak, as blood dripped from his mouth and down his chin. His eyes were hidden beneath the hood he wore. Aerene glanced worriedly to Onmund, whose eyes were wide with concern. “Find Paratus… in Oculory,” he wheezed. Come on! She began to cast the spell, but just as the golden light circled its first over the dying man, he coughed out his last breath and his head fell limp. Damn it!
She leaned back a step, and sighed to herself. Seeing that took her back to the first time she wasn’t able to heal a wounded Imperial back in Cyrodiil. She would’ve fallen further into the memory if Onmund’s hand on her shoulder hadn’t startled her to attention. “We should keep moving,” he said with a light squeeze. It was reassuring and all she needed to hear. Onmund moved to push through the doors leading further down into Mzulft, but there was no movement. Aerene looked to him. “Locked,” he said. She focused her attention back on the body in front of her, and stood to grab his feet and drag until he was fully flat on the ground. Then, she began checking all pockets, fingers wiggling in anywhere there might be something useful. The body was still warm. “What are you doing?” Onmund questioned. It was at that moment her fingers grazed over something leather, as well as something metal. A book, and a key.
Aerene pulled both out of the mage’s pocket and showed Onmund. “Getting us through that door,” she said. “Will you check the book for any useful information while I try this key?”
He nodded, now that her looting made sense, and she handed him the book. It was likely a journal of some kind. Aerene stepped over to the door, and glanced between the corpse, the keyhole, and the key in her hand. It was small and simply crafted, but made of the unmistakable dwarven metal. She looked at the keyhole, and plunged the key inside. Whatever did that to the mage is inside Mzulft. Finally, we have a lead, but always at a cost. We cannot stop now. “Be ready for a fight,” she told Onmund, who was flipping through the pages of the journal. Then, she turned the key and a click was heard, before the door was unlocked. She pushed the door open, and her opposite hand was stationed on the hilt of her blade, ready to unsheathe.
They faced a hallway, carved through the stone of the mountainside. To the left and right, machinery clicked and whirred. Pistons moved back and forth, and broken pipes emitted hot steam. Dirt and dust trickled from the ceiling above. Aerene led the way, eyeing a sprout of ferns in a patch of dirt on the right of the hall. Some parts of the intricately carved stone were left to their natural rock formation, while others had been sculpted into supportive pillars that bore the load of the tunnel as it stretched on. The continued straight until the hall turned left at a right angle. Ahead, another hall, the sides of which had fences made of dwarven metal, behind which were more pipes running parallel down the corridor. On each side of the walkway, just before the fences began the path narrowed slightly, were pedestals of stone and dwarven metal. On the face of both pedestals, facing outward, were metallic, humanoid busts. They each were a face with wide set eyes and angular, large features, and a downturned mouth, in an eternal frown. The eyes bore a look of boredom. Around the faces were a setting that appeared like a metallic cowl or a helmet, or perhaps both. Aerene was almost eye to eye with the metal carvings, waiting for the one she studied to blink just once.
“Gods above,” she heard Onmund mutter. He had his arms crossed and was looking at something down the hall. Aerene joined him, and saw the slumped, bloody figure a bit further ahead. Still, and lifeless. An omen, if I’ve ever seen one. “Watch where you step,” she rested her hand on Onmund’s arm, as she eyed a stone pressure plate just a step in front of them. This must activate a trap. She scanned the hall, and then spotted it: the ceiling was lined with rows of holes, three each, to total over a dozen. She guessed that stepping on the pressure plate would activate some kind of deadly spike or flames for release from the holes in the ceiling. Whoever constructed this place does not want us here. Which means we must be in the right place.
Once more, they walked carefully, and she checked the bloodied corpse for any more clues, but only found a potion of healing. Undoubtedly, the second victim had fallen for the trap they managed to avoid. The sight was grisly, even with the messiest parts hidden in the way the mage was face down, wounds hidden but violence unmistakable. She tucked the potion into her bag, but didn’t get up right away. It felt strange to walk past the deceased, but if they were Synod, there were likely procedures in place for the care of the passed members. We’ll find out if there are even any left alive. “It’s incredible how well preserved this place is,” Onmund said, standing by a pipe. “Not a hint of rust.”
Next, they came into a chamber of warm steam and loud, moving machinery. When they turned a corner, Aerene swore she saw movement in the room, but it was hard to see through the steam. “Did you see that?” she asked. “No,” Onmund replied. She narrowed her eyes, listening, but it was hard to make out any distinct noise over the machinery grinding. She unsheathed her blade and had it ready to swing. She took another step, and out of the steam, a spider-like creature lunged at her, metallic claws extended toward her. In a moment, she hopped backward and swung her blade down on the creature, and it shattered into two as it landed on the floor. It was indeed a spider made of metal, and had not an eye, but a red gem where a living creature’s cranium would be. She had her sword ready, waiting for the thing to move, just so she might cut it into fourths. “I think it’s dead,” Onmund said, and she followed him through the chamber with a watchful eye. He was just tucking the journal into one of his pockets. “This operation is under the direction of the Synod Council,” he reported. “There’s mention of a crystal, to be used in the Oculory here. Oculory? I’ve never read about such a thing,” he said. “The mage by the entrance mentioned a crystal. Must be the same one,” she began.
“Only the Synod were meant to know any of what’s being researched here. Who knows what they plan to do with the findings. I cannot imagine it will go well, of the Staff of Magnus is here and we want to take it back to Winterhold. We do not even know what it does,” Aerene rambled, eyeing cogs that spun in the walls of the next steam chamber they passed through. It was getting warmer, and she began perspiring again. They passed by a stone table with unique artifacts atop, pieces that resembled bowls and vases. These would sell for a lot in the Guild markets.
They continued onward, on a fairly straightforward path through Mzulft, carved into the mountainside. The complex itself was rather mysterious; scattered about in some of the halls were struts and plates of metal. Each room was well lit, which Aerene attributed to the presence of the Synod. At this point, they hadn’t come across any more researchers, only more of those strange metallic spiders. If Aerene knew how to draw properly, she would have created sketches of the machinery. Alas, she was many things, but not an artist.
The next set of double doors they pushed through gave way to a cavern. Aerene craned her neck upward, feeling a draft of fresh air sweep down from above. And way up high in the cavern ceiling was a narrow opening that daylight shone through. The left half of the space was crumbled with debris and rubble, and she wondered if there had been a collapse of some kind. “This seems to be an anomaly,” Onmund observed. “Why give up construction in favor of a natural formation?” he asked this as they walked through the tunnel, which wasn’t as tall as the cavern, but did have those dwarven chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, lighting the way. They passed a niche where a pickaxe lay against the wall, in front of a mineral ore up a small wooden walkway. “Looks like they were mining. Maybe they wanted to-“ Aerene, who’d been a couple paces in front, stuck her arm across his torso. “Quiet,” she whispered, and lowered to the ground in a crouch. Onmund followed her gaze, and they stared ahead into the next room of the tunnel complex. It looked like a small mining camp, with wooden walkways constructed for access to higher parts of the cavern wall. But their concern? It was the winged creature that hovered around the center of the chamber, its wings in a constant, silent flap. It looked like a giant insect, as tall as one of the two people gawking at it. It had huge forelegs that jutted forward and down, and then back again at a sharp angle. Its head was small, but its rear had two points that looked like a creature Aerene saw drawings of in the collection of a Khajiit Guild member back in Cyrodiil. ‘One of the beasts of the sands of Elsweyr,’ Duranj had said when she looked at it during one of their trades. ‘A scorpion.’
Scorpion was not the right word for the creature ahead. Neither was friendly. The two noticed the blue clothes of another mage dead in the ferns above which the creature hovered. “Ready?” Aerene mouthed silently. Onmund nodded, and she stepped forward in silence. She swung her blade down on the creature, and it screeched in response. Its wings began batting furiously, as it aimed its rear stinger at her and lunged forward. Onmund struck the giant bug with a bolt of lightning while Aerene dodged the close quarters attack, and it shrieked again. Another bolt sent it staggering back, and Aerene took the opportunity to stab her sword through the flesh of its exposed abdomen. She struck the ground with her sword, and the creature went silent. She yanked her sword out of its lilac colored flesh, and cringed at the sound the movement made. “This must be some kind of chaurus,” Onmund said, studying the dead bug. “I never heard of any variety that could fly, though. See that plating along its back? Like armor,” he said, and poked one of the steel plates on her back. Aerene watched the creature, seeing the antennae and its misty, blue-green eyes. “I doubt this is the last we’ll see of these things,” she said. They left the room, which had tables with perished food supplies and mining tools, but no useful information.
Another tunnel, another trap; this time, a tripwire that was not tripped. And then, the end of the cavern and an entrance into the next chamber of Mzulft. The air through here smelled musty and old, but rooms with more machinery carried the scent of oil and metal. As the time passed and they traversed deeper into the ancient ruins, the only foes the duo came across were spiders, until they ended up in a chamber with a new kind of sinister dweller inside. This chamber was at the end of an inclined corridor, and took a sharp left turn around a blind corner. Aerene took a few steps ahead into the room ahead, while Onmund peered through a locked metal gate. “Another one of those metallic busts is inside,” he called to Aerene, who responded, “There’s one in here too. I wonder if they’re a deity worshiped by the Dwemer?” Though I don’t recall anything on the matter during any research into Aedra and Daedra. The busts are placed like gargoyles around vampiric dwellings. Watching, keeping guard. “This must be a way of safeguarding valuables. Surprising the Synod haven’t gotten through here to study the ingots or pottery,” Onmund added. Aerene was turning about the room she was in, counting the three busts this chamber had. One was mounted overhead of the hallway, while the other two were position on opposing walls, facing each other. Aerene was about to comment on the interesting placement when a crash was heard near Onmund’s location further back the way they’d came. She spun to face him immediately, and saw that a sphere of plate metal had been launched from a convex opening in the wall right next to where Onmund had been standing. The metallic plates shifted and slid, parting to allow a construct to rise to its full height out of the sphere base. Aerene shouted a warning, and Onmund maneuvered back the other way, out of sight behind the corner in the previous stretch of hallway. She broke out into a sprint, as she heard him casting lightning spells at the creature. Its movements echoed through the hall with her footsteps and his heavy breathing; each time it moved forward was rather loud, not unlike the grinding of gears heard in the previous rooms. The metallic clangs and jolts were entirely unpleasant on the ears.
Just before Aerene turned the corner with her sword in hand, there was a final scorch of lightning against the construct, and the shriek of shattering metal struts and bolts scattering across ground. When she finally arrived to the sight, the construct was in pieces. Worse, Onmund was on the floor too, facing away from Aerene. He was breathing heavily, panting, one knee pressed into the ground while a hand held him up. He coughed, and Aerene’s eyes widened in immense worry when she saw the rapid dripping of blood from behind his hood to the stone ground below.
Chapter 23: With the Help of the Stars
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Onmund,” Aerene said under her breath, her heart dropping as she saw the staining of the crimson on the dusty grey stones below. In an instant, she was at his side, her hands grabbing onto him to gauge the situation. He was still breathing heavily, and she made sure not to echo it-one of them needed to be calm at this moment, and he was still recovering from slaying the construct that had somehow risen out of the metal sphere that lay shattered a few paces behind them in the hall.
“Hold on,” she told him when he tried to get up. I need to get a look at where the blood is coming from. She nudged him against the wall, and he settled down; now, his back had support and he could lean fully. Her eyes frantically raked up his clothes, seeing that the wound was somewhere about his face. The sight of seeing his clothes marred by that unmistakable staining brought her more distress than she’d ever admit, but she couldn’t let that stop her. She knelt at his side, and pushed his hood back, and got a good look at his face in its entirety. She stared for a bit at the torn flesh of his bottom lip and gritted her teeth to force back a grimace. It was a gash to the left side of his bottom lip, near, but not quite at, the corner of his mouth. It was not a long wound, but it was split widely and was still bleeding heavily, streaking down Onmund’s chin and neck. That construct must’ve landed a hit with its blade. Damn this place!
“I can heal myself,” Onmund said in a struggle, but when he talked, the blood pooled in his mouth spurted out. Aerene planted her hand on his arm that began to raise and do the healing. “No,” she said, “let me.” It was more a plea than a statement or proposition. When he let his arm fall to his side, her eyes met his, and she felt a pang of sympathy that something like this had happened so fast. She could see the anguish in his eyes and it hurt her, too. They held eye contact for a moment, before he looked away and his brow furrowed in pain. His lip was split open, and she could see the white of his teeth through the immense red of the wound. It was a harrowing contrast, the grave image of him like this compared to the glowing portrait she remembered from the evening before.
So, she got to work. Aerene’s instinctive healer procedures kicked in, and she began digging in her knapsack for her water canteen. She set it on the floor next to her, and quickly pulled her blue sash from over her shoulder. “I’m going to pour this, then I need you to rinse and spit there,” she gestured with her head, and he nodded in understanding. She poured the water gently over the wound, seeing it wash down his chin and into his mouth in a grotesque mixture, before he leaned to the opposite side and spit it away. She used her sash to wipe the excess as it fell, so as not to soak his clothes any more than necessary. She left the cloth under his chin, and knew they were ready for the healing spell. “Give me your hand,” she spoke gently, and he raised his left hand from its limp place at his side. She took it in her right hand, and maintained a firm grip. She closed her eyes, and offered a silent prayer to her Divine. Akatosh, grant me the strength to close Onmund’s wound, and the focus to be thorough. Bless him with the relief of healing.
The healer channeled her focus on his wound, seeing the image in her mind: she imagined the split flesh, the tangy, twisted scent of the blood leaking from it. She corrected the image with belief that it could heal, the flesh melded back together and the skin repaired. She felt the warmth of the spell as the golden swirls whirled around them, warmest at the convergence of their hands, the single point where their skin touched. The magic channeled from her to him as she had her left hand raised, fingers spread as the light burst from her palm and illuminated the radius all around them. The sound of the spell was like a divine wind chime, bursts of light and magic coaxing about the two as the magicka crossed from the realm of Aetherius to the mortal plane. To them. To him.
When she could feel the rays of pleasurable healing radiating through her own body and where their hands embraced, she opened her eyes, and the light dimmed until it vanished completely. Left behind in the darker reality of that corridor in Mzulft were Aerene and Onmund. The former looked concernedly over the latter, but finally smiled when she saw that the wound had healed together completely. A scar marked the flesh, a memory and reminder of the hit he took. And to no surprise, he looks no worse for wear.
Then she realized she was still holding his hand, and while it was rather pleasant, she let go, and grabbed her sash and offered him the water canteen. He drank, and then spit out the last of the blood from his mouth, wiping his hand over his lips. Unfortunately, it was going to take a lot more than that to clean him up. But for now, she took back the canteen, poured some on the cloth of the sash, and began wiping the blood from his neck and chin. “Mm.. what are you doing?” he asked. She paused, and met his eyes for a moment. She scoffed playfully. “If you walk around looking like this, you’ll scare the Synod back to Cyrodiil and the machinery back into the walls of this wretched place,” she jested, and was relieved to see a smile form on his newly scarred lips. “That… wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he replied, and sat still while she continued wiping gently.
After some time to get their bearings, they stood over the slain construct and had taken to calling it a dwarven sphere. “We will likely run into more of these. Be on your guard,” Aerene warned, stepping over the metal plates to walk further into the ancient city. “I’ll be ready,” Onmund replied, and they set off once more.
They took a few steps before Aerene stopped, her hands at rest upon her hips. She sighed, and turned to Onmund. There was something on her mind, but she wasn’t exactly sure of the best way to voice her concern to him. All those times I swindled with the Guild. Easy as breathing. ‘Yes, it is a genuine ruby. No, not a garnet! Pleasure doing business. Come back soon.’ She held back a groan at the thought of all she got up to in those days. At least we only stole from the ones who had plenty to go around.
“Why have we stopped?” Onmund asked, turning back to Aerene. She nibbled at the inside of her bottom lip, and put the words together as best she could. She cared about their friendship, but could not let this go unsaid and remain in good conscience. “I think we need a better plan of action as we trek through here. As we fight through here,” she added uneasily. Onmund shrugged. “Alright. What are you thinking?” So easy?
“I…” her voice trailed before she could say a second thing. Come on! Use your words! Better he get offended than get a wound that cannot be healed. “I am experienced in close-quarters combat, heavy armor. If a dwarven sphere takes a swing at me, I have my sword to stop the hit, or my armor should its blade slip past my defenses,” she said, and strongly hoped he would understand what she was trying to say. “Oh, I get what this is,” Onmund folded his arms, and she tensed a little, until he smiled softly. “Are you worried about me getting hurt again?”
Her eyes widened, her heartbeat quickening. That was exactly what she was worried about. She’d never speak a word of it now. “Well,” she began, “the next time we are taken by surprise, we might not get so lucky as to end up with a scar. You or I,” she said. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “You lead, I’ll follow,” he said, and stepped aside for her to walk ahead. “You are not just a follower,” she protested, feeling like she wasn’t getting her point across. He is not a subordinate to be ordered around by my word. I must treat him with the respect he deserves. “No, I am your friend. And as your friend, I’ll have your back. They do not call you Aerene of Jorrvaskr for nothing. So, Companion with a sword and heavy armor, lead, and I will follow,” Onmund insisted. Aerene straightened her back upon hearing this. I should have known he would be so agreeable. One of the reasons we get along so well. To know he is comfortable stepping back to let me lead, now, that is trust.
She thanked him, and they decided that they’d travel side by side, and when entering combat, she’d keep a short distance between herself and the enemy, while Onmund fired spells from a distance. It was what they had worked out in Fellglow Keep; the only difference now was that they were not fighting armorless mages, but heavily armored metal constructs with sharp blades. She hoped this new plan of theirs would keep them from bleeding the rest of this journey.
The next chamber they passed through was more decorative than anything they’d seen previously; they traveled along a colonnaded walkway, the stones of the room carved with more dwarven runes and those metal visages. Aerene commented to Onmund that every room, with its spinning cogs and pumping pistons, seemed alive. It was almost like exploring a cairn of Draugr, except the magic that kept them undead was not what allowed operation of the Dwemer machinery.
Through a set of dwarven metal doors was a larger chamber that reminded Aerene of an arena. Straight ahead, there was a ledge also accessible by a staircase to the right wall of the space. Down in the lower space, a drop of ten feet or so, was rubble and a collapsed pillar heavily leaning to one side. To the left side of the lower area was a high wall, level with the ground Aerene and Onmund stood on. The walkway narrowed severely on the left and was the only way to get to the other side of the room, across the pit space. A habit now, Aerene walked carefully to the left side, and eyed the ground. It was full of pressure plates which were not well hidden; another scan of the wall next to them led her to believe the pressure plates were connected to piston heads sticking out of the wall. She had an idea, but needed to test it first. “There’s another sphere on the other side of the pit,” Onmund muttered quietly. Aerene looked, and saw the sphere rolling silently across the room. “Come here,” she said, and gestured for him to stand directly next to her, on the exposed floor without the pressure plates beneath them. “Don’t step on the plates,” she said, and he adjusted his footing. The woman took another look, and hoped she wouldn’t get herself launched off the ledge for calculating this incorrectly. She rested her foot on the pressure plates to her left, and pressed down; the three pistons on that side of her thrust out of the wall with a metallic squeal, before retracting back into place.
A smirk formed on the woman’s lips. Let luck be on our side today!
“Can your lightning reach the sphere, or the ground near it?” she asked her companion in a whisper. “Yes,” he replied. “Do it,” she said, and he struck the ground a step away from where the sphere was rolling around. They watched as the construct rose from the sphere base and revealed its mechanical body, plates whirring and shifting as it searched for the culprits. They had its attention, and Aerene felt a pang of anticipation as the dwarven sphere extended the blade from its arm-like appendage, leaning forward to roll across the stone ground to the ledge. “It’s getting a little close,” Onmund went to take a step back. “Don’t you dare move,” Aerene said and shot him a look of warning, pleading him to trust her. The construct rolled closer and closer, the clanging of its metal plates growing louder as it neared. As soon as it was in front of the pistons, Aerene slammed her foot down onto the plate beneath her foot. The pistons screeched as they thrust outward, all three at once, and the sphere went tumbling off the ledge. It landed in the pit below, shattering into pieces upon contact. Aerene peered over the edge with a look of satisfaction, and maintained her smug look even when Onmund watched with a cautious gaze. “I’m glad we’re on the same side,” he quipped.
Later on, they entered a hallway carrying a nauseating stench. The source of the foulness was a sight Aerene could hardly tear her eyes from. “What in Oblivion is that?”
She stared down at the dead creature they came across at the end of the hall; it was humanoid but looked entirely wrong. It didn’t look to have been dead for long-which meant its stench was not a result of its demise. “Falmer,” Onmund said from Aerene’s side, his voice muffled as he held the collar of his robes over his mouth and nose. She would have done the same, but her scarf was a little bloody at the moment. The Falmer was slumped on the ground, in a splattering of its own blood; the remnants of two dwarven spiders were spread on the ground nearby, with more of the creature’s blood coating their metal claws. It was a pitiful sight; Aerene had heard of the Falmer, but wasn’t sure she ever believed the stories-until now. Temple lessons on the history of Nirn’s many races brought to light the tragic course followed by the falmer. Before they were this, they were also known as the Snow Elves; said to be beautiful, with skin as white as snow and hair to match, taller than the average Altmer or Orc. Centuries of enslavement by the Dwemer corrupted the continuity of the snow elves, who devolved into blind, bloodthirsty cave dwellers, feeding on whatever was available-men or mer included. The dead Falmer in front of the two had pallid, pale skin, and twine wrapped over its thighs and forearms. It was barefoot, but its toenails were nearly as long as talons on a hagraven. The same could be said of the creature’s fingernails. Its ears were pointy; it looked malnourished, with how its muscles and sinew were just barely covered by thin skin. It wore a plated belt at its hips with loin cloth hanging over the front and back.
“When you mentioned Falmer earlier, I did not expect to really find them. I thought they might have been made up, to keep children away from caves that bears or trolls lived in. These creatures do not exist in Cyrodiil, as far as I know. But my ignorance has proved me wrong once already,” Aerene said, feeling pity as she looked over the creature. What a horrible fate for an entire race. The Dwemer had higher regard of their machines than to the living people they enslaved. Monsters.
While they passed a second gruesome scene after the next turn in this corridor, of another Falmer surrounded by dwarven spider corpses, Aerene braced herself for fighting one.
The further they went into Mzulft, the more the ancient city seemed like a maze. It certainly wasn’t a city in the modern use of the word; the only passageways which could be traversed were linear, with no avenues or alleys. It was hard to imagine how a society would function in such a state, so deep underground, with no fresh air or more of a broad layout. Thinking too much into it threatened a headache for Aerene.
After a certain point, the duo discovered an expanse of Mzulft with excessive slain constructs; they traveled carefully, especially after finding another Synod mage corpse. The air in this portion of Mzulft was thicker, hotter with steam. Onmund had rolled up the sleeves of his robes, and Aerene had tucked her hair tightly behind her ears to try and cool off. In the last couple of months, it had gotten longer than she preferred and she noted to remind herself to either cut it or find a way to keep it off her neck.
The first Falmer they defeated together was the only reasonable explanation for all of the destroyed constructs through the few chambers they passed. A particularly notable chamber they encountered had what appeared to be cells-niches enclosed by a single doorway with iron bars and a gate across. Inside one of the cells were slain, shattered Dwemer spiders and spheres, as though the Falmer had imprisoned the machines there. Even more fascinating was how the Falmer fought with weapons Aerene and Onmund had not encountered; closer inspection led them to believe they were constructed of the same material as the chaurus armor plates, which made sense for the conditions the Falmer inhabited. These weapons were axes and swords with various small spikes around the larger blades, like thorns on some plants. In color, they were a deep grayish purple. Aside from the belts and loin cloths, the Falmer wore no armor, which left them completely exposed to destruction spells or a sharp sword. In addition to having homemade weapons, the Falmer also showed knowledge in the usage of magicka, as one of them cast frostbite at Aerene, who threw her ward spell up in defense and completely deflected the icy blasts. “It’s a shame it has come to this,” Onmund reflected after they left the prison chambers. “I can only imagine what the Snow Elves looked like in their prime. Graceful and elegant. Everything the High Elves think they are,” he added.
A couple hours into their descent, the dire nature of the quest was emphasized more severely. Part of the ruins’ passageway traversed through a Falmer nest; Aerene had seen quite a bit in the healing wards of the Temple, where soldiers and sickly would be tended to for diseases and wounds alike. None of that compared to the filth the Falmer resided in, a stench and vision so repulsive Aerene grew lightheaded. Swarms of bugs flew about the makeshift huts in the dimly lit tunnels, which were simultaneously occupied by more chaurus and Falmer; the former appeared to be kept as pets and fighting companions by the latter. It needed not to be said between Aerene and Onmund that they hasten through that stretch of Mzulft. And to think we’ll have to backtrack through all of this just to see the surface again. My impressions of the Dwemer are not positive.
When they finally made it out of the revolting cavern and back into the constructed corridors of Mzulft, they rested for a quarter hour to get their heads straight and their stomachs settled. Aerene forced herself to swallow a bite of bread; Onmund, between bites into a juicy red apple, remarked, “The Synod are mad for having a project here. Who knows how far this place extends into the mountain, or how many Falmer live in filthy nests like that? You know, one book I read on the Falmer said they traverse ruins like this with narrow tunnels they’ve carved into the walls all around.” Aerene offered a sigh in response, letting herself lay completely on this relatively clean part of the ground. She’d already spent a few minutes scraping her soles against the ground to try and get rid of any muck left on her boots. “The Synod… all of this research is of great importance. Perhaps they are looking for more than the Staff of Magnus. They’d never offer any details, though. A project like this is ambitious and costly.” And deadly.
Following the pathway they’d been on since they entered Mzulft, the duo came to suspect-and perhaps, more so, hope-they were nearing the end of the research site. For all they knew, they might have only explored a small fracture of all that Mzulft really was. Only the Aedra and Daedra knew how far into Nirn the Dwemer city was carved, those ancient corridors and homes forever blockaded by collapsed pillars and debris that would take armies of men to move for allowance of further exploration. The duo next entered a long room, which extended far to the right; the passageway they entered through was on the left side of the stretch. In the center of the space was another pit, or even a canal, as there was knee-high water inside. It wasn’t enough to catch a fall, that was sure. Aerene and Onmund took in the room, and the woman could tell by her companion’s expression that he, too, was wondering what this room was used for. Perhaps bathing facilities? Or swimming? She didn’t recall reading anything about the Dwemer being swimmers. Just taking in the space was enough to send a chill up her spine, as the scent of Falmer wafted through the air, and then she saw that at the far end, where a set of steps led into the pool, there was a cluster of Falmer. Their heads were tilted back, noses pointed upward as they snarled and sniffed the air. It had become apparent thus far that while they were blind, their other senses were incredibly sharp and they fought without limitations. It was no wonder how they managed to snatch unsuspecting travelers from the roads of the surface.
Aerene knelt down, peering over the ledge into the pool below, frowning at the nonsensical structure of the awkwardly-shaped chamber. The gap between this side of the pool and the other was too wide to jump, even for Nords like them with long legs. “We’re going to have to fight,” Onmund concluded in a whisper. Aerene nodded, dreading what might come of this. Mzulft had proven itself to be a place of nightmares; they did not even know if there were any Synod left alive to make all of this worthwhile. We will find out soon enough if our efforts have been in vain.
“Let’s do this,” she said to Onmund, who gave an affirmative nod and stepped aside for her to take the lead. Aerene began jogging along the walkway, holding her lucky dagger carefully as she moved. When she was close enough, she aimed with her opposite arm and closed one eye, fingers holding the tip of the dagger. Then, in a fluid motion, she threw the weapon to the farthest Falmer of the five gathered along the narrow stone walkway. The weapon struck true, and the creature went down with a dreadful shriek. The remaining four were immediately riled up and enraged, and the cacophony of their snarls and growls filled the air as they scrambled to attack the invaders. Aerene quickly unsheathed her sword, and thrust it up to defend from a swing of the nearest Falmer’s axe. She watched her footing, careful to keep away from the steps and ledge of the pool as she was occupied by the fight. Onmund had summoned a bound bow, and was firing arrows from a distance at the other creatures while Aerene maintained close proximity. She stumbled back as the Falmer closest to her landed a particularly powerful hit, which she managed to stop with her sword. A shield would be useful right about now! she thought to herself when the vibration from the impact shuddered through her wrists. She let out a guttural noise as she returned the attack, launching her foot at the leg of the Falmer. It stumbled back, losing its balance and allowing her blade access to slash across its torso. As she regained her balance from the exhaustive movement, her back was blasted with a harsh wind of icy air. Frostbite!
She swung around to find another Falmer just a step away, casting the freezing spell at Aerene. She took a second of it to the face, eyes squeezing shut while the cold danced against her cheek before sinking in further and burning. She threw her ward up in defense, and the spell was blocked, but the icy remnants were blasted all about the ground and the ward when Aerene swung her sword at the creature and it hurried backward to dodge the hit, still casting the spell as it was forced back and its hand aimed everywhere. Aerene sucked in a quick breath, one eye squinting from the faint burn of the frostbite on her skin, and glanced around to check her surroundings before the Falmer could strike again. Onmund had struck down two of the creatures with arrows from his bound bow, and was stepping backward along the edge of the pool’s other side. He had an arrow readied and pointed at a Falmer that charged toward him, rapidly closing the distance between the arrowhead and its own flesh. Seeing that this was almost over, Aerene prepared to strike the Falmer next to her. She turned around and stepped forward, where her boot landed on the ground below, yet did not remain there as the slippery ice of the frostbite spell sent her leg way farther than intended. A second error, then, as she tried to catch herself with her opposite foot, and it slipped out from under her, too. She saw the whole room turn about in just a few seconds, catching glimpses of the Falmer, the ceiling, and the chamber’s huge dwarven metal pipes, as her body tumbled down. Her legs were flung upward, upper body flung downward, and her back smacked against the corner of the ledge, sword sent clattering away, hands desperately trying and failing to catch herself. The next thing she new, she landed hard in the pool, body smacking with a slash against the ancient stones of the shallow water. All of her weight was thrust against the right side of her body, her upper arm cradling her neck and head but instantly flooding with pain at the second of contact against the ground. The instantaneous impact stole all breath from her lungs and she gasped for air, choking as she only inhaled water. Up! Get up! She came to her senses and managed to shove herself up with the weight of one elbow, coughing up the slew of water she’d rapidly swallowed, choking on the mix of air and droplets as she attempted to restore the breaths that had been smacked out of her body. She hacked up the excess water, lip quivering. The liquid tasted foul and old, staler than any concoctions she’d ever brewed up in alchemical training. Aerene heard Onmund call from somewhere up behind her, but she couldn’t make out the words, could barely see what was in front of her. A grotesque snarl sounded from far too close, and she saw that the Falmer had jumped down into the waters a couple paces in front of her. Come on!
Aerene staggered back, off balance but finally standing despite the pain pulsing through her back and rump. Miraculously, her head wasn’t hurting. Yet. Demanding that this be over, she raised her fists and trudged through the water toward the Falmer, prepared to do whatever was necessary. Rage and exhaustion had worked its way into her, marring her heart and mind. Furious at everything they’d encountered since stepping into Mzulft, with no time to process any of it, she came to view the Falmer attacking her as a mere bump in the path. She wondered how many people this whole camp had slain, wondered whether they tortured their victims or let them go easily. Onmund’s words from somewhere up behind her fell on deaf ears as she was blasted yet again with frostbite, the Falmer in front of her raising its axe to swing down against her. She refused to allow it, and threw herself at the creature, hand latching onto its wrist and pinning it down when she tackled it into the water. They wrestled, the unarmed Nord struggling to defeat the untamed Falmer. Aerene’s mind was not sound in those moments, as her eyes were struck wide and her jaw was gritted shut, while she pulled her elbow tighter around the neck of the creature screeching and clawing in her arms. Her fingers dug into the Falmer’s wet skin, nails scraping, hands gripping the creature’s neck and head. A final silence settled into the room after she twisted with all her strength and the harrowing snap settled the ordeal. Her arms fell, and the Falmer’s corpse landed in the water at her feet.
Aerene stared down at it, water droplets falling rapidly from her soaked clothing, armor, and hair. The sight sent a vile feeling through her, an overwhelming sensation she only felt once before, and that was the first time she killed another, that night in the village. All at once she felt guilt, hatred, pity. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, expression shifting as she tore her gaze from the creature at her feet. She picked up her sword from where it’d landed nearby, and met Onmund back at the steps to the pool, at the other end of the room. He watched her walk in silence, gaze flickering between her and the corpse she stepped away from. He had her dagger in his hand, and handed it to her when she passed by. She briefly wondered if he’d been planning to intervene, and take the Falmer from behind, should things have turned for the worst.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, before a lash of pain in her back reminded her she needed to do something about her injuries. She dragged her feet up the steps to the flat ground, where she groaned, falling to sit against the wall. She began tugging at her soggy knapsack, because she’d learned on her way out of the pool that she had too little magicka to cast grand healing. To save what she had left, she’d go the old fashioned way and drink a potion. Before she could pull it out of her bag, though, Onmund was kneeling in front of her, looking over her with curiously concerned eyes. “What do you need?” he asked, hands outreached and ready to take the bag. “A healing potion. To save on magicka,” she replied. He found one, and pulled the cork out with a pop, handing it over to her. She took it, thanking him, and chugged until the foul liquid was down her throat completely. As it began to work, and the aches from the back of her neck down her spine and to her feet disappeared one by one, she leaned her head against the wall. “I am bathing in the first stream we find back on the surface,” she stated, drawing her eyes to meet Onmund’s, as he stood over her with his arms crossed, face just slightly amused as he looked down at her. “You sure you’re good to keep going?” he questioned in a softer tone. “Anything to get out of this awful place,” she replied. Aerene stared ahead, mind wandering far from where they were. While she recuperated, she considered how the day would go on. There was that saying about children sleeping better after playing all day; she thought maybe she’d fall into a heavy slumber once she was back on the surface. Heavier, though, was the doubt that she might not rest at all, as she tried to forget the sound of the Falmer’s bones snapping, or the feeling of its skin against her fingertips that ended its life. She pressed her index finger and thumb together, feeling her own skin, eyes beginning to wander about the room. Internally, she went over what she was touching, what she heard, what she saw, what she smelled, and what she tasted. She watched as Onmund looked about the room, wandering here and there while glancing back to check on her ever so often. As much as she wanted to stay seated, elbows on her knees and head resting atop her arms, there was work to be done.
The next room was rather large, and must have been a communal space or market area, for it was spacious enough that many could gather together. It was also where the Falmer had another nest area set up, but it appeared that the ones from the previous room were the occupants. Not anymore.
There were makeshift chests constructed of more chaurus chitin and bone, within tents that dotted the edges of the room, crafted of the same organic materials. Yet another disturbing revelation was the discovery of fish and birds’ eggs in the nest area, indicating a surface presence. The stench in here was rancid; as Aerene stood over a Falmer corpse that appeared to be female, unlike the others they’d encountered, she noticed evidence of magicka damage along the body’s skin. It looks like the Synod put up a fight, after all. Unless one of her own turned against her?
“I found something,” Onmund called from across the room, up by one of the tents. Aerene jogged her way up, and Onmund showed her a unique piece, holding it carefully in his hands. It was a geode sphere; the outside had a dwarven metal ring, attached at opposite poles of the sphere. Cutting across the shimmery rock of the sphere’s exterior were blue circular gems, incised with carvings and surrounded by more metal. “This matches the description of the crystal mentioned in the journal you pulled off the mage at the entrance to this place. It’s broken, but it’s all we’ve come across that could be used in the Oculory… wherever that is.”
“I hope Paratus is not one of the dead Synod we passed on the way here. Good eye, Onmund,” Aerene said, and gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he said with a grin, tucking the crystal in his pack.
By the time they reached the base of an inclining, long stone ramp that lead to a doorway above, Aerene’s feet ached from all the walking on the hard grounds of Mzulft. Her hand was worn out from squeezing tightly on the handle of her sword, and her skin was irritated and miserably itchy with sweat that couldn’t dry in the humidity down here. No matter how often she wiped her brow, a drop of sweat always leaked into her eye and stung for a moment. Aerene could tell Onmund was tired, by his slower walking and his quiet behavior. The huge dwarven metal face mounted atop the doorway at the top of the walkway was an undeniable warning of more to come.
“Whatever comes next, keep the crystal safe,” Aerene said, “and yourself, too.” Onmund looked to her and gave an affirmative nod. They walked up the steps, muttering quietly about what they might find. Then, a voice from behind the door silenced them. “G-Gavros? Is that you? I’d almost given up hope! Let me get the door…” a man said from the other side. Aerene held her finger to her lips, telling Onmund not to say anything. He might never open this door if he knows we are not of the Synod.
The door groaned open, and an Imperial man in blue mage robes appeared. His skin was deep in tone, and he had a beard, and dark hazel eyes full of concern. “What the... What are you doing here? What've you done with Gavros?” he stepped back, hands clenched as though preparing a spell. “Hold on,” Aerene said, raising a hand, “are you Paratus?”
He narrowed his eyes, lowering his hands. “I am. How do you know my name?”
Aerene sighed, and searched for the right words. In situations like this, there are no right words. “We encountered Gavros at the entrance to mzulft. He… he died seconds after we found him. The last words he spoke were about finding you in the Oculory,” she explained. Paratus’ expression softened, and he covered his mouth with his hands, looking down in thought. He shook his head, in frustration. “It was the Falmer, wasn't it? Curse them! That’s the stench lingering on the two of you. And the reason you both look worse for wear. They've ruined everything! If Gavros is gone, there's no hope. He was supposed to return with the crystal... without that, all our efforts are wasted. And you. If you're here for treasure, or wisdom, or anything, I'm afraid you've wasted your time,” he threw his hands up, turning away from the two to walk further down the grand hallway behind the doors. “We have the crystal,” Onmund said, and Paratus stopped. “What? How did-you-you found the crystal?”
“In a Falmer nest,” Onmund replied. “Well, then, give it here, I must continue this!” Paratus began quickly walking back to them. Aerene crossed her arms, and took a step back with Onmund, who mirrored her stance. “Wait a moment. We’ll give you the crystal, but we need to know more about what you’re doing here.”
Paratus looked displeased, as his eyes narrowed. “We came here on official business of the Synod Grand Council. First time around, the crystal didn’t work, and Gavros had to cart the damn thing all the way back to Cyrodiil. Left the rest of us here to fend off the damnable Falmer. This whole project has gone awry, and I need that crystal to set things right again. If I can focus the crystal this time ar- no, that’s secret. I might ask what the two of you are doing here, running around this dangerous place by yourselves.”
Aerene and Onmund exchanged a glance in the moment of silence, then Aerene spoke. “We are from the College of Winterhold…. and are searching for…” Aerene hesitated to reveal what they were looking for. Can Paratus be trusted? What if he and the Synod are searching for the same thing we are? What then? “…an artifact.”
“You are, are you? Savos wouldn't even grant us an audience when we came to you, but now you come here expecting something from me? I don't much like this, I'll tell you. But you saved my skin, so maybe I can overlook the past for now. As for your artifact, we haven’t found anything of note here. To use the Oculory, I can’t do anything without the crystal. Come on, I'll explain on the way.”
The three set off down the hall, pacing between monumental walls full of Dwemer artwork with supplemental pillars. From the front, Paratus huffed a laugh. “I almost thought Gavros got himself killed just to spite me. No matter what anyone says, this was my idea first, and the Council is going to know that.” Aerene bit back her words. What an idea, one that got the entire team slain except for Paratus himself. I expected better than this from an institution as prestigious as the Synod. But they are not masters of war, only magic.
Then, they reached the end of the hallway, and Aerene stopped in her tracks. Facing them was an enormous Dwemer metal sphere, gigantic plates all etched, carved, and curved to align perfectly. Circles of the same blue gem as on the focusing crystal could be seen on the huge plates, some of them way up near the top, and others looking Aerene in the eye. They were of varying sizes. Some shared the diameter of a sizable tree trunk, while others were half the size. The ceiling must have been several metres high, built entirely of stone brick; it was hard to see from the bottom half of the sphere, but it appeared that the top of the ceiling’s central region was made of glass, the panels which were a gorgeous blue hue set between Dwemer metal frames. The whole monument was illustrious. “By the Nine,” Onmund muttered, as they both leaned back to take in the view. Paratus led them up a stone walkway following the cylindrical curve of the room’s walls, and then they walked along the sloping side of the giant sphere until they stood near the glass panels previously seen from below. By the Nine, indeed. Aerene took in the sight of the curved ceiling, much like that of the Temple’s observatory. It was lined with rings of that blue glass and more gem circles, as well as the metallic framing in between panels. In the middle was a light beaming down to a central, thin metal arch stretching across the span of a larger contraption below. To the left of the room, the walkway extended upward to a higher observation point, where various dwarven metal consoles jutted up from the ground. Paratus explained as much as he could without giving the Synod’s secrets away; the Dwemer built this place, which Paratus took to calling the Oculory, as a means of redirecting starlight, attempting to split it. Starlight. From the sun or the night. In doing such, the Dwemer wanted to reveal the unseen.
The original name for the Oculory was lost now, but it was Paratus who thought of using the focusing crystal in the apparatus to open the contraption, to allow its components to shift. He said the crystal had been undergoing months of enchanting, and expressed the vitality in focusing it correctly now. The focusing process would be done with heating and cooling-physical transformations that could be directed with magical spells, like flames or frostbite.
Paratus insisted Onmund place the crystal in the central ring of the archway. Aerene thought this might have been because the center of the arch was a little tall for Paratus, who did not have Onmund’s height, but she kept her thoughts as just those. When Onmund let go, the ring rotated, until the focusing crystal was now at the highest point of the archway. Whatever it did invited more beams of light in from the center of the ceiling. Aerene squinted at the sudden influx of bright light. Paratus stood next to Onmund, the three of them taking in the sight. Beams of light channeled through some kind of… what, glass pane? And redirected? Aerene did not understand, but she was in awe.
Paratus was less impressed than the two young Nords, and he stepped to one wall of the room, flipping through a book he’d picked up off a research table. There were loose sheets of parchment and stacks of books all over, as well as charcoal scribbles of the Oculory and the gems contained within. “Now, I’ll require your assistance in focusing the crystal. Being enchanted so far away, some of the essence needs to be readjusted for the beams of light to match with the reflective gems. When you heat or cool the apparatus, the appendages will shift. I will be up there,” he pointed to the observation point above, where the consoles were, “to adjust the focusing rings in the dome. If we work together, we can correctly focus the crystal and the apparatus, and-“ he stopped himself from revealing those precious Synod secrets, “and go from there. You'll need to use spells to do that. Being from the College, I assume you know them already. We can always trade places, in case your training is even more substandard than I've heard.”
His sudden, rude remark drew a scowl from Aerene, who was glaring daggers through Paratus’ back while he walked up the slope to the consoles. She glanced to Onmund, her arms up to convey, ‘What was that about?’.
Onmund shrugged in response, looking just as puzzled. Hmph!
Her time with the Thieves Guild was exciting, thrilling, and full of deception, lies, and deceit; sometimes with other Guild members, except for a trusted few favorites, but mostly with con artists outside the Guild. Those that swindled mercilessly, uncaring who their targets were, even willing to go so far as kill for the prize. The risk of such extreme encounters was eventually one of the major reasons Aerene was glad to part from the Guild and the more ruthless associates on the outside. During those years, she learned the right things to say-and what to keep to herself.
No matter what Paratus says, it is vital we leave Mzulft with the Staff, or any more information on its location. Anything more than we have is enough.
In a few moments, the three were standing in different positions around the room, ready to begin the focusing process. All Paratus told the mages to do was to use heat or cold, while he controlled the central apparatus from the console on the upper slope. Aerene had her doubts, but kept them to herself, knowing success or failure would come no matter what her opinions were on what they were doing.
Onmund began by casting frostbite, and the three watched as the appendages of the apparatus, extended from the ceiling downward, opened slowly. It was quiet, even. Aerene was surprised that it was nearly soundless, since it seemed like so much time had passed since this last happened and she expected some metallic screeching or scratching. The central beams of light were cast at different angles now, some of them reflecting on portions of the glass in the machinery. As Paratus called out instructions, Aerene would cast flames as necessary while Onmund cooled as needed. Paratus, from the console, was pressing buttons to turn the three rings in the dome above; each ring had a large, circular gem. The general idea was to adjust the appendages of the central apparatus, with fire and ice, to focus the crystal and allow the light beams to reflect onto the gems in the rings. The work of Paratus took the longest, as he pressed the buttons to turn the rings in the upper dome, and waited for them to turn.
Aerene watched it all in wonder and awe, amazed at this advanced machinery. There was hardly anything like it on the surface world. If I’d followed a different path in life, I would never have encountered anything as inspiring as this. She stood, her gaze brushing over the beaming light, the crystals and gems above, the curves of the machinery, the brightness of the starlight as they attempted to harness the slightest bit of control over it. Her sights then fell to Onmund, across the room, eyes lit with wonder as he studied the central apparatus and the starlight channeled from above. Nor would I ever have met Onmund, the gem he is. I could not have done any of this without him. His curiosity found the focusing crystal, after all. As she watched, she felt like she’d been here before. Not here, in Mzulft, but like she’d lived a similar moment sometime in the past, or maybe encountered it in a dream. She couldn’t place it, but she wasn’t all that eager to dismiss it.
“There! We’ve done it! Years of work, finally going to pay off!”
Paratus’ voice called across the chamber, and he hurried from the consoles, down the slope to the lower floor where the other two were standing. Aerene blinked back to reality to see that while she wasn’t paying any mind to the process, it had been perfected. The beams of light above were gleaming perfectly, hitting each gem in the rings and the arms of the apparatus. It was geometric and incredible. She and Onmund hurried to meet Paratus at the wall directly beneath the control consoles. The starlight was projecting a map. A map of Tamriel. Skyrim…. there seem to be two points of interest in Skyrim. The light of the map was a milky white, an outline of Tamriel and its geopolitical borders, as well as with some geographical features, like outlines of the more significant mountain ranges or oceanic expanses.
Paratus’ voice was laced with a deep frustration as he spoke next. “These results... they're not at all what they should be. This projection should be lit up like the night sky... something is creating an incredible amount of interference. Something in Winterhold, it looks like,” he contended, crossing his arms. Onmund glanced to Aerene, shaking his head in an instant to in mutual agreement not to reveal any information, before Paratus turned to them with suspicious and accusatory eyes. His mouth turned downward in grimace. Aerene was a little pale at the revelation. Things are starting to feel connected, and it is just as the Psijic Order have declared. Something much larger is at play. She could already hear Onmund’s emphasis on ‘We should never have gone to Saarthal.’ Paratus took a step closer. He pointed his finger between the two Nords, and demanded, “What are you playing at? Is this some attempt to stall my work?! Did you know what we were attempting? Are you here to make sure your plan worked, that our efforts have been for nothing? Well, explain yourself!”
He’d stepped a little close for comfort, and Aerene made sure to take a step back in response. “We have no aim to sabotage the work of the Synod. Nor do we know any of your secrets,” she hissed defensively. “And we owe you no explanation, for we have no guilt to hide,” she said. “How can you blame us for this? You wouldn’t have gotten this far without our help, so it’s in your interest to calm down,” Onmund warned Paratus. This only angered the Imperial further. “You and your College have ruined years of my work, I've lost friends and colleagues to the Falmer, and you want me to calm down? Whatever you’re hiding in Winterhold is interfering with the projection. Do you think me a fool? Do you think I'm too stupid to make the connection? You've ruined my work!”
Aerene scowled at Paratus, his voice rising with his temper. The atmosphere in the room was growing more intense by the second. “That is false!” she snapped at him. He startled, and looked to her with a clenched jaw. “Whatever has gone wrong, it is not intentional. Explain, and perhaps we can help each other,” she said in an easier voice. Onmund had narrowed eyes, his mouth tightly shut. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of a look like that.
Paratus sighed, hesitant, but began to cooperate. “This whole map should be much brighter, more alive. Something in Winterhold is interfering with the magical energy being channeled through the Oculory. This other location emitting intense magicka looks to be Labyrinthian,” he said. Then, in a more unpleasant turn, he demanded, “So, what is it? What are you hiding at your College?” he whipped around and looked between them. “We are not hiding anything,” Onmund defended. It wasn’t the first time Aerene knew him to lie-she knew he’d covered their hides when speaking to Ancano before. Still, she was surprised at his gall. Each day we spend in each other’s company, the more we learn. Onmund is a rather good liar.
“I find that hard to believe,” the Imperial retorted with a scoff. Even though Paratus doesn’t think as much.
“Even so,” Paratus continued, defeated, “I can't explain the details. That would mean giving away many secrets the Synod have learned over the years. Also, I doubt you'd be able to comprehend the details. Have you seen the Orrery in the Imperial City? It was the inspiration for this idea. Instead of projecting the sky, we project all of Tamriel, and then harness the latent energies to overlay the positions of… nevermind. What's important is that all of this work was designed to reveal to us sources of great magical power. Purely to help safeguard the Empire, of course. And yet, in the end, only two locations have been revealed to us. One is your College. The other... Labyrinthian. So, mages from Winterhold, despite your intentions I've beaten your little game. I know you have something in Winterhold the Synod Council will be very interested in. So fine, trudge off to Labyrinthian in search of your Staff. I shall return to Cyrodiil and deliver my full report to the Council. This is not over, I assure you.”
Aerene’s hands rested on her hips. It was clear this was over. We need to get to Labyrinthian, then. But we need to get out of here, first. Paratus knows we have an anomaly in Winterhold, but he does not know it’s the Eye of Magnus. The Synod will be a problem for another day.
She began to leave the chamber, walking to the path down to the lower level where they’d first entered. Onmund’s parting words to Paratus got her attention, and left her mind wandering: “Whatever you think is going on in Winterhold,” he told Paratus in an eerily calm voice, “it will be over long before you and the Synod can investigate.” Paratus had his back turned to them both, still studying the map, and responded, “There’s a door to the right of the grand throughway. Leads right out of Mzulft to Skyrim. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”
Just as promised, there truly was a door leading out to the surface world. The first breath of fresh air was incomparable; the serene, moonlit landscape of Skyrim at night was ever gorgeous. The night appeared young, and Aerene’s mind was reeling at the fact they spent all day in the depths of Mzulft. So when they hastily set up camp-which consisted of them throwing a pile of wood together, lighting it on fire, and rolling out their bed rolls on each side-she was ready to sleep.
Camp itself was in a small clearing away from the main road where they first found the pathway to the ruins. Both of the mages were exhausted by now, not even giving any thought to actually following through on mentions of bathing in streams or scrubbing their clothes clean before a long slumber. River was settled by a fallen log nearby, while Aerene and Onmund were each on their separate bedrolls. They’d had their fill of what food they brought, and while it wasn’t fantastic, it was enough to keep them alive. Aerene stared up at the firmament, over all of the stars that twinkled and shone, and the moons keeping regency over the heavenly expanse. As it never really left, that innate sadness over the encounter with the Falmer crept up on her, and she began mentally pushing at the thought, trying to get it out of her mind. It hadn’t been bugging her this much even when she and Onmund discussed what had happened over the day, and the plan for when they woke up-that was to leave for Labyrinthian, on the other side of Skyrim. Aerene wasn’t too concerned with the fact they might not see the College for four days or more, as they trekked across the province in hopeful search for the Staff of Magnus. What we must do next is necessary, and the College is counting on us to find the Staff. As much as they shouldn’t.
Even with the weight of this all on her shoulders, what tore her down was that festering guilt-or was it pity?-over the Falmer. This on her mind, she spoke to her companion, hoping that hearing his thoughts would give her some comfort, or some peace of mind. “Do you think-oh, were you sleeping?”
“Huh? No, no I wasn’t. Just stargazing. Hard not to when the skies are this clear, and it’s not freezing out,” Onmund said. “What were you going to say?”
Aerene scooted further into the warmth of her bed roll, fingers tracing over the tufts of fur she lay on. It was cozy and warm by the fire.
“Do you think the Falmer will ever change? Ever return to what they once were? I…” her voice faltered, and she sighed. Onmund stayed silent, patient. “I cannot help but wonder if their sight will ever come back. To look at the stars like this, out of the miserable depths below Nirn’s surface.” Maybe the words were easier to say aloud as she stared upward, as if talking to the heavens. Onmund hummed in contemplation and doubt. “Perhaps the Falmer don’t know the conditions they live in are miserable. The tomes on the subject of their enslavement by the Dwemer say they were fed toxins to depreciate their vision, which took place through generations. I don’t know if something like that can be corrected. If it could, it would take just as long as their downfall. They clearly retain some level of intelligence, but are more animalistic and consumed by a violent nature. I don’t believe we could’ve passed through Mzulft peacefully. No room for diplomacy,” Onmund responded. Aerene frowned, knowing he was right. “I wonder if there is a scholar somewhere, studying the matter, looking for a cure,” she said, but was growing too uneasy to stay in her current position. She felt uncomfortably hot, and moved out of her bedroll, laying on top of it. “It wouldn’t hurt to be hopeful of that,” he said. “Yeah,” Aerene replied, her hand resting on her mid section while the other lay by her side. “Goodnight, Onmund,” she said, turning away from the fire, and facing the dark forest all around them.
“Goodnight, Aerene.”
-
A rustling in the vegetation a few paces from her bedroll disturbed her slumber. Her eyes opened, finding that in the past hours, the skies had darkened, clouds blocking any moonlight from before. Aerene sat up, her mouth feeling dry, her senses faint. There was no firelight to brighten their small camp now. She next found herself standing closer to the bushes and trees ahead, eyes trying to make out anything unusual in the darkness. It was silent, incredibly so. Even her own footsteps made no noise. She looked behind her to see the figure of Onmund tucked into his bedroll, a mere slump on the ground from this distance. When she faced ahead once more, all she could see were the black and grey figures of trees, ferns, and grass across the ground. Then there was the rustling again, from one of her sides. She jerked to follow the noise, but became disoriented as she realized she was further away from camp than she thought, as she couldn’t see her bedroll anywhere. From a short distance in front of her, a low growl was emitted, and she took a step back, when a ringing snap thundered through her ears, and she sunk to the floor, legs weak, breaths barely there. She was dizzy, couldn’t get a grip on anything around her, let alone see anything other than the figure standing in front of her. It was a deep silhouette; it was hunched over. The source of the guttural echo sounding at her. She couldn’t focus her eyes on it, but knew it was there, even if a blur. A harrowing roar rounded from the creature, the Falmer, before it fell to all fours and began barreling towards her in the dark. She lurched backward, but it was faster, and she was preparing for the impact of its tackle before she truly awoke.
The dawn was misty and grey, with hints of gleaming sunlight far above their camp in the trees. Aerene’s heart was finally beating at a healthy pace, as she came to. Ugh. Her back ached, a combination of the fall she took the day before, and the effects of sleeping on the ground. She licked her dry lips, eyes scanning the trees ahead for any movement. Alas, there was nothing. Onmund was still sleeping on the other side of the dying embers. Aerene, half awake, picked up her canteen from her knapsack and wandered a short step away from the camp, through the trees to the stream they’d lucked out in finding. She filled her canteen and then sipped, the cold water refreshing for her parched throat. She washed her face and brushed her fingers through her hair. While it wasn’t a proper bath by any means, it was better than nothing, even if it didn’t completely wash away the evidence of yesterday’s struggles-both visual and olfactory. Next time I leave Winterhold, I’m bringing my soap with!
Not wanting to dig into her knapsack or make any noise at camp, she sat against a tree trunk to watch the sunlight break through the trees. The icing on the sweetroll was when a deer approached the stream, craning its neck down to lap at the flowing waters. Aerene froze in place, so as not to scare off the beautiful animal. Its antlers were short, and its hide a blend of colors in the transition between youth and adulthood. The quiet morning scene was so peaceful she fell asleep against the tree trunk. Onmund approached a little later, apologizing profusely when his question on whether Aerene wanted some porridge startled her to Oblivion and back. Of course she wanted to try his cooking-as she knew it would be better than more dried meat and boiled potatoes. Her hunch was right, she discovered, when they sat near the cooking tin and the fire, her spoon scraping at the walls of her bowl to get every last bit. The porridge was a little savory, but had been sweetened with dried snowberry pieces, just a little tart but wonderfully flavored. “You had all this in your bag?” Aerene asked, gesturing with the spoon to the bowls, spoons, and tin. “I left it with River when we into Mzulft,” he replied casually. She wanted him to be more excited about his delicious porridge. “Well,” she began, setting her empty bowl down, “is there anything you’re bad at?”
“Probably,” Onmund replied coolly. Aerene’s brow quirked in response as she said, “You seem to be good at everything else you try. I may just have to fight a little harder to keep you at my side. Now that I know you’re good for spellcasting and cooking.”
Onmund rolled his eyes in playful response. “If that’s all you value in me, I’ll find my own way to Labyrinthian,” he jested. “Perhaps Paratus could be your guide out,” Aerene responded, drawing laughter from the two of them.
It ceased immediately when there was a flash and the space around them fell into a blue pause. Aerene looked upward to find a bird frozen in flight. Its wings were spread, feet tucked under its tail, eyes focused forward. Time has been stopped here. The Psijic Order is near!
Just behind the fire, a Psijic materialized. “Greetings, mages,” he said. He wore the same robes as Quaranir, but had not previously appeared to Aerene or Onmund. “You have done well thus far, but trying times are ahead. It is imperative you return to your College at once. You will be called on to take swift action. Rise to the challenge, and discover what you are capable of. You are on the right path, and you will prevail.”
Just as quick as he’d appeared, the mage vanished into a thousand specs of light, which then disappeared completely. Aerene and Onmund, charged with the change of plans, quickly began packing their camp supplies. “What could he mean? Something must be awry back in Winterhold,” Onmund said, stomping out the campfire. Aerene, knelt down as she packed her bedroll, replied, “We don’t have time to ponder it now. We can discuss it once we’re on the road.”
-
In extreme haste, they rushed through Hjaalmarch Hold, traveled through the transition from temperate valleys to wintery landscapes. It was a difficult journey, as while they were going quickly, they walked a fine line with River’s limits. She was equipped to carry two at a walking pace; to gallop from the woods around Mzulft back north to Winterhold would kill her. The terrain, inclement weather, and extra weight would surely do her in.
‘Leave me here, and get back to Winterhold. I’ll catch up,’ Onmund had said. ‘What are you doing?’ he questioned when Aerene dismounted the tired horse, as they paused on the road. River was breathing heavily now, and Aerene swallowed her worry by removing some weight. ‘We are not splitting up. I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ she said, and set off. ‘Hold on! You should be here in the saddle. She’s your horse!’
’No time for that.’
She’d heard movement before Onmund was walking at her side, River’s lead in his hand. She stopped, astonished at his insistence. ‘What are you waiting for? I’m not handling whatever’s going on without you,’ he said, looking back at her over his shoulder. She was waiting to recover from his smooth gesture, the fact he didn’t care about trudging through the snow with her if it meant going together. Few would do something like that; it wasn’t that Onmund argued or belayed her words, but that he took initiative and found a solution even better than what was on the table.
On the way, Aerene expressed concern over the students and professors at the College, and swallowed panic at the fact that Brelyna and J’zargo could be in danger. The scholars at the College are capable. Whatever is happening, I’m sure it is being kept under control.
The approach to Winterhold was swift, and they arrived in the early evening hours. Winterhold itself was awfully quiet; the singular street on which the few buildings of the town were situation was barren, save for a couple patrol guards who only dipped their heads in acknowledgment of the mages who walked past. The sun was low in the sky now; long shadows stretched over the snow-laden pathways of the small settlement. Aerene hurriedly took River to the yard behind Birna’s shop, where she found the shopkeep feeding the chickens and her own horse. She already knew something was going on at the College, reporting hearing strange noises from there earlier. She graciously insisted Aerene get up there, and leave River’s saddle and tack to her. Aerene thanked her rapidly, before she and Onmund walked to the bridge connecting Winterhold to the College.
Aerene looked toward the College, a chill streaking along her spine in the air of disquiet. The evening wind brushed past the two, who hurried along the narrow passes of the bridge and up to the main entrance of the school. The entry gates swung open when the students passed the first magicka pond. Aerene stopped, taking in the courtyard. A couple students in mage robes were jogging into the Hall of Attainment. She hurried over to them, and they clearly didn’t want to stop and talk but answered her questions. “What’s going on?!” she implored. “Ancano has gone mad! He’s holed up in the Hall of the Elements. We’re all supposed to stay in our quarters ’til it’s clear,” a young Breton woman replied quickly, before running off to catch up with her friend and continue toward the dormitory entrance. Aerene turned to Onmund, who heard it all. “Damn it,” she muttered. “We knew Ancano would pull something like this,” Onmund said breathily as they ran across the courtyard, footsteps crunching across the freshly fallen snow.
Just before they made it to the entrance, Aerene was caught in her tracks when an excruciating pain seared through her head. A deafening ringing pounded through her ears, as though her head were pulsating with vibration. Her eyes felt as though they were being squeezed and released, teeth aching, her very brain throbbing. She felt a hot liquid start to crawl out of her nose. Her eyes squeezed shut as she barreled over, hands grasping the sides of her head. “Divines, mercy!” she gasped, seeing that Onmund was doubled over in pain too, his fingers clenched at nothing and his eyes open disturbingly wide. “What-is-this?” he managed to gasp out, groaning in agony. After a miserable allotment, Aerene’s suffering vanished completely. The vile aching left like a mist retreating from the shore to the lake, leaving heavy breaths and low gasps in its wake. “Are you alright?” she managed to croak out, seeing Onmund finally stand up straight. His nose was dripping blood out of one nostril, too. “It was never a sickness,” he said, blinking in attempts to straighten his vision. “The orb, the Eye. It must have a resonance that we cannot see,” he said. With the back of his hand, he wiped away his bloody nose. Then, he faced her with an expression of concern, while he reached forward and brushed his thumb over Aerene’s upper lip, collecting the streak of blood from below her nose. Aerene barely heard his rallying words, telling her they needed to get inside and finish what Ancano had started. She was too disoriented to even consider the intentions behind small gestures like what he’d done. All of Ancano’s suspicious activities are coming to a head! And we still do not have the Staff, or understand what it is capable of!
But I must remember the words of the Psijic Order. They have assured us we will prevail.
Taking a deep breath, Aerene turned and jogged through the doors to the Hall of the Elements where Onmund had gone in, and faced the disastrous happenings inside.
Inside, Aerene stopped just as she passed through the door. Her eyes stretched upward, seeing how the huge archway leading from the entrance lobby to the grand hall was completely guarded by a wall of rapidly swirling magical energy. It was like an impenetrable ward, streaks of light and pure magical essence an impregnable wall; a river of resonance. Arch-Mage Savos Aren and Mirabelle Ervine were a few steps ahead, closer to the barrier, shouting at each other; it was nearly impossible to hear over the sound emitted from the barrier, loud as that of rushing waters. Aerene saw Onmund kneeling over Tolfdir against the wall to the immediate left; Tolfdir’s head was leaned back against a closed door, creating ruggedly, bearing that same streak of blood beneath his nose. “Onmund, I’ll be fine, lad. Aren and Mirabelle need your assistance,” he croaked out to the young mage at his side. “But-“ Onmund began. “Go, boy!” Tolfdir demanded, and Onmund winced, before rising and returning to Aerene’s side. From there, they dove into the ensuing chaos. “What’s going on?!”
Savos Aren and Mirabelle quit arguing over the procedures and turned to the two. Mirabelle scanned over them, then frowned. “You don’t have the Staff, do you? Damned Ancano!”
Savos Aren then shouted over the noise. “Ancano’s in there doing… something. We don’t know what. We’re trying to get in now. I will have his head for this, I assure you!”
Aerene noticed the way the Arch-Mage’s eyes were glossy, and how he looked exhausted. There was blood streaking out of his nose as well. Mirabelle had the same condition, her eyes bloodshot, skin dull with a grayish tint, bags beneath her eyes. “Help us take this down. We must stop Ancano!” she ordered. Aerene clenched her fists and nodded. “We are with you!”
Together, the four faced the barrier, and began firing spells at it. The mages’ combined lightning, flames, and frostbite fired at the barrier, concentrating in unity at diminishing the wall Ancano had put between them and their College. “That’s it! Keep going!” Aren instructed, and Aerene began dual-casting alongside her fellow magic-users. The hot flames bursting from her palms, and the freezing cold blasts from Mirabelle, fired unrelenting alongside the lightning cast by Aren and Onmund. The barrier’s otherworldly greenish-blue hue, which looked like enchanted beams of ice streaking through water, began to grow more transparent, and could not withstand the efforts of the willing.
It fell, and the mages ran through the archway toward Ancano. “Ancano!” Savos Aren’s voice boomed through the hall. “Stop this at once. I command you!” he shouted, as the group gathered and took in the sight. Ancano was static, his hands aimed together as strings and strikes of lighting flooded from his hands to the Eye of Magnus, the orb floating over the magicka light pond in the spot it was always in. The Altmer’s brows were furrowed together in immense concentration, his teeth bared and jaw tight while his golden eyes reflected the light of the orb, calmly turning on the magical tide. He had deep coloring of bruises around his eyes, appearing ghastly. The veins in his forehead and neck were bulging and tight, straining to break out from under his skin. He was sweating profusely, too, but appeared clammy. His bloody nose was leaking past his chin, down his throat where it disappeared beneath his black robes. When Ancano did not even look to those demanding his attention, Arch-Mage Aren approached, his hands ready for spellcasting. Aerene unsheathed her sword, and fell into step behind Aren, entranced by the darker thought of finishing this all by plunging her blade into Ancano’s back. What I should have done before any of this happened!
Mirabelle’s voice called from behind, “Don’t go near him!”
A flash of pure, white-hot magical energy exploded from the Eye and the center point where Ancano’s thunderous casting sprayed at the orb, and lashed out towards all those standing about the Hall. A hand yanking Aerene’s free wrist backward was the last thing she felt before the world went dark.
The mages in the hall were all thrown backward by the explosion, some more severely than others.
As though she couldn’t miss a breath, Aerene’s eyes flashed open, and rage and brevity occupied her heart as she faced the wall ahead. She’d awoken on her stomach with her head craned to one side, face roughly smudged against the cold surface of the floor. With a huff, she pushed herself onto all fours, and crawled forward to grab onto the handle of her sword. She stopped for a moment, and faced Ancano’s direction. He was still casting at the orb, or so she thought; it was difficult to see behind the barrier surrounding him now. He could not stop us from getting in; and now, to protect himself is his last resort. She knew there was no way they’d get through that barrier without the Staff. It was the only viable option. It was all that made sense.
Onmund.
At once, she realized he’d been in the blast radius as well, and panic coursed through her as she stood up, quickly looking about the room, squinting to block out the brightness of the orb’s barrier zone where Ancano was. She didn’t see Onmund in that direction, so she turned and began hobbling to the outer walkway of the Hall. Then she spotted him, and the relief flooded through her like cool waters over a scorched beach. He was standing, but barely. “Onmund,” she gasped, meeting his side. His hood was back, and she got a good look over his features. He seemed alright, save for the scrape in his hairline toward one side of his forehead. “Are you alright?” he queried, looking over her. Now that she thought about it, her ankle was throbbing, but he didn’t need to know that. She nodded. “Fine. We need to find the others,” she said.
Mirabelle was leaned up against a pillar close to the lobby where they’d taken down the first barrier. “Divines, you’re alright,” she said, seeing the two of them nearing. “Are you injured?” she asked Aerene, who was limping rather than walking. “No,” Aerene replied, and cast fast healing over herself; her half-steps turned into full strides. The students each supported an arm, and helped Mirabelle to stand. “I’ll be fine from here,” the Breton declared. She pressed one hand against the pillar, leaning heavily against it. “I haven’t seen Savos. He must’ve been blown clear from the explosion, and may be injured. I need you to find him. Ancano’s planning something worse with the Eye, and we can’t stop him. I need you to find the Arch-Mage, and I need you to do it quickly,” she said through heavy breaths. Onmund protested, but Mirabelle assured him she just needed to catch her breath. Aerene didn’t linger to argue, and led the way back through the lobby. She noticed Tolfdir was gone, but there was no trace as to where. The two pushed at the doors to leave the Hall of the Elements and step into the courtyard, but were met with some resistance. “Someone’s trying to get out!” a voice could be heard saying from the other side. “Let them through,” Tolfdir’s voice sounded. The doors opened, and Aerene looked past the faces of two students she hadn’t met, to the figure laying across the walkway ahead.
The sight took her back to that day at Jorrvaskr, when the Silver Hand had descended on the home of the Companions in all wrath, fury, and revenge. It had been Vilkas who stopped her from immediately seeing the slain corpse of Kodlak just a few steps behind him, in a pool of blood staining the mead hall’s wooden floors. It had been Vilkas whose words challenged her heart, and hurt her soul. Although Aerene believed herself to have moved past those words, she hadn’t gotten as far as she thought-they echoed in her mind as she stepped across the snowy walkway, reminded while staring down at the dead Arch-Mage.
The Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold is dead.
In the cold of the settling evening, even in the face of death splayed in front of her, that warm presence was at Aerene’s side. “Shor,” Onmund said under his breath, his hand reaching up his forehead. Aerene tore her eyes from Aren, and was approached by Tolfdir; he looked a lot better, and she noticed he’d just left Colette’s side, where she’d likely healed him to strength. “The Arch-Mage is dead,” Tolfdir said, voice shaky. “I can hardly believe it,” he said. Across the courtyard, a few of the other professors and students were gathered; Faralda was calling instructions over the crowd of a dozen students, preparing them for something. “What are they gathered for?” she asked Tolfdir. Between them and the crowd, Nirya was shouting for students to keep away from the Hall entrance where the few were gathered near Aren. “Whatever happened in there is affecting Winterhold as well. Faralda is preparing to lead the students into the village to sort the matter. We’ve witnessed magical entities about the streets of Winterhold, attacking the guards out on duty.” Aerene’s eyes widened slightly at this. She opened her mouth to speak but Tolfdir cut her off. “I know you’re eager to help, but we need you here. Did you find anything of use in Mzulft? You don’t have the Staff with you,” Tolfdir observed. “Onmund and I learned the location of the Staff. Or so we believe,” she explained, and then mentioned the starlight map and its pointing to Winterhold and Labyrinthian as Skyrim’s most powerful magical sources. “Labyrinthian?” Tolfdir questioned in disbelief. Onmund questioned his sudden change in demeanor, but Tolfdir wouldn’t elaborate. He instructed the two to gather the things they’d need for their journey, and apologized that they’d need to leave immediately. He told them to stop by the Hall of the Elements before departing the College.
-
Back in her quarters, Aerene sighed, gathering her thoughts. So much had happened in just a short matter of time. The Arch-Mage was dead. Remnants of the explosion had somehow made it across the gorge between the College and Winterhold. Aerene insisted on following Faralda and the other students into the settlement, but Tolfdir refused to allow it, expressing the vitality of Aerene and Onmund leaving as soon as possible to Labyrinthian. ‘You’re needed for other matters.’
The Nord had her sash in her hand, but was staring at it to remember what she was doing. Then it clicked that she was leaving it behind, and she continued readying herself for the nighttime journey. She walked around her bed to the alchemy table in one corner of her room, sprinkling petals of blue mountain flower into the mortar, grinding them into a paste with the pestle. When she went to add the next ingredient, she looked over the table, too out of it to work quickly. I’ve made stamina potions dozens of times before. Blue mountain flower… I don’t have any dartwing or histcarp… so I’ll substitute with… with…
“Damn,” she sighed, setting down the tools. She leaned over the table, trying to think harder but failing. Forget everything she witnessed in Mzulft; the incident just a quarter hour ago in the Hall of the Elements had freshly addled her brain. She couldn’t concentrate on anything left or right. The very power of independence was too much at this moment.
“Aerene, I’m coming in! You better be decent!”
The door to her quarters opened and Brelyna stepped in, sighing in relief as she stepped over to hug Aerene. “I thank Azura you’re unharmed,” the Dunmer chimed, while Aerene hugged her back, and let her mind go blank for a moment. Well, more blank than it already was. “Onmund told me you’re going to Labyrinthian. Where in Oblivion is that, anyway?” she mumbled, looking over the progress Aerene had made in packing-which wasn’t much. She needed to travel lightly anyway, since they’d be going on foot. Forcing River into more cross-province meandering was out of the question. “Aerene, are you…? No, I’m not even going to ask. You can’t be alright after all that. I heard you ran into Falmer. Running all the way back here just for Ancano to near-miss on the second Great Collapse of Winterhold. Thalmor bastard,” Brelyna hissed. When Aerene just sat on the bed quietly, Brelyna walked over. “Aerene of Jorrvaskr, look at me!” she said louder. This got the Nord’s attention. Brelyna’s eyes were blown wide with worry, but she spoke with confidence. “I know you’re thinking over all you’ve encountered in the last few days. Gods, longer than that. But we need you to get going, Aer. Tell me what potion you were making,” Brelyna turned to the alchemy station. “Stamina. No way we can make it to Labyrinthian without it,” Aerene said, standing up. “I need to add the blisterwort,” she remembered, but her face fell. “I don’t have any blisterwort,” she realized. Brelyna waved her hand, dismissing the issue. “Forget the blisterwort. Get your satchel ready. I’ll get you the potion,” she said, nearing the door to leave the room. “I need one for Onmund, too!” Aerene added with a little desperation. “I know,” Brelyna quipped with a glance back and a glimmer in her eye.
While she was out for a minute, Aerene shoved her belongings into her knapsack: a light change of clothing, some food, her water canteen, healing and magicka potions, a charcoal writing stick, and her notes journal with her map folded and placed inside. With her head screwed on straight, she was ready. Brelyna walked in with two stamina potions, and handed them to Aerene. As Aerene took them, her expression shifted in thought about what Brelyna could need these for anyway. “Thank you. Why do you have-“
“You don’t really need me to answer that.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
At the stairs, J’zargo was waiting with his tail swishing back and forth, arms crossed. “This one wishes the Nords a safe journey,” he said. “And warns that if the red-haired Nord does not return, this one will make good use of the treasures she leaves behind.” Brelyna scoffed and shoved at J’zargo’s shoulder while Aerene smiled softly. “I shall return. Just to spite you, J’zargo,” she retorted. A sniffle from the left drew her attention to Brelyna, whose hands moved to cover her face when Aerene looked at her. “It’s not funny, J’zargo!” she wiped a tear, and studied Aerene with those ruby red irises. “Be careful,” she said. “We bid Onmund goodbye already. He’s waiting outside for you,” she added. Aerene faced the Dunmer and the Khajiit, and pulled them both into a gentle embrace. Whatever tears had threatened to fall a few minutes ago were gone now. I have a quest to complete, and I intend to see it through. “We will return,” she promised, and headed down the stairs, where she met Onmund outside.
It was dark out now, the moons not so generous with their light that evening. Torchlight scattered between lampposts of the courtyard gave the College grounds a calm exterior, but each inhabitant knew it was only a façade. In the heart of the school, the Hall of the Elements, an arrogant and woefully ambitious wizard was toying with a power none there could comprehend, and his hubris was actively threatening their very existence. So while Aerene couldn’t fight the sense of urgency at her back, she still greeted her friend as she always did. Onmund was sitting on a bench just off the main walkway, digging in his pack when Aerene approached. “Hello, Onmund,” she said quietly, seeing him stand; she thought it was funny, the way he’d seemingly pushed just enough snow off the bench to leave room for him to sit.
“Hey, Aerene,” he responded, swinging his pack over his shoulders.
First, they set off to the Hall of the Elements, where Mirabelle and a few other members of the College leadership were gathered outside the entrance. She parted from the group and met the two mages just far enough away to speak privately. “I see you’re ready to depart, then,” she began. “Tolfdir told me you’re headed to Labyrinthian,” she said, as though she could hardly believe the words fallen from her mouth. “Have you been there?” Onmund asked. Mirabelle shook her head no.
“It’s strange… Savos, before he died, he gave me this,” she said, and produced an iron torc from her satchel. “He said this is from Labyrinthian, and that I would know what to do with it when the time came. But… I think this was meant for you,” she contended. She straightened her stance, and faced Onmund. “I am entrusting this to you, Onmund. Keep it safe. It will be necessary to enter Labyrinthian. That is all Savos told me. I wonder if he knew this day was coming, and kept that to himself…” she sighed, her voice trailing. “There is another piece, as well,” Mirabelle added, and from her satchel pulled a silver amulet. It looked dim in the faint light of the courtyard, but Aerene swore she could feel magicka radiating from it. “This amulet is enchanted with a surplus of magicka, and is the second key into Labyrinthian.” Aerene looked at Mirabelle’s extended hand, then to Onmund. The person she’d grown into was no longer one who’d swipe a pretty trinket at first glance; she wanted Onmund to share the opportunity. He took it, and Aerene was flashed with surprise when he extended the chain and gestured for her to lower her head. With both hands, he set it over head and around her neck. “With these tools, you are ready. Go to Labyrinthian. You are the only ones who can be trusted to retrieve the Staff and bring it back here, to absorb the power of the Eye, before Ancano brings the whole College down on us.”
Mirabelle sucked in a breath, and tightened her jaw shut. She reached both arms out and touched a student with each hand, a soft gesture of reassurance. “We are counting on you, but you must take care. Whatever happens here in your absence, we will handle it. This journey will take time, and while it is of the essence, it’s better that you return late than not at all.” With a sense of duty, she dipped her head to the students and spoke the departing word.
“Farewell.”
Notes:
this was originally double the length, so I decided to split it into two. the next one, ch 24, will be out very soon. see you soon~~ and most of all, enjoy!!
Chapter 24: The Storm
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Aerene and Onmund set out for Labyrinthian, walking through the young night with no company but each other’s. They were dressed in extra layers; Aerene wore her heavy grey cloak over her armor and underclothes, wishing she had a scarf like the one Onmund wore. Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing tonight, but it was freezing. To head directly south out of Winterhold and through the glacial valley was not an option, even for Nords like themselves with resistance to extreme cold temperatures-the snow was piled in fresh, deep layers and they had not the time to trudge through. When Aerene and the Circle of the Companions had journeyed to Ysgramor’s Tomb the month prior, they had traveled north of Whiterun and took the Wayward Pass, following the near invisible path through the glacial valley and snow drifts to the northern shores of Skyrim, where the Tomb stood beneath the surface of Nirn. Now that autumn was beginning and the weather grew colder, that path was not a viable option. Instead, the duo had to take the long way to Labyrinthian, the cairn which was in the hills northwest of Whiterun Hold. To get there, they’d go southeast and pass the Nightgate Inn, and continue west through the northern half of Skyrim until they made it to the ruins.
While the stamina potions were totally foul in flavor, they certainly did what they were meant to; Aerene and Onmund walked quickly for having already traveled across Skyrim once that day. Much to their luck, the roads on the way were mostly desolate, save for the passing Imperial or Stormcloak convoy, who only greeted the two passing mages and made no trouble. In the darkness of the night, the mages took turns casting magelight spells to light their radius. Aerene’s days of carrying a torch during travel were long behind her-she now had the luxury of a floating light source that followed her, thanks to her efforts in learning magic. The conditions of their journey were finally beginning to wear on the two in the early hours of the morning. They’d departed Winterhold some six or seven hours previous; it was too difficult to know exactly how long it had been. Thanks to Onmund’s excellent sense of direction, they weren’t too far from Labyrinthian now. However, they agreed on something: to enter the ruins in this state of absolute exhaustion was a death wish. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us inside Labyrinthian. Probably draugr. Perhaps Falmer,” Onmund spoke quietly as they laid down their bed rolls underneath a rocky overhang, where the stones provided some shelter from the elements and the ground wasn’t packed with snow or ice.
As such, this presented a problem; it was the middle of the night and all of the wood around was wet from the snow. Aerene could barely keep her eyes open as she tossed her knapsack onto the ground next to her bedroll; she sat down, easing into a static position after doing so much physical activity in one day. Her feet ached, on the soles and sides. They were cold even in her warm boots, the product of perspiration and hours of mobility. Her face was chilled, cheeks and nose red in the icy air, and her fingers could barely feel the soft furs she was sitting on. “I knew Skyrim to be cold, but not this cold,” she said, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders and up over her head. She believed Onmund was looking at her, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. “Are you sure this will work?” he asked, voice muffled with his scarf over half his face. Aerene had the energy to smile even in their current state, and turned towards the pile of sticks and wood they had gathered. It was all soaked through, much like the humans who were chilled to the bone. “Indeed. I do this all the time to reheat my baths,” she said, and held her palms out at the pile. She channeled the magic to perform the technique Rialla had taught her, the one that was able to boil water; it was a variation of flames but was cast at a lower intensity. It was thorough and delicate. Before she really knew what she was doing, Aerene had singed one of her own shirts back in Whiterun. “What do you mean? The bathing facilities at the College are always hot,” Onmund complained. Aerene lost focus, thinking of the absurdity of this discussion. Ew, communal bathing facilities!
“I do not bathe there. I pay for baths at the Frozen Hearth,” she retorted, looking from his vague shape and back to where her hands emitted a faint glow as she began heating and drying the wood pile. “You pay for every bath you take? That must add up,” Onmund replied incredulously. Aerene scoffed. “It is a worthwhile investment!” she retorted rather defensively. “The healing wards of the Temple had communal cleansing facilities, and if you saw how murky that water was every day….” she groaned, “nevermind.” Onmund snickered behind her. “Is it true Imperials only bathe once per month?”
She rolled her eyes, but maintained concentration on the task in front of her; she could tell the process was working, as steam was rapidly rising from the pile of sticks and twigs they’d gathered. “That is nonsense. Imperial citizens maintain excellent hygiene. Most city types bathe at least two or three times per week- even though most of the city dwellers are not doing manual labor to warrant an… odor. And anyway, I would imagine some, uh, ogling must take place.”
“On occasion, yes. So… that must be where you disappear off to,” Onmund guessed. Just as Aerene lit the wood on fire, and thus lit the small camp, she looked to Onmund curiously, now that she could see him clearly in the firelight. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, putting his hands closer to the flames for warmth. “There have been a few times where I stopped by your quarters, usually in the evening, to find that you’re elsewhere.”
I never knew. I was thinking I might have been showing up at his door too much. Yet Onmund has sought out my company, too. I guess I usually do bathe in the evenings.
“What did you think I was doing?”
He suddenly averted his gaze, as though contemplating the answer. “Arcaneum studies, evening lectures… or research,” he said.
They each slipped into their bedrolls, and soon bid each other goodnight. With her eyes shut and her mind nearly asleep, Aerene wondered if Onmund meant scholarly research, or the more tangible type research. The way he’d said it, and emphasized the word, had her mind wandering. Wouldn’t studies in the Arcaneum be considered research? So why would he mention the same thing twice, if he did not assign different meanings with the different wordings? Oh, heavens. Nevermind.
She did not think for long, though, as sleep overtook her and she lay still as a fallen log in a dreamless slumber.
Later in the day, they arrived to Labyrinthian in the early afternoon. It was disorienting to sleep so late and awaken even later, and forego the routine she was used to, but these were not routine times. Aerene was entirely unaccustomed to having her first meal of the day after the sun hit its high for the day, though she did feel much refreshed after resting, even if it was on the ground.
So as she stood next to Onmund at the first steps leading up to the ruin complex, taking in the monumental structure, she felt hopeful that whatever happened, it would bring an end to Ancano’s torment of a magic none of this realm could harness. From this perspective, Labyrinthian could be admired for its exemplary Nordic stonework; thick archways sprawling off a rocky hillside, topped with decorative, zoomorphic carvings that appeared to represent vaguely avian forms. It was all telling: Labyrinthian had existed in Skyrim for many moons, and its story was written long ago.
A short, windy trek up the snowy slope to the main entrance revealed that not only were the walls and structures of Labyrinthian tall, but that the complex appeared to cover just as much land as the entire city of Whiterun. Aerene looked upward, eyeing the creaky chains holding up cylindrical cages, partial skeletons contained within. And, she noticed, they were partial because they’d been hanging up so long, any sinew between bones was long gone-she noticed this as she stepped past a few scattered bones on the ground. “I don’t know where to begin,” Onmund said from her side, as they turned about and took in the surroundings. The whole complex was blanketed with snow, and more of it was falling slowly now. Labyrinthian was like a trident, only one bent miserably out of shape, with the way its paths stretched west, east, and south. Straight ahead, there were various stone stairways leading up to higher grounds, the furthest of which appeared to lead to towering archways way ahead in a valley that narrowed the further it went on. To the left and right were multiple stone brick huts and small sanctuary spaces, among the rubble of collapsed pillars which may have supported earlier, larger structures.
Aerene surveyed the ground. It hadn’t been walked on since this snowfall, but there was no evidence supporting any recent presence; no camping supplies, no weapons, no archaeological devices. “I do not believe a powerful magical artifact would be left to the open air; let us continue forward and search for an entrance into the complex.”
Onmund hummed in agreement, “You make a good point. Lead, and I’ll follow.”
Right when Aerene took the first step, a roar sounded from somewhere to their left; she froze, her hand immediately landing on the handle of her sword, ready to unsheathe and attack. “Frost troll,” Onmund said. She recalled him mentioning he’d encountered one on the way to Falkreath. Onmund had also previously commented on the beasts being loud even in solitude, which gave Aerene hope there wasn’t more than one here. Doubtful, given the sheer size of Labyrinthian’s exterior. “If we stay quiet enough, perhaps we’ll pass through without drawing its attention,” she said. Onmund chuckled lowly. “I’m not afraid of a frost troll or two,” he boasted. Without looking at him, Aerene replied in a serious tone, “That makes one of us.”
An encounter back in the Great Forest of Cyrodiil, outside the safety of Bleaker’s Way, she and Varellus were ambushed by a troll. It was huge, aggressive, and ran on all fours, bigger than any man or mer and more angry than any Falmer. While Varellus had slain the beast with little effort, thus proving to Aerene it could be done, she would always choose flight over fight when possible in troll encounters. Hate those damned things. Too many eyes!
A little farther ahead, the subject of the maze somewhere around Labyrinthian came up. “Let us hope that should we come across this maze, there is no minotaur lurking about,” Aerene said.
“A mino-tour?”
-
Aerene broke out into a jog, one which left Onmund a little behind at first until he caught up. She surveyed their surroundings the further she got into the huge, sectioned courtyards of the complex; eventually, seeing an entrance into the nearby mountainside, Aerene decided that was a good place to continue their search. The view from that high up was amazing and a little overwhelming. Beyond the walls of Labyrinthian, the snowy forest stretched through grey haze to the distant horizon beyond, where the land met the sea and it all vanished beyond visibility. To the west were rocky mountains shrouded by white and grey clouds; Aerene wondered if the farthest hilltop she saw to the north was somewhere near Solitude, a city she’d never been to. To the east was a closer hillside, stretching upward just past the edge of Labyrinthian; she couldn’t see the highest peaks, as they were shrouded by more fog, pierced at some points by the sharpest rocks and tallest pines. While the next trials she’d face with Onmund were marked with uncertainty, there was one thing she knew, as she watched the stillness of the world around: Skyrim was beautiful.
Even while chilly, the icy breeze felt refreshing on her skin as she finally had a regulated, comfortable temperature about her. She now stood a safe distance from the ledge closest to the stone entrance, looking out over the structures and rubble below; it was all colored white by the light snowfall, little flakes caught in her hair, leaving tiny, shimmery dots on the steel plates of her chest piece and pauldron. Onmund, on the other hand, was closer to the ledge, peering over to get a better look at some of the ruins below their position; his hood was pulled over his head, but Aerene imagined he was taking in the sights with an expression of calm wonder. She stepped carefully back toward the entrance, eyeing the few archways that stood in front of the entry wall. They were tall, perhaps just as tall as the towers of the College back in Winterhold. Three of the archways, gradually increasing in size over one another, were carved into the southern face of the stone mountainside. On each side of the many-ringed carvings were visages, faces with plain expressions and shut mouths, staring out to the north; they weren’t forlorn in appearance, but rather indifferent and still. After the mages made their way up the final two dozen steps of the last stairway to the top ledge, where the entrance was, Aerene took another glance out, and decided that if there was a view she’d face eternally, if ever sentient but still as stone, this one wasn’t bad at all.
A hand just below her shoulder brought her to suddenly glance to Onmund, who was facing the left side of the entrance. Then, she saw what he was looking at, and her heart quickened in surprise.
Six spectral beings were gathered in front of the stone doorway, talking amongst themselves. Aerene approached, reminded of her encounter of the headless horseman that night she was traveling with the Circle to Ysgramor’s Tomb. These six were shining with the same eery, icy blue light, and were only made of that color. They were entirely ghastly, she thought, as she stood in front of one. Their spoken words were clear as day:
“Come on, we're finally here! Let's not waste any more time!”
“Are we truly sure this is a good idea?”
“We'll be back at the College before anyone even knows we're gone.”
“You would care about that, since you're the Arch-Mage's favorite!”
“Don't forget, this whole idea was Atmah's to begin with.”
“Let's just get inside, see what's in there.”
These apparitions were a memory, Aerene realized; one of them looked familiar. It was Savos Aren himself, whose presence stood at the front of the group, the voice insistent upon making haste. “The Arch-Mage was here; I’ve never seen any of these students, and I’ve been at the College half a year already. I wonder when this was?” Onmund spoke, stepping carefully around the figures, waving his hand over their faces, past their unflinching eyes. What power is allowing this vision? Is that even the proper word for these apparitions?
“Do you think this is work of the Psijic Order?” Aerene asked, stepping out of the figures’ way as they followed the Arch-Mage inside, passing directly through the stone doors. Even walking through walls.
“I… no, I don’t believe so. Let’s see what’s inside.”
Onmund produced the iron torc from his bag, and lodged it into the serpentine door knocker at the center of the circular stone door. He moved the torc outward and knocked it twice against the door, before it split into two panels and opened, retracting sideways into the walls and revealing the inside of Labyrinthian.
Once inside, they faced a chamber supported by various stone brick pillars, laden with an abundnace of moss crawling about the nooks and crannies. Iron statuary was constructed onto the top fourths of each pillar, the same avian semblance as found outside. It was a little humid in here, and even more musty. In a second, the spectral figures appeared again.
“I can't believe we're doing this.”
“Can you imagine the looks on their faces when we come back?”
“You keep talking like you're sure we'll find something useful in here.”
“Enchanted weapons, tomes of ancient knowledge, Shalidor's secrets themselves -- who knows what we could find!”
“And what if... What if there are things guarding this place?”
“Against six College-trained mages? I think we'll be fine.”
And just like before, they vanished.
Aerene looked down, and was disturbed to see the various skeletal remains strewn about the first few steps of the entrance. “These cannot be the mages. Perhaps looters, or bandits who sought shelter,” she said. Onmund was kneeling to look at one close up. “They’re all pointed toward the door. Like they died just before making it out.”
Let us hope we do not meet the same fate.
When Onmund stood and took a step back, his heel kicked into a skull of one of the remains and it skittered across the ground. Aerene held back laughter, seeing how Onmund was flustered and appeared unsure whether to put the skull back where it was or just leave it. Her more devious side came to light when she said, “For someone who cares deeply about the preservation of ancient places and people, your procedures are… concerning.”
Onmund began stuttering, talking about how it was an accident, how he didn’t know it was there right behind him; “Onmund, ease. I am pulling your leg,” Aerene eased, in an attempt to lighten the heaviness of encountering such a thing as soon as they stepped into the mysterious cairn. “Ah,” Onmund nodded, and brushed his hands off. “Right,” he said, but Aerene saw that little smile he had as he led them toward the door across the chamber. Just before they passed through, Aerene noticed a harrowing detail. Carved into the stones of the ceiling, at the center of another arch, was a skull. She swore it looked familiar; the head was sleek, with a long snout, and was reptilian, almost. Her jaw tightened when she made the connection-it was a carving of a dragon skull. Just like the head of the one who had flown over Helgen and absolutely destroyed it, but devoid of any flesh or scales. She hurried along, and kept it to herself. Why would a thing like that be here? The bird totems and Nordic faces make sense. But a dragon skull?
The tunnel leading further into the interior was interestingly constructed; it was not natural, like what Aerene had encountered in other cairns and caves, but had been added onto what already existed. Stone brick walls lined the inside, complete with torchlight and smaller archways hovering over a central path, almost a road. Another stone dragon skull looked to be mounted over a lit pyre at the next passageway. Onmund looked at it, but said nothing, so Aerene didn’t, either.
Just behind another wall, the path split into two and then rejoined. On the left side of a narrow walkway was a lever, and at the end of a short hall was an iron gate. Aerene made her way to the gate and looked beyond the iron bars, and saw movement in the next room; it was a huge natural cavern, and seemingly didn’t actually need the few support pillars dotted around the space. They also had mounted and lit pyres. Across the dirt and stone floor, and over the cobblestone path stretching from one end of the room all the way to the other side, animated skeletons walked and creaked about. Some had swords and shields, others had archer equipment, and a few wore made hoods that refused to rot away with time.
All of them were facing the two just behind the gate.
“Looks like the only way forward is through. Pull the lever when you’re ready, and don’t get hit by an arrow,” Aerene said; Onmund scoffed, pulling the lever. “I’d say the same to you. Don’t slip,” he retorted playfully. She wanted to complain about his words, but the gate released and she instead charged forward. These skeletons were different from Draugr, easier to kill. With the smack of her blade against its ribcage, the first of eight or so was cast into a scattered pile of bones across the cavern floor. Those who stood with bows and readied arrows further about the room were blasted apart by Onmund’s lightning bolts. For a few moments, the cavern was filled with sounds of metal on bone, lightning and thunderous casting, panting, grunting, and the hissing of the undead.
It was a thunderous, blood-curdling roar that erupted from the center of the expanse that turned Aerene’s blood to ice, that drained the color from her face, that dizzied her onto the edge of madness. From the middle of the room, out of a stone circle in the ground with dirt all in its border, a skeletal dragon clawed its way to life. Aerene froze in place, eyes wide, stunned. It was just as big as the one from Helgen; its skull, sockets without eyes, was just like the ones mounted above the arches. Had those each been a warning? An omen?
Her hand was shaky as her fingers struggled to keep hold of her sword’s handle. Slaying the skeletons had been easy. But standing face to face with such a creature as the one making its way towards her was completely different.
“By the Nine!” Onmund shouted from somewhere behind her. The dragon, with its enormous talons and wings, all bone without flesh, save for dark grey traces of sinew, walked forward. Its movement was clattery and rickety, but it proved fully capable of destruction as its jaw stretched apart, and by some unknown force, it breathed out a freezing blast of icy breath. It can speak spells, just like the one in Helgen!
Aerene jolted out of the blast radius, backing up. My sword will be no use here; this creature does not even have enough flesh to wound.
She sheathed her sword, and saw a bolt of Onmund’s lightning strike against the skeletal structure of the dragon. It roared, as though in pain. “I think we can kill it with magic!” Onmund called to Aerene, who raised her hands and began blasting flames at the dragon’s right side. It growled, and quickly turned its body; its long tail, with a sharpened tip at the end, was sent thrashing in Aerene’s direction. She dove out of the way, into a recovery roll across the dirt, and landed in a kneeling position. Ahead, the creature’s jaw expanded open again, and it blasted more frost at Onmund. He threw his hand up and instantaneously channeled a ward with his left hand, deflecting the frosty blast. With his other hand, he continued casting lightning at the dragon. Aerene cursed the fact she only knew short range destruction magic, making a quick mental note to study longer range spells once all of this was dealt with. Divines, after the discovery of this creature, I am going to have an abundance of research to conduct!
The skeletal dragon stumbled when Onmund struck lightning at its front wing and talons; Aerene concentrated on channeling the fire outward from her palms, and watched as each flame burst from her outstretched hands at the frame of the wavering beast. The orange light seeped across the ridges and curves of the skeletal frame, joined in takeover by the purplish white lightning streaking out from Onmund’s direction. Their dual casting drew more defeated snarls from the fearsome creature. Aerene’s skin was beaded with sweat in the blasting of heat, and she could feel the crackles of energy through the air with the thunder of Onmund’s spells. For the next moments, laced with trepidation and determination, the humans were called to maneuver quickly, keeping their spells cast while knowing the right moment to put up a ward for protection from the dragon’s frost breath. Aerene noticed this particular dragon could only speak one spell; the one from Helgen could call down storms from the heavens, and breath out bursts of fire hard enough to tumble towers. How ancient is this creature?
As the seconds ticked on, the mages’ focus struck true, and the dragon’s long neck craned upward, jaw opening and retracting, its razor sharp teeth and tongueless maw falling with a crash to the ground, the rest of its creaky figure doing just the same. The impact sent up a cloud of dirt and dust, the last movements ushered by a beast that wouldn’t have another chance to kill.
In the stillness, Aerene lowered her arms, panting, eyes frantically darting over the unmoving beast. There was no way to really know if it were dead, because its eyes did not carry that same, watery glow like the undead skeletons and draugr.
Onmund jogged over, meeting her side. “Is it dead?” he asked. She sighed. “Divines, I hope so.” I cannot help but wish I had the time to study this beast properly. So much can be learned from its bones and the burial mound it crawled out of. Perhaps I can return here at a later time to conduct some research. Though… I would not necessarily know where to start.
Upon their decision to leave the large cavern before another surprise attack, they carried on through the ruins. A nearby stairway led to an iron pedestal with a stone tablet atop; the language inscribed was unknown to either mage. The group of students led by Aren appeared again, in the same spectral manner. This time, the number of those gathered had shrunk to five.
Their words were somber, though it was Aren who ushered them forward in spite of their doubts.
“We...we have to go back. We can't leave Girduin…”
“We barely made it out alive, and you want to go back in?”
“What was that thing anyway?”
“It's too late. There isn't enough of him left to back in after.”
“Gods, what have we done?”
“We can't go back. Might as well go forward. We can still do this.”
“Savos is right. We can make it if we just stay alert.”
And just as before, their appearance was ephemeral; they vanished again, leaving the two mages to follow in those ghastly footsteps. They next entered a partially collapsed chamber, where two draugr stood guard. Aerene slayed one with her sword, a slash across its torso sending it to the ground. The second, Onmund hit with a single, sharp bolt of lightning, and they then had a moment to try and figure out the way through. “No way this is a dead end. There can’t be a different way through,” Onmund said, looking around the corners of the room for a hidden exit or tunnel. Aerene stood in front of what looked like a door, noticing the strangeness of it. It appeared to be enchanted with ice, of all things. “This passage must have been magically sealed. I am willing to bet it’s the way through,” she said to Onmund, who joined her in front of the icy door. In a moment, they were faced with a burst of blue light, channeled outward from the door; it had no physical effects, except perhaps a loudness to the ears, because it was a mirage of color but it also carried a voice.
It was ancient, and similar to that of the Augur. But this one… it spoke a language Aerene nor Onmund understood, one they could not decipher. Just like the Augur’s voice in the Midden, this one was not all surrounding, but rather could be traced from behind the door. Which indicates that something deeper in Labyrinthian knows we are here, and we are close enough for attempts at communication.
“Wo meyz wah dii vul junaar?”
The words were spoken like a question, and nothing followed. Aerene and Onmund exchanged a glance, before she took initiative and fired at the door with both hands, the flames melting the ice into water, then the water into vapor. The remnant was a doorway. Just through, the next passageway was a vertical cavern space, with winding pathways along the high, rocky walls, leading further down, down, down. Only another step or a slip would send one tumbling to their demise. Aerene emitted a squeak of surprise and lurched backward, feeling an instant wave of dizziness. No liquid courage to save me here!
Onmund whipped around to look at her, and then at the drop below. The only way to the bottom of the cavern was across the suspiciously narrow and thin walkways that acted as bridges. To boot, they ground was pebbly with unevenly packed dirt. Shalidor, architect of Labyrinthian. Wicked man!
The first slope led to a ledge and room carved into the stone walls, and it was just one of many walkways across the gorge. Aerene’s internal panic left her feeling woozy, her shallow, quiet breaths echoing her fear. She’d backed up against the wall, her palm resting on it. Come on, get it together!
Sounds of lightning and the growling of draugr from the other side of the chasm prompted her to open her eyes, where she saw Onmund shove the undead right off the ledge. A few seconds later, a crash could be heard when its bones hit the ground way below. “Pretend you didn’t hear that,” Onmund called over in response to Aerene’s spooked expression. She sighed in defeat, feeling like a helpless child as she shut her eyes. She managed to even her breaths, but she swore the bridge ahead lengthened dramatically each second she stared, her tunnel vision narrowing. Onmund jogged over, and knelt to face her. “Why do you fear heights?” he asked. Her brow shifted, as she wondered why that mattered now. The way he asked the question wasn’t accusatory or harsh, but calm, and that was why she could respond with clarity. “I am afraid that I will fall, and see everything around me grow taller as I near the ground. It has been that way all my life, as far back as I can remember,” she said. “But I do not know why.”
“Do you think crossing this path,” he gestured to the one right behind them, “will alleviate your worry? By ‘facing your fears,’ as they say?”
She frowned, and shook her head. “Probably not today,” she confessed guiltily. If there was one person she would tell this truth to, it was him. That didn’t mean she felt no embarrassment or shame about it. There were various ways she’d improved as a person between herself at present and that of a few years prior; this was a malady that couldn’t be so easily cured. Onmund’s eyes narrowed in thought. When his expression grew a little more mischievous, she knew he’d gotten an idea.
Much to her hesitancy, the next moments were spent in slow silence, as Aerene inched forward at a snail’s pace, led only by the touch of her hand in Onmund’s. She had reluctantly agreed to a blindfold, of all things, a makeshift one that doubled as the belt which normally kept Onmund’s mage robes in place. He insisted that by cutting off her sight, the dizziness would leave; he was right, but what remained was the irrational fear that something would go wrong, that one misstep on a loose stone or patch of dirt would send her plunging to her death. Her hand was sweaty in his, and it was his joking about it that eased her tension a bit. On the way down the various pathways, she spoke random things, even telling him how Farkas couldn’t go very far into Ysgramor’s Tomb thanks to his fear of frostbite spiders. After Onmund let go of her hand suddenly, she put her own hands out, legs bolted into the ground below. “If I fall to my death, I’m going to kill you!”
The blindfold was removed, and she was faced with a highly amused Onmund, as she realized they were now at the bottom of the chasm.
“Still want to kill me?”
On the contrary.
“No,” she said succinctly, and walked past him while she gathered her composure. “Thank you, Onmund,” she said while looking ahead, as he followed behind. “Of course,” he said. Then, “We work well together,” Onmund chimed, meeting her side. The comment caught her off guard, not because she disagreed, but because of its pointedness. She smiled sincerely to him, feeling a wave of happy warmth roll over her; the sweetness of the moment was ruined by the otherworldly voice groaning once more from the depths of Labyrinthian.
“Nivahriin muz fent siiv nid aaz het.”
They said nothing, but stilled in one of the corridors, listening to any additional sounds the cairn had to offer. Their curiosity was rewarded by a shift in language:
“You do not answer... Must I use this guttural language of yours?” The voice was laced with disgust at speaking in Tamrielic.
“Have you returned, Aren? My old friend?”
Aren? The entity here knows Aren?
When the silence had settled again, Onmund spoke. “Whoever’s speaking is unaware Aren is dead,” he observed. “As is the remainder of Skyrim,” Aerene replied. The College will need to announce the death of the Arch-Mage. Then, select another…
The following chamber had a narrow walkway on the left side, with a stairway heading down the opposite direction on the right. Down the stairs was a small tunnel. After the duo made quick work of the few draugr creaking about the room, Aerene followed through and looked for the right path. She found that the tunnel lead to a shore where a stream was washing into a lower cave, surrounded by pebbles and debris from collapsed pillars and ledges about the room. A noisy bloom of nirnroot was glowing in one nook of the narrow corridor. Its greenish-white glow gave the passageway a soft light.
It just so happened that the only way forward was through an opening at a far end of the stream, where the waters were rushing past a set of open iron doors into what looked like a larger chamber beyond. Aerene knelt at the shore, frowning. Always the cold water.
“Looks like we are in for a short swim,” she reported to Onmund, as he approached. Nevermind that I do not know how to properly swim.
Fortunately for her, the uncomfortably cold water came up to her chest, so she managed to awkwardly wade through the stream with her boots skidding along the muddy bottom. Each mage held their knapsack above the water’s surface, so as not to spoil anything held within. They needed all the supplies they’d packed. The outlet through the doorway flooded into another room, windy with stone brick support pillars. Out of that chamber, the stream kept flowing deeper, and Aerene and Onmund followed from path alongside the waters. After some time, there was an outlet onto a ledge, which overlooked another large cavern. It was musty in here, but well lit with torchlight one could only assume had been maintained by the draugr roaming in the area below. The first section of the space was separated from the second with an iron-lattice wall; it was almost like a spacious jail cell. Aerene stepped first down the stairway from the ledge to the lower area, seeing how the stream poured off into a well next to the stairs. The two walked about dripping lots of water, each footstep an unpleasant, soggy squelch. Aerene wasn’t even going to bother trying to dry them off like she did with the wood. It could’ve easily turned into a disastrous attempt wasting magicka and potions.
The second her boot hit the floor of the lower level, a terrifyingly familiar growl sounded from her right. She jerked her head to that side and her face twisted in surprise at the troll scrambling toward her. Only seconds passed between the moment her sword was unsheathed from its scabbard, and the moment she stabbed it through the heart of the monstrous creature. It slumped to the ground, and she yanked her blade from it, flicking the blood away. “For being fearful of trolls, that was quick,” Onmund said, arms folded while he peered down at the beast.
It lay on its back, arms and legs flung outward at random. All three of its shiny black eyes remained open, deep as a void. Its body was covered in patches of muddy, wiry brown hair, notably over its forearms, hips, head, shoulders, and lower legs. It had sharp protrusions lining its upper shoulders, black in color and looking to be horn or bone-like in material. Those same protrusions lined the upper four ridges of its head. Its mouth was agape to reveal jagged fangs, sticking outward in stark contrast to its flat nose. Aerene didn’t even want to imagine what kind of damage could be done by the creature’s thick claws, tipping off the ends of three thick, large fingers on hands that were bigger than her head.
They’d passed through a small hallway into the next area, and were looking for a way through a portcullis when the voice disturbed their quiet once more.
“Do you seek to finish that which you could not? You only face failure once more... you... you are not Aren, are you? Has he sent you in his place? Did he warn that your own power would be your undoing? That it would only serve to strengthen me?”
The ominous statements were disturbing, but were no match for the dread invoked upon Brelyna and Aerene during their search through the Midden. The further Aerene and Onmund had traveled through Labyrinthian, the more hopeful she was feeling; she recalled, repeatedly, the memory of the Psijic monk telling them they would prevail. It was this hope swelling within that prompted her to hear the entity’s words, but to disallow them a mark on her heart.
They next ventured into a mysterious area, a narrow-walled space of the cavern where various stone monoliths jutted out of the ground. Wisps appeared, spheres of an ethereal light blue energy that whisked about and shot bursts of damaging magic at the two who’d stumbled into their territory. They were the work of a larger, otherworldly magical being further in the monolith yard- a wispmother.
Her beauty was ghostly, illustrious and frosty; Aerene had never seen such a presence before, and internally decried the wispmother’s hostility. She blasted frost magic at the Nords, who were largely immune and unharmed. It was simply their nature, as it was hers. The wispmother floated without legs, the air below her hips a mist of cloudy white and grey frost. Her skin was an icy blue-grey tone, that reminded Aerene of the early mornings in Winterhold. She had sharp claws of the same hue, and was completely bare save for wrappings that covered the top of her head, and continued down her shoulders, over her chest, and below her navel. After a careful dance of fire and ice, all that remained of the beautifully savage creature was a glowing pile of wisp wrappings, left among the monoliths.
Hours had passed between their entrance to Labyrinthian and the descent through the final corridors preceding the grand chamber. They stopped for much needed rest. They ate the meager portions of food they’d hastily packed, and drank magicka potions in preparation for whatever would follow. As they continued into Labryinthian, they encountered the ghost memories of Savos Aren and his fellow mages, and witnessed how the group dwindled to a smaller number little by little. The voice of the entity became more aggressive, and the likely perpetrator behind the sudden appearance of spectral undead appearing out of Labyrinthian’s walls, always out for blood. Not even the hallway with crystals mounted on pedestals, enchanted to hurl fireballs at the ward-casting mages, could stop them from finding the Staff of Magnus.
Aerene stopped to face Onmund when they came across a set of closed iron doors. Sudden lightheadedness drained her, and she swore that from the corner of her eye, she saw the same blue streaks of light as earlier, when the entity first began speaking to them. “Do you feel that, too?” Onmund asked. Aerene nodded, slightly swaying as she stood there, tempted to lay flat on her back while the feeling wore off. “We must be very close,” she said. Can it be that whoever is within, is using the staff’s power to drain our magicka?
Behind the doors was a throne with no occupant, in the center of a ledge, facing away from where Aerene and Onmund entered. Stairs led down each side of the ledge to a lower, natural floor of the cavern. Aerene’s wandering gaze landed on the far left wall, and the sight caused her to stumble off the last step. She caught herself, and eyed the precisely carved wall in front of her. It was the third one she had ever seen, after those in Saarthal and Dustman’s Cairn.
In all her talks with Onmund since her arrival at the College, she had never once mentioned the writing found on those walls; of course, she was curious about what they were, but had thus far only concluded they were activated upon close proximity or contact, like a rune. This was the only feasible explanation. Like a rune, interaction with the walls induced a brief moment of a sensation. One had been feverishly hot and the other was like a cold river plunge. In her spare time, she’d searched for mention of the walls in various books of the Arcaneum, and taken detailed notes about spells that could be the cause for the strange sensations. Maybe it would have all been easier to explain if she’d told Onmund what she found in Saarthal, when he opted to stay behind instead of creep past a sleeping draugr like she did.
But as the time passed, and that day faded into memory, there was never an opportune time to bring up her lie. Onmund, remember when I said there was nothing of note at the back end of Saarthal? Well, actually, that was a lie, and I decided not to trust you with the truth until now. Convenient, right?!
I should have known that would catch up to me.
Guilt at the circumstances feasted upon her heart as she watched Onmund venture toward the wall. Alarm struck her as she realized he could be affected by the magic like she’d been, and while she seemed alright in spite of those occurrences, she wouldn’t allow him the risk. Past him, she jogged into proximity, and expressed amazement at the ancient inscriptions while she traced them with her finger. As consistent as the machinery spinning back in Mzulft, the magical effect erupted from the stone. It was much less intense than the other two times, though she swore they’d been surrounded by a warped energy field of sorts, one that made her feel slow, and like her feet were stuck to the ground with sap. It wasn’t all that different from the few times in her life she’d drank a little too much. And as expected, the feeling faded; in its wake, Onmund was eyeing her with concern. “Are you hurt? This must be some kind of trap, like a rune,” he said. Yes, I concluded the same. After hours of research.
“You looked rather pale for a few seconds, before your skin flushed its normal tone,” he added. Aerene shrugged, and stepped away from the wall to continue onward and finish this. “I feel normal. Battle ready,” she assured, and after a glance back at the wall, Onmund nodded and followed down the path. You lie to him, again. How many more times before it’s enough? Before he, somehow, discovers the truth?
Their entrance into the final expanse of Labyrinthian was preceded by a last encounter with the spectral figures, of which Aerene and Onmund had caught glimpses since their entry into the cairn. This time, only three remained.
“We shouldn't have left her there to die!”
“What else could we do? Stay there and die with her? She refused to go on, we didn't have a choice!”
“This is it, you know. Through this door. Can you feel it?”
“We're not going to make it, are we?”
“We stay together, no matter what. Agreed?”
“’I’ll be right with you.”
“Agreed. We all stay together.”
Aerene could feel it, too. The corridor ahead, an ancient hall of stories, ended with a set of closed iron doors. Up to this point, they’d survived various trials; it was only a matter of time until they came to learn the truth about the Arch-Mage and the Staff of Magnus. Their strength would be tested, just like the strength of those who came before.
After the duo consumed potions of magicka, they stood in a moment of silence. They stood on the line of readiness and fear, of faith and trepidation. Aerene felt like she should say something, but was rather at a loss for words. In subtle ways today, and since all of this began, they’d already saved each other’s asses. Still, with that pride, Aerene wondered how Onmund was feeling about the last stretch. She would not ask, but tried to offer something reassuring. “Onmund,” she said, and he turned to face her. Those youthful features of his were tinged with a look of seriousness, one she swore eased the slightest bit when his eyes met hers. “We have already been promised victory today. Whatever is behind these doors will not get between us and stopping Ancano,” she said. She couldn’t tell if he necessarily believed her words, but he nodded upon hearing them. “I have your back, Aerene. Let’s end this.”
It was when they pushed quietly through the doors that they each became witness to a most ultimate illustration of betrayal.
The deepest sanctum of Labyrinthian was dim, only lit by slivers of natural light from openings in the ceiling that gave way to the surface world. It was devoid of crypt attendants devoted to keeping ancient halls lit and empty of invaders. The space itself was a tall, naturally occurring stone cavern where the ceilings were diagonally sloped upward, and the central convergence was a low hanging jut of sharp stone. It looked like a mountain growing in the wrong direction. And directly below it, were some stony ruins, atop which were various rock monoliths and sculpture in Nordic shapes. The soft sound of water rushing was attributed to the waterfall on the opposite side of the room; a cobblestone path from Aerene’s position led underneath the ruins and straight to the waterfall. The ruins themselves were divided into two halves; one one side, the right, there was a shorter ledge constructed of stone bricks and a manmade stairway, with more monoliths. On its farthest side was a magical shield, spherical in shape, and of a lightning-struck purple hue. Inside, there was a figure amidst bouts of white mist. The sphere looked to be powered by the two constant bolts triangulated from across the footbridge to the ruins on the left.
On this side, there were two sources from which the bolts were being channeled.
The two companions which Arch-Mage Savos Aren had left behind.
“Traitor,” Aerene muttered, kneeling to a lower viewpoint. “Savos… he escaped while his friends were left behind. How long ago was that?” Onmund wondered aloud.
“Too long,” Aerene replied. “Let us end this, for good.”
Onmund’s next words, more thoughts voiced, were spoken in a tone of despair. “How could he do that to his own friends?”
Aerene kept her thoughts to herself, because while they did not know the absolute truth, they knew what they were looking at, clear as day. Perhaps it was all he believed he could do. I would sooner give my life trying to prevent a disaster like the one being contained here, than sacrifice those dearest to me while I escape. She eyed Onmund as these thoughts crossed her mind.
A short time later, they gathered that the magical shield was powered by the charging from the mages who were once companions to Savos. They had to be removed from the problem for access to the Staff, which Aerene spotted in the figure’s grasp. So when she called to Onmund, “Now!”, they slayed the mages, who were not of flesh and blood but of that spectral essence. Aerene knew as she drove her blade straight through the back of the kneeling woman in front of her, that it was mercy and an end to their suffering. The decision to end their lives was not a light one, nor was it the cold blooded murder of those who had become shells of their former selves; it was a release from enslavement. Divines, welcome these tormented souls.
Aerene wondered how long these mages had been kneeling. Were their souls being drained? Was that all which was left of them, and the reason they appeared spectral and not in corporeal forms of flesh and blood? They did not fall to the floor like the undead, but instead disappeared without a trace, to some other realm, perhaps.
She and Onmund struck at once; Aerene used her sword, and Onmund had her dagger. As predicted, the shield of magic fell, and the haunting figure within let out a screech of rage. Whatever powered it was not of this world, as it floated just like the wispmother. Its face was hidden by a steel blue mask with a neutral expression, and its robes were withered to the ages. Aerene thought its clothing looked almost Orcish, but knew when she saw the dragon head pieces mounted atop each shoulder, that such was not the case. Do we truly stand face to face with a Dragon Priest?
Indeed, we do!
There was no time to think on all the finer details she’d learned about Dragon Priests. What mattered was that it was known: they could be killed.
Aerene stood from her position on the ledge on the larger half of the ruins, and jumped down to the ground below. There was no doubt in her mind, the staff in the clutch of the Dragon Priest was the Staff of Magnus.
She was looking up at the Dragon Priest now, keeping a distance while she calculated an approach. It began moving across the platform it hovered over, moving down to the top of the stairs where it extended its arm out, and the ringing of a conjuration spell sounded. Aerene followed the noise and saw that behind her, a lightning atronach was summoned. If that was the best this ancient entity had to offer, she was not impressed. “I’ll attack the atronach!” Onmund called from his higher position, and began summoning his bound bow, a clever move to fire arrows while maintaining a safe distance between himself and the atronach. The tumbling, floating mass of stones set its sights on the mage with the bow when arrows began striking at it, or near it. Seeing that the storm atronach was distracted, Aerene turned back to the Dragon Priest.
She gasped when she saw it was much closer than before, and had made its way down the steps, a ghastly sight hovering toward her. She kept backing up, just a few steps from the waterfall’s pond at the end of the main cobblestone path. Aerene raised her left hand, and began casting her ward, taking slow steps forward with a determined heart. She raised her sword, and jogged forward, hurling with a battle cry as she swung her weapon across the chest of the hulking creature. It shrieked at the contact. She maneuvered to maintain her word, balancing her footwork to quickly turn and strike again. “I am Morokei,” it spoke from behind the mask in that same deep, gravelly voice that had been haunting their footsteps through the whole cairn. Morokei. It waved its hand outward and unleashed a magical blast with the Staff, like the one Ancano had sent across the Hall of the Elements, only at a lesser degree of power. When Aerene stumbled backward, falling to her bottom, Morokei neared and watched, as though studying. “I am the herald of your failure,” it said, just as she’d pushed herself up and took another swing against its lower torso. At the instant of contact, it used the staff to summon a cloak of lightning over itself. There was a flash of grey, purple, and white, and the roar of thunder as the lightning struck Aerene’s sword, traveling unnaturally across the metal, dancing devilishly to her fingertips, crawling further, further up her hand, completely striking that hot, vibrating magic against her being. It was tenfold the power of Onmund’s lightning strike back during their first lesson together.
Aerene groaned, fingers struggling to let go of the sword, just to get out of the proximity of the lightning cloak. It was taking immense effort to even remain standing, as her muscles contracted with the absolute electrification of the spell. She forced her eyes open, and moved her left hand-the one that was furthest away from Morokei-to do anything to help. She knew any spells would be ineffective. Do something, anything!
Like a child with a wooden sword, determined but uncoordinated, she grabbed onto the staff in Morokei’s opposite hand and offered a feeble attempt to wrestle it free with a weak grunt. “Fool,” it spoke, and shoved its entire open hand against her face to shove her away. Finally, as Aerene stumbled and fell back again, she was free from the entity’s lightning. She landed in the dirt, hands feeling the coolness of the cobblestones patched along the road. Her sword was too close to Morokei, and posed a danger to her with the lightning cloak. She silently thanked the Divines for the thick layers of cloth and padding between her bare skin and the metal armor plates atop. Aerene saw that Onmund was still entertaining the atronach, which was appearing duller, and weaker. We can do this!
Aerene thrust her hand up and in a smooth motion cast the close wounds spell over herself. It was invigorating. She stood, then, just a few steps from Morokei, floating while thunder sounded, lightning and grey mist whirling around its figure. She couldn’t see its eyes, but she knew it saw her as nothing-a pathetic being, another notch in the attempts to steal its power. It saw a mere mortal.
She gritted her teeth at this, her fists clenched tightly. Morokei raised the Staff of Magnus, and prepared to launch another spell at her. She caught a glimpse of the light retracting into the central orb of the staff, before it grew brighter with a flash and sent a bolt of magicka her way. Aerene dove to the side, landing with a roll a bit closer to Morokei now. It said something else, in the ancient language it spoke before, and unleashed another overwhelming blast. Aerene lowered her head, feeling the magical energy drain her vitality. For what she had planned, though, she needed not spell nor blade. The Nord forced herself up, taking heavy steps toward Morokei; its words grew louder as she neared, her wrists coming up in defense over her face. Morokei’s blasts were growing in power as she trudged closer, her magicka completely drained by the lightning engulfing the two of them. She got so close she could hear Morokei’s breathing, wretched and strained. She planted her boots firmly in the ground below, and believed that this would work. When Morokei raised the Staff to unleash another blast, Aerene swung her leg up against its side, drawing a cry from it, as the thunderous thorns etched through her. With it off balance for just a moment, she launched herself forward to tackle it, her full weight sending them both to the floor of Labyrinthian. The Staff was thrown aside, and a generous portion of the surrounding, swirling energy ceased. She could see through Morokei’s facade. She could see that it had no power without the mask.
Aerene and Morokei struggled, it clawing at her, skeletal fingers shaking while it attempted to recast its cloak spell and shock her back to Oblivion. She had it pinned down, a challenge of full force, and planted her right foot against its wrist, pressing down hard. She could hear a crack, and Morokei shrieked. Aerene growled a cry of effort as she planted her left boot on its chest, and used all her strength to crush the Dragon Priest’s bones to dust. As it worked, her foot crushing slowly through its chest, her hands met the sides of its mask, and the lightning intensified like never before. Her fingers felt like they were on fire, latching underneath the wooden edges of the mask, revealing more light from beneath the visage the harder she pulled. Her breaths were shallow, but her spirit was unrelenting, as she tore the mask from Morokei’s face and a final blast echoed throughout the room. It blew a vicious wind in all directions, but with the mask in hand, Aerene was unaffected, save for her hair and body being pushed just the slightest. What remained were many tired breaths, and the dripping of sweat down her skin, and the complete pile of dust and old cloth she stood in. Morokei had disintegrated into ash.
In the aftermath, her fingertips were struck with the sensation of ferocious heat, as though she’d stuck them into a fire to roast like meat on a skewer. She held back a groan, seeing how red the skin of her hands was in her gauntlets. She let out a quiet sigh, and used her magicka to heal herself. The burning faded, and the remaining sensation was tingly. She didn’t think she would ever get used to it, the way healing spells and potions worked instantly. One moment, one could feel like they’d been gutted, and the next, like they’d just awoken completely refreshed from a cozy nap.
“We’ve done it!” Onmund called from further up the path. Aerene dropped the mask into the pile of ash at her feet, and stepped away from it. Onmund was jogging toward her, completely unconcerned with the Staff of Magnus that had been thrown to the side of the path. “Well, Aerene, you did most of the work,” he said, exasperated, finally standing in front of her now. “Nonsense. We did this together, Onmund.” She sighed, and dismissed all regard for what might’ve been proper in this moment. She raised her arms, and stepped toward him; he welcomed the embrace, and they chuckled and laughed as the two who’d just about won back the College.
But this time, even in the aftermath of Morokei’s draining mastery of magic, holding her friend in her arms felt different than before. It was comforting, a signage of their victory, a symbol of their togetherness. She became hyper aware of exactly where his hands were planted around her upper back as he hugged her, and swore she could feel the rapid beat of his heart in his chest so close to hers. When she finally loosened the grip, they were standing face to face. “I can’t believe you got close enough to rip the mask off like you did. Lightning spells can easily drain magicka, and life force. Are you well, after all that?”
Aerene liked any opportunity to tease Onmund, so she replied, “Indeed, I am. A little rattled, but nothing I haven’t felt before,” she said with a sly look. Onmund’s smile dropped. “I can only apologize and actually mean it so many times,” he retorted playfully. Aerene chuckled, and after a moment, the tone turned more serious. She did not feel awkward, so close to him, but felt more fully aware that they had truly made it this far together. That it was just the two of them who’d survived the costly adventure through this cairn. I wonder just what else is in store?
“Are you hurt?” she questioned, not wanting to let the time between words linger too long. But oh, how she desired to hold that sweet face of his in the palm of her hand, to trace her thumb over that dimple that caved when he smiled. “Not at all,” he said. She was relieved to hear this, but was very much feeling the effects of the waves of lightning. Her sights left his eyes and landed on the Staff behind them. “We must return to the College at once,” she said, and pulled away to go and pick it up. Each step felt like it did when she’d gone too long sitting a certain way, when a limb would ‘fall asleep’ and tingle miserably when returning to another position.
She didn’t see it, partially because she was foremost concerned by the sense of duty, and partially because she wasn’t even looking at him anymore, but Onmund stood there, and watched her make her way to the Staff, and pick it up. A luna moth on the wall of the cavern would’ve seen the way his expression was dejected for a second, and how he straightened himself up just as quick. He shared that same sense of duty to their task, and it was part of the reason they worked well together.
With the Staff of Magnus in her grasp, Aerene half used it as a walking stick while she made her way over to Onmund. “Here,” she said, and offered it to him. He was apprehensive, looking intently at the Staff. “Everything we’ve worked for in the last weeks is in our grasp,” he reveled. They looked upon the Staff, and one another, each with a hand on one of he most powerful magical artifacts in existence. “Soon, the ordeal with the Eye will end,” she said. Soon, our adventuring into cairns and keeps will wither down to lectures and meals. As long as Onmund is around, any time together will be time enough.
It did not cross her mind to even process what that meant, other than that she strongly enjoyed his company. How could I not, when our days together, amidst the chaos of all this, have remained pleasant? It is rare to be so lucky.
“You should keep the Staff with you, if you feel up to it,” Aerene decided. Onmund’s face twitched with doubt. “You’re sure?” he asked.
She let go, and took a step back, taking the image in. The tall, hooded mage with flowing robes and broad shoulders, holding the Staff as though he’d done it all his life. It was noble, a mystical sight from tales of ages long past. It was him, and it was right.
“Absolutely,” she affirmed. Onmund nodded in acceptance of this, and his stance eased a little. It already looked natural, him with the Staff. Aerene tore her gaze away before staring too long, and began making her way across the room to where they’d left their bags before the final assault.
While she walked, she felt the hope bloom within.
-
With the Staff of Magnus in hand, and the mask of Morokei, brought with on Onmund’s insistence that the College could keep it guarded in secret, the two were ready to return to Winterhold. And as though the Divines themselves spun the threads of Labyrinthian’s passageways, it just so happened there was a tunnel leading from the grand chamber back toward the entrance, completely bypassing the hours of walking and fighting to get where they’d been. It was their entry into the first corridor that set the mood more somber. The last spectral figure standing alone just beyond doors that had been locked during his time was Savos Aren. Aerene could see the wet streaks falling from his eyes down his face, even in the endless blue.
“I’m sorry, friends. I'm so sorry! I had no choice! It was the only way to make sure that monster never escaped! I promise you, I'll never let this happen again! I'll seal this whole place away.”
When his figure vanished for the last time, the two moved on in Labyrinthian’s disquiet.
Aerene’s mind wandered to anything she could think of that didn’t dampen her spirits. After feeling as though she were submerged in boiling water, she was looking forward to being in the cold again, so soon. Perhaps it really is the Nord in me, yearning for the cold, although I never much cared for it before.
Onmund had taken the lead from here, cautiously opening the doors they came across and making sure the passageways were clear before giving Aerene the all clear. Even healed, there was nothing to discredit the fact that they’d been in Labyrinthian at least half the day and were utterly exhausted, even if not in pain; that was the disorienting thing about delves like this-one didn’t know how much time had passed until they rejoined the surface world. Aerene thought about the quiet that would come after this ordeal. There would be true quiet, not moments in between anticipation. She ached for it, but anticipated being able to actually get used to it.
It was the unusual sight of an Altmer in Thalmor robes suddenly facing Aerene and Onmund that nearly startled her out of her skin. She realized she and Onmund were standing in a doorway, and that this rat must’ve been on the other side. She initially believed him to be Ancano, but a brief look revealed such was not the case. He still wore that wicked, unmistakable expression that constantly looked down his nose at all he encountered. Onmund, a few paces closer to the Thalmor agent, was tense, with one hand raised to prepare a spell. With the other, he pulled Aerene’s lucky dagger from his boot. She’d not realized it was still in his possession after borrowing it earlier. “So, you made it out of there alive. Ancano was right... you are dangerous,” he spoke with a serpent’s tongue. Of course this one knows Ancano. Aerene’s eyes narrowed at the mention.. Then, a thought came to her. “Are you the one who killed the courier outside Winterhold? Stole the letters?” she demanded. The Altmer’s brow raised in surprise. He forced a laugh. “Hah! Clever, indeed. Yes, that was I,” he said. “For what purpose?” Onmund asked. The Altmer replied, “You’ll never know.”
In lieu of answering the questions asked by the younger two, the Thalmor looked to the staff strapped across Onmund’s back. “I’m afraid I'll have to take that Staff from you now. Ancano wants it kept safe,” he said, and took a step forward. Both Aerene and Onmund responded with an instinctive step back. “Get out of the way, before I kill you,” Onmund warned in a low, threatening tone. “You don’t stand a chance,” the Thalmor said, and cast a ward armor spell over himself, moving closer to Onmund with a mad look over his face. His efforts were in vain, though, as Onmund made good on his word, taking the length of a breath to stab the dagger through the Thalmor agent’s heart. The Thalmor choked, knees buckled beneath him as he failed to hold himself up. He grabbed at the walls but fell to the dusty stones below. Aerene stood back and watched, slightly startled at Onmund’s quick movements.
Onmund knelt at the Thalmor agent’s side, and his fingers wrapped around the dagger lodged in his chest. The agent cursed at Onmund, a stammering of unforgettable but meaningless words. “Say that from your grave,” the Nord replied ruthlessly, before he ripped the dagger out with a schlink, a fresh coating of blood gracing the blade and pooling out from the fatal wound.
Aerene watched the scene unfold, watched as the companion she knew shed a layer of his gentle nature to reveal a harsher exterior. He did not remain unchanged, no. She knew this as he handed back her dagger, wiped clean of blood, with a shaky hand. Onmund has been subject to rapid change in recent times. Fortunately, his sanity is still in tact.
She checked the pockets of the dead Thalmor agent, and found just what she expected: nothing. No incriminating evidence, just like with Ancano’s room. She guessed that if there was anywhere that might hold all the hidden letters, all the secrets of the Thalmor, it was their Embassy near Solitude in northwest Skyrim. The College is going to have to send out one interesting letter once all of this is through.
“Let’s get back to Winterhold,” Onmund said quietly, leading the way out of Labyrinthian without further interruption.
-
Just as suspected, some six or so hours had passed since the mages first entered Labyrinthian. They decided to lay out their bedrolls in the entrance chamber where they had first encountered the spectral mages. They settled in a nondescript corner of the room behind some large pillars, where they did not have a view of the various skeletal remains scattered about near the entrance. The plan was to sleep for a few hours before hauling it back to the College. This isn’t ideal, but it is much better than being out in the snowy night. We have a long return journey ahead, upon awakening.
And so they did return to Winterhold, arriving shortly after dawn in the light of a grey morning. The sun was shrouded by snow-bearing clouds. Its light beamed through, and much to the dismay of the eager students jogging into the little town, shone on the crowd gathered among Winterhold’s few buildings. “They’re all facing the College,” Onmund said as they neared.
Aerene searched the crowd of townsfolk, seeing that none among them were College scholars. Among them was the Jarl of Winterhold, scowling with crossed arms while he muttered to the steward at his side. Aerene and Onmund passed the crowd, and passed the buildings obstructing their view.
That was when they came to face the colossal mass of magic swirling around the entire college. Like the wall Ancano had first kept up in the Hall of the Elements, this shield was colored a reflective sheen of white energy bursts, watercolor flickers of spring green mixed within. The barrier enclosed all of the campus structures, including the residence halls and towers, and extended as far out as the middle of the bridge between the College and Winterhold. It looked so isolated from where Aerene stood; atop the huge rock formation, across the gorge and cliffs above the Sea of Ghosts, the lonely College was a void that stared back and pled for release from Ancano’s torment. Aerene shuddered to think that if the students and residents of the College weren’t gathered in Winterhold, they were trapped within the barrier. Guilt for even stopping to rest began to gnaw at her while she stared at the disaster.
Now is absolutely not the time to whine about what should have been done. This must be stopped!
“That’s so much worse than I imagined,” Onmund confessed from Aerene’s side. She sighed to herself. “We need to try and get closer,” she said, and they headed up the slope of the bridge, along the dreadfully windy crossing. There, they found Tolfdir gathered with Faralda and Arniel Gane. Tolfdir turned to the incoming two students, crossing up to the level where the other three were gathered. “You survived!” he exclaimed. He looked to Onmund, who pulled the Staff from its secured strap along his back and let the bottom point rest on the ground. “You have it,” Tolfdir observed. “I hope it was worth it,” he added. “Why are you out here?” Onmund asked. And where is everyone else?
“Look for yourself,” Tolfdir said, and the they turned to face the barrier again. The winds were screeching so loudly, just as before, that any speaking was forced to become shouting. Aerene glanced to Arniel Gane and Faralda, and noticed they didn’t appear sickly as was the issue before. “We believe Ancano was using the Eye to weaken the College scholars! While you were gone, everyone was feeling their symptoms alleviate! Then suddenly, the barrier expanded!” Tolfdir shouted.
“Where is Mirabelle?!” Aerene called over the howling.
Tolfdir’s expression flashed with sadness. “Mirabelle didn’t make it,” he said in a quieter, barely audible tone. “When it became clear we had to fall back, she stayed behind to make sure the rest of us had a chance and ending this.”
Aerene frowned, stepping to lean against one of the ledges with her eyes shut. I am sorry, Mirabelle.
After a moment, she turned with a straight expression and faced Tolfdir. Onmund met her side, and gave her a nod to signal his readiness. “We are ready,” she affirmed. Let us ensure Mirabelle and Savos’ sacrifices were not in vain!
Onmund led the line of five, followed immediately by Aerene, with her sword drawn, then Tolfdir, Faralda, and Arniel. They stepped cautiously, walking through the ripping wind currents and across the treacherous bridge. Onmund was called to use the Staff as they treaded, casting it at weak points in the barrier to open the way to the College. Its spells were colored the blue of the glaciers floating in the Sea of Ghosts, but sounded like continuous blasts of lightning magic as the Staff shocked the barrier into retreat like a mother hounding her misbehaving child.
The Staff weakened the barrier long enough for the group to make it as far as the courtyard. It was still and silent, until a quake spread out of the Hall of the Elements and shook the ground on which the mages stood. Aerene stretched her hands out for balance, bending her knees to stable herself while the walls of the College groaned in response to the unnatural movement. “Look! More of those creatures!” Arniel sounded, and the group faced the walkway to the Hall to find magical anomalies floating towards them. They were spherical, and and the same color as the energy produced by the Staff. They were like the wisps that floated around the wispmother back in Labyrinthian, and were just as hostile. Aerene and Onmund prepared to fight, but Faralda interjected. “Tolfdir, take them inside, and finish this! Arniel and I can hold off these… things!”
Tolfdir acknowledged Faralda, and as she and Arniel began firing destruction spells at the finicky anomalies, the three made a run for the Hall of the Elements.
And there Ancano stood, in the same spot, arms outstretched while he faced the Eye of Magnus, completely entranced. He no longer looked like a person, Aerene saw as they approached him. There was nothing behind those ghastly eyes, as they were like glass reflecting only the orb in front of him. Ancano’s body and skin had a golden sheen that wasn’t there before. Aerene associated it with the magic of a healing spell, and she suspected that he was using the Eye’s power to protect himself from magic. As the three crossed the Hall, Ancano yelled out to them.
“You've come for me, have you?
You think I don't know what you're up to?
You think I can't destroy you?
The power to unmake the world at my fingertips, and you think you can do anything about it?”
Aerene tightened her fingers around the handle of her sword, her other hand clenched in a fist. She knew there was only one way for this to end.
“Your time is at an end!” Tolfdir yelled at Ancano, using both hands to dual cast a fireball at the Altmer. Ancano did not bat an eye. “I am beyond your pathetic attempts at magic. You cannot touch me!” he conceded.
“Spells have no effect! Use the Staff!” Tolfdir called to Onmund.
Tolfdir hurried to Onmund’s right side, while Aerene stayed at his left, with her blade ready. She was sweating with anticipation, hands a little shaky while her heart pattered on. Ancano tore his attention from the Eye, and his face soured when he looked upon the three preparing to attack. Onmund raised the Staff to fire upon Ancano, but the Thalmor fired at him first. Aerene knew from the flash of poison green it was a paralysis spell, and with the power Ancano had, she couldn’t bear to think how long they’d be strewn across the ground for, helpless. Instinctually, she dove to her right, tackling Onmund and the Staff out of the firing line of the paralysis spell, and they thudded to the ground. “Eungh,” Onmund coughed. Aerene quickly moved off him, and saw that Tolfdir was frozen still on the floor; he hadn’t made it out of the way in time, but that didn’t mean this couldn’t be finished. Aerene saw that Ancano was soaking up more power from the Eye, and turned to Onmund. “We can finish this,” she said, and without allowing a response or complaint, she grabbed onto his extended hand and yanked him to a standing position. “Fire now!” she told Onmund. He aimed the Staff to the Eye, and fired.
A flash of light struck outward when the Eye, suspended in mid-air floatation, split apart like pieces of stained glass in a controlled shattering, and a blinding energy was released. Ancano’s doings were rendered an end as his channeling ceased and the hissing of more anomalies sounded about the room. Aerene stuck her wrist in front of her eyes, covering them from the blinding light. “He’s vulnerable! I can handle this, go!” Onmund promised. Aerene picked up her sword from the ground and faced Ancano. She stood between him and Onmund. Ancano’s teeth gritted, his eyes darkening as his fist clenched, as he cast an eruptive fireball at the two challengers.
The ward projecting from Aerene’s palm absorbed the explosion of flames. All around the room, there were bright flashes as the anomalies swirled about; Onmund had begun attacking the mysterious creatures with the Staff as Aerene neared Ancano. The Altmer held out his hand, palms glowing with hints of magic ready to be unbounded and release chaos. “This will be your last mistake,” Aerene warned Ancano, closing the distance between them. Her eyes were glaring with a sharp intensity, her sword raised and ready to strike. She offered a silent prayer that her blade strike true.
“Come, see what I can do now,” Ancano challenged. He threw both hands outward and sent forward a blast of destructive flame, a wall of fire that rushed outward. Aerene’s ward absorbed most of the spell, but a bit of the heat coursed through her open palm and up her arm. His chest was rapidly rising and falling with heavy breaths, his mouth grinning wickedly. He reached both hands to the ground, and in a similar way to what Aerene had seen Onmund do before, he appeared to pull the magic out the very atmosphere around him. The nearer his spread fingers clenched into fists, the more flickers of light and specks of lightning flashed about his hands, as they raised from his sides and further up into the air, the thunderous light from within brightening each second.
“Can you feel your destruction?!” Ancano taunted in a cackling howl.
“Can you feel yours?!” Aerene demanded, as she stepped forward with her right foot, and released the grip of her sword from both hands, throwing it in a swift motion toward the madman in front of her.
The blade sunk through Ancano’s sternum, the piercing drawing a groan of anguish from the elf who fell to his knees. Aerene walked forward, staring down with hatred at the evil mer. The wound was already bleeding profusely. Ancano looked downward, his hands static around the blade. He coughed and choked on his own blood.
Aerene grabbed onto the sword, and his eyes widened just slightly upon seeing this. Her jaw clenched, she kicked at his shoulder with her left foot at the same time she pulled the weapon out of the Altmer, who slid off the blade and into the permanence of death as he hit the ground.
Finally, it is done.
Behind Aerene, Onmund, wielder of the Staff of Magnus, was helping Tolfdir up from the ground.
Outside, the courtyard flooded with curious scholars and students free from Ancano’s reign of terror, seeking news about the sudden quiet and stillness.
With this new day, the College of Winterhold could return to peace in victory.
Notes:
as promised, here is another chapter!! I'm having so much fun writing these hehe. see you... soon~~ :D
Chapter 25: Rain on the Horizon
Notes:
from one adventure... to another! this one was fun to write, and I am so excited to keep at it. enjoy~~!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
With the turning of tides that set Winterhold on track toward normality and peace, so, too, did the plans change for the Eye of Magnus. Just after the battle with Ancano ended, and those remaining began to pick up the pieces, the Psijic Order appeared; three of their monks surrounded the Eye of Magnus, which had returned to its original, docile state. Quaranir spoke for the Order. He told the five who’d gathered in the Hall of the Elements - Tolfdir, Faralda, Arniel, Onmund, and Aerene - that they had done well. That there were many things obscured to those outside of the Order, which were visible to those within. The Order foresaw that the College would prevail against Ancano and the Thalmor, but that the world was not ready for the Eye of Magnus. While it was the Psijic Order’s newfound duty to guard the Eye of Magnus, they deemed the wielder worthy of care over the Staff. Quaranir offered Onmund a deal; should more magical anomalies be found in the aftermath of the Eye’s resonance, it would be his absolute responsibility to use the Staff and banish them away. Quaranir pointedly remarked on Onmund’s wise use of the Staff thus far, and warned that should he misuse it or fail his task, the Order would retrieve it like they did the Eye. Onmund accepted these conditions with pride. With these tellings, the Psijic Order vanished to whichever mysterious realm they dwelled, and the Hall of the Elements was quiet, once more. All that was left was the need to put the pieces of the College back in Order.
This took place over the long span of that day. The next day, in the evening time, the student and scholar population was called to gather for ceremony after the evening meal. Tolfdir spoke as Master Wizard, and Faralda was named the new Arch-Mage. This decision was well received by the students, who cheered for Faralda’s advancement and agreed with her selection. Tolfdir, in his speech, also mentioned the efforts of Aerene and Onmund, and named others who had been prolific in the events of the last weeks, including Brelyna for her effort in seeking out ‘answers’, which was Tolfdir’s way of keeping secret the Augur’s presence, as well as Nirya, and some other students who helped fight off the anomalies summoned in Winterhold in the early hours of Ancano’s madness. In the closing of the ceremony, Tolfdir and Faralda memorialized Mirabelle and Savos Aren. Numerous students offered wintery flowers to a memorial stand that had been erected in the hall, in honor of their fellow mages.
In the two weeks that had passed since then, Frostfall gave way to the early days of Sun’s Dusk, the eleventh month of the year, inviting shorter days and colder nights.
Aerene took the time to settle into the quiet, attending lectures as usual, while continuing her routine of taking River to the seashore every morning. Not a day went by where the Nord woman went without practicing her skill with a sword or spells. There had even been a short trip to Labyrinthian again, where Brelyna excitedly joined Aerene upon hearing about her desire to study the dragon corpse for any possible information. She affirmed that the skeletal dragon was the guardian of Labyrinthian, and must have been a protector of the Dragon Priest Morokei. Brelyna performed attempts to capture the soul of the dragon or reanimate it, in which they planned to flee rather than fight, should that work, but neither were successful. While Brelyna, the conjuration student she was, took pleasure in looking over the draugr and dragon bones left in Labyrinthian, the only absolute Aerene learned was that the dragon had stayed dead. Brelyna took sketches of some sights in Labyrinthian, and she and Aerene spent a day exploring before their return to Winterhold the next morning.
As for Aerene and Onmund, they spent much time together. Be that in lectures, or reading in silent company together in the Arcaneum, or merely sitting together at meals, their friendship withstood the trials they’d previously faced. Much to Aerene’s surprise, there had been two occasions when she was either alone or with Brelyna, and was approached by admirers who’d taken up a fascination with her work in stopping Ancano and finding the Staff. While she was flattered, neither the Breton nor the Imperial were to her tastes, and much to Aerene’s embarrassment, Brelyna teased her endlessly about it. ‘They’re so much shorter than you. I can’t imagine how awkward that would be, looking down at the tops of their heads. You could give them little pats, like dogs, or children. My recommendation is to associate with someone of your own stature… oh, wait, you already do! I’ve already seen other students all glossy eyed, talking about that scar on his lip. And your friendship with him drives me mad, because I know it would work as more!!”
In the early evening one day, before the nightly meal, Aerene had visited Birna’s shop to pay mind to River and help the shopkeeper with chores. She’d really just been bored and wanted to get out for a bit, but it turned into much more than that when Birna informed Aerene she’d gotten a letter, delivered by a courier on duty from Whiterun. Upon learning from Birna that Aerene frequented the shop, the courier left it there for her.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to open it now? A letter from the Jarl of Whiterun isn’t something to delay, milady.’
‘Birna, I came here to help you, first. The letter can wait,’ Aerene had insisted.
But once she was on the bridge between Winterhold and the College, her calm walk turned into a hasty jog back to the privacy of her quarters.
There was hardly a way to anticipate any of what was written in the letter, but Aerene read on. It was addressed to Lady Aerene, Resident of the College of Winterhold, and read:
Aerene,
The City of Whiterun calls upon you for assistance in handling a most delicate matter. As you have promised your loyalty, and have shown your ability to handle yourself in battle and the court of Dragonsreach, I believe my trust in you to answer this summons is placed well. Your past experience qualifies you for fulfillment of this favor. Should you wish to offer your talents with handling this issue, report to Dragonsreach at your earliest convenience.
By my hand,
Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun
“A most delicate matter?” Aerene echoed the ominous words, her finger tracing over the red official wax seal on the letter. What in Oblivion could this be about? Balgruuf spared every detail. Lydia has not shared anything on this in her recent letter to me, either. Surely she must know what the issue is? And if she does, but has not written on it, the secrecy of it must be protected. If I am to move forward with this, I need to trust in Balgruuf’s word.
Am I truly prepared to drop everything and depart for Whiterun? How long will this take away from my studies?
She lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling as she pondered going through with this. The opened letter was now on the floor next to her bed, just below where her left hand limply hung. Her right hand sat atop her belly, fingers tapping in a rhythmic motion. Beside the Jarl’s matter in Whiterun, there was the visit she would make to Jorrvaskr. Aligned in her older habits, was the brief thought that she slither through the back streets of Whiterun on her way to Dragonsreach and avoid the Companions’ home entirely. I know Vilkas. He wrote a letter of apology and gave me the time to visit when I please. And I do miss them… well, I miss Farkas a little more. The letter he sent last week was sweet. The sooner I go to Whiterun, the sooner I can find out what the Jarl needs from me, and the sooner I can revisit an old home.
But truly?
“I do not wish to take this on alone,” Aerene muttered to herself. That realization was what held her back in finalizing the decision. I do not want to part from what I have built here. When Brelyna’s not with me, she’s alone or with J’zargo, and likes it that way.
But Onmund…
I do not wish to depart Winterhold and leave him behind.
If I leave tomorrow, I shall need to take with most of my belongings for the journey. That would be most efficient. She tried to distract herself with the monotonies of packing for the next adventure, but it wasn’t enough to bury the idea that was toying with her heart like clay in the hand of a sculptor. She set the letter down on her desk, and straightened out her mage robes. She’d finally started to get used to them, wearing them every day without the necessity of protection under heavy armor. She changed her mind, though, and picked up the letter, slipping it into her pocket. Aerene brushed her fingers through her hair, finally dry after her bath earlier. No amount of smoothing out her robes or readjusting the way her hair sat could help her now. She had arrived at a conclusion that was still incredibly difficult to face, even when it shouldn’t be. She was simply going to visit Onmund, and ease into the subject of the letter she’d received. He is my closest friend. I have no reason to feel nervous about sharing this with him.
With a spring in her step, Aerene left her room and wandered through the Hall of Attainment to the door of Onmund’s quarters. She’d done this half the nights that had passed since the Eye was taken by the Order. The other half? Her dearest friend would show at her door, and they’d walk to the meal hall together. It was almost muscle memory, at this point.
So then why, when Aerene knocked on the wood of the closed door, did it suddenly swing open, where out of Onmund’s room stepped a young Breton woman? And oh, why were her cheeks pink with flush as she quietly laughed, before she realized Aerene was standing there?
“Oh, hello! Excuse me, I was just leaving,” she offered a smile, and moved out of the way. As she began walking down the hall, Aerene saw her bring her hand to her lips to muffle another giggle.
And the proud Nord woman, who’d survived not one, but two dragon encounters, slain dozens of ne’er do wells, ranked among the Circle of the warriors of Jorrvaskr, and defeated the Thalmor who threatened the College, was rendered speechless as she watched the Breton saunter away, before she turned and met the wide eyes of her (slightly less, now) trusted friend.
Even worse?
As she and Onmund looked at one another, he looked unbothered. Aerene’s expression was that of a thief caught with a stolen jewel in hand. Her pride drowned in jealousy. She took a step back from Onmund’s quarters, and rubbed the back of her neck, looking away. “I apologize,” she said, but wait, no, I am not sorry! Why did I say that? “I, uh..” she didn’t know what to say. Onmund shrugged, gesturing her in as though what had just happened, hadn’t happened. “Come in, you know you don’t have to knock,” he said.
“Maybe I should start,” she remarked. Hm. He had a curious look on his face, wondering what she was on about. He’d just experienced the relief of shooing an adoring fan out of his room when his actual friend arrived, and now she was giving him a hard time about it, totally misreading the ordeal.
So Aerene walked into his quarters, and while turned away from him, caught a sneaky glance at the bed, quietly pleased to find the bedding was nice and neat. She stood there awkwardly, like she hadn’t chosen to go in there, and like she was a child waiting to be told what to do, eager to be anywhere else.
“I should go,” she changed her mind. Internally, she began entertaining the thought of leaving for Whiterun now, she turned to leave. Her ears were hot and her spine was tingling with discomfort. She couldn’t believe Onmund had company of that sort. It is not my business. Onmund is his own person! Friends allow friends to enjoy the company of others. Onmund scoffed, and reached out to Aerene’s wrist with his hand.
Her response was to cross her arms and turn around to face him. I didn’t mean to do that! “I was waiting for you to get here,” he said. “Miri’s been following me around since she heard about the ordeal with Ancano. Always asking about destruction spells, even though she’s a restoration student,” he complained. Miri, is it?!
When Aerene looked at him, and said nothing, but bore a blank look, he continued. “I feel a little bad for her. She hasn’t gotten the hint that I don’t wish to study with her, but I don’t know how else to say it.” he added. Well, you could start by not even opening your door! Except for me, of course.
His explanation was obvious, and Aerene was oblivious.
She knew to judge him was unfair, so she relaxed and decided to take what he’d said as the truth. “Your business is your own, Onmund,” she said in a softer tone, and turned to sit in her usual spot by the little table in his room. In the seconds during which she’d turned away from him, it was clear Onmund was saddened by her indifference, though it didn’t show as they kept talking. She didn’t see how he felt, how he wanted her to have preferences of the company he kept, how he wanted her to feel anything but indifferent about it.
He sat down on the chair by his desk, and faced her, bearing a gentle smile.
She sat for an awkward moment before finally remembering what she’d came by for. She reached into her pocket and pulled the letter out. “Another letter from Vilkas?” Onmund teased. This caught Aerene by surprise, and she couldn’t hold back the lazy grin she smiled. “No,” she said, and sighed. “It’s… it is a letter from Jarl Balgruuf, of Whiterun,” she said, eyes skimming the letters on the parchment. Onmund straightened his back against the chair, upon hearing this. “Go on,” he said. “You did some work for him before, right?”
“Right,” Aerene responded, “when I first came to Skyrim. As thanks for his generosity, I promised to aid his court as needed, and… well, this letter is a summons to Whiterun. I am leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Alone?”
Divines, I hope not.
Aerene couldn’t bear to look at those eyes, trickling with doubt, any longer. She leaned forward, her head in her hands. You know Onmund. Tell him the truth, and it will set you free.
“What a question,” Aerene half-jested, and looked to him again. “Truthfully, I perish the thought of going on another journey without you. In the past, though, we shared the obligation of the Psijic visions and the Eye, and the Staff. But now, it is more personal, and I do not know how long I would be away. Which is why I have no right to ask you to come with me, to tear you away from your studies and residence here.”
“Don’t, then.”
When he said this, her lips parted in a silent gasp, and her eyes widened in surprise. Oh. That’s how it is, then?
“I… understand,” she said with a nod, heart stilled in shock, and began to get up. “No. You don’t have to ask, because I want to join you,” Onmund said, leaning in with heightened concern. Aerene’s eyes narrowed, and her fingers rested on her cheek and mouth, partially concealing her smile as she settled back down. “Truly?” she mumbled.
Onmund tore his gaze from hers, and shook his head while he thought, but not in response to her. “Yes, truly. Do you remember the night before we first left for Fellglow Keep?”
His words brought it all back. She recalled seeing the hurt expression he wore, after she’d gone in a panic and completely avoided asking him to go with her, even when he was the ideal choice. “Of course,” she responded, wondering where he was going. “What I said then, I didn’t mean for just the duration of the ordeal with the Staff and the Eye. I’ve been witness to atrocities I otherwise would never have encountered in the sheltered life of this College. But I couldn’t imagine staying here while you go out and see more of that world out there, while I’d sit and let time pass me by. I want to be at your side,” he spoke in utmost sincerity.
Aerene could hardly look at him she was so giddy with concealed excitement. “There is no place I’d rather be, Onmund. But… what of your other friends? Certainly, you’ll miss them.”
“Let’s hope I’ll have some good stories to tell them whenever we get back.” His mind is made up. And his intentions are aligned with my own.
These words echoed in her mind while they walked to the dining hall, and she’d forgotten all about silly Miri. She had what she’d wanted, what she’d dreamt of and hoped for as she wandered the lonely roads of Skyrim before coming to the College. She had Onmund.
-
“I swear, the Jarl better have a good reason for calling you away,” Brelyna said the next morning. Aerene had ventured over to her quarters, and just happened to pass J’zargo in the hall, where she bid him goodbye. “I’ll have no one but J’zargo to keep me entertained. Wish me luck,” Brelyna added, feigning a headache. Aerene rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, he’ll entertain you, indeed,” she teased. Brelyna laughed. “Will you write to me, if it so happens you’ll be gone long enough to send a letter?” she asked. “I could not imagine otherwise. I shall miss you, Brelyna, darling,” Aerene smiled. “I must get going,” Aerene said, and stood up from Brelyna’s bed. “Wait,” Brelyna said. “I have a gift for you.”
Intrigued, she watched Brelyna walk over to her desk, and pull something out of her drawer. When she opened her hand, there was a threaded bracelet with a little star carved of stone in the middle. “I got this from the Khajiit caravan who stopped into Winterhold a few days ago. I have a matching one,” she smiled, and pulled back the sleeve of her robe to reveal the matching bracelet on her wrist. It had a crescent moon. “Yours is the sun, and mine, the moon,” she explained, “though I’m still deciding if this crescent is a sliver of Masser or Secunda.” Aerene looked upon the jewelry with adoration, heart melting with warmth, and slipped her hand through the bracelet while Brelyna tightened it. “Thank you, Brel. It’s perfect,” she said, opening her arms to pull Brelyna into a hug.
She had already stopped by the College offices and gave notice of her departure. Tolfdir wasn’t happy to see her go, but informed her that her quarters would be retained, awaiting her return. Her last stop was at Onmund’s room, where she was secretly pleased to find no company leaving as she stopped in. His door was already open, and when she turned the corner, she was in quiet awe.
Aerene had never seen this armor on him, never seen him in anything other than his loose fitting mage robes or his sleeping clothes. She stared, looking over the armor. It was beautifully made; the base layer was black dyed leather, cross-stitched and tied from the collar down the torso. Over top were very thin plates that looked to be steel or iron; they were placed in a pattern over the chest and shoulders, no more than a few inches wide and by no means heavy. Some pieces were as dark as the leather, and others were a deep grey. Both varieties were decorated with Nordic style runes, the black plates bearing grey designs and the grey plates bearing black designs. It was very intricately made. On the upper arm, under the flexible leather and plating, there was a thin layer of chainmail, which transitioned into dark grey leather sleeves with black gauntlets. The chest piece was strapped together with buckled leather. At Onmund’s hips was a black cloth wrapped like a belt, and secured with an actual black leather belt, buckled just off center. The cloth hung down in front of one leg, and while it was a little hard to tell with Onmund moving about the room, she made out the College’s eye insignia. A central piece of mail hung below the cloth and stopped just short of his knees. His thighs were lined with tasses of the same arcane plating, and his greaves bore mail overtop black leather. Of course, his boots matched.
He wore it all quite well.
“I like your armor,” Aerene said plainly. Onmund paused from putting an apple in his bag, and faced Aerene with a smile. When he mentioned looking at armor while in Falkreath, I never realized he’d actually gotten some. If it was tailored to him as it, uh, looks to be, it must’ve been delivered by courier sometime recently.
“Thank you. I’m not used to it, even though I don’t think it’s possible to wear armor any lighter. Usually, I feel the flow of the College robes,” he gestured around his back, “so I suppose I feel, um, exposed?”
“Shall we tie a blanket over your shoulders?” Aerene asked, imagining a makeshift cape like how children wore. Onmund offered only a flat look in response. Aerene muffled a laugh to herself.
“If you are almost ready to depart, meet me by Birna’s in a half hour,” she said, but paused. “Unless… you have other loose ends to tie up?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.
Onmund’s reply was politely firm. “I don’t.”
-
Aerene said her goodbyes to Birna and was just finishing up River’s saddle preparations when Onmund walked over. He had his travel supplies ready, and the Staff of Magnus in a diagonal hold over his back. In the sleepy Winterhold morning, among gentle layers of fresh snow and under a clear blue sky, Aerene counted her lucky stars for having him as a friend. They strapped their belongings over the saddle; bedrolls, satchels, blankets, and all, they were ready. Once mounted, Aerene reached down and gave Onmund her arm to climb up behind her. For a peaceful journey to Whiterun, without haste or urgency, they set off.
Having left before the morning meal, they took breakfast on horseback a little over an hour into the journey. “I have something for you,” Onmund said out of the blue, and Aerene stiffened when he said that. She heard him moving stuff around in his pack, and felt the movement behind her, but she had no idea what to expect from him. He’d probably heard her belly grumbling up to this point. She turned her head to the side, curious. Then, his hand appeared from behind, and in it, on top of a little cloth, sat a sweetroll!
Aerene gasped at it, and smiled widely. “You, my friend, have just made my morning,” she said, and took the roll from his hand, thanking him before she began wolfing it down. “I shall find something of equal value to give to you, when I find something worthy of your tastes,” she promised after swallowing a mouthful. “No need,” Onmund replied. And while he insisted, she had a plan to find a nice gift for him in Whiterun.
They passed the Nightgate Inn a couple hours after leaving Winterhold, and followed the road west for some time. The farther away from Winterhold they got, the more the reality of the departure set in for Aerene. She knew she was capable of a great deal, as had been proven thus far. Still, if she were alone in this, she would have been afraid.
But for now, she wasn’t.
The snowy forests and hills of northern Skyrim gave way to the yellow, rolling plains of Whiterun Hold and the great city in the center, built wisely atop a rock formation that had strategic views of all surrounding land. Approaching from the eastern roads, Aerene and Onmund were just a half hour out from the stables, now. The air carried a light breeze, which Aerene didn’t mind; the scent of lavender and tundra cotton was pleasant, and the warm sun was welcoming. Still, though, she had her clean sash in a makeshift hood. Never know when a stray blast of wind might strike. Damn wind.
“Did I ever tell you about my cousin who lives in Whiterun?” Onmund asked.
“I do not believe so. You mentioned your family living in Shor’s Stone, if I recall correctly,” Aerene responded.
“They’re from here and there. Same as most Nords in Skyrim.”
“Do you ever wish to visit them, Onmund?”
From behind her on the saddle, he sighed.
“I think about it now and again. Having my family’s amulet brings me comfort. It’s easy to miss them after I’ve been away for some time, but their hatred of magic made life difficult, especially as I grew closer to an age of independence. I wasn’t ever allowed to talk about magic in front of my parents. Sometimes, my sister, Anneth, would ask about the roles of the Divines, which obviously entail the domain of magic. I would tell her about what I read, and at first, it was alright. On one occasion, my father overheard us playing outside, after I’d told Anneth about Kynareth and her allegiance to animals. We were playing, and father heard Anneth say she wanted to learn magic to talk to animals like people talk to each other. Father came over, shouting about the stupidity of such an idea. Then he turned on me, and ripped the book out of my hands, tore the pages out and threw them in the mud. Then told me to pick them up, and put them in the fire, or he would do it, and burn my other books, too.”
Aerene stared ahead in dismay. The image of what Onmund described put an ache in her chest and a lump in her throat. Any more would’ve brought tears to her eyes. She did not have the words to describe her sympathy. “A young, brilliant mind should never be shunned for curiosity or wonder,” she said, burying the shakiness of her voice. “No, but father believed that at fifteen I should’ve known better,” Onmund responded. He was only a boy. If his father knew what Onmund had achieved since then, he’d be proud. But after treating his own son in such a way, it’s no wonder Onmund doesn’t wish to go back. “No matter what your family thinks of magic, Onmund, I do hope you are proud of yourself. What you have learned. You wield the Staff of Magnus, for Shor’s sake! Any who know the pleasure of your company should consider themselves lucky.” Like me. And I am proud of you, too.
“Maybe one day, they’ll see it as you do. Anneth took up fishing after that. Our conversations about magic were few, after that day.”
-
Later on, River was stabled and Aerene and Onmund passed through the city gates. Like a caress of sunlight, the warm breeze welcomed them upon the main path. Aerene took in the familiar sights once again. There was Warmaiden’s, where Adrianne was hammering away at her smithy; she saw Aerene, and waved, which Aerene happily returned. Across the path on the corner was the Drunken Huntsman. Further up the road, past some residences, was the market area and the inn they planned to stay at for the night. At the Bannered mare, Hulda was still the barkeeper; it was busy inside, even in the middle of the day, with Mikael the smarmy bard playing on the lute. As Aerene and Onmund walked past, he first smiled, but it fell when he recognized her.
As it happened, there was a single room with two beds available, and it was upstairs. It even had an interior balcony with a dining table, above the ground floor. “I hope we’ll be able to sleep, with that music down below,” Onmund griped, tossing his knapsack onto his designated bed. Aerene sat her belongings down, too. “I do not think the music will be a problem,” she said, recalling the face Mikael had made that night, months ago. Let him try something like that again, and we shall make music from the breaking of his bones!
Once they left most of their belongings at the inn, the two set out for Dragonsreach to seek an audience with Jarl Balgruuf. The path to the Keep looked much the same, even with the tall, dead Gildergreen at the center of the plaza. “This poor tree,” Onmund commented as they walked by. “I’ve never seen it bear blossoms or fruit,” he said. “Neither have I,” Aerene replied. They began walking up the stairways to the city’s Cloud District, where one could see all Whiterun had to offer. Aerene cast a glance toward Jorrvaskr, and wondered if she really could hear the clanging of swords in the training yard, or if the waterfalls spilling from the walls up to Dragonsreach were playing tricks on her.
As she was in better shape than when she departed Whiterun, her legs no longer burned when they reached the top of all those steps. She’d never tire of the gorgeous view from here, one that looked over all the streets of the city below. “I always wondered what it looked like from up here,” Onmund said, scanning over the far horizons.
“Lady Aerene?”
The voice from behind them got Aerene’s attention, and she turned to find a familiar person. “Tomeraas? Is that you?” she faced the young guard, dressed in Whiterun’s yellow cuirass, with a shield bearing the painted horse emblem. “It is, Lady Aerene. Welcome back to Whiterun, milady.”
“It is a pleasure, Tomeraas. Though, I do recall, the last we spoke, were you not on patrol among the farms outside the city?”
“Aye, that I was. I’ve since been promoted, and earned back my spot here at Dragonsreach.”
“It is where you belong, Tomeraas,” Aerene congratulated him. “Thank you, Lady Aerene,” Tomeraas said. Aerene realized she only knew his notable voice, and hadn’t seen him without the helmet. His thick accent was one she’d not forget. He had large, leather brown eyes and tufts of blonde hair peeking out from beneath his open-faced helmet. His cheeks were red with youth, and his expression straight. He glanced around, seeing if there was anyone else in earshot. He eyed Onmund with a suspicious expression, unsure what to make of him. Aerene caught onto this, and wanted to make it known that Onmund was to be trusted. “This is Onmund. He goes where I go,” she said. Tomeraas hesitated, but then offered his hand and they shook. He then leaned in. “I take it you’re here because you received the Jarl’s letter? I heard from his Housecarl about it,” he hinted. Lydia.
“Indeed, I received it yesterday.”
“Good. The Jarl wasn’t expecting you until the morrow or the next, and is busy with appointments for the day. I was instructed to request you seek an audience with him mid morning after that of your arrival. Return tomorrow, Lady Aerene, and Dragonsreach shall welcome you.” So, the people of Whiterun believed I would keep my word. Looks like they were right.
The sight of a passing guard patrolling the grounds of the Keep put Tomeraas back on alert, and he straightened his back and returned to his formal stance. “Thank you, Tomeraas. Until the morrow,” Aerene said, and dipped her head in thanks before she and Onmund were headed back down the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairway, Aerene cast a glance toward Jorrvaskr. There will not come a time when I feel completely ready to visit Jorrvaskr, without this nervous feeling. I owe it to myself to settle this, and until I do, I will not be able to look over it without my heart skipping a beat. This must be cured, and it must be now.
“Do you feel ready to return to the Companions?” Onmund asked from her side, seeing the way she kept glancing over there as they spoke about their next move. “I miss them. And moping about will not help that. I will go now, or never.”
“I was planning to seek out my cousin, but if you wish for me to join you-“
“It’s alright.”
“Okay, I understand. I want you to meet her, if I can find her. I’ll see you later, then,” Onmund said, and left to pay heed to his own matters. Aerene liked the thought of meeting someone in his family. Seeing him here in Whiterun was strange and fun, similar to the feeling of Vilkas and Farkas appearing at the College. Not the usual setting, but not unwelcome, either. As she watched Onmund walk through the main plaza by the Gildergreen, and disappear out of view behind the residences, she wondered about her own family. Do I walk among my kin, and not know it?
The subject occupied her thoughts as she passed Heimskr, priest of Talos, who still stood in the plaza at the statue’s base, shouting to the heavens and passersby. Just like before. Aerene forgot all about the issue of her own ancestors when she stepped up to Jorrvaskr, and through the doors into the home of the family she’d found in Skyrim.
And as she passed through the doors, a sense of relief washed over her to find that she didn’t combust the minute she walked in. Tilma was closest by, sweeping the entryway. “Aerene, dear? It’s good to see you!” the woman greeted, and pulled Aerene into a hug. “My, you look lovely! There is a glow about you,” Tilma complimented. “Ever the sweet one, Tilma,” Aerene replied. “Would you like some tea? I just made some for Guinevere. Have you met her yet?” Aerene looked to the right of the upper deck they stood on, to find a blonde Nord woman sitting at a small round table. She was just setting down a mug of juniper tea. I’d know that scent anywhere. “Guinevere, have you… no, Aerene left before you joined us here,” Tilma spoke, and ushered Aerene over. Guinevere was a hearty, muscled woman, her blonde hair falling just past her shoulders, loose with a few braids. She wore light fur armor, and had a thick northerner accent as she stood to greet Aerene. “Hello, it’s good to meet you, milady. I am Guinevere. I’ve heard much about your time with the warriors of Jorrvaskr. Though, the way Vilkas described you doesn’t do you justice,” she quipped. So, Vilkas has spoken of me in my absence? Aerene took the woman’s hand, and they exchanged a firm shake. “All the more reason to make an appearance in the flesh,” Aerene jested in reply. I do wonder just what he said about me…
“Vilkas knows squat about women, or how to do them justice,” it was Aela who chimed in, when she appeared at the top of the stairs leading up from the basement, and walked over to the group of women. Aerene knew Aela could’ve heard her from the bottom floor, even at the opposite end of the long hallway in the living quarters.
“Aela, sister, how have you been?” Aerene greeted her, pulling the woman in for a hug. A scan over her features indicated Aela was in a better state than when Aerene had departed, shortly after the deaths of Skjor and Kodlak. Aela still wore stripes of warpaint across her face, and had those ever-piercing eyes, but looked and sounded happier. “Busy. Guinevere is excellent with the bow, unlike some of the other whelps who’ve joined lately. Aerene noticed the bow and quiver of arrows strapped over Guin’s back. “You are an archer? Jorrvaskr always needed more of those,” Aerene smiled. “Aye, I am. I’m inclined to believe there’s no better teacher than Aela across the whole of Skyrim,” Guin said. “Would you like to join us for tea, dear? Juniper. Guin’s favorite, I can hardly keep enough stocked!” Tilma said kindly. Aerene was about to speak, but Aela threw her arm over her shoulders and spoke on her behalf. “Aerene’s got some business to take care of, in the training yard,” she said to Tilma, whose expression shifted into a sly, knowing smile. “That’s right, she does. There will be time for tea later,” Tilma assured. Aerene wore a calm expression, though inside, she was anything but. So, he is in the training yard. My hearing wasn’t playing tricks on me, after all.
“You have my word, Tilma. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Guinevere. Let us reconvene later,” Aerene said, before meeting Aela where she stood across the room. The two shield-sisters stood, face to face just by the doors leading out to the back of Jorrvaskr. “I’m glad to see you back, sister. Farkas told me about what happened at the Tomb of Ysgramor. That explained why Vilkas was such a mess when they got back. But, I must say… you look… happy. I hope your visit here doesn’t ruin that,” Aela said. Is she worried for me? Aela hasn’t gone soft now, has she?
“I thought the same of you, Aela. My thoughts have been with you,” Aerene said. Aela looked past Aerene, and to the table where Guinevere and Tilma were sitting in quiet conversation. “If the gods have a sense of humor, their timing is impeccable. Four whelps have shown up asking to join our ranks since… since the deaths of Kodlak and Skjor. Showing them the ropes has, well. It’s taken my time, and my thoughts. Better than sulking.”
“Your spirit is resilient, Aela,” Aerene replied with sincerity. “It’s our Nord blood,” Aela actually smiled, and nudged Aerene’s shoulder. “Alright, enough stalling, sister. And please, ensure you don’t make prey of our shield-brother,” she added, and gave Aerene an affirming pat on the back before she left to join Guinevere and Tilma.
Aerene stood at the door, staring at the faded blue paint, as though some mystic answers or guidance would be revealed if she watched long enough. Before she could begin counting the decorative squares etched over the wooden panels, she sucked in a breath of anticipation. I am capable. I can do this.
And if I cannot, I shall find Onmund first and we’ll make a run for Winterhold. Nevermind the summons of the Jarl!
She grabbed onto the handle of the door, and opened it to reveal the training yard. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight reflected into Jorrvaskr’s training area, but her recognition of its inhabitants was instant. There Vilkas and Farkas were, in the middle of a spar. Farkas was wielding a steel greatsword, and swung it down against Vilkas’ shield. Aerene noticed a couple other Companions, who must’ve been the newer whelps Aela mentioned, sitting at a table in the shade of the verandah. She looked back to the twins, who were still going at it; sounds of the spar rung through the air.
Aerene stepped quietly along the flagstones, and caught the eye of Farkas. He saw her silent approach behind Vilkas, and while the corner of his mouth curved in a smirk, Vilkas had no clue Aerene was approaching from behind. Finally, I can catch him by surprise. It was never possible before, especially when it felt like they could hear my thoughts. Much less taste the scent of my heart!
The further Aerene got, stepping in a silent sway, Vilkas remained just as clueless, as Farkas kept his attention. They wore their usual armor; Farkas’ huge muscles were flexing as he defended from Vilkas’ attacks every which way, his dark brown hair partially tucked behind an ear. Even without the blood of the wolf, his expression remained stern, those stormy irises of silver focused as they were surrounded by his signature black warpaint. Vilkas, oh, the sight of him suddenly boiled her blood. Images of memory from that day at the Tomb seethed through Aerene like a vile essence. She recalled first realizing when he’d lost the way of himself, when the beast within him claimed his body as its own. She remembered the ferocity and absence of humanity in his eyes as he held her throat in his clenched fist. She remembered the snow falling in delicate flakes over his black hair outside the Tomb, after they’d been given back the gift of their human nature, purified from Hircine’s hold.
And she remembered, as she finally got within reach of him and threw her hands against his back in a violent shove, how he couldn’t bear to look at her and face what he’d done.
Vilkas spat a curse as he stumbled forward, Farkas’ laughter sounding as he stepped out of the way. Vilkas jerked to face the intruder with a scowl, that softened immediately upon meeting the eyes of Aerene. Seeing the way her own presence caught the proud man with his guard low sent pulses of satisfaction through her heart and mind. But she wanted more than that. Vilkas said her name, and lowered his sword and shield, but she wasn’t through with him, yet. Aerene’s nose scrunched and her brows furrowed as she lunged forward again. Instinctively, Vilkas threw his shield up in defense, but she had experience in swiping things in short moments. She wrestled the shield from his grip and tossed it aside, then gave a light kick to his wrist that bore his sword. He grunted in surprise, but she knew she hadn’t hurt him. That wasn’t the plan. Her aim was to send a message. So when his sword clattered across the flagstones, she quickly got to his sword first, and stepped on it with her right foot. Vilkas had just bent to pick it up, but stood with his hands on his hips upon seeing her defensive stance. She stood across from him with the sun at her back, watching. When he’d had enough of this staring contest, he sighed and bent to pick up the sword. She scooted it away with her foot, and he looked up at her in annoyance.
“Can you face me now, Vilkas?”
A challenge, not a question. Words spoken before her jaw clenched tightly.
He looked away with a defeated sigh, and an expression asking if this was really happening. Aerene picked up his sword, and handed it to him. He was catching on to what she wanted. She unsheathed her sword, and quickly raised it, ready to begin.
Farkas mumbled something about not getting involved, as he found a spot against the wall of the training yard and leaned back to watch. Aerene gave Vilkas a moment to ready himself, but thought even that was too generous. She looked him up and down, squinting her eyes in a challenge when she looked to his. His jaw tightened, and his fingers tightened around his blade. She struck in silence and swung her blade down toward him. Just like they’d done dozens of times, during that month she spent training every day with the Companions, his steel met her iron in the middle. This time was different; she no longer caught swirls or glints of yellow in his eyes. He was completely human, now, without advantages of a split soul. His only option was to defend from her attacks, and they were coming quickly. The two were facing each other, Aerene pushing her blade down against Vilkas’ as he kept it from sliding further along the edge of his own sword. The look she shot him in that moment was of pure vitriol, and the twitch in his eyebrow spoke volumes of his internal conflict. She retracted her stance and twisted into a rapid turn around to the right, raising her blade in the air and bringing it down against his in a diagonal strike that shot a ringing sensation through her wrist, and the cry of metal clanging through the yard. This step was the first of many in this dance, and it was a demonstration of Aerene’s dedication to the craft. It was a presentation of her unrelenting nature, but also a showing of Vilkas’ talent in close-quarters combat.
The sliding of steel against iron cried with each hit of their swords against one another. Each of her offensive attacks was met with one of his defensive holds. They’d both begun to sweat, the warm sunshine cast over them drawing their energies with each hit. It was when Vilkas went a step further and thrust his shoulder against Aerene, causing her to stumble back, that she was truly called into the spar. She began to strike more rapidly after she regained her footing, hardly giving him enough time to stop and recover from each of her near-hits before she was swinging at him again. She could tell he was getting tired, though, as his footwork was getting sloppy. Farkas’ remark of, ‘She’s wearin’ ya down, brother!’ was fuel to her fire. Her absolution here, now, was that Vilkas would know the effects of the hurt he caused her, the rage that had been sitting within. It was what kept her awake many nights, either in ruminating memory or in inescapable nightmares that she’d gasp out of in a cold sweat.
It was the final thrust of her left leg against his torso, sending him flat on his bottom, that marked this spar at its end. Her standing over him, with his hands planted behind him to hold himself up, sword out of reach, lungs out of breath, that satisfied her rage. She had the tip of her sword aimed at his throat, held up by one shaky hand as she herself panted. She glared at him, but the longer she looked, the more she remembered from his letter of apology and the times they shared together.
A chill made its way up her spine, as though the hands of a ghost graced over the back of her neck, when she remembered how he showed at her door in Falkreath the night Valdr died. How she’d held his face in her hand down his quarters, when he’d taken vengeance in solitude against the Silver Hand and had been inflicted with silver poisoning. This… is enough. Vilkas has not changed, and such is why I will always hold him in my heart.
Her expression softened, and she sheathed her sword. She offered her hand to her shield-brother, and he watched her for a moment, but took it. She pulled him up to stand, and into a hug. “Aerene, I’m so sorry,” he said. She shut her eyes in the embrace, and leaned her head into his shoulder. Gods, he still smells of the forest. I’d forgotten that, in my anger. “I forgive you, Vilkas,” she whispered.
“I should never have left, never should’ve forced Farkas to follow,” he said. Aerene pulled back, and looked to Farkas as he approached. “Someone has to keep you in check,” she told Vilkas, as she threw her arms open to embrace Farkas. She knew her and Vilkas would have the chance to speak privately later. Farkas pulled her in for one his bear hugs, and only let go when she squeaked about needing air. “Hmph. I think Aela does enough of that,” Farkas said about keeping each other in check, wrapping an arm around Aerene. “We missed you, ‘Rene. Was gettin’ tired of Vilkas’ sulking about,” he teased. Aerene laughed at this, and raised her arm to rest over Vilkas’ back. The three of them made their way to the seating area, beneath the verandah, and settled around a table with a generous helping each of some reliable, refreshing ale. They chatted for some time, about what had been going on at Jorrvaskr and the College. Aerene adored the brothers’ reactions to what she had to say, even with Farkas’ frequent interruptions to make sense of different parts in the narrative.
“Where is your wizard friend, anyway?” Farkas asked, setting down his mug of ale after taking a long drink.
“Onmund said he has a cousin in the city, and he went to find her,” Aerene responded. Vilkas leaned in. “Do you need beds during your stay in Whiterun?” he asked. Aerene found his concern rather sweet. Vilkas has always been considerate.
“We paid for a room down at the Mare,” she said, sipping from her goblet. “A room?” Farkas asked with a brow up, glancing to Vilkas in a very obvious way. It took Aerene an embarrassingly long moment to catch onto his meaning. “With two beds, you oaf,” she retorted, drawing a low chuckle from Vilkas.
A short while later, Aerene looked around to find that in the late afternoon, the other Companions had wandered from the training yard; remaining were herself and her favorite pair of brothers. “You must know what I’ve been curious about since our last contact,” she said. Farkas and Vilkas exchanged a glance, which Aerene noticed but couldn’t decipher. “Come on, Vilkas. She deserves to know,” Farkas said. Vilkas nodded in agreement. He was in thought for a moment, before he spoke. “Judging by your choice of approach earlier, you can guess what kind of… limitations we face,” he said. Not having supernatural hearing, sight, smell, or taste? Or in other words, what the rest of us live with on a daily basis?
“But with the purity,” Vilkas continued, “we can live knowing that should the next battle be the last, Sovngarde, and not Hircine’s Hunting Ground, awaits.”
They can finally live in peace. Just as they deserve.
Aerene raised her goblet in a toast. “Hearing this warms my heart. To Sovngarde,” she declared. The three shield siblings clanked drinks in a toast to the realm that would keep them eternally, when their time in this one would come to an end.
-
When Guinevere stepped out from the doors of Jorrvaskr a little while later, she had Aerene’s attention. “Aerene, milady, there are two visitors asking about you inside.”
Aerene couldn’t help her growing smile as she wasted no time getting up from her seat to follow Guin inside. It was a strange, but welcome sight, to see Onmund standing across the floor of Jorrvaskr, with…
“Lydia?!”
She grinned, confused, as she met the two across the room. Onmund’s brow shifted when he heard Aerene say that name. “You know Lydia?” he questioned, folding his arms. Aerene looked to Lydia, who wore a mischievous expression. “Indeed. We went on a job for Balgruuf a while back. Lydia is your cousin?” Aerene asked in disbelief. Onmund scoffed. “Mhmm,” he said. They each turned to Lydia with narrowed eyes. “You could’ve told me you and Aerene know each other,” Onmund groaned. Aerene glanced to him a moment, lost in the haze of a split second - she liked hearing him speak her name, just as it was, not shortened or twinged, just Aerene. She realized her daydreaming and stood up straight.
Lydia’s cheeks were pink when she smiled between them. “What, Onmund, I recall you liking surprises,” she said. Onmund’s mouth flattened into an unimpressed line. “If you remember that birthday supper, then you’d know I dislike surprises,” he stated.
“Ah, yes, I guess I’d hate them too, if my father told me I was getting a rabbit, only to find out he meant a rabbit in my stew.”
“Please, don’t remind me.”
“Lydia,” Aerene got the Housecarl’s attention. “I have mentioned Onmund by name in my letters and you let that go without telling me you share family?!”
“You and Lydia exchange letters?!”
“Oh, yes. Don’t worry, though. Aerene only has good things to say about you, like how you’re a talented mage, how you’re concerned for the wellbeing of our ancestral tombs, how when you smile you-“
“I think he gets the point, Lydia,” Aerene shot the woman a warning glare.
Lydia saw and brought her hand in a fist to muffle a cough as she cleared her throat. “Right,” she mumbled. From behind them, Tilma spoke up, having just made it up to the top floor from downstairs. “My, my, what have we here?” she greeted. “Onmund, m’ boy, look how tall and handsome you’ve gotten! And that hair, just like your mother’s,” Tilma said, smiling as she reached up and flattened a few strands of his dark hair. Aerene bit the inside of her lip to keep from giggling like a child at the sight, where Onmund’s cheeks reddened and he had a bashful expression as auntie Tilma looked after him. “Aerene, dearie, you know Onmund? My smartest nephew,” she said, looking over his armor. “Aside from this belt he buckled wrong, of course,” she added, her hands picking at one of his chest straps; Onmund looked as red as the apples in a bowl on a nearby table. He was definitely avoiding Aerene’s gaze, and Aerene lapped up every second of the cute moment. “Yes, Tilma. Onmund has had my back during some… interesting events since I joined the College of Winterhold,” Aerene replied. “I’m so glad you got up to where you wanted to be,” Tilma said, squeezing her nephew’s hand with a heartfelt smile. “As am I, aunt Tilma,” Onmund responded. Tilma gasped. “And what is this scar here?!” she questioned, pinching at Onmund’s bottom lip. Onmund shooed her hand away, and turned it back on Aerene. “She’s dangerous company,” he faux complained. “Aerene? Please. She’s sweet as honey,” Tilma disregarded his comment. “Until we enter a dwarven ruin. Or a Falmer hideout, or a worn down fort,” he said, when Tilma waved her hands in response, dismissing his words. “I don’t even want to think of any of that! It’ll do me in!”
Aerene caught Lydia’s eye, and that little smirk she had on her lips when she averted her gaze as soon as she saw Aerene watching her.
Lydia mentioned needing to get back to Ysolda, who wasn’t feeling very well and was resting at home. Lydia had been in the market buying ingredients to make Ysolda supper when Onmund spotted her. While Tilma adored Onmund, Aerene pulled Lydia aside to ask about the appointment with Balgruuf.
“I wish I knew. Dragonsreach has had a strange air recently. Jarl Balgruuf’s meetings have mostly been behind closed doors, with only Irileth posted outside. There’s been a visitor, but she wears a hood and I haven’t seen her face. She hides it on purpose. Doesn’t want to be seen. Whatever the Jarl needs you for, he’s kept it between himself, Farengar, and the woman. If all goes as planned, I’m supposed to be in attendance during the audience tomorrow. We’ll have a chance to talk more afterward. Just… keep your guard up, alright? Both of you.”
As they neared the door, Aerene walking Lydia over to depart, she asked, “Lydia, why didn’t you tell me you and Onmund are family?”
Lydia faced Aerene for a moment, and let the knowing smile on her face do all the work. There was a glimmer in her green eyes, as she said nothing more and left Jorrvaskr.
Aerene watched, knowing that while not today, she’d have the chance to ask Lydia all about what she, and Ysolda, and been up to that wasn’t discussed in the letters.
She and Onmund were making plans for the remainder of the day, that was, what they could fit in before returning to Jorrvaskr for supper, a ‘special feast,’ as Tilma had insisted, when Vilkas and Farkas came indoors from the training yard. Aerene noticed the way Vilkas stared like a ghost at her companion, as they walked over to say hello. Onmund’s voice lowered as he finished his sentence to Aerene, and he seemed to stiffen with tension. She didn’t see him get like that often, and seeing him react to mostly Vilkas in that way was certainly something she’d be thinking over later. That is, if Jorrvaskr is comfortable enough to sit in, depending on how this conversation goes.
Aerene also hadn’t the chance to tell Onmund she was all right with Vilkas again, as much as she wished for a private conversation with him later. They had lots of catching up to do; every now and again, she missed the conversation they’d have after training, or after the evening meal.
“Onmund,” Vilkas nodded his head in greeting. Onmund still had his arms folded, closed off, as he said, “Vilkas, Farkas,” returning the acknowledgment. “You’re not wearin’ those wizard robes anymore,” Farkas observed. “Is that spell knight armor?” Vilkas inquired, eyeing the details of Onmund’s armor set. “It is, yes,” Onmund said, easing more into the conversation. “Better than what you had before. Now, you’re body’s protected from the stab of a bandit’s sword,” Farkas stated. “Or the bite of a wolf,” Onmund added. Aerene met Vilkas’ eyes, hearing the cleverness of Onmund’s words. What he said told her just where he stood in his view of the two brothers, but he was looking at Vilkas when he said it. She wasn’t used to remarks like that from her friend, but she had to wonder, wouldn’t she feel the same if she were in his position? Most definitely.
“There are few of those around these parts, nowadays,” Vilkas responded.
“Nuh uh. I’m always runnin’ into ‘em when I go out for a job,” Farkas argued.
Aerene interrupted. “Tilma has invited us back for supper, so be assured, you shall have plenty of time for chats about wolf hunting later,” she insisted.
The first moments of her and Onmund’s departure from Jorrvaskr soon after that conversation were quiet.
“I did not have the chance to tell you about Vilkas’ apology to me,” she mentioned, and Onmund stopped walking, turning to face her. They had just passed the Gildergreen and now stood at the top of the stairway leading down into the market, bustling with townspeople. Aerene studied his expression, which seemed neutral. “Was it to your satisfaction?” he asked. He means to ask if things are well between Vilkas and I. That would explain his standoffish behavior a few minutes ago. I want my favorite people to get along, but it cannot be forced.
“It was,” she said, finally smiling at the thought of her shield-brothers and the good spar they’d had in the training yard. “It felt like old times,” she added. Onmund’s tense stance eased, and he relaxed a bit. “If you’re content with where you stand, as am I.” Not sure I believe that, but I shall take what I can get.
She didn’t push the matter. “I have some things to take care of before the audience with Jarl Balgruuf tomorrow,” she said, as they began walking down the stairs. Like finding you a gift. I must.
“I think I’ll return to the Bannered Mare and do some reading,” Onmund decided. She was alright with this, since it gave her time to take care of errands and try to find something to thank him with. So they parted ways, and while she was doubtful of his words about being satisfied with Vilkas, she knew he had no quarrel with her. It would serve me well to keep it that way.
The red-haired woman wandered down Whiterun’s main road, first to Warmaiden’s. Adrianne was still outside, dipping a bar of red hot steel into the nearby water trough. The steaming sizzle of the water sounded, before she began hammering away at the metal. Aerene approached just then, and the blacksmith paused her work. “Good to see you, Aerene,” she greeted, wiping the sweat from her soot-strained brow. “And you, Adrianne. How is business?”
Adrianne huffed. “Busy. You can’t quite see it yet,” she said, gesturing around them with the hammer, “but the war is still going. And with all of the orders I’m gettin’ because of it, the work is never-ending,” she explained. Aerene processed what this meant. She and Onmund had seen the Imperial camp hidden in the hills near Windhelm a couple weeks prior. “Some have said Skyrim was deep in the throes of a civil war before Ulfric Stormcloak was captured by the Imperials,” Aerene said. Adrianne sighed. “And now he’s back on the throne in Windhelm, and things’ll only get worse from here ’til he’s either slain or crowned High King. But, that’s not our problem now. Your armor looks in tact. A little worn in, I can see,” she said.
Aerene studied her armor, seeing the little scratches and scuffs, and the cut leather of her gauntlets, from the bandit encounter back at Knifepoint Ridge. I always said I’d repair it myself, and never did.
“I’d like to pay to have my sword and dagger sharpened, and my gauntlets repaired,” she said to Adrianne, pointing out the gaps in the leather of her gauntlets, right across her palms. “Not the first time I’ve seen damage like that,” Adrianne remarked, amused, “but it never fails to surprise me.”
“I’ll meet you inside to discuss the details of the contract. We have some new wares, if you’d like to take a look.”
Aerene soon walked into Warmaiden’s to make the payment to Adrianne’s husband, Ulfberth, who ran the store inside. “Welcome back,” Ulfberth said. “Your armor still holding up well?”
“For the most part, yes. Adrianne’s talents are needed for some repairs,” Aerene explained, digging into her knapsack for her coin purse while Ulfberth filled in the business ledger. She was closing her satchel back up when she noticed a garment hanging over a mannequin. It was a dark grey cloak, so deep in color it was almost the hue of charcoal. She walked away from the counter and over to it, gently reaching out to feel the material. It was soft to the touch but sturdy, durable without feeling heavy. It had a hood as well. She stepped back to eye it from top to bottom, seeing its substantial length, and noticed how it fastened with two decorative brooches, silver and circular, carved with a Nordic rune design. When she’d been here months previous, her armor had been on display over this mannequin. And now, it was something else that caught her eye just the same. There is no better find than this. “Ulfberth,” she said, “I shall purchase this, too.”
-
“This is… it’s lovely,” Onmund said, standing up from his bed to hold the cloak out, letting it hang loosely. Aerene watched, sitting on her bed with a smug smile. “Aerene, you didn’t have to get me this,” he said, gaze softening as though he felt guilty for accepting. “When you said you’d get me a gift, I didn’t think it’d be something so… thoughtful,” he said, even as he outstretched his arms and pulled the cloak over his shoulders, struggling to see where to line the clasps up. She stood up and approached, taking the little pieces from his hands to do it herself. As she worked, also confused about how the pieces attached to the armor, she made a confession. “Is it not just about the sweet roll, Onmund,” she began. Her eyes focused, but she gently tugged at him for move toward the window of their room, where the light was better. The sun had sunken into the horizon, save for its last light pushing through the opaque glass. It provided excellent light for Aerene to finally attach one of the brooches to a pauldron.
It was dangerous light, too, as she glanced up from the second brooch to see him already looking at her. She kept talking, to stop herself from staring. “It’s my way of thanking you for joining me,” she said, fastening the piece to his other pauldron. If I stare into him for too long, I’ll lose myself.
She instead stood back, and grinned at the sight. Now, this looked like Onmund. “Oh, we cannot forget the best part,” she added, and reached both arms to pull the hood up over his head. “For you, who likes to hide from the sun,” she jested, drawing low chuckling from him as he pushed the hood back down. She was pleased, as she saw him move about the room, stepping here and there, swaying in a way that animated the cloak with movement. He stopped, and turned to look down at her when she sat, his arms hanging at his sides. One of his hands was holding onto the dark fabric of the cloak, truly feeling it. “Thank you,” he said with sincerity. The tone of his voice, and his concise words, fed warmth to her happy heart. It was then, when she nodded in response and watched him take the gift in, that a new thought crept along her spine and eased through her. She cared for him, very much; the severity did not match the way she felt about her friends like Brelyna or Farkas. It was deeper.
The time between the gift and supper was spent in their shared room of the inn, the quietest part of the merry spot, where patrons were gathering below, getting rowdy with music, dance, and drink. It was hard to concentrate, with this noise, so Aerene asked Onmund if he’d like to take the long way around to Jorrvaskr. He accepted, and they spent the first part of the evening on a peaceful promenade through the city’s residential district, past the Temple of Kynareth and the Gildergreen park. Aerene appreciated being able to spend time together in comfortable silence, without necessity for talking; just the presence of one another was fulfilling.
They were welcomed into Jorrvaskr with immediate handing of drinks, courtesy of Farkas. “Farkas, you remembered my favorite mead!” Aerene exclaimed after sipping from a tankard filled with that delicious Black-Briar Reserve. “Course. Got the fancy stuff just for you,” he said with a big grin, one that she returned with thanks. “And for the wizard,” Farkas said, offering Onmund a mug, too. Onmund had a skeptical look, but when he sipped the liquid, his eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Spiced wine… I love spiced wine! It’s expensive to keep around on a student’s earnings, so this is quite the treat. Thank you, Farkas,” Onmund said. “Don’t thank me. ‘Rene told us earlier it’s what you like,” Farkas revealed. Aerene couldn’t hide her smile when Onmund looked to her upon hearing this. Farkas left them, saying something abut helping Tilma haul the food up to this floor from the downstairs kitchen. Aerene and Onmund stood off to the side of the grand hall, taking it all in.
The central hearth was alight and warm, bright flames reaching upward and falling in a rhythmic dance. Light of the fire illuminated the whole room, a gentle orange glow cascading across the faces of Jorrvaskr’s warriors. Half the seats of the long dining table were occupied; Aerene noticed Torvar, Athis, Njada, and Ria all sitting, talking amongst themselves with drinks in hand. Torvar waved when he noticed Aerene, and she returned it. His movement caught Ria’s attention, and she turned to look in Aerene’s direction. Aerene wondered if she was imagining it, or if the woman’s expression really did sour just a bit, before Ria leaned in to whisper into Njada’s ear. I certainly don’t miss that. “Competition?” Onmund asked from Aerene’s side, ever the observant one. She huffed. “Not even remotely,” she stated, catching the smirk hidden behind the rim of Onmund’s mug as he sipped. She thanked the Divines that her rumination about a pairing between Vilkas and Ria in her absence were known to her, and only her.
Brill and Tilma walked through, setting plates full of freshly cooked food all along the table. Wax-dripping candles were stationed around the table, lighting up the various bottles of mead, ale, and wine, and giving a delicious glow to the feast. Aerene’s mouth watered as she inhaled the fragrance of baked bread, roasted vegetables, and specially seasoned meats. “Did you eat like this every night?” Onmund asked, eyeing the platter of venison steaks Tilma carried past them. Aerene shook her head. “Not quite, but there was always food prepared for breakfast and supper,” she said. “Welcome back, both of you,” Aela greeted upon approach. “Tilma and Brill have prepared a hearty meal for the lot of us,” Aela said, as the two followed her down to the table with drinks in hand. Aerene picked the end opposite of where Ria and them were sitting, and Onmund took the seat at her right side. Farkas sat to her left, and on his left, was Guinevere, who greeted Aerene as she took her seat. Guin’s seat was at the end of the table’s longest portion, and she faced, perpendicularly, the smaller stretch of table where Vilkas and Aela were. On the other side of Onmund were the rest of Jorrvaskr, and the new bloods Aerene had heard about earlier.
Once all were seated, and were nearly drooling in the face of all the food, Vilkas called out a toast. “To the Companions! To Jorrvaskr!” he shouted. In return, the group reveled:
“TO JORRVASKR!”
With the delicious spread prepared by Whiterun’s finest, none could go hungry tonight. There were loaves of braided and potato bread, snowberry and jazbay grape jams, small pots of honey, plates of butter, platters of grilled chicken breast, slabs of juicy venison steak, grilled leeks, roasted potatoes, bowls of hot apple cabbage stew, servings of honey nut treats, apple dumplings, and loads of cheese. Aerene noticed one dessert missing, but was happy nonetheless.
The meal began with a few songs presented by the bard of the evening, a Redguard woman named Isardyya. Her voice was smooth as velvet, pairing in perfect synchronicity with her lute’s music. While she hovered about the room, she swayed in a gentle dance, as though she’d lived a thousand lives and perfected her talent in every single one. She wore a deep purple dress, that hung loosely and followed her movements; only the craftspeople of Hammerfell were known to create such beautiful garments. Aerene watched in awe, catching Isardyya’s deep green gaze often. Isardyya stopped right in front of Aerene and Onmund as she introduced the next song. “Written by those in far distant lands, with a love for adventure and the comfort of another in the firelight,” she said, and began plucking magical notes on her lute to begin the performance.
“Lace your heart with mine,
Let your sleeping soul take flight,
Take me through the night,
Down, down, down, by the river…
Down, down, down, by the river…”
Aerene had never heard this piece before, and was absolutely entranced. At a later part of the song, Isardyya, barefoot as she sang and danced, sung, “Just leap the flames and take a chance, to be with me tonight,” and much to the panic of some of the audience, leapt gracefully across the hearth, and landed with security on the other side. As the Companions roared and cheered in excitement, she continued her song with ease.
Later on, after Isardyya settled into playing instrumental music for the evening, Torvar called for an exchange of tales. Aerene considered stepping out into the cold, quiet night outside, anything not to speak to a group eagerly listening and comparing quests. At some point in the storytelling, her leg had begun bouncing nervously, even when she was merely listening. Onmund noticed this, as her leg accidentally bumped his, and he asked in a whisper if she was going to share one of their adventures. She sighed, and whispered back that she sincerely wished not to. She’d even been eyeing the doors on the other side of the hearth, thinking it’d be easier to leap the flames than stammer her way through a badly-told tale. So with this, she was out for blood when Athis called from the other end of the table, “Aerene! Got any good stories, since you’ve been at that fancy College up in Winterhold?!” Oh, no.
“Well,” she said awkwardly, thinking up an excuse not to share, hand hiding under the table as her fingers rapidly tapped atop her thigh. “It was Aerene who led our journey across Skyrim, and into the treacherous depths of an ancient Dwemer ruin, where both Falmer and machine dwelled…” Onmund began, telling the tale in a way that captured the table’s attention from beginning to end. Aerene sat and watched for the entirety of his tale, relieved and thankful. To share such a memory with someone was special, but for that person to tell it proudly was another thing entirely.
When the table had later divided into multiple conversations among those seated, and the plates of food nearly depleted, Aerene turned her attention to Vilkas. She hadn’t the chance to speak with him yet. As though he could still detect changes in her heartbeat, he met her gaze. When he’d looked at her like that, after she first joined the Companions, it sometimes scared her. But his serious expression and hard eyes weren’t a threat. That was just Vilkas.
She swore, though, that he pled for her to follow, as he got up from the table with a drink in hand, and left through the doors to the training yard. If he wishes to be alone, he’ll need to tell me. She couldn’t imagine not following. Onmund paused from chatting with the new blood on his other side when Aerene stood, her chair pushed out in a scrape across the wood floor. “Excuse me,” she said, hand instinctively resting a moment over his shoulder while she turned and left.
Even with the merriment and feasting inside, the night was always inviting. Aerene stepped out into the chill of the Whiterun winds, into the dark. If she hadn’t seen him come out here, it would have been easy to miss Vilkas leaning against one of the verandah’s sturdy wooden support beams. He was still, gazing quietly at the distant mountains when she approached for the second time that day.
The man turned his head to face her, and beamed a faint smile while he did. “You can shoo me back inside, if you wish for solitude,” she advised. Vilkas hmphed. “You know I wouldn’t do that,” he said. Right. He’d leave me out here instead.
Aerene walked forward and settled onto the top step of the stairway leading down into the training yard. She sat there, and turned back to Vilkas, who had his arms crossed as he leaned. She patted the ground next to her, and he walked over to sit next to her. They gazed up at the heavens, colored with a palette of green and blue aurorae. Behind the ribbons of light were the twinkling stars, winking down at those who watched from below. “I’m glad you came, Aerene,” Vilkas broke the silence. She saw the way his eyes were lit by the gleam of the firmament, looking a ghastly hue as a result.
“I am, too, brother,” she responded. “I was wondering if you’d ever show up, never knowing when after I sent the letter,” he said. She stared down into her mug, swirling the mead around. His letter was one of two she kept in her knapsack; all the rest she’d received were stashed in her desk back in Winterhold. “I do not know that I would have, had you not sent it,” she said, a hard truth. Vilkas looked to her when she said it, surprised but understanding. He sighed. “That’s a fair decision,” he said. His tone was a little more upbeat when he continued. “One I’m sure your other half would fully support,” he quipped. My other half…
“You mean Onmund? Hmm… he was quite, I suppose, unhappy to learn the truth of the incident after his services had been used.”
“It’s not a decision I’m proud of.”
“But it is one you can move past, Vilkas. I’ve noticed your quietness. Farkas’ll get to be known as the talkative one if you keep this up,” she leaned over and nudged him. “Are you calling me talkative?” he asked with a chuckle. A sound she’d missed, one she was glad to hear. “To see how well you’re doing, it brings me joy. To know that you’re on the path you wished for, it eases my worries. From this moment on, I will not dwell on the matter any longer,” Vilkas promised. Aerene smiled, eyes misty with his hopeful words. “The ache in my heart leaves with your promise.” All is as it should be.
They’d sat and watched the skies dance for a little while when Vilkas began talking again. “I’m impressed Onmund wields the Staff of Magnus. I’d read about it before, but never thought I’d see it with my own eyes.” She was reminded how well-read Vilkas was. She recalled the many books stored down in his quarters, and the tales she’d overhear him discussing with Kodlak, often in the daytime at the tables right behind where they currently sat. “He is an impressive person. His skill in magic is incredible. If it weren’t for him being at my side as the College was threatened by Ancano, I would not be here to sit with you tonight. It was terrible to see him earn that scar back in Mzulft, Vilkas. I never knew the ruins of the Dwemer were crawling with living machinery and creatures like the Falmer,” she remarked.
“That was an engaging tale,” he said. “The wizard told it with integrity. And pride.”
“Pride?”
“Only when he mentioned your feats.”
Aerene sat in silence, thinking it over. Did he really speak in such a way, and it went unnoticed by me?
She shrugged. “I am unsure what to say. I am proud of him, too.”
Vilkas shook his head. “Sure, but none would question your friendship becoming… more. Unless that is already the case.”
She looked to him in disbelief. Her breaths quickened just slightly at the idea. “Truly?”
Vilkas noticed her surprise. “Is that not your intention?”
“To be more?” she turned her head away from him, resting her cheek against her hand. Suddenly, she was feeling quite warm, and thank the night it was too dark to see that she was red in the face. Is that the source of my admirations for Onmund? The reason for the burn of jealousy I felt yesterday, and the warmth I feel whenever I’m with him?
Can he truly be such a station of contentment in my life, as it has happened without my notice?
“I think I’ve had too much mead tonight,” Aerene deflected, to which Vilkas responded with a very unconvinced hmm.
Deciding she was tired of talking about her own feelings, for being not in a straight mind to linger on the matter, she poked these questions back at him. “And you, brother? Is there one who lingers about when the firelight has died down?”
Vilkas set down his mug, and leaned back onto his hands. He was deep in thought, but his answer was a firm, “No.”
“Succinct as ever,” Aerene replied.
Aerene knew Vilkas could pursue any he wanted; he was ideal, and she’d witnessed the attention he got from women, from the barmaid back in Falkreath to Isardyya, tonight. She told herself she wouldn’t feel envious if he came to share that bond with someone else, but she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it, yet. Something about him was captivating, but it felt impermanent like a tide that came and left, or like sand that spilled out between a hand with fingers spread.
Nevertheless, she did admire the idea of him having someone who he wouldn’t let go.
-
When she went back inside shortly after, Onmund looked to her attentively. “You’re back,” he said with a goofy smile. In fact, he was more smiley than usual tonight. Dare I think he looks ‘cute’ when he does that? “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Aerene said. “I am indeed. Farkas was telling me about your spar out in the training yard earlier. He said, and I quote, that you ‘mopped the floor with Vilkas.’ Summons quite the image,” he commented, sipping from a near empty mug. Next to his plate on the table was an empty spiced wine bottle. “Though, I am glad you held your ground,” he said. “You do it quite well, I mean, that’s why our tactics are sufficient in battle, because you don’t get knocked down, hardly, well, I mean sometimes you slip, but you always get back up. You’re quite…”
He paused his rumbling and looked at her with hazy, wine-induced eyes, narrowed in thought, and said, “resilient.”
Well… okay.
“Why don’t I get you some honeyed water?” Aerene asked, laughing with Farkas at her drunk friend as she went to find something that might lessen the hardness of the wine on him over the morrow.
The celebration grew quieter, as less drinks were poured and a general sleepiness began to settle over Jorrvaskr. Most of the Companions had wandered off to retire for the night, but Aerene insisted on helping Tilma and Brill clean up. She was preparing to start scrubbing dishes when Tilma wouldn’t allow it. “Now, dearie, you’ve got your appointment with the Jarl, and it’s getting late,” she said, lightly pulling Aerene back upstairs to the grand room of the mead hall. Only Vilkas and Farkas remained in helping to clean about the room, and Onmund was sat in his chair at the table, head resting over his arms. Though his face was hidden, and she couldn’t really tell, it seemed he’d fallen asleep. “Need help haulin’ him back?” Farkas asked loudly. Aerene shook her head, and walked over to the mage, giving him a gentle nudge. He immediately sat up, acting as if he’d been awake the whole time. “Time to go,” she said, and he stood, mumbling tired goodbyes to Tilma and the twins.
Back at the Bannered Mare, they entered their room, and Onmund flopped down onto his bed, still in his armor and cloak. Aerene knew he’d be hot in his sleep, so she began to unfasten the cloak from his pauldrons. “What are you doing?” he mumbled. “Taking this cloak off,” she replied. “No,” he said in a low whine, and yanked the whole piece of fabric over on his other side, opposite of where she sat on his bed. He turned completely away, and appeared to fall into an instant sleep. Aerene sat there at his side, studying his features. Even in this state, I could count his lashes.
It wasn’t long before she cracked open the window of their room to let in the cool air, and before she changed out of her armor into comfier clothes. She blew out the candles on the nightstand between the beds, and fell into the embrace of sleep.
Morning came slowly, as in her slumber Aerene yet again found herself in the lonely forest, without friend and with only foe. It had been a recurring setting over the last weeks, since the encounter in Mzulft with the Falmer. Usually, she’d find herself in the dark vegetation, hearing the growling echo around her. Sometimes, the creature was revealed, and other times, she was stuck in the ground while it growled, hidden, as she stood without solace to run from the horror. Most often, it was both.
Eventually, the nightmares faded and a dreamless sleep carried her to awakening.
Onmund was awfully quiet the next morning, and had a tired look about him. Sometime in the night, he’d changed out of his armor and into sleep clothes. Aerene brought servings of Hulda’s breakfast up, keeping her curious questions to herself as Onmund took the plate and mumbled thanks. He also denied her request to cast healing hands on him, but he didn’t need to know she’d done that already once after he fell asleep. When it was time to prepare for the audience with Jarl Balgruuf, Aerene spoke up. “If you wish to rest here, and recover from your spiced wine indulgences, that would be alright,” she said, as they dressed with their backs turned to one another. Their voices and the movement of clothes and armor could be heard. “As tempting as that sounds, I will not go back on my word because I had too much to drink. You deserve better than that,” he replied. She hadn’t expected such a statement, and she couldn’t help but think back on Vilkas’ conversation last night. She then thought about what she avoided telling Onmund, about the magic walls and the darker involvements of her past. I’m not sure I really do deserve better than that.
Today, the weather was temperate for the middle of autumn; from the top of the vast stairway between Dragonsreach and the rest of Whiterun, grey and menacing clouds could be seen in the distance. A storm was approaching, slowly but surely. “Looks to be rain on the horizon,” Aerene observed. Over the next days, the clouds would loom over Whiterun Hold and the heaviness of the firmament would come bearing down.
“Welcome, Lady Aerene and Lord Onmund,” Tomeraas greeted from his posting in front of the Keep. “Good day, Tomeraas,” Aerene replied. “Lady Lydia awaits you inside,” Tomeraas informed them.
While they went on their way, Aerene’s curiosity burned hotter in these moments than they had at any time since she received the summons.
Dragonsreach was grand and pristine, not a spec of dirt on the pale yellow rug on which Lydia stood. “Good to see you,” she greeted happily, but her expression shifted when she saw Onmund’s current state. “You look worse than I feel,” she commented. “Good day to you too, Lyd,” Onmund grumbled, before Lydia led them up the wooden stairs and to the upper level of Dragonsreach’s receiving chamber, past the two long dining tables and the sizable hearth. Aerene looked all around, feeling that this place had somehow gotten bigger since her last visit. The ceilings and ribbed vaults above seemed taller, and the iron chandeliers looked even heavier. The birch wood interior gave an airy, light atmosphere to the huge interior space. Not a bad place to live, not at all. The Jarl and his family are fortunate to know such comforts.
They stopped in front of the dais where Jarl Balgruuf sat atop the throne of Whiterun. His presence was noble but demanding of respect. “My Jarl, I present Lady Aerene and her companion, Lord Onmund, of the College of Winterhold,” Lydia said, offering a formal bow before she stepped aside. Proventus stood next to the dais, behind Balgruuf. Irileth was stationed on Balgruuf’s opposite side, arms crossed as she gazed upon the guests with a scowl. I see Irileth still maintains a constant state of being unimpressed.
“My Jarl,” Aerene said, bowing in respect. “Aerene,” Balgruuf spoke, looking upon her in the noble air he always had about him. He was leaned back against the throne, arms resting on the sides, fingers boasting rings with numerous precious gems. “I welcome you back into the halls of Dragonsreach. It is good to see that you answer the call of Whiterun. We have need for someone of your talents,” he said, “and the talents of your companion.” He speaks as though he knows Onmund. Weird. Lydia probably told him of our arrival. “I keep the promises I make, my Jarl,” Aerene said. “Which is precisely why I’ve summoned you here. I do hope you are not dismayed to be taken from your studies in Winterhold,” Balgruuf inquired. Aerene shook her head, as she had her hands tucked behind her back. “Not at all,” she replied. Lies.
“I am glad to hear it. Now, please come with me. Farengar is working on a project, and we believe your prior experience suits the endeavor,” Balgruuf stood from his throne, and passed a bowing Irileth, telling her to remain with Proventus by the throne as he led Aerene, Onmund, and Lydia to the court wizard’s chamber just off the main floor. Aerene stared at the floor, a dizzying sight as they walked and it moved beneath her feet. Prior experience? With bandits, surely.
Or…
No. That cannot be what he means.
Mentions of the secrecy regarding this summons tickled at her brain, prodding and poking in all the wrong places. Keep steady breaths, an open mind, and a calm heart.
Farengar Secret-Fire’s quarters were to the right side of the main floor, an office and private room sectioned off by a tall and sturdy doorway. The office itself was impressively large and entirely unsurprising for that of a court wizard in one of Skyrim’s wealthiest cities. Directly in front of the doorway was a large, L shaped oak desk, laden with parchment and paper rolls, and shelving loaded with potions and soul gems. In the left corner parallel to the doorway was a larger shelf display with platters, goblets, and a large carafe. The opposite corner, to the right, had a round wooden table topped with a silver plate, goblet, and fruit bowl; matching chairs sat without occupants. In the middle of the floor, in a straight line, was a row of wooden support columns, the tops of which were connected by narrow panels of decoratively carved wooden arches. The furthest quarter of the room was walled off, with two doorways, one on either end of the dividing wall. Aerene wondered if this choice was newer than the building’s original structure, since the dividing wall did not reach up to the ceiling and two people standing on either side could easily converse over the top gap. Farengar himself was just turning to greet the newcomers, stepping away from his work at an enchantment table that sat against the wall opposite of the office entry.
Based on what Aerene recalled about Farengar’s eccentricities, she was surprised to find that his chamber was not what she’d expected of him. It seemed quite standard for court wizards, without decoration or personality matching Farengar’s oddities. A quick glance to the doorway off limits to the visitors gave her the idea that this was merely his office, where the Jarl may appear as he pleased; his private quarters were not open to the judging eye.
Lydia moved to shut the doors, and proceeded to stand in guard by them. Aerene followed the Jarl most closely, catching the scent of a smoky, woodsy fragrance lingering as he stepped. She thought it no surprise he even smelled wealthy, just as he dressed.
“Farengar, it seems Aerene has defied your assumptions and heeded our request for her aide,” Balgruuf said, leaning his hands down against the chamber’s central table. Aerene didn’t know what else to expect, but she knew she already felt uncomfortable. Knowing her promise to return to Whiterun was doubted even before she was given a chance struck her with a bout of insignificance. This was only temporary, though, and vanished into a deeper void when Farengar revealed the truth of why she was asked to Dragonsreach. “Hello, Aerene, and…?” Farengar presumably looked Onmund’s way, it was difficult to tell with his hood hanging over all but his mouth. “Onmund,” said her dear friend. “Onmund. Right. When I requested the Jarl find someone to assist in fetching this artifact for me, I should have known he’d suggest you,” Farengar said to Aerene, opening a large book, flipping through the pages rapidly. The leather binding on the book, as well as the scent of old pages, wafted about the room. Aerene heard movement behind them, and found that Jarl Balgruuf and Lydia were leaving already, and the doors were shut. And then there were three.
“Why is that?” Aerene questioned.
“You’ve shown Balgruuf you can get the job done. Made a name with the Companions. Proven you’re capable of fetching an ancient stone tablet from a dangerous ruin. Searching for something that may or may not actually be there.” Farengar’s rambling frustrated her, and she had not the patience for it. “Farengar, what does this tablet, in this ruin, have to do with the research you’re currently conducting?” she asked, gesturing to the book in front of them. The current page had a large charcoal drawing of a grand soul gem. Farengar was silent for a moment, as though she was speaking another language. “This,” he gestured to the book with his hand, “is for my research on the affects of soul trapping as well as - nevermind. The artifact I need you to fetch is for my research on the dragons.”
Aerene’s ears heard these words and her heart began trying to break out of her chest. Dragons? As though there is more than one?
“What…” she began to say, but her voice trailed off. Her face had paled a shade, and her mouth was dry. Onmund stepped from his place behind her and met her side, his arm just a breath from hers. He glanced to her, eyes scanning over her sudden trepidation. I won’t get answers if I do not ask questions. “What do you mean dragons? There was only the one at Helgen,” she said. And speculation about the one described in the book about King Olaf and Numinex, which hinted that Mount Anthor was once home to a dragon. To try and learn the truth of whether a dragon may live there now would be to tempt fate.
“Yes, which is enough to warrant an investigation. I’ve been looking into the return of the dragons since the attack on Helgen, and only just got a lead on this potential artifact.”
“Why was none of this mentioned in the summons?” Aerene asked, leaning in against the table, fingers digging into the wood tabletop. “Jarl Balgruuf has worked to maintain the secrecy of this project. Only he and those in this room are aware of its progress. We’ve also heard reports on Imperial and Stormcloak couriers being intercepted on the roads of Skyrim; we did not wish for an enemy of Whiterun to intercept,” he made quotations with his fingers, “the courier delivering the summons to you.”
“Intercepted,” Aerene muttered. “By the Thalmor?” she asked. Farengar shrugged. “Could be the Thalmor, could be the Stormcloaks and Imperials stealing orders to get ahead of either side.” Aerene shook her head. “The Thalmor undoubtedly have a play in all of this. They’re always sticking their noses where they don’t belong.” Farengar hummed in agreement. “So you understand why the secrecy of this task must be maintained.”
“Absolutely,” Aerene acknowledged, “but what does this tablet have to do with the dragons?”
“Ah, no mere brute mercenary, killing for gold, but a thinker; I’m sure the College welcomed you with open arms. You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasties, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons - where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”
These were philosophies debated and discussed by Aerene and Onmund on more than one occasion over the last couple of months. There was always time for more speculation, but perhaps it would be their action that brought truth. Aerene was eager to start doing, and stop talking.
“Tells us what you need us to do, Farengar.”
“I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, a Dragonstone said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet, no doubt in the main chamber, and bring it to me. Simplicity itself. Of course, you’ll be well compensated for your work. Proventus can handle that matter upon your return with the stone.”
Bleak Falls Barrow. Hadvar mentioned having nightmares of that place as a child. He told me as we walked to Riverwood, when we could see the Barrow in the hills on the other side of the river.
There was so much more to process from this conversation. Aerene wished to be free from this office, to be out in fresh air where she wouldn’t feel like she were suffocating. “We should be on our way, then,” she concluded. Farengar agreed, and walked them to the exit doors of the office. “Off to Bleak Falls Barrow, with you. The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it.”
Footsteps were the only sound exchanged between Aerene and Onmund as she hastily left Dragonsreach, pushing away the guilt she had for not seeking Lydia to discuss the assignment. There will be time for that later.
“Aerene,” Onmund said from behind, but she was walking so fast and dwelled so deep in her own thoughts she didn’t hear him, as she made her way down the stairs from Dragonsreach to the Gildergreen park below. Her mind was racing with the issues of departure, travel supplies, possible dragon sightings, a dragon attack!
“Aerene,” Onmund said, and she suddenly stopped in her tracks to stop from bumping into him, tracing her eyes upward to look into his. “Perhaps you should take a few moments, before you run someone over,” he said. She groaned in response, face falling into her hands when she plopped down onto a bench under the Gildergreen. If she had some pretty petals to look at, rather than bare, dead branches, maybe she’d have felt a little better. It was like staring hopelessness right in the face. Onmund settled on the bench next to her, more gracefully than she had, and leaned back. Minutes passed before a word was said between them. Only the ambience of Whiterun functioning all around them filled the gaps; waters rushing in the little streams off the main pathways, Heimskr’s shouting by the Talos statue, the laughter of children running around the residential area just off the park. It gave Aerene peace. It gave her the calm necessary to put some ideas together.
“The skeletal dragon we battled in Labyrinthian rose from a burial mound,” Aerene stated. Was it merely our presence which called the undead beast to life, or was it Morokei’s magic? “I wonder if the Dragonstone, having a supposed map of dragon burial mounds, marks Labyrinthian as a burial location,” Onmund said. “We will see if it does, should we find it in Bleak Falls Barrow.”
-
Before leaving Whiterun, the duo stopped to get their travel supplies ready; once they had a sufficient amount of food and water, as well as the necessary potions, Aerene and Onmund left the Bannered Mare and stopped by Warmaiden’s to pick up Aerene’s gauntlets and her weapons. ‘Ah, there you are!’ Adrianne said as they’d approached. Aerene noticed the way Adrianne’s golden brown eyes flicked between her and Onmund, but whatever the blacksmith was thinking, she kept it to herself. ‘Your gauntlets are good as new, and the dagger held up well for sharpening. That iron sword though… surprised it can even cut butter. You sure you’re not up for something sturdier, more impactful?’
‘This sword has seen me through a lot. I plan to use it until its last.’
‘If you say so… but if you change your mind, Eorlund Gray-Mane forges the best steel in all of Skyrim.’
Eorlund Gray-Mane was the man behind the weapons used by all of the Companions up at Jorrvaskr. Aerene wasn’t surprised to hear the smith praise her competitor; a noble, headstrong woman wasn’t afraid to do so, and that’s exactly what Adrianne was.
-
Nearly as strange as the idea of Farengar researching the dragons, thus making it all that much more real, was seeing Onmund ride alongside Aerene on a separate horse on the way to Bleak Falls Barrow. Sure, they were making good time and would be back in Whiterun by nightfall, but it was weird. How odd, to be bothered by something so miniscule. I do miss Onmund here with River and I. Though I could reach out and grab him if I wished.
Have I gone mad?
Her trusted friend led Patch with ease, keeping the paint horse in a steady trot. He did it rather well, sometimes muttering praises to the steed, earning a neigh in response. Patch was a beautiful steed; his coat was a palette of black and white, as though he’d been birthed in darkness and splashed with a bucket or two of cream, and his eyes were dark and glossy. He matched rather well with the man atop the saddle. They rode in a trot from the stables, and to the crossroads outside of the city.
Aerene took in the sights of a late Whiterun morning. The cobblestone road in front of Honningbrew Meadery had patches of long orange and green shrubbery, with blooms of lavender, and mountain flowers. There were even chickens hanging about the side of the road, which Aerene gave a wide berth to after she nearly knocked one down on their way to Mzulft. They’d be safest in a large pen away from the road.
Past the meadery was the familiar fork in the road, where one could hear the constant rushing of the White River’s waters and even catch glimpses of salmon jumping upstream. Aerene tugged slightly on the reigns in her hand, and River reared to the right to begin the trek south toward Riverwood. The woman scratched her fingers along the mare’s neck, smiling at the way River stretched her neck out and leaned into the sensation.
“Trouble ahead,” Onmund said in a low voice from behind, and Aerene shifted completely into focus, eyes scanning the road in front of them. When she saw a single mudcrab sitting at the edge of the riverbank, she twisted around to face Onmund with a brow raised. He really despises mudcrabs, doesn’t he? “After all we have seen in our travels together, and this little mudcrab is your idea of trouble? Perhaps we should give up now,” she teased as he chuckled. She looked down at the mudcrab as they passed; it was using its large, steel blue claws to dig into the mud of the riverbank and make a comfy hole for itself to squeeze into. Its clicking and tapping noises could be heard as it was hard at work.
The road began to incline, to take the travelers up toward the valley leading toward Riverwood. Already, the air felt cooler, and the wind of the golden plains around Whiterun was no more. Up here, it was quieter and a little calmer; instead of the sounds of cows mooing and chickens clucking, and farmers’ tools hitting into the farmland, there was the rush of the river and the tweeting of birds. “It feels so nice out here, away from the city,” Aerene commented, looking over to Onmund at her side. They managed the horses quite well, almost effortlessly, as they maintained a continuous trot forward. “You prefer nature over the walls of a city? It’s rather different from where you grew up, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Perhaps that is why I find it so comforting. Bleaker’s Way was much calmer than the Imperial City. The City had guards stationed at every corner in the street, at every few doors in the various districts. Bleaker’s Way was quite the change to settle into, with only a few guards patrolling the village, but up here, in Skyrim, it feels so isolated and free. I like Winterhold and Falkreath for those same reasons. Not too busy, but rather sleepy and unconcerned with politics or bigger problems.”
“It sounds like you don’t really miss Cyrodiil…” Onmund guessed.
“I would love to return some day,” Aerene said, gazing up at the tall trees they found themselves among, reminding her of Cyrodiil’s Great Forest. It was rich with animal life, from deer to wolves and bears. She looked over to Onmund when he asked an unexpected question.
“When you say return, do you mean… to stay there?”
She had her answer without thought. It wasn’t because she disliked Cyrodiil, or that she loved Skyrim more. “Not at all,” she said. “I feel at home here,” she shrugged, “like it is where I am meant to be, as though the friends I have made are who I am meant to experience life with.”
Onmund said nothing in response at first, but when she glanced to him, he was smiling and looking over the scenery. She wondered what he was thinking, what it’d be like to dig around in that head of his, which wasn’t hidden under his hood, for once. “Those Imperials are lucky the dragon descended upon Helgen before they got the chance to do away with you. Who else would there be to speak of Skyrim so beautifully?”
She took this to be him pulling her leg again, though truly? He was doing anything but.
“River’s not made of the same stuff as Skyrim horses. They say the ones from Cyrodiil are faster,” Onmund said after a moment. “Just what is it you’re getting at, Onmund?”
“I want to see if they are right.”
“Are you challenging me to a race, to Bleak Falls Barrow?”
“Ha! Divines know I’d be a fool to challenge you in a swordfight. So… what do you say?”
“That you should be thankful we are not racing for coin, otherwise, your pockets would be empty!” Aerene taunted, before Onmund attempted to get ahead with a, “hyah!” that sent Patch into a gallop up the road. Aerene laughed, and commanded River to “overtake,” sending them full speed after the two who’d stolen the start of the race.
Aerene lowered her body forward, redistributing some of the weight from her hips to give River more ease as she galloped, faster than the rains falling in distant lands, and certainly with more grace than her competitors. Onmund rode excellently, and was rather impressive in his handling Patch around the narrow turns up the path, never drawing out a neigh of complaint or contempt from the steed he commanded.
The two mages breezed along the cobblestones, Aerene keeping to the right while Onmund took the left. Their race took them up into the valley surrounding Riverwood, where the river flowed past them and snow-capped stone hills and peaks watched from above. The ground beneath their galloping horses transformed from curated road to snowy mountain path, as they kept to the right of the river, rather than crossing the bridge to the town. The galloping of the horses sent snow and dirt up and back in little flurries. Breaths of the friends and the horses were white puffs of air in these hills, where the land was blanketed with white and the familiarity of towns, cities, and civilization was left behind.
Aerene sat atop River, looking at the first hints of the stone structure hidden behind the icy mountain slopes. From behind, Onmund and Patch came up the path. Aerene faced him with a smug look. “Aerene! What a surprise, to run into you here,” her companion said casually, smirking while trotting past her to dismount and hitch Patch just a few paces ahead.
“Keep your coin, my friend,” Aerene gloated, “I am rich with pride on this day.”
Notes:
DOWWWWN DOWWWWN DOOOOOOWN BYYY THE RIVERRRRRRRR!!!!!!