~Avalanche~
Pulling down her protective goggles, Gwynne immediately closed her eyes against the glare of the sun bouncing off the snow. Once she felt that her eyes had adjusted to the influx of light, she brought a hand up to shade her eyes as she squinted at their desolate surroundings. Winterhold wasn't exactly known for its pleasant weather, but today was turning out to be practically balmy.
"Ahhh… Just smell that fresh air!" Gwynne's travelling companion, Mjoll, exclaimed, stretching her arms out and breathing in deep.
Gwynne grunted and snapped her goggles back into place. "No lollygagging, as they say. I want to have that bandit's hideout cleared out by the time the sun is halfway past its apex. We should reach The Frozen Hearth by nightfall."
Mjoll frowned, but she didn't voice her irritation. After travelling with the High Elf for little more than a month, she had formed a clear picture of Gwynne's mannerisms. Friendly chatter prompted a brief comment; complaints received silence. It wasn't that Gwynne didn't listen to her. On the contrary, Gwynne did seem to alter her course according to Mjoll's advice or admonitions; she just didn't have anything to say about it. The Nord chalked her reticence up to inbred Altmer arrogance.
Onward they went, trudging through the snow. With her iron boots, Mjoll sunk right through the hard crust on top of the drift through to the soft middle layer. Gwynne, however, didn't seem to be having any such difficulty. Her footfalls were light over the snowpack, and due to her long legs and ground-eating gait, she was quickly pulling away from Mjoll.
Noticing that the Nord had fallen behind, Gwynne waited for her. They were about a tree-length apart. At that moment, at the most inopportune of times, it happened.
An arrow hissing past her head was the only warning Gwynne got before men and women clothed in ratty furs were jumping out from behind boulders and ice escarpments, brandishing their weapons and screaming a war cry that chilled the blood.
The bandits, it seemed, had chosen to come to them.
In the time that it would have taken to close the distance between them, Gwynne would have been in close combat with at least five of the ruffians. There was only one choice left to Mjoll. Dropping her shield, the Nord grabbed her bow from where it was strapped to her back and nocked an arrow in two smooth movements. She let fly and hit the archer that was just preparing to send another arrow Gwynne's way; Mjoll's arrow hit its mark, staggering the target. The next shot went wide, but fortunately, the third flew true, neutralizing the threat with a fatal wound to the throat.
Meanwhile, Gwynne was in a bind. Her attention was split between dodging a hulking Orc with a warhammer, parrying a Redguard's fast blade with her Elven sword, and casting Ice Spikes at anyone else that dared to come near. It was a valiant effort, but she was steadily losing ground. Her spells were failing to hit anybody since she couldn't aim with her gaze elsewhere, and her sword arm was quickly tiring. Sweat collected under her hood, sticking her hair to her forehead and running stinging trails into her eyes. She panted from the effort, and the Orc Bandit Chief gave her a snarl of a grin as he hefted his weapon over his head for another devastating swing.
She didn't think; she just acted.
"Fus Ro Dah!" she Shouted, feeling the Words with every fibre of her being, their essence ripping out of her throat and tearing through the air. As she watched her attackers being flung away like ragdolls, the Orc snapping his neck as he landed on his head, Gwynne felt a strange detachment from herself. So, this is what Paarthurnax meant, she thought, about pushing the world harder than it pushes back. The final Word echoed around the mountains, resonating in her consciousness.
Coming back to herself, Gwynne quickly ran over to the fallen to dispatch any that were still alive. In the meantime, Mjoll felled the last of the bandits that were still standing after Gwynne's Unrelenting Force Shout with her bow. Once it was all over, neither of them could believe it. The fight had seemed to go on for eternity, but in reality had only lasted fifteen minutes. Shaking with the remnants of adrenaline, Mjoll dropped her bow to her feet and pumped a fist into the air, whooping with glee. Gwynne turned back to look at her, and it was the first time that Mjoll had ever seen her smile. In fact, it was the first time that she had noticed just how beautiful the Altmer really was; her green eyes were brilliant in the strong sunlight, but they were also lit from within, glowing with the spark of life that had very nearly just been snuffed out.
Regardless of her heavy boots, Mjoll couldn't help but run to her. She wasn't sure what she was going to do – hug her, kiss her, spin her around – she just knew that not doing it was impossible. However, she never reached her. Just then, the rumbling in the mountains that had been distant so far had now increased to a roar that could not be ignored.
They both looked up to see a mighty torrent of snow charging down the mountain, devastating anything that stood in its path – and Mjoll and Gwynne were right in its way. Driven by panic, Mjoll scrambled back to where she had dropped her shield. Just as the wall of snow closed in, Mjoll slung her bow back in its place and hopped on top of the shield. Resting on her knees and holding on with a white-knuckled grip, she was carried along the crest of the wave. Eventually, the force of the avalanche petered out as it reached level land, and Mjoll and her shield were sent spinning. Seeing that she was headed directly towards a cliff, she bailed, and her shield shot off over the edge. Terrified as she still was, she couldn't help but mourn the loss of a perfectly good piece of armour.
For a few moments, the Nord stayed sprawled on her back where she had landed while she waited for her heartbeat to settle. Then, as calm returned, she remembered.
"Gwynne!" she cried, jumping to her feet. When she took in the site of the fight, she blanched. Everything was covered by a thick layer of snow; the bandits' bodies were entirely buried. Her companion was nowhere to be seen.
Mjoll called the Altmer's name again, her voice cracking with desperation, as she turned in circles. She tried to distinguish any abnormality in the shape of the snow that would point to the location of Gwynne's – hopefully living – body. In her panic, the landscape seemed in her eyes to have as much variation as a blank canvas. Soon, she realized that she was beginning to hyperventilate; the combat training that her mother had given to her rushed to the front of her mind, and she at once tried to get her breathing back under control. Just like her mother, Mjoll was a survivor. She had proven as much when she had escaped Mzinchaleft after losing her sword, Grimsever, and nearly her life to a giant Dwarven automaton. Remembering how Gwynne had retrieved Grimsever, succeeding where Mjoll had not, made the woman all the more determined to save her. The Elf had restored to her the only life Mjoll had ever known; to the Nord, this was equivalent to a Blood Debt.
Just like that, her focus was restored.
Now that she was back in her right mind, an unusual sound in the background immediately caught her attention. It gave the impression of a long, drawn-out hiss punctuated by the occasional pop. Looking around to identify the source of the noise, Mjoll caught sight of steam rising off of a drift of snow piled up against a cairn that had marked the now-destroyed path. Despite her impractical footwear, Mjoll quickly waded over to the site of the unusual phenomenon and began digging as urgently as a skeever trying to escape from a predator. After not too long, she became frustrated at the slow progress her hands were making, and she unstrapped her breastplate and put it to use as a shovel of sorts. To Mjoll's surprise, the further she dug down, the slushier the snow became – until it could no longer be called snow, but water.
And at the bottom of the soggy mess was Gwynne, wielding Flames in one hand while her skin shimmered with the effects of a Waterbreathing spell.
"Oh, thank the Divines…" Mjoll's shoulders sagged with relief.
"Well met, Kitten," Gwynne rasped with a small smile. "Yours is a face I'm glad to see."
Mjoll found it insulting when Gwynne called her 'Kitten' (as if mocking her well-earned title, 'the Lioness'), but this time she let it slide. Gwynne took her offered hand, and with a hard tug, Mjoll pulled her out of the hole. The Elf stood on her own for maybe five seconds before she swayed and fell to her knees with a groan, holding her head.
Mjoll knelt down beside her. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," Gwynne snapped. Then, when Mjoll didn't say anything, but stayed kneeling beside her expectantly, she supplied, "I'm a little sore. My head hurts, but I'm sure that's just from using up most of my magicka reserves." She reached for something on her belt, but finding that it wasn't there, she frowned. "My medicine pouch must have been ripped off my belt in the avalanche. Might you have a potion?"
The fair-haired woman frowned as well; though she didn't know much about Gwynne's personal life she knew that the medicine pouch, made out of the full pelt of a fox and stuffed to the brim with alchemy ingredients, was a treasured possession. She had a feeling that the loss of it would be as hard to bear for Gwynne as losing Grimsever had been for Mjoll.
"Aye. I should," Mjoll replied.
Though she didn't use magicka potions herself, having been somewhat wary of magic users her entire life, Mjoll had taken to bringing a few extra along on her adventures just in case her Altmer companion ran out. Both her mother, the warrior, and her father, the hunter, had taught her preparedness. Beyond that, she also knew that just because she thought magic wasn't worth anything, didn't mean that others thought the same way. Above all, Mjoll wished for a peaceful society; the only way she could help things along was to be fair, kind, and honest in her own interactions with others. As it had turned out, she discovered that she hadn't minded Gwynne using spells during their journey as much as she thought she would. In fact, some of the spells had turned out to be quite useful, and even life-saving, on a few occasions.
Mjoll waited patiently as Gwynne gulped down the draught she had given her. As far as she could tell from the other times the Elf had depleted her magicka so severely, drinking large amounts of magicka potions could cause similar effects to drinking a great deal of mead. The disorientation fades almost immediately, leaving the user fully capable of the quick decisions required during combat, but it takes its toll during the next morning. Mjoll's frown deepened. If Gwynne on a normal day doesn't talk much, then hung-over Gwynne is far worse. She doubted that she would be able to get a word out of her during the two days it would take to get back to Riften.
"Done then?" Without waiting for a response, Mjoll put her breastplate back on, stashed the empty bottle in her pouch, and then proceeded to heft Gwynne over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
Surprisingly – or unsurprisingly, Mjoll mused – Gwynne didn't say anything about the indignity of being carried in such a fashion. Instead, after seven long minutes of nothing but Mjoll plodding determinedly along, handling Gwynne's extra weight easily, the Altmer decided to break the silence with a giggle. "I feel like I'm flying," she whispered close to Mjoll's ear.
The Nord couldn't help but smile. "I'm sure you do." She wondered just how bad off Gwynne must have been for the potion to be having such a strong effect on her. With a rumble of her stomach, Mjoll was reminded that they hadn't eaten in a while; that was definitely a contributing factor. Not much longer, she thought to herself; I just have to get Gwynne set up in that recess I spotted a while back, and then I can catch us some dinner.
Just then, the wind gave a mighty gust, which sent tingles up Mjoll's spine. As night fell, the temperature would only drop, and Mjoll knew that it was imperative that Gwynne get out of her drenched robes.
As soon as they reached their campsite for the night, Mjoll quickly rolled out their bedclothes and set about building a roaring fire, while Gwynne looked on, shivering. Mjoll tossed the woman an extra fur of her own; Gwynne received the kindness with a shaky nod. Once the most urgent preparations were completed, Mjoll left Gwynne to disrobe and climb into bed in privacy. It was time to hunt.
As she looked for signs of game, Mjoll set snares near any likely place of use or habitation. Droppings or scratch marks in the snow? Set a snare. A well-worn trail through a drift? Set a snare. She had made the cord herself from mammoth hair that she had collected and then braided during a trip through the plains of Whiterun with her Elven companion. The dense undercoats of the mammoths coated the grass when it was shed during the summertime. It was easy enough to gather it by the handful, and well worth it; when wound together, the fibres made excellent cordage suitable for numerous tasks.
Between the traps and her bow, she soon acquired a good brace of rabbits, more than enough to make a fine stew.
The sun had long since set by the time Mjoll was checking her last snare. She treaded carefully along by the light of a torch. Having only the afternoon to hunt, she wasn't too surprised when she hadn't caught too many rabbits by way of traps. So, imagine her astonishment when the torchlight glinted off the glistening-white pelt of a dog snow fox with her snare squeezing around its neck. The white of its eyes were showing and its lips curled back, baring its teeth as it slowly choked to death. Taking pity on the poor creature, Mjoll drew Grimsever and slit its throat in a clean line. As the fox' lifeblood stained the snow, a thought occurred to Mjoll. Dismantling the snare with speed, she grabbed the fox, slung it over her shoulder with her rabbits, and carried the lot of them back to camp.
She could tell that she was getting close to camp as she spotted the way that the warm glow of the campfire flickered against the ice-wall behind it, mimicking the undulating waves of light in the sky. However, the thick boughs of pine and spruce blocked Mjoll`s view of the site until she was nearly on top of it, which was how, with no warning, she came upon the sight of Gwynne sitting by the fire with her breasts bare, and the furs draping loosely around her waist. In her shock, Mjoll tripped over their stockpile of firewood, and just barely missed getting Gwynne`s Fireball in her face.
"Oh, it's just you," Gwynne intoned, raw magicka still crackling at her fingertips. Belatedly, she realized her state of undress and pulled the blanket up, seemingly in no real hurry.
Embarrassment made Mjoll's tongue loose. "Yes, just me, your breast – I mean best – companion back from a successful hunting trip. No need to be hasty with the heat yet," she said, referring to spell Gwynne had just flung carelessly towards her person; "I haven't finished the skinning."
Gwynne grunted and turned her gaze back to the fire.
Internally heaving a sigh of relief, Mjoll set her catch down and began the careful work of skinning and butchering the game. If it had been daytime, she would have been happy to work with her back to Gwynne (all the better to hide the high colour in her cheeks); unfortunately, she needed the light, so she toiled in silence by the fire. Either way, Gwynne was silent.
That is, until the Elf spotted the fox.
"What's this?" She reached over and fingered the soft pelt.
"For you." Mjoll didn't see the use in lying. "To replace that bag you lost."
For once, Gwynne lost her stoic demeanour as several emotions flickered across her face, too quickly to identify any of them. She settled for saying, "I didn't know your sweetheart could sew."
Mjoll blinked. Sticking her cleaver into a log and rocking back on her haunches, she just stared. "My what?"
"Aerin. Who else would I mean?"
"Aerin? My… sweet-…?" Mjoll couldn't even finish the question; she was laughing too hard.
Gwynne's mouth became a thin slash across her face as her annoyance grew. "What is so hilarious, Nord?"
Mjoll ignored her frosty tone. "It's just… unthinkable! Aerin is a dear friend to me, but never…" – here she nearly gave into laughter again – "that. At one time, he wanted more, but I refused him, and it hasn't been a problem since. He knows I prefer the… company of women."
Now it was Gwynne's turn to blush. "Oh. I didn't know." She didn't simper like some girls Mjoll had met; she just pursed her lips and fisted the blanket in her hands. The more Mjoll came to know her, the more it seemed as if Gwynne saw any negative emotion, mortification especially, as being a sign of weakness in herself.
"Yes, well…" Mjoll cleared her throat. "I've never kept it a secret. Don't expect me to apologize, though. Remember that you're in Skyrim, not the Summerset Isles, and we Nords feel differently about love and marriage than your kind do."
Green eyes speared her with a glance. "I may be Altmer, but my 'kind' they are not. I belong to no people."
Silence descended.
Mjoll cleared her throat as she fished around for something to say. "So… Why did you think that Aerin would be sewing the bag?"
Gwynne latched onto the change of topic right away. "Well, Kitten, you don't seem like the sewing type."
"And Aerin does?"
"Oh, definitely." The Elf smirked.
"I don't know about Aerin, but I'll have you know that I can sew perfectly well. Though, I won't be sewing for this project; I'll just be using the full, intact pelt."
For a few long moments, Gwynne didn't say anything. Then: "That is very kind of you."
Mjoll smiled tightly. "It's the least I can do after I abandoned you to that avalanche."
Gwynne looked at her with her deep, unwavering gaze. "You didn't abandon me. You were the one that rescued me."
Mjoll couldn't look at her. To have an excuse to keep her eyes downward, she continued making the stew. "All the same, I apologize for my cowardice."
Gwynne leaned forward, her dark hair cascading in waves over her shoulder, and the blanket dipped once more. Mjoll kept her eyes determinedly on her task.
"I was mute for the first fifteen years of my life," the Elf said abruptly.
The Nord's hands stilled.
Gwynne continued: "Because of my black hair, I already stood out among my peers; my inability to speak just made it worse. The adults… my teachers… they viewed me as inept. The reason I couldn't speak was unclear to them, so they viewed it as a choice. I so dearly wished to be able to tell them how wrong they were, but I could not.
"When my grandmother died, I was left alone; my parents had deceased when I was very young. I simply stowed away on a ship, knowing not where it would take me, only knowing that it was headed to mainland Tamriel. We landed in Anvil, Cyrodiil, and amidst the hustle and bustle on the docks, I managed to slip away almost unnoticed – except for a big brute looking to take advantage of a young Altmer girl. I will never forget the look on his face as he made a grab for me and was stopped short by a paralysis spell."
Mjoll's eyes widened and Gwynne chuckled. "I wasn't so skilled yet; because of my disability, no-one had bothered to teach me adequately. On the contrary, my saviour was a Dunmer mage, Vanikseth. After having assisted me, he asked numerous questions about what my name was, where I came from, if my parents were around – so on and so forth. He was really very concerned. When I pointed at my throat to show him that I was unable to answer, he understood immediately. In fact, he did more than that. With a wave of his hand, I felt a sudden pain in my throat and then a warm tingling. I opened my mouth, and for the first time, sound came out."
A small, happy smile stole across Gwynne's lips at this memory. For a time, Mjoll allowed her to enjoy the recollection before she pressed for her to continue. This was the most she had ever heard her companion say in her presence.
"When I told him that I was alone, he insisted that I travel with him for both my protection and so that we might both have some company. I know what you're thinking, but you would be wrong; his intentions were entirely pure, and I could tell just by looking at the earnestness in his expression that he was a kind soul. He was the first to have actually listened to me… and before I could even speak, no less.
"After we finished his business with the Synod, we joined a wagon train of traders headed to Skyrim, as he wished to assist the College of Winterhold with some research. During the time that we travelled together, he told me much about his life in Morrowind and I soon learned of his mastery of the alchemical art. It was he that gave me the bag; he bartered for it with one of the traders. In the brief time we were together, he taught me the basics of what I know about alchemy. From that time forward, my passion for magic was ignited.
"I say brief because it wasn't that long after we entered Skyrim that we were cruelly torn apart. A group of bandits attacked our camp in the middle of the night. It was a slaughter… I was so blinded by fear, I can scarcely recall how I managed to get away. All I remember was sneaking back to camp a whole day later and coming across Vanikseth's lifeless form. I lost days to my grief… Though I only knew him for a short time, he had given me so much. He had become like a father to me…"
Several minutes passed as Gwynne struggled to contain her emotions. During this time, Mjoll struggled, as well; she didn't know whether it would be appropriate to hug her or not – regardless of the fact that it was an act of comfort.
"Then," Gwynne bravely went on, "when I emerge from my fugue state, I decided to take the little bit of knowledge that Vanikseth had imparted to me about his homeland and set myself on a journey to return his remains to his family. I will spare the details of this journey; it took many years and a devastating emotional toll. Forgive me if I wish to keep it to myself… But when it was over and done with, I felt I had lost my purpose. I latched onto the memory of the place that we had been travelling to together, the place we had never reached: The College of Winterhold. I returned to Skyrim, and of course, I was prevented once again by the minor problem of being arrested and arranged to be executed…
"The gods work in mysterious ways: they grant a mute girl the power of the Voice, and they send the dragon I must slay to save my life – all in a land where I am considered an outsider, and my 'kind' that had once rejected me police the beliefs of the residents."
When Gwynne didn't speak again for a long time, Mjoll surmised that she had finished her tale. She tapped her stirring spoon against the side of the pot to remove the last drops of moisture from it before setting it down. "Thank you for telling me," she murmured. "But… why?"
"Because I love you," Gwynne answered simply, "and I trust you."
Mjoll's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "I… why?"
"My lovely Lioness… You apologize for your cowardice, and yet you are one of the bravest and most selfless people I have met. You pledged your assistance and protection to the people of Riften, though they did not appreciate you (and in some cases, hated you). Though I receive much undue attention for being the Dragonborn and a supposed hero, I could not imagine forgiving the people of my birthplace for the slights they committed against me. You are the one that deserves to have songs sung about your deeds: the lioness protecting her ungrateful brood from themselves and loving them all the while."
Pushing her hair delicately behind her ear, Gwynne bit her lip and held Mjoll's gaze for an uncomfortably long time. Then, slipping out of her sleeping furs, she crawled over to the Nord, caught up one of her stiff hands, and pressed it against her breast. Mjoll could feel Gwynne's heartbeat stutter beneath her palm, and her mouth went as dry as the Alik'r desert.
"Are you seducing me?" she croaked.
Gwynne winced. "Only if it is working. I have… never done this before."
That was all Mjoll needed. She inclined her head and captured the Elf's beautiful lips in a kiss that spoke of all the things that had never before been said between them.
"I love you, as well," Mjoll said as they rested their foreheads against each other's, looking into the other's eyes as if they had never seen them before.
"Good." Then, without further ceremony, Gwynne grabbed the Nord by the shoulders and pulled her over to the bed clothes, and that was the end of talking for the night.
When Mjoll awoke in the morning, it was to the bitter chill nipping at the end of her nose and the warm body wrapped around her own beneath the furs. With a tender smile, she kissed Gwynne's forehead before emerging carefully from their cocoon, aware that the other female would most likely have a headache today and would need further rest.
The first thing she found was the remains of their meal, congealed and blackened into ash in the pot she had left by the fireside. Mjoll frowned; she hated the waste, but she couldn't begrudge the reason for her distraction. In the pit, the coal bed still glowed orange, but thankfully, it had remained contained within the circle of rocks during the night.
By the time Gwynne's eyes opened of their own accord, Mjoll already had most of their gear packed up. As expected, the Altmer was in a mood this morning; Mjoll only received a monosyllabic affirmation to her suggestion that they break their fast at The Frozen Hearth. However, it was apparent by the red staining Gwynne's cheeks and the fondness in her eyes when she gazed upon Mjoll that she had enjoyed last night and that a repeat was most certainly in the cards. Mjoll went about the final preparations with an extra flounce to her step.
If the reason behind Gwynne's reticence was inexperience with talking to others, Mjoll reasoned, then she could surely help her remedy that. The Divines knew that Mjoll could do more than enough talking for the both of them.