The key to Breezehome tumbled from Lysanor's cold, bloodstained fingers for what seemed to be the fifteenth time in a row. She ground her teeth and fumbled for it in the dark, fingertips scraping along the stone doorstep. Of course. She could descend from Sovngarde and crawl all the way back to Whiterun, bloodied and battered, but she couldn't open a godforsaken lock.
She could have wept for relief when the door finally creaked open. It was dark inside, and the air was stale, dusty. The place must not have been touched for months. She hobbled forward, placing her torch in a sconce. Sure enough, everything was just as she had left it: bare, aside from the occasional chair or weapon lying around and the plethora of chests lined up against the back wall. Lysanor limped to the chair nearest to her, setting the lantern down beside it. She slipped the shield off of her back and painfully lowered herself into the seat.
"Oh, Divines," she mumbled to herself. A jolt of agony rushed through her tired legs, followed by painful pinpricks. Her foot twitched feebly. She really should have stopped somewhere on the way from the Throat of the World. She had just been so desperate to get home.
When her legs stopped quivering she hauled herself up again. The back of the chair was smeared with blood. Ah, well. It was wood. She could clean it off later. Lysanor dragged herself over to the chests, cursing herself for placing them in the corner, and knelt by one. She untied satchel after satchel from her waist and haphazardly tossed them in. Finally, she emptied most of her coin purse into the chest and stood, hobbling back to the door. She only needed to go a little further before she was home. She gritted her teeth, grabbed her torch, and walked out of Breezehome.
Skyrim's grandest mead hall, thankfully, had no keys and no locks. All she had to do once she was at the entrance was push open the door and walk in. She collapsed heavily against the door, though, resting her forehead against the wall. The stairs to Jorrvaskr had proved a challenge-the wet warmth trickling down the back of her leg made it likely that she had left streaks of blood all the way up-but she was here. Finally. It was over.
Lysanor shook herself out of it when she felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes. Enough sentiment. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and shuffled inside.
The first thing that she registered was warmth, and flickering orange firelight, washing over her and surrounding her. The next was the scent of spiced mead. When she finally mustered up the energy to look around, she realized the hall was almost entirely empty, save for a dark figure in a chair on the corner. She squinted as the figure stood and approached her.
"Lysanor?" he whispered disbelievingly. Ah. There was only one man who could sound so hopelessly Nordic with just one word.
"Vilkas," she said, laughing a little despite herself and forcing herself forward a few more steps. "It's so good to hear your voice."
He half-ran to her, stopping a few feet away and gaping. "You…we were sure that you…that you wouldn't…" For once, he was at a loss for words.
"Me too. Can you…?" Lysanor gestured weakly to the chairs in the center of the hall. He stared at her for a moment longer before seeming to snap out of his bewilderment.
"Yes, yes, of course." He slipped an arm around her shoulders and grasped her elbow, helping her hobble down the steps and into one of the chairs. Lysanor took a deep breath. She could relax now. "Are you alright to stay here for a minute?"
"Give me a bottle of mead and I will be."
Vilkas managed a weak smile past his look of astonishment. He reached across the table and opened a bottle for her, placing it in her hands. "I'll be back. Just…hold on."
He all but ran off. Lysanor watched him go and then took a long drag of mead. Warmth rushed through her, from her belly to her worn, frostbitten fingers. She sighed and let her head loll back.
She had only gotten a few moments to relax when she heard excited voices from the living quarters, followed by shouting and footsteps. She turned her head. Vilkas rushed back in first, with Athis and Ria quick on his heels.
"She is back! Oh my God, Lysa!" Ria was still in her nightclothes, her hair and eyes wild. She pushed past the men to stand in front of Lysanor, who painfully rose to her feet. "No, no, sit down. You look terrible. Oh, Gods, I can't believe you're alright!" Ria wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a quick and strange half-hug.
"I wouldn't say that," Athis muttered. Lysanor looked up at him. "You're bleeding all over the floor."
All four of them looked down. Lysanor had been right; her leg was bleeding everywhere. Someone would have to clean the steps to Jorrvaskr in the morning. "I think there's an arrowhead or something lodged in there. It bleeds when I walk."
"Go get some bandages before she bleeds out," Vilkas ordered to nobody in particular. Ria gave Athis a dark look, still holding on to Lysanor's shoulders. He rolled his eyes but swept off without a complaint. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No. I'm fine." She took one more deep breath, a twinge of pain rippling across the new burns on her ribs. A new voice chimed from the other end of the hall, just past the staircase.
"Is it true, then? You've slain Alduin?"
Lysanor scrambled to her feet at the sound of his voice, resting as much of her weight as she could on her right leg. Kodlak limped slightly-an injury, she had discovered, that he had borne in his youth-but his strides were quick and long as he approached. She bowed her head to him.
"Yes, Harbinger."
Ria gasped softly, though she must have known the answer. Kodlak placed a hand on Lysanor's shoulder.
"Sit, lass." She sat. "You have brought peace to Skyrim. This…you will not soon be forgotten."
"Thank you," she murmured, keeping her eyes down.
Athis hurried back into the room before Kodlak could say anything more. He leaned over, roll of bandages in hand, and peered at her leg.
"Maybe we ought to get her downstairs. Wash that up a bit." A quiet murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"Come on, Lysa," Ria said, grasping her arm. "We're going to fix you right up. Don't worry."
Lysanor wasn't sure it was possible for her to be any less worried. She was home, surrounded by her Shield-Siblings, and she had no more prophecies to fulfill. What was there to worry about? Still, she didn't have the energy to say all of that, so she allowed the others to help her up without a word. With all the hands on her helping her along, she was more being dragged than walking down the hall. A harrowing trip down the stairs later, Lysanor was neatly deposited inside the first bedroom where she, Njada and Ria used to sleep.
"Someone should get some water to wash that with," Vilkas said. Everyone turned back to Athis, who sighed and dropped the roll of bandages before leaving. Lysanor slowly looked at the faces surrounding her. There weren't enough people.
"Where is everyone?" she asked.
"Farkas took Njada and Torvar on a job. Aela and Skjor…" Ria paused. "Hm. I'm not sure, actually."
"Must be on a job too," Vilkas muttered. Lysanor didn't miss the brief, disappointed glance he exchanged with Kodlak before turning back to her.
"Why are you asking us questions? We should be asking you! You've been away for so long, Lysa, you have to tell us about all the things you've done." Ria sat on the bed that was beside her, leaning in with a bright, earnest smile.
Lysanor swallowed. She couldn't possibly imagine condensing the past few months of terror and pain and tiredness into a few minutes' explanation. But she supposed she had to try. So as Athis returned with water and Ria took on the job of wresting off her boot and setting to work replacing her bandages, she explained as much as she could; the Greybeards, Alduin, the Elder Scroll, Sovngarde. A lot of it they seemed to already know. Word of the Dragonborn's struggles travelled fast, it seemed. Just as she was wrapping up her story (and Ria was wrapping up the last of her wounds) the sound of footsteps approaching echoed through the hallway.
"What's going on in there? Vilkas?" Lysanor felt a faint smile curve up her lips. What a relief to hear her sister's voice again.
"It's Lysa. She's…she's back."
"What?" That was Skjor. The small crowd around her was pushed aside and the two members of the Circle stood at the foot of her bed.
"By the Gods," Aela murmured, her eyes wide as they flickered over her. "Are…are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"So you…did you…?"
"She just finished telling the story," Ria almost-whispered, looking up at Skjor. "She killed Alduin."
"The World-Eater?" He slowly shook his head. "By the Gods. You really…"
There was a brief silence as everyone took the situation in. Finally, Ria put down the bandages and patted her knee.
"That's about as much as I can do. You go and see Arcadia in the morning, okay? She'll fix you up."
"I will," Lysanor murmured. Vilkas cleared his throat.
"You look exhausted. We'll let you get some rest." A murmur of agreement spread through the room as the others rather reluctantly stood. They trickled out of the room, whispering "goodnights" and "welcome backs." Kodlak lingered in the doorway for a moment.
"You have brought honor to yourself and to the Companions," he said. "We are...immeasurably proud of you."
Lysanor bowed her head.
"Goodnight, Lysanor. Ria." He nodded to them both, slipping out of the room. Ria gave Lysanor a warm smile from her spot on her bed.
"Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? I can get you some food, if you're hungry."
"I'm okay. Thank you, Ria," Lysanor said softly. "You should get some sleep."
"You get some sleep. You look half dead." She looked her over, her eyes softening. "Let me know if you need something, okay?"
"I will." Ria gave her one more bright smile and leaned over, blowing the lantern out.
She lay in the dark, drifting in and out of a watery sleep that left her with burning eyes and a throbbing headache. Despite every ache in her body, though, she was more relaxed than she had been in a long time.
When it seemed she had been lying down for an appropriate number of hours, and also when her legs were willing to function again, Lysanor shifted and slid her feet off the side of the bed. She rested some of her weight on the balls of her feet. A twinge of pain shot through her calf, but other than that, it wasn't too bad. Seemed to have stopped bleeding, too. She stood and hobbled over to one of the washbasins in the room. It took several minutes to wipe away the grime and blood from her face and hands. Lysanor looked down at herself and grimaced. She had been in the heavy wolf armor granted to her by the Circle for weeks now, maybe more, without changing. Where was her change of clothes? Oh, right. Back in Breezehome. She sighed.
Lysanor crept back to the beds, where Ria was fast asleep. "Ria," she whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. "Ria."
"Hm?" Ria mumbled sleepily. "Lysa? What's the matter?"
"Do you have a change of clothes?" Lysanor said, not sure why she was whispering but doing it anyway. "I want to go down to Arcadia's."
"Oh, yeah, sure. Just look in my chest." She waved at the wooden container sitting next to her bed. "You want me to come with you? Might be hard to get all the way down to the Plains District."
"No, that's okay. You go back to sleep." Lysanor rummaged through Ria's rather disorganized chest, pulling out a crumpled grey frock. That should work. Tossing the garment onto Njada's bed, she stood and tried to unfasten her breastplate, wincing.
"Here, let me help." Ria hurried to stand and pull the armor off of her. She helped her wrest off her gauntlets and greaves, then the cotton garments that had been under her armor. The dress was a little loose, but it wasn't bloody and torn, and so it was good enough. Lysanor picked up her clothes and armor, tossing most of it on her bed and grabbing her coin purse from her bedside table.
"Sure you don't want me to come with you?"
"Yes. I'll be back soon, don't worry."
"Alright." Ria pulled out her own armor from her chest, blatantly ignoring Lysanor's orders to go back to sleep. "Be careful with those stairs. It would be a shame if you tripped and snapped your neck after all that trouble you went to."
"Yes, a shame," Lysanor chuckled, shuffling out the door. Though her leg wasn't bothering her quite as much as the night before, going up the stairs was still a challenge without half of Jorrvaskr helping her. Outside, Whiterun was already illuminated with the dim morning light and she could only see a few people walking around. Good. The less people she had to explain the story to again, the better. Taking care not to get blood on the steps to Jorrvaskr again, she hobbled down into the Plains District.
It was still too early in the morning, it seemed, for most people to be up and about. The market was empty save for a few guards, some of whom were still holding up their torches. Lysanor stopped at the entrance of Arcadia's Cauldron and tried the doorknob. Locked. She squinted up at the sky. It couldn't be that much longer until the shops opened up; Arcadia could afford to miss a little bit of sleep. She shifted her weight from foot to foot again and knocked firmly on the door. "Arcadia?"
Silence. She knocked again.
"Yes, I'm coming!" Arcadia called from inside. There was a series of metallic clanks and clicks as she unlocked the door, and then Arcadia's haggard face appeared.
"Good morning, Arcadia. Can I come in?"
Arcadia's tired eyes swept over her, taking in her bedraggled, bloodied state. She finally glanced up at her face. "Lysanor. You…you look awful. Come in."
The door widened enough for her to slip inside, then Arcadia shut and locked it again. Lysanor leaned heavily against the counter, careful not to knock over any potions or expensive ingredients. Her leg was bothering her again. "I'm sorry to bother you so early," she said. "I just needed your help, and…well, I didn't want to stand outside until you opened." Or climb back up the steps to Jorrvaskr.
"It's alright." Arcadia rubbed her hands across her face to wake herself up, then smoothed her hair back. "I take it you just got back, then? You look dreadful." She squinted at her. "You look like you have Ataxia, actually."
"I don't think so. But there's plenty wrong with me," Lysanor muttered.
"Uh huh." Arcadia looked her over, a faint grimace crossing her face. "Well, why don't you sit down inside and I'll see what I can do." She paused to collect a few vials and jars as Lysanor shuffled over to the back room and sat on a stool. "You're not dying, are you?"
"I don't think so."
"Alright. Just making sure." Arcadia followed her into the room and heavily lowered herself into a seat opposite her. "Let's see now…" She leaned forward, gently tilting her chin up and squinting at her and mumbling to herself.
"So," Arcadia said absently, pulling back the neck of her dress to look at the burns there. "Heard you rode on a dragon's back all the way to Sovngarde. You're going to have to take that off, by the way."
Lysanor stared at her. Arcadia leaned back, reaching for the shelf behind her and arching a brow.
"Not all the way there," she finally murmured. She stood up, pulled the dress over her head with some difficulty and balled it in her lap.
Arcadia chuckled.
"Where did you even hear that?" Lysanor asked.
"Whiterun's been keeping tabs on you these past few months. You've become a bit of a legend." She smiled, popping open a vial of a strong-smelling, orangey fluid that stung when she dabbed it on her torn skin.
"I…see."
Arcadia continued smoothing the liquid over her skin in relative silence, thankfully not pushing for any more details about her trip to Sovngarde. It occurred to Lysanor that Arcadia was probably quiet not because she respected her desire for privacy-which was rare enough in Whiterun as it was-but because she already knew the gist of what had happened. Ah, well. At least that meant there would be fewer questions. Once the cuts and bruises had been dealt with, Arcadia had her lie back to look at the wound on her calf.
"Oh. Looks like you've got something stuck in there." She stood, grabbing some sort of tweezers from the shelf. "This might hurt a little. Nothing a warrior like you couldn't handle, of course."
It did hurt, but the Dragonborn probably wasn't supposed to moan or scream when getting a wound cleaned out, so Lysanor did her best to keep her mouth shut. The wound, and others, were quickly wrapped up with new, nicer bandages; her dislocated shoulder was sort of fixed; and the painful burns on her torso were smeared with a cream that Arcadia insisted would leave her without any scars. Once the dress was back on, Lysanor followed Arcadia back into the front of the shop.
"This is for that cut on your leg there. It's pretty deep," Arcadia explained, handing her a few small vials of reddish fluid. "Drink one a night after you eat supper. Should do wonders for that Ataxia, too. You should be feeling better soon enough."
"How much do I owe you?" Lysanor reached for her coin purse, but Arcadia stopped her.
"Nothing this time."
Lysanor stared at her. "Arcadia…"
"It's fine. This is the least I can do." Noticing her hesitation, Arcadia leaned over and touched her hand. "Really."
"Alright," she said finally, tucking the bottles into her satchel. "Thank you."
"Thank you," Arcadia replied with a small, wry smile.