Chapter One: Now the War is Over.

Erik I

Erik looked out uneasily across the endless expanse of the Whiterun plains from the back of his horse and sighed, slightly re-adjusting his posture to somehow find a way of making the saddle more comfortable. The plains offered nothing to distract him, a huge rolling expanse of wheat filled farmers' fields bound by rough drystone walls, scattered forests and rolling heather-purpled hills. They were following a meandering dirt track, bound on its left side by a deep, small burn. A family of half a dozen mudcrabs chittering away on its pebbled banks, claws raised in warning at their intrusive passage. The sound of zipping dragonflies hummed in the wind, as all the smells of nature hung on the air of a summer afternoon. The only signs of civilisation discovered by following the scattered tracks from isolated farmer cottages to lonely noble hunting lodges, dotted between the small game-filled copses growing beneath the endless sky.

In his isolation his thoughts turned inwards. If he was honest with himself, he would say that so far becoming the squire of Dragonborn was something he regretted. It was not that he was ungrateful for the opportunity- he had seen the competition for the role. He had assured his father of his desire and had been most genuine in his gratitude when he received the prize-it was the boredom, the unending labour, the ingratitude and the company which had quickly tarnished his esteem for this position. Most of all, he felt a little betrayed and embarrassed at how his father had allowed him to believe this was something it wasn't.

His father had always encouraged his tutors to beat him whenever his half-finished pages of arithmetic were returned, their margins filled with doodled stick figures of bellowing Nordic tongues and terrified, broken Dunmer mixed scraps of quoted doggerel from the epics. His studious brothers and sisters sat smirking in their house's library at how the tables had turned once Erik was out of the training yard. Now here he sat beside a group of legendary heroes. The static predictability of home had bored him. Out here though it was tediousness of a difficult, different sort, like home but twisted. The group always jumping randomly and with whiplash speed from monotonous boredom filled with their childish taunts to sudden, brutally pragmatic, professionalism with a promise of violence at the drop of a hat. An exhaustingly unpredictable experience.

He turned away from the plains, and looked at the broad backs of the riders in front of him, merrily chatting to their neighbours, ignorant of his silent misery. Beyond them, far to the front he could see the backs of Aela and Durag, scouting their route on horseback, weapons to hand.

"Do you want to hear a joke?" the blond man asked the housecarl to his left, looking past her at stream and the clattering claws of its inhabitants.

"No." Lydia grunted through a mouthful of dried meat.

"What about you?" He asked turning the other way, not discouraged in the slightest.

"…. sure." the long-suffering sigh came from the brown-haired man to his right, face shaded by a battered peasants straw hat.

"Why did the mudcrab refuse to share his dinner?" Beren asked his brother.

"…. why?" He shrugged.

"Because he was shellfish!" looking left and right and taking more delight in the agonised expression of his friends than the humourless punchline.

Lydia and Beric both grimaced in pain, shook their heads in weary exasperation and looked away over the empty plains to their sides where Durag and Serana rode a hundred yards out on each flank.

"…I can't believe that after two years of war no-one managed to kill you." Beric grumbled.

"Or that he didn't learn a better sense of humour." Lydia put in, having gulped her food down to get a word in edge-wise.

"He's never learnt anything the hard way that's why. When I joined the Guard, no-one laughed at my jokes. Now, after years in the Guard and the Legion my sense of humour is razor sharp, honed through practice and endless verbal abuse. Beren never learned."

"That's because I'm perfect the way I am. Beloved of the Gods. Blessed. Unique." The blond man said, striking his chest with playful pride, ruddy cheeks glowing.

"We've Mara's mercy to thank for that." Came Lydia's stage whisper.

"Besides, you must have needed to find something useful to do while standing guard on market stalls or waiting for scout reports. Must have been awful." Said Beren, pretended to commiserate.

"Nah wonderful, know why?"

"Why?"

"Couldn't hear your shit jokes."

"Lydia laughs at my jokes."

'She's sworn to carry your burdens, your lack of humour amongst them." He said over his shoulder, head turned and eyes watching the ground to their right.

Beren mulled this over, and raised a finger in mock accusation. "Could be you needed to learn the hard way, it could also be because you're a Praefect now. All that power gone to your head. Isn't it interesting how most important person in the room is also the funniest?"

Beric turned back around briefly "Why didn't anyone laugh at your joke then?"

"He's not that important." Lydia put in with a shrug to keep the argument going as she watching the pair of scouts ahead.

Erik once again stopped listening to their squabbling as it had once again degraded into cheerful yelling at this latest betrayal. He remembered the first time he had seen The Last Dragonborn, almost a year ago. He had come riding hard to the then-Jarl Elisif at her court in the Blue Palace on his road-dusted white stallion to announce the death of Aldiun. Erik had listened from a shadowed corner, entranced word by word of the story that every man and woman present would remember until their dying day.

Of entrapping a dragon in Whiterun, broken and bound with the power of his Thu'um. Bargaining with Odahviing, riding dragonback across the sky to a forgotten Draugr mountain crypt. Fighting single-handed through its unending undead denizens, before taking a hidden portal to Sovngarde. There battling Tsun, God of Trials, on the whalebone bridge. Entering the Hall of Valour to rouse honoured souls from restful revels. Rallying to his cause the swords of countless Nord heroes of old, and finally, slaying Aldiun World-Eater.

It has seemed impossible. In this unheroic age of assassination and civil-war, politicking Jarls and king slaying traitors. Like one of Ysgramor's five-hundred companions had simply sprung to life and walked down from the tapestry in his bed-chamber, Thu'um slipping from his lips, scattering Falmer to flight. Yet there he stood. Stormcrown, Ysmir's Chosen, The Dragon of the North, with the whole Court of Solitude-nobles and ambassadors, soldiers and servants, still and silent. These sober, cold, logical men and women of money and the moment enraptured by the living myth, not a single voice raised in question or disbelief. The cheers that had followed him out of The Palace as they crowded round their hero, bells peeling across the city as people danced crying in the streets as news flowed from the palace like a wineskin. Erik had talked of little else to his father for weeks afterwards, his brothers and sisters crowding round, envious at missing the spectacle which was already being spun into epics. It was then that he had unwitting laid the seeds for his father to send him away.

It had started well enough. It was after the second time The Dragonborn had returned to the court, little more than couple of months ago. Shortly after the fall of Windhelm on the 17th of Mid Year after a nearly three-month long siege, every Jarl, new and old, had gathered in Solitude. First in the Blue Palace for the Moot and then to swear fealty to their new High Queen in the Throne Room following her unanimous election, the Solitude Thanes standing attendance on their Queen to witness the proceedings. His father presented him during the Coronation feast afterwards to The Last Dragonborn, hands resting proudly on his shoulders. They were hardly alone in this; the room was filled with ambitious young men after the Beren's last squire had drowned in the breach during the Siege of Windhelm a few months earlier.

He introduced himself as he had been taught, barely tripping over his words in a rush of nerves as the Dragonborn shook him by the hand, introduced himself as Beren Stone-Strider, asked after his health, his swordplay, his family and then politely took his leave from his father, whisked off by his brother to meet another attendee. Later, his father had asked if he would offer his service to the Last Dragonborn, for despite his low-birth and common manner he was a man of great honour, riches and position, and there was glory, fame and wealth to be won in the service of such a man for himself and his family. What boy did not dream of that? He eagerly accepted.

So far, there had been no wealth, honour or glory. He had expected as the Dragonborn's squire to be wined and dined by eager mobs as they had in Solitude, supping on their finest vintages and good white bread wherever they went as in Solitude. Instead he had spent more time swallowing the bitter dust of the road and drinking in the views. Almost a month on the road, traveling from Solitude to Whiterun, sitting in a rattling cart or else, like now, enduring the thigh-aching eternity of horse-back riding. Always staying close behind the Dragonborn, watching as the terrain slowly changed from the urban bustle of Solitude. Passing from Haafingar's well populated terraced hillside villages, mountain plateaus and valleys to the barren expanse of Whiterun's plains.

They had left Solitude on the first of Last Seed with almost fifty people by his count, mostly carters, teamsters, guards and servants surrounding the core of the Dragonborn's party, not including Balgruuf's detachment who had ridden with them at first. At its heart was Beren and Beric. The two brothers were as alike as chalk and cheese. The younger brother Beren was a Nord's Nord by reputation and physicality. A fierce and skilled fighter with bow, sword and shield as befitted The Harbinger of the Companions. Barrel chested and broad shouldered, tall with his rosy face framed by a pair of warrior's braids in his long blond hair and mischievous blue eyes crinkled by crow's feet. His good humour and constant movement radiated energy and confidence. By comparison the older Beric was a still, melancholy figure. Tall like his brother, his skill was as a battlemage. His blue eyes were keen and cold, a scholar's thirst for knowledge mixed with a soldier's experienced, off-hand brutality. He lacked his brother's muscle mass, thinner though not lanky with a wry strength in his athletic frame. His dark brown hair was a boyish mop growing out of a legionnaire's cut, a style more Imperial or Breton than Nordic.

Around them swirled a large ever-changing group of companions. Riding with them now was Aela the Huntress, a red headed woman from the Companions already famous across Skyrim for her skill as a tracker and archer who frequently rode alongside her husband, where they made a cheerful couple. Meanwhile Beric often spent his time in detailed discussion on money, magic and politics with Serana, a pale, raven haired Nord with pointed features and a rather dark reputation as a necromancer. Erik had been told variously that she came from either Solstheim or the islands to the far north, and was warned to keep his distance from the outwardly friendly through reserved woman, spending his time instead next to Durag or Lydia.

Durag was a limping Orc from some unpronounceable stronghold and an extended and confusing family. He rather fancied himself as an expert on all things mechanical and Dwemer, and would chat with him for hours on these subjects with only the slightest encouragement. He had been particularly proud of his replacement clockwork Dwemer foot that he had created on models sent from a friend in Morrowind. Erik enjoyed the novelty of Durag and time he spent with him even as his eyes watered, as Durag seemed to radiate the noxious smell of burnt hair, grease and oil, odours that seemed baked into his skin and clothes. Finally, there was Lydia, the infamously laconic housecarl in the service of Beren, who took responsibility for training and the repair and maintenance of weapons and armour.

While on the road, he had pestered them constantly for war stories of the last two years to which they offered only awkward, embarrassed reactions and sparse details. He learnt far more when the party clustered around the firepit at night drinking, singing, joking and chatting in their chairs as they poked sticks into the fire. Their conversations filled with references to past events, allusion to now famous battles, in-jokes, obscure or famous people and places, all of which were as fascinating as they were frustrating. He disliked interrupting to asking questions to clarify, as it often slowed or stopped the flow of the conversation.

In this way they had moved sedately in a large train of carts and wagons. With them rising late and stopping early, the Jarl's party had quickly left them far behind at Dragonbridge, moving with Balgruuf's almost indecent haste to get back to Whiterun. The Dragonborn and the rest of his little party instead seemed to thrive in their seemingly never-ending enjoyment of the boringly peaceful road.

He had hoped that that would have changed when messengers suddenly met them on the road, racing hard from Whiterun with the news that Jarl Balgruuf's son had disappeared, presumed kidnapped just days after his father had returned. Snatched from his horse while hunting, the kidnappers demanding a ransom in exchange for his safe return. A messenger had been sent with the ransom demand, the blood-stained parchment wrapped around the boy's severed little finger. Beric had read the note, and the letter from Jarl Balgruuf with a darkening expression, before handing it to his brother with a muttered frown. Beren read the letter to them. A handsome reward was promised for the boy's safe return.

A madness of rushed preparation followed, carts stripped of armour and weapons hurriedly stowed in saddle-bags or placed on the backs of two packhorses. The roughly repacked sedate carts and their large escort ordered away as their small party cut off the main road and into the wild. Sharp swords now sheathed and belted over rust and blood-stained gambeson, worn beneath faded traveling cloaks, jarring cart seats now exchanged for horses ridden with bulging saddlebags. Three exhausting, seemingly never-ending days followed, filled from before sunrise to after nightfall riding horses and listening to dirt-poor peasant-farmers, herders and hunters as he was told to hang back with the pack horses and their minders. Observing from afar at the muffled manner of how they did business-a bribe paid here, a tall tale listened and laughed at, and then serious faces and pointed questions about names, places, numbers as they slowly and steadily built up a picture of the kidnappers- details becoming more and more certain with each step. He felt guilty, he should have been excited but the group seemed determined by unspoken consent to exclude him, and none of this seemed glamourous, or brave, or noble.

He half-heard the shouts and yells up ahead, but it was with a loud "Good Afternoon!" that Erik was snapped out of his thoughts as Beren called out in his common Whiterun accent to presumably another one of the endless peasants making their living on the plains. He shifted his horse round to the left, out of the order of march from behind the others, and saw Durag and Aela had their swords to hand as a hooded and cloaked individual crawled out of the heather bush into which they had jumped in a hasty and poorly thought-out attempt to hide. Beren rode up carefully waiving with his right hand in greeting, seemingly unconcerned by his friends with their drawn swords. His Housecarl Lydia and brother Beric drawing up beside him to his left and right, their own hands hovering over their hilts, while Serana and Durag had reined in waiting on their distant positions. Erik urged his horse forwards before he could be drawn back or forced out, drawing level with the others. He sat beside Lydia, wanting to get a good look this time at the woman they had caught attempting to evade them and missing her subtle attempts to catch his eye.

"Afternoon," the Nord huntress grunted in a Riften accent. He looked at her with curiosity, though she would not meet their eyes. Strung longbow held low at her side, a pack bulged with rabbits on her back as she carefully attempted to pull her cloak free with one hand from where it was caught on a heather branch, causing her hood to slip off her head, revealing dirty blonde hair with a warrior's braid. She was concentrating on her patched and holed cloak, taking far more care for the garment then its wear deserved or implied, its original colours so faded they were impossible to tell. She was too poorly dressed to be a huntress or gamekeeper he decided, and the slightly guilty expression on her sun-tanned face suggested that she had not been expecting this sort of company, a conclusion assisted by her unwillingness to relinquish her weapon and use two hands to free herself. A poacher then, or a bandit! He thought, sizing her up. He felt a rush of excitement as he realised this was the first time he was face to face with an armed enemy, and his hand crept slightly towards his sword, just in case.

"We're looking for a pack of bandits, kidnappers. might be that you've seen them in Halted Stream Camp. A half day's ride northeast of here. Merchant we met said they'd set up camp there three days ago." Beren announced with a smile and an easy manner.

She shook her head. "I don't want any trouble. If people knew I talked to people on the road, might end up badly for me." She mumbled, not looking up as she tugged at the garment.

"Don't want any trouble as in you don't want to tell the truth-So they are there then." Beric interjected, his cold eyes fixing onto her. With a rip her cloak came free and she turned, stumbling away from them. Aela and Durag moved closer in response, surrounding her, swords held low and still, shining in the sun, bringing her awkward stumble to a halt. She turned around again and looked up at Beric to snap back, and instead paled under his glare, though it did not dissuade her tongue.

"They might be, might be that they've moved. 'Suppose it's worth something to you."

Erik felt his rage bubble up inside him at her open contempt of them. A poacher, outnumbered and without escape, back-chatting The Dragonborn, caught red-handed and now trying to shake them down for coin! He kicked his horse forwards and drew his sword with a rasp.

"How about you answer his questions, before we start asking about where you got all that." He poked her pack with the tip of his sword. She reacted quickly, flat of her hand slapping the blade away and dancing out of reach.

Lydia next to him sighed, reach out and grabbed the bridle of his horse, pulling him back awkwardly.

"Stay out of this! Watch and you might learn something." She hissed with unexpected fury. Erik felt himself blushing as all eyes turned onto him.

"My fellow Nord." Beren had pulled out a coin, and was holding the glinting gold in the sun and refocusing attention onto him.

"You're right to worry about those you might meet on the road, it would seem. Pay no mind to the boy." He tossed the Septim to the poacher, who snatched from the air. She bit it enthusiastically, before it disappeared into a grimy fur pouch on her belt. It was doubtless more money than she saw in three months.

Beren dismounted, and moved closer to the woman, patting his snorting horse and chatting away cheerfully as if renewing a long-lapsed friendship.

"Good hunting in these parts?" he asked with an inquisitive look on his face.

"I get by." Looking furtively around her at the close ring of blank-faced riders.

"Where do you go?"

"All over the plains" she grunted now reluctantly returning her attention to Beren.

"How has the war affected you?"

'Fewer guards, more bandits- deserters and the like. Some Stormcloaks from the battle.'

"I was there. I'm surprised the Stormcloaks ran this way."

"They ran all over. Most for home, chased by your Imperial cavalry and a few Breton knights. Some slipped away to raid, never went back." She shrugged.

"And they in turn became bandits." Beren finished for her. She nodded in agreement.

"Most turned to poaching or banditry rather than surrender and be shamed by their families for taking the Dragonborn's mercy. They're desperate, hungry people. Too proud to give up, too scared to go home. Makes it difficult out here."

"Who do you sell to? Out here?" he said looking about curiously at the sparsely populated plain.

"Farmers, a few merchants here and there. Usually I try to make it to Whiterun, the city always needs meat and they pay in coin, at six coppers a rabbit. Whereas most farmers trade in goods and are shrewd misers to boot. Sometimes they set their dogs on me, or tell the local quality after I go."

Beren nodded encouragingly at this.

"Well, we've been on the road for a while now, hunting a few of these bandits. They've become desperate, taken a little boy, cut him up and threatened to do worse if his Dad doesn't pay up. We'll buy a few of your rabbits for our pot tonight for...' he thought a bit, '…six coppers a rabbit, for five rabbits- giving you two silver jarls and six copper thanes." His hand patting a bulging purse which tinkled a merry promise on his belt.

"What about the information you wanted?" She mumbled, seemingly torn between getting a good deal and simply wanting this whole embarrassment done.

"Market price is six in Whiterun as you said, which we match, and you get the gold as well, which we'll say is your price. You get a reason to talk to us, rid yourself of some of your ill-gotten gains, and we forget we ever met you, should the local quality come calling." Beren spoke calmly as he patted Arngeir's nose reassuringly, who was snorting in alarm at a fly. He seemed to speak this sentence without any particular worry, as though commenting on another one of Serana's anodyne observations about the weather. The woman bit her lip and looked up awkwardly at Beric, staring impassively down at her, hand atop his sword. She looked back to Beren nodded, radiating relief and seemingly glad of the chance to end this whole sorry affair.

"they're still there- I sold them a fine elk yesterday, thought they were miners at first. A dozen or more of 'em. Real brutes. Tried to pay me with counterfeit coin at first, and then they short charged me and chased me off. They had a little noble's boy with them, all trussed up in rope." She rattled this off quickly as she dumped her pack on the ground, pulled out the rabbits and snatched the coins out of Beren's hand the moment they appeared.

"Yeah, well we'll take care of that." Beric said with bored off-hand confidence. She looked back up, seemingly to make some sort of retort.

"I believe you will." She replied uneasily, catching his look.

Beric rode up to her and leant towards her from the back of his horse, which caused her to take a step back. He spoke to her in a low, earnest voice. "The Jarl of Falkreath is in need of a few new hunters and beaters, after his last hunt went awry. It might be a good idea to head south for a while, should find some good work this coming autumn with the start of the hunting season and the end of the war. It's a good place to start over."

"I'll do that." She nodded, and hurried away, not meeting their eyes.

She shouldered her pack and slipped quickly through the circle, avoiding their gaze and moving south quickly, not looking back. Lydia released her grip on his bridle and rode her horse away with an angry glare at him. Beren gave Beric a nod, who stirred, then quickly snapped out some orders and the party returned to their positions and left them behind, dirt stirring to dust in the wake of their hooves.

Beren finished administering to his horse and heaved himself up into his saddle and adjusted the reins in his hands. He said nothing, and sat quietly to Erik's left, hovering in his peripheral vision. Erik looked out of the corner of his eye over at Beren. His blue eyes were fixed on him, unblinking and emotionless, his friendly face still. Erik eyes flicked away, his face reddening with embarrassment and touched his feet to his horses' sides, following the others.

Quietly, Erik rode with Beren beside him, who was seemingly in no particular hurry. He felt the presence of him, the calm measuring gaze of the man simply waiting pricking the back of his neck. The distance between themselves and the others, created by the delay in setting off lengthened as their pace lagged. He watched the backs of the others, they were silent now, riding stiffly in their saddles, hands on hilts and heads swivelling as they constantly searched the terrain around them. He turned his head to the right, following Beric's gaze, looking across the plain. Serana was riding over there, and beyond, he had been told that Whiterun lay over the horizon, somewhere to their east. Now just two days ride from their ultimate destination, a hot bath and a good warm bed. He resisted looking to his left, where the quiet rider walked his horse along the dirt track, the horse's hooves turning over the ground, kicking the packed dirt and clattering on loose stones. The day stretched on towards nightfall, punctuated with the low buzzing of bees in the heather.

He felt awkward about the way they had reacted when he had drawn his sword and pushed forwards, the amount of money that had crossed hands to make her forget it. He was luckily, he supposed that she wouldn't even know who they were, so no word of his actions would be attached to the Dragonborn's name, or the bribes he paid to wandering criminals.

Was that lucky? He couldn't understand the hypocrisy of it, they were on their way to fight a band of kidnappers but allowed those who stole the food and property of others go unpunished. Food was not cheap, meat doubly so, and with the damages and dangers of recent times prime farmland was jealously guarded, and skilled gamekeepers in short supply as they fought violent little skirmishes. Yet it seemed that the Dragonborn was prepared to profit from crime when it suited him, and punished it when it did not. He looked at the bulging saddlebags on his horse. The party would hardly have starved without those rabbits.

Perhaps it was a question of survival, not honour, of the practicalities as his father would say. He considered their objective- they were paid to rescue a young boy almost his own age, not fight poachers. Out here, information was power, and that poacher, thought temporarily held prisoner, had held that power, power to force the dragonborn to bargain as he sought to secure the life of another. He was surprised at how mercenary that felt- that the worth of information for the life of another child to Beren was one golden septim, two silver jarls and six copper thanes. He glanced to his left again out of the corner of his eye, slowly turning his head, trying to pass it off as natural movement. There the Dragonborn sat on his white horse, steadily staring at him, looking unimpressed at his inability to meet his eyes.

The group had not treated him as a child in their interactions with him, merely as a stranger who was intruding into their close-knit world. Though not as a squire. They had stored their weapons and armour bound with oily rags in stout waterproof chests, and instead trusted him with only menial chores, and mostly left him look after himself with the other servant boys, telling him to wait, wait for Whiterun. He glanced slightly to his left. Beren was still riding quietly there, and he turned away and fought the emotion from his face.

The silence dragged on, wearing at him. He turned slightly again to glance casually at Beren in the corner of his eye. Unimpressed, red flushed, brows furrowed. Suddenly it all came out in a rush.

"Sir." He began nervously, turning to Beren and looking him full in the face.

"I would like to apologise for the way I behaved, just now." Hoping this would be over with quickly though sensing it was unlikely.

He looked over at Beren fully now. Beren's now unsmiling blue eyes were settled on him, fixed on him. Closer, he could see how crow's feet hugged still hugged them even when the smiles that had put them there had long since faded.

"Why did you feel the need to get involved at all?" Beren asked with a shake of his head, avoiding the apology for the moment.

"I was just…frustrated. Her behaviour was disrespectful, rude. It's not right! There are laws, and she was stealing food…Sir." His complaints trailed off awkwardly, biting back "and you're the Dragonborn" as he realised how pompous he sounded. Erik hesitated, but Beren stayed silent and allowed him to continue, and he continued in a rush.

"It's just…. I'm just trying to help, to understand. I'm here to maintain your weapons, be trained and fight at your side, like your squire did before. I don't do anything." He paused and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Sir, I'm just trying to understand. Why did we pay a bribe to a poacher? If you told her who you were, she would have told us everything to help! Besides, she was obviously guilty and the merchant already told us what we needed." He ended his sentence as Beren's face flashed red.

"At the moment though do you think us taking your views into consideration, us giving you more responsibility is justified?" Beren icily asked him. Erik flushed at this obvious bait and avoided answering. "Think about the bigger picture for a moment- we're here to save a child's life and you want us to make handless beggars out of every starving Stormcloak deserter. How much time do you think we have?"

"Again sir, I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He said, automatically with his head down.

Beren shook his head at that, and for the first time his face reddened with real barely contained anger, and he shook his head fiercely as he snapped at Erik with terrifying intensity. "I don't take that for a fucking second. Why are you sorry, and what for?"

Erik though for a moment.

"I'm sorry for how I acted without thinking…I didn't know how we would handle this. I should have watched and learned as Lydia said, or stayed away like before. I should have considered the bigger picture, as you said." He mumbled this, blinking rapidly and looking away over the horizon. He looked back as Beren mulled this over, and saw that he was still reluctant to let the matter rest.

"What would you have done if things had gone south?"

"Uh…pardon?" he said politely, gulping and trying to settle his nerves.

"If it had become a fight?"

"I would have killed her." He stated with certainty. He had a sword, and on horseback he could have easily ridden her down with the weight of his horse before she could have nocked arrow to bow.

"Have you killed anyone before?"

"No." Erik, embarrassed and awkward at the point-blank question.

"Have you ever seen anyone killed?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The execution of the traitor Jarls. It was just before the Moot." Beren nodded at this.

"What happened?"

Erik hesitated, and then the story came out in an awkward rush.

"The Jarls were led through the city under heavy guard. They were wearing rags, blinking at the sunlight and the jeering crowd. They'd been imprisoned for weeks in the dungeons of Castle Dour, or so my father told me. I was with some of the other local boys, and we were had paid for a good view from the second floor of an apothecary to watch them come into the square. All the Jarls of Skyrim were present to observe. Once they were on the scaffold it was a little too far away to hear what was going on. Captain Aldis read out the judgement of the court. Then one by one they were taken to the block."

"Skald was dragged forwards first, and the crowd was silent. He shouted that Talos was smiling at him and some other things, then the crowd yelled back. Some jeered, some cheered his bravery. He walked to the block, spoke to the executioner and knelt and stretched out his neck. The first blow hit his shoulder and bit deep, and he screamed. The second hit his neck, which killed him though it didn't sever his head. The executioner pulled out his knife, and cut through the rest, and then showed the head to the crowd."

"Then Lahlia? Layla? The woman…she threw up and fainted while watching what happened to Skald. That made it easier for them. They dragged her body to the block, and her head came off in one blow. But it spun like a top and missed the basket, and the executioner chased it around the scaffold like a chicken. People were laughing."

"Then…Kovir?...went mad. He made a fight of it, and was struggling so much that more guards were called. In the end five people were holding all his limbs and the head still. The executioner….it was difficult to get close, to make it a clean blow. It took six or seven blows of the axe. Kovir screaming all the while."

"how did your friends react?" Beren asked, unmoved by the story, his eyes carefully searching Erik's face while his own face sat blank.

"Um…." He thought for a moment. "At the start, we were all yelling insults at the traitors. We cheered Skald's death- he died well. Layla and Kovir were disappointing, they had sent hundreds of people to their deaths, but couldn't face their own. Layla fainted, and cheated the executioner. Kovir, he could have done what Skald did. When that happened Embry threw up and the old apothecary scolded him for ruining her carpets. Vekel laughed a bit. Kanrik just watched."

"How did it make you feel?" Beren's blue eyes were drilling into him now.

"I…I don't really know sir. It was justice, wasn't it? That's the law. It's not nice but that's how things work. 'I was there to witness justice, and remember the price of turning traitor.'" He said with growing certainly, ending with a quote he had heard somewhere before from one of his tutors. Beren scoffed at this.

"Was one of the reasons why you wanted to become my squire to see justice, to enact it?"

"Yes sir."

"Then should I go and get the poacher back so I can cut her head off? So you can? Would that feel like justice to you?"

"I don't know sir." He said, evasive. Beren didn't seem particularly impressed by this, and his face flushed red. He snapped at him.

"You don't know? Why not? You were so eager to wave a sword around before to avenge my honour." He mocked the phrase as it left his lips.

"Sir, it's not the same-earlier the poacher could have fought back honourably, taken her wounds to the front and gone to Sovngarde. The other feels…indecent, like butchery." He argued back.

"Does it make a difference when you're cutting people up? You tried to provoke a fight from an outnumbered defenceless woman whose crimes you condemn, but when she refused to fight you thought her a coward and called for another to kill her all the same. You can choose your fights, to be fair. But once you're committed to the fight, you don't get to choose, it's all butchery. The other two jarls-you should think of their deaths- butchery or execution, that's how soldiers die. Unconscious drowning in the mud, or pulled down into the melee and knifed until their body stops twitching, until one side can't bear it anymore and they break and run. You honour the traitor Skald for going like a lamb to slaughter, and despise Laila and Korir who died who like real people. You can't even remember their fucking names."

Beren had the full measure of his wrath now, veins pulsing in his neck as he let loose, with his anger and rage.

"This isn't real to you, is it? You want a job? Do the one we first gave you. Stay out of the way, and stay alive all the way to Whiterun. When we get to Whiterun, that's when you'll get another chance, another job. But I warn you right now. I give second chances, sometimes even third chances when they're earned. But you haven't. You are on a tight leash, and if you fuck around like this again, that leash will be your noose."

Beren face was vivid red, his hand up and pointing at Erik's face. He waited for Erik to challenge him, to argue back. He didn't, ashamed and slightly confused at this tirade. With that, Beren twitched the reins and cantered his horse away, before things got completely out of hand. Behind him, Erik swallowed and blinked back tears uneasily. Reluctantly he kicked his horse into a canter and followed, careful to keep his distance.

"We camp there!" he shouted to the now distant backs of the others, pointing at a distant woodblock, some six or seven miles away. They reined in their horses and waited for the distance to close. 'Halted Stream camp is on the other side of the ridgeline. It'll be getting dark soon after we get there. We eat quickly, scout it, prove they're there. Then we're to work.'

Author's Note

Thanks very much for reading. This is my first real attempt at writing a story in a long time, although it's something I've been thinking about doing something like this for a while. My intention with this was to take some of storylines from the basic game which I was dissatisfied with and re-work them into a form I was happier with. This should give me an opportunity to practice my writing skills in terms of plot, character arcs etc- the fundamentals of writing.

Chapter 2 is written and will be released on 01/04/2019 which will give me a chance to edit it on the basis of your advice and feedback.

Hey HermitWitch thanks very much for taking the time to review!

I appreciate the feedback with the group- I spent a lot of time tinkering with the dialogue and their interactions. It was interesting writing Beren. He wears his emotions-good and bad- on his sleeve which has won him a lot of allies, and a lot of enemies. He also isn't in the best place right now, which doesn't help.

I'm glad that you enjoyed Erik, we'll get a bit more of a look into the reasons why he was chosen as a squire in the next couple chapters, and the tension that brings within the group. We'll also get a chance to see how his opinions evolve living with them.

Without giving too much away, while the LDB has a lot of power in terms of capability and reputation, he and Beric are not plugged into the structures and organisations of power which would make them long-term players in the way that Erik and his family are.

It will be interesting to see how those themes, their decisions, and the consequences will affect the story. Too often the interactions of personality and politics aren't explored in the depths they could be.

Greywolf93- thanks for reviewing.

Erik is a well-educated and well-polished product of Solitude- brought up by proximity to the refined court of the Blue Palace, the martial aspects of Castle Dour and the songs of the Bard's College. However, he lacks real life experience, and now he's in the care of two formerly orphan boys from the streets of Whiterun.

He's also going to struggle with the realisation that the future is more Cold War than Great War.