It had been two days since the blonde woman approached Bjorn in the Bannered Mare. The day had begun normally enough, a routine visit to his home in Whiterun after a long drive out to Riften. The weather was mild by Skyrim's standards, but any Nord could catch the warnings of Winter on the autumn wind. Nirn herself seemed to have submitted to the thumping knell of death, condemning all her children to suffer the cost of man's transgressions. Even the soil, scorched with war and stained with blood, rebelled against the farmer's touch, making the greenest thumbs feel unwelcome. Determined not to spoil his homecoming, Bjorn pushed such thoughts away and greeted the morning sun with a verse from "the Dragonborn Comes," a song hot on the tongues of bards in the recent months.

Bjorn spotted Skulvar leaning against one of the large wooden beams that supported the Whiterun stables and respectfully cut his butchery of the song short. Not that the old ostler would have noticed. Skulvar's eyes were blank with reflection, staring somewhere far beyond the sky-piercing mountains. Skulvar breathed in the cool morning air, immune to the smell of horse dung, and returned to the world of the living. The ostler allowed himself a small smile when he finally caught sight of his friend.

"Bjorn! Survived another glorious ride up to Riften?" Skulvar's strong voice easily traveled the distance between them. "I hope the baskets made their way up to the Skooma Dens unharmed."

"Fah! I see that your sense of humor hasn't withered with old age, my friend."

"Stop cowering behind that cart an' you'll see there are plenty o' things that haven't withered in my old age."

Bjorn chuckled in turn, knowing how short that row would be. Years of hard labor and the occasional swing of the axe had kept Skulvar's sinewy arms in top form. Anyone who had truly known Skulvar, however, could see that his joints weren't holding up the way that they used to and tasks which had once been mundane were now performed with strain and tension.

"How's the old dung heap holding up?" Skulvar continued, never ashamed of his deep seated hatred for Riften's thieves, layabouts and lovey dovey Mara worshipers.

"Smelly an' rotten as always. And infested with insects."

Skulvar's raspy chuckle was quickly replaced with the frown he had worn before the exchange of pleasantries. It was unsettling to see someone who was always so cheery and focused furrow his brow in worry, but Bjorn knew better than to press the issue. A Nord's pride was second only to breathing and honeymead. If he didn't tell you what was on his mind from the start, then it wasn't any of your business.

Bjorn eased himself off his cart, well aware of his own aging, and limped over to the cart's rear. Long rides were never easy on the back and turned even the most seasoned legs to mush. Bjorn reached into the cart and freed the trunk that held his coin from its restraints with an old bronze key he hid within the folds of his tunic. As Bjorn dug up the ten Septims that Skulvar charged to care for horse and cart, Skulvar's voice lightened up once again, even if his expression didn't follow.

"Ya know I should pay you just for the chance to care for that beauty of a horse o' yours, Bjorn."

"Well, we can't all have your legendary business sense, my friend."

Bjorn tied a tiny length of rope around the mouth of a soft, leather coin purse and tossed it over to Skulvar, who didn't even bother counting. Skulvar weighed the purse in his hand and cocked his head in surprise. Bjorn walked in close, to avoid shouting over the wind.

"A little extra...for the boy."

Skulvar nodded and set the purse on the ground, turning to frown at Jervar's lazy shoveling. The frown was met with an indignant scowl that would have earned Jervar a good bludgeoning if his father wasn't with a customer.

"Not that he's earned an ounce of it."

Bjorn grunted in affirmation.

"Well, old friend," Skulvar said, placing a hand on Bjorn's shoulder and forcing the taut muscles of his face into a warm smile, "you've spent more than enough time here entertaining the flies. Get home to that girl of yours. She's nearly exploded with excitement. Same way she always does whenever you're a day away." Bjorn warmed at the thought of his daughter's shining face. He returned to his cart and moved his coin and other valuables into a small leather knapsack.

"Wind be on your back, brother," Bjorn said as he hoisted the knapsack onto his shoulders.

"Aye. Talos guide you."

Bjorn found himself troubled as he climbed the path up to the gates. Skulvar's lack of protest to the extra coin was a bad sign. Just a year ago, Skulvar would never have accepted any form of charity, even if it came on a silver platter from the Jarl himself, and Bjorn would have known better than to offer. So much had changed since the civil war started. Since Ulfric and his damned Stormcloaks started their thrice-cursed campaign.

The guardsman's mustard yellow raiment caught the morning sun, blinding Bjorn as he approached the large gates of the hold. He hailed the guardsman with a quick wave and, after a routine fit of shouting between the guard and the wheelmaster, the gates slowly began to open. The iron that reinforced the base of the plain, but sturdy, twin doors scraped against the loose dirt and stones that had freed themselves from the surface of the road.

Bjorn always had to brace himself whenever he watched the gates open. Everything that he loved, everything that made any sense in this war-torn world, lay just beyond this great wooden portal. The crawling gates revealed, bit by bit, the perfect portrait of an autumn morning in Whiterun. The perfect portrait of home.