A/N: I don't get to play nearly as much as I'd like, but I realized I almost always lean towards subtlety-based characters (ie stealth or speechcraft to get through stuff before swords and sorcery). Decided to change that and play through archetypes. First one was a classic sword and board warrior. Or in this case, an axe-wielding Nord Warrior, played as close to the archetype as possible. I like to immerse myself while I play, and through the eyes of a Nord, Skyrim is a beautiful uplifting place.
As a writer, I often do prompts even when I don't have time to write much else (school + multiple jobs + divorce + moving = very little free time). I did not intend to write about this character, she was just a challenge to myself. Then, around the time I was getting ready to finish the Main Quest, I got this prompt: When I return. And it just struck me, and this is what came out.
Definite one-shot, as I've no real desire to write anymore about this character - everything you NEED to know about her is in this piece. At best I might, after I move on to the other characters, I might do the same with them. Also, I know her name is almost identical to one of the housecarls, I didn't intend it, I meant it to be something else, forgot, and was too lazy to change it.
First put up on the UESP forums, as with any other of my writings, read, review, enjoy.
When I Return
The house stood empty, her footsteps echoing on the floorboards. She remembered another time she had entered it alone, when necromantic horror had filled it. Cleansed of a butcher's work, it radiated warmth, the fire crackling, the wood gleaming, the kitchen wafting roasted deer from her latest kill.
Calder had insisted on fresh meat before she left.
She had sent him to the market, had sent them all out. She needed time, a moment to herself. First to the room that was filled with childhood and light, to lay a length of wood upon the small bed. Then, up the stairs she walked, the leather of her armor creaking, the shield and ax strapped to her clanking. A warrior through and through, she only bothered with stealth when the hunt or strategy demanded it.
Atop the stairs, she stopped before a mannequin. Her hands reached out, and she pulled off a glove to caress the worn leather of the armor it wore. The sash resting on it, fraying from countless battles, matched in color the swirled tattoo on her pale cheek, matched the symbol of her lord. She remembered when she had arrived in Windhlem, young and eager for battle; she remembered kneeling on chilled flagstones, eyes shining as she'd taken her oath to Ulfric.
When she returned, she would finish this war for him. It tore her beloved land apart, and though she wished to be out fighting the oppression, a greater threat called to her. It thrummed in her blood, chanted in her ears, drew her dragon soul to fight. Ulfric would forgive his Stormblade for her absence from the battlefield.
And even if she failed, she had already gained him the upper hand. He might be unhappy with her concession of the Rift, but they could regain it. She could easily take it, when she returned.
Stepping away from the armor, she walked to the rooms, her hand pausing over the weapons found or forged from countless adventures. She strode into her room, shedding her armor until she wore only tunic and leggings. She laid a hand on a book – a telling of the legend of the Red Eagle – and settled into an armchair.
When Vorstag returned from his errand, he found her seated, the book unopened. She smiled up at him, her quick and ready battle smile. How many fights had they endured together? Her ever-ready companion, and she had only one regret – that in the turmoil of war and dragonslaying, she had not gone with him to the Temple of Mara.
He knelt before her, setting aside the book, and she leaned down to kiss him. Though not bound by laws or gods, they'd known comfort in her tent on snowy nights, in tavern rooms after drink and song. When she returned, he'd promised. So she would have something to bring her home again. His lips found hers, and she lost herself in him.
He alone knew how the dragons called to her, had seen the flush when the light of the souls pierced through her flesh, leaving her eyes aglow in the aftermath. He knew the pulse and thrum of battle, the roar of the Voice, the whisper of wings that brushed her soul, the song within her heart.
His arms sheltered her, anchored her when her body seemed too inadequate for the yearning that turned her eyes to the skies. His laughter and thoughtful gentleness were balm to the restlessness.
Below, Calder returned, and she and Vorstag pulled on clothing to join the evening meal. Downstairs, a small body barreled into her, and she smiled down at the girl she had taken in from the lonely cold.
"You're back!"
Behind her, the war hound barked his own greeting.
"Hello, Vigilance. Did the two of you have fun?" she asked, then sat down to listen to the rambling enthusiasm of her daughter.
Calder served the meal, simple but good fare, and she felt her heart swell. This was her family, her home. This was why she was leaving, so that they would be safe. She hoarded the memory, as her soul-kin did treasure, and put it safe where she could reach it when needed.
"It is not right, that you go alone," Calder said, frowning into his ale.
She smiled, and looked at the girl. "Sofie, child, I left a gift in your room." Squealing, the girl didn't realize she had been dismissed, and ran with joy to see her present, Vigilance at her heels. "It is only right that I go alone," she answered, smiling after her adopted child.
"To fight that monster alone? You-"
"It is between us. We are dovah."
Vorstag reached between them to grab the jug. "My Lygia is more than a match. When do you leave?"
"In the morning, after I have visited the temple."
"I'll have your armor ready," Calder said, still stern.
"Yes. And make sure Sofie has a cloak on when she plays outside, Calder."
"Of course, my Thane."
"Oh, Mama, thank you!" Sofie exclaimed, running back into the room, a toy sword in her hands.
She drew her into a hug, and pressed a kiss to her brow. "Of course, child. And Calder will teach you to wield it."
"Won't you teach me, Mama?"
She paused, the ever-ready smile freezing in place. "When I return, I promise." She held her again, pressing the tiny warmth to her heart, inhaling the sweet scent of winter flowers. "Now go to bed, child."
"Yes, Mama…" She did not complain, for Lygia never complained. They were daughters of Skyrim, stone and steel and snow.
Waiting a moment to compose herself, she rose from the table. Vorstag wrapped his arms around her, and Calder cleaned the table.
"I will be waiting for you in Markarth, when you return."
"Like we met."
"Yes. By the fire, roaring with drink. I'll expect a grand skaldic tale."
She shut her eyes, refusing the dampness trying to seep out. His arms tightened, and he pressed a kiss to her temple.
"And after, we will go to Riften. Together."
"When I return.," she said, her voice muffled.
"Yes."
She drew a breath, and pulled away. Calder held out her ornate cloak, a gleaming pelt of a great snow bear. She clasped it around herself, and set out into the night. She passed through the freezing streets, knowing each stone block, each face she passed, for she had fought for them all, had spoken to them all, had made this grey and icy place a part of her.
The wind tried to pull the cloak from her, but she held it tight, held the cold and the night around her body and soul, let it seep into her. She went to the temple, to kneel before Talos. None disturbed her, for they knew why and where she went. She knelt, in candlelight and chilled stone, her gaze drawn up to the god she fought for, the god they had tried to take from her.
Like her, he was born for more. Like her, he had the heart and soul of a dragon, within a fragile yet yearning human form. She stared up at him, pondering his contemplative form. She had always gone into battle with a glad heart, had been taught a fierce joy in fighting. Yet now she felt not that elation, the bloodlust of the dance of strength and skill.
Now, she felt a whirlwind in her mind. She felt doubts swirling as though they were carrion birds intent upon the corpse of her courage. If she failed, what would she lose? If she failed, what would fall with her? Yet there was much to return for – Vorstag and Sofie, Calder and Vigilance, Ulfric and Skyrim.
The dragon call pulled at her, and she knew the truth of the World-Eater's derision. She was less than them, her body weak. And yet, how many had she killed? How strong was her soul, her Voice? She had learned from Paarthurnax to contemplate the ice and the wind and the sky. She was Dragonborn, like Talos before her.
And like him, she would walk the path of fate. Staring at his form, as the hours of the night passed, she felt the whirlwind die down. A sense of stillness entered her mind, and she was aware of the hard stone beneath her knees, the ice that seeped into the fire of her soul. Peace filled her, a quiet tranquility and sense of purpose alike to the visage of her god.
When dawn came, she rose and swept from the temple. Through the gates and across the bridge, until she came to the stables. There, Calder was waiting, and in the calm of the morning light, he aided her in donning her armor. He had filled her pack with the things she would need, rations and potions. She mounted her war horse, and looked down at Calder.
She smiled, not the battle-ready smile of joy, but a sorrowful tug at her lips. "Keep the hearth warm for me, Calder. When I return, I expect a feast."
"Of course, my thane."
She turned from him, and kicked her horse into a gallop. She wanted to ride hard, to feel the wind bite her cheeks as though in flight. The road passed, the horse's hooves eating up the distance. The sun rose, but could not melt the frost that coated her mind and her heart. It shielded her from fear, from doubt, from sorrow. Her eyes drank in the evergreens she had hunted in, the bleak crags and peaks of the mountains that shielded her, the shape and lay of the land. This was her home; from Skyrim she had come, to it she would return.
And she would protect it, from the World-Eater, from the oppressors, from the elves. They could not know what she did, the joys of hunting through the forests, the comraderie of work in the fields in the harsh, unforgiving ground. They could not know that beneath the frozen wastes, the icy crags, the chill forests was the heat of forge and fire, the roar of drink and song and laughter after a day's labor. They saw barbarians, mortals, chattel – she knew their heart, their spirit.
She would die to defend it. She would face Alduin, would turn from her hearth and home to challenge him. She wrapped that knowledge, that love, that duty around her like the bearskin cloak. She forged armor of her lover, her child, her liege, and her land, holding those memories close so that when the time came, she would have the strength.
Riding hard, she came to Whiterun. Through the gates she walked, ignoring the calls and greetings of its citizens. She strode into Dragonsreach, and to the dragon that she had bound to her will. She gazed into the molten eyes of Odahviing. She knew the dragon song that pulled at both their hearts, so wild and strong. It was a song in the silence that only dovah knew, only those with the Voice could understand.
She commanded the soldiers to release him, and when he had stretched his wings, she settled her hand on his snout. This would be an ending, of the past, of the person she was. There was no going back from this; the world, the war, and her soul would be forever changed. An ending, the end of a chapter, maybe even the story.
"I am ready."