I told myself I wouldn't return - and yet, there I was. Whiterun stood as tall as ever; Dragonsreach still bore signs of the siege and the part of the wall we broke through was still being mended. The wind in the plain was cold and my feet ached. I needed the rest. I walked into Whiterun's gates and, at this time of night, I was surprised I didn't get yelled at by the guards - but they knew me.
"The Dragonborn! Call the Jarl-"
"No," I told him. I felt my stomach grumble and my eyes were barely able to focus on the guard's orange helmet. I reached into my pocket to get a couple of gold pieces. "Don't tell anyone," I told him, handing him the gold and throwing a small purse at the other guard.
"Not a word, Dragonborn," he said after some confusion, opening the gates to Whiterun's quiet streets. When I entered, it was as though nothing much changed. While the walls and the castle may have still held on to the signs of the Stormcloak's siege on the city, the city itself seemed normal. The Drunken Hunstman was boarded up (no surprise there) and the Warmaiden's forge didn't burn through the night, but everything still felt like home. I had spent my last few months sleeping in cots inside crowded tents and on snowy, grassy or rocky floors. To be back in Whiterun – to come back to Breezehome – felt like the first thing to happen to me that I deserved.
I made my way up the street and, to my right (finally), was Breezehome. I could hear wolves howling from Jorrvaskr, the Companions singing their nightly songs. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that there was smoke rising from the chimney and that there was a shadow moving across the light that came from inside. It was her.
I stood in front of the door for a good minute, maybe even longer, before I knocked. I don't know why I hesitated. I could feel my heart racing as soon as I heard footsteps – her footsteps – coming closer and closer to the door. And when it swung open, the look on her face made every wound I had gotten in this icy land worth it. "Dragonborn," she said.
My mouth had dried up, I couldn't even swallow. She just stood there, look on her face and everything.
"Have you forgotten my name already?" I asked.
She flashed a smile my way and retorted: "You haven't changed. Come in, Dragonborn."
And when I entered, I felt myself transported back a few months ago, to the first time she opened Breezehome for me, to the first time I slept on the cozy bed upstairs. It felt right to be here.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. There was no stew over the fire nor food on the table, she had just eaten. "I could get something from-"
"No, it's alright. I've eaten-"
"Yes, but you must have been walking all day-"
"It's alright-"
"I insist-"
"Lydia." She stopped. She was facing one of the shelves, her back turned to me. I can only imagine what she was feeling when she heard her name come out of my mouth for the first time in what felt like a whole age. I can only imagine what her face looked like. I can only imagine. "I've already eaten."
She turned to face me, expressionless. "Do you want to sit down?" and so I did. She sat down beside me. The last time we were here together…
The fire was roaring and Skyrim's nightly cold wind was finding its way into Breezehome through the cracks. It didn't feel like the desert – not anymore, anyway. I couldn't feel the grains of sand on my feet through the lit embers of the fire, I couldn't feel the desert's howling wind come in from under the door. All I could feel was the cold. I could remember how many days I was away from the sands.
Without knowing it, we had been sitting there for a few tense minutes, until-
"Why are you here?" she asked.
I had rehearsed my answer to this. Anything I had rehearsed, any pretense I pretended, flew out as soon as I saw her: "I couldn't leave without…"
"Oh. You're leaving."
"Yes."
"For good?"
"My job is done."
"What?"
"Alduin is dead-"
"-so I heard-"
"-You're free to worship-"
"-I was always free to worship-"
"-Your people have won-"
"-They are not my people-"
"-They're Stormcloaks-"
"-I'm not a Stormcloak-"
"-They're Nords-"
"-So too were the Imperials." She didn't avert her gaze from me, but I looked away and stared at the fire. I can't recall ever hearing her talk to me like this. We had always spoken in mutuality, with grace and peace always between us. It was never like this. I was no longer her Thane. I shouldn't be surprised. Hers is a flame that I had relegated to being a mere companion and steward of a house – of a home. This fire felt familiar. I could feel the desert in her. I tried to lighten the mood: "Where do you work now?"
"I still serve the Jarl at Dragonsreach," she answered. "Why are you here?" She was serious, and I knew I couldn't avoid her question.
"I came to say-"
"No. That's not it."
"What?"
"When you left-" she went over to the door and got the axe hanging from the top of the doorway "-you gave me this. This axe that Balgruuf gave you as your symbol of office. This, Dragonborn, was left here. When you left it here, you left your title of Thane and you left Breezehome. You have no connection left to this city, nothing left to leave behind. Again, I ask: Why. Are. You. Here?"
I was silent. I couldn't keep my eyes fixed upon her, try as I might. It took a minute, but I was able to answer. "That's not true."
"What isn't?"
"You said I had no connection left to Whiterun. That isn't true."
"You left the axe, you left Breezehome, you left Balgruuf rotting in a cell in the palace. What else could you have left behind here?"
I had to do it! I wanted to scream it at her, but I couldn't find the courage. The Redguard that united Skyrim and shouted down the World-Eater was muted by his former housecarl. All I could do was look, all my courage could muster was not look away as she held the axe that I had left her all those months ago. I looked into her eyes and all I could see was fire. I looked at her, attempting to communicate and being unable to say or do anything but look at her and think.
She must have understood, at the least, in part. You, damn you, I was thinking. She put the axe down next to her chair and took her seat. "You lie."
"I'm not lying," I replied, finding my voice. "I couldn't leave the first time without-"
"You still left. Farewell or not, you left." She was still staring at me. Nothing I could say or do can make her avert her gaze.
"I had to-"
"I know!" she kicked the fire, hitting a tiny log that crumbled into tiny embers as it hit the wall. "I know you had to. But you still left. And now you're going to leave again?"
"Yes. I'm off to the sands. I wasn't… I left Solitude nights ago. Everywhere I went, I was greeted with thunderous applause. 'The Great Uniter, Savior of Skyrim, Keeper of Talos, Alik'r in Sovngarde.' Every title they could bestow, I was given. I took their wreaths and flowers and honors, I bowed my head and, in the middle of the night, I snuck out and left. I was heading east when… when I… I couldn't leave."
"You could be in High Rock, on your way to the sands-"
"But I'm not. I couldn't leave. Whether it was the Gods or a Daedra, I couldn't leave knowing that… that I wouldn't… that I wouldn't be able to see you again."
I swallowed the gravity of my words as I said them. She averted her gaze, and the fire seemed to die out, if only for a second.
"Why are you here?"
"What?"
"That's not it, Dragonborn."
"What do you-"
"You've said it. Goodbye. I've been with you through battle after battle, through caves and dungeons. That's not it. I know you. Can you say the same?"
I sat there hearing those words repeat in my head. Can you say the same? She was right. She was always right. I had treated her as nothing more than just a companion, a steward, a housecarl, never even considering that she has a name with a history behind it. I didn't know her anymore than I know the sands I left when I was barely old enough to grip a scimitar. There was nothing left for me to do, nothing left to say except for those three words that I dread the answer to: "Come with me."
"What?"
"Hear me out. I don't know the sands anymore than you do-"
"Nonsense-"
"I left Hammerfell when I was young. I've been counting the days since I left and they're almost too many for me to even know. I've spent more moons away from Hammerfell. Going back to the desert would be like an adventure – for both of us. I'd like you to come with me."
She stood up from her seat and went over to sit at the bench by the kitchen. She sat there, looking at me. "That's why?" she said.
I nodded. The fire was dying out. "What say you?" I asked.
"You already know."
What seemed like an eternity passed between us. The fire still crackled, yet its light was diminished. Outside, the wind howled louder than ever, never ceasing. The windows were still fighting, smashing against the cold.
"You must have known."
"I did. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if…"
I couldn't take it anymore. Even remembering this feels like a burden too heavy to bear. I knew her answer. I knew it in my bones, but I still asked. The stakes were too high not to. I fixed my hood – for all my years away from the sands, I could still smell the desert in my hood and yet, on that night, it disappeared - picked up my scimitar and headed toward the door. I tried to slow my walk as much as I could, stopping by the mirror near the door to adjust my hood a second time, but no word came from her mouth. I looked back to see her staring at the dying fire. As I gripped the doorknob and started opening the door, she spoke: "You could stay." I closed the door and the fire, egged on by the wind, burned brighter. The blaze illuminated her face even from this distance. A hint of a smile was caressing her cheeks.
"You said it yourself, Dragonborn. You don't know the sands anymore than I do. But you know this land and this land knows you. This land celebrates you. It loves you. For generations after you pass, boys will still bear the name of an Alik'r." I moved closer to the fire. She got up and stood opposite me, with the fire and the cold wind between us. "What say you?"
Every day since, I regret having said no. But my heart called out. It yearned to feel Hammmerfell's wind, to feel the sand grip my bare feet. I couldn't say yes.
"You must know my answer," I said.
"I do. But I couldn't live with myself if…"
Stop. No more, Gods be merciful, no more. All of this, the fatigue, the hunger, the aching, was too much. I turned around and walked to the door, this time I didn't slow down. I was about to grip the doorknob when-
"Alik'r!" I turned around to see her rushing toward me. Nordic rage what it was, I half-expected her to punch me, but nothing of the sort happened. She flung her arms around me and I gripped her tight in return. I could feel myself welling up, but nothing came out. In cold nights, it is this embrace that I remember to keep me company when nothing else in Tamriel makes sense. She let go, and I saw only the shadow of her face against the fire. No tears tonight, not for a Nord with a reputation to uphold. Even in the sanctuary that her own home provides, no weakness must be shown.
"You really won't come with me?" I asked.
"I hate sand." I chuckled. "You really won't stay with me?"
"It's too cold." She smiled. I can still remember that smile. To this day, I still see it everywhere in the sands. "Farewell then, Lydia."
"Farewell, Alik'r."
I stepped out of Breezehome for the final time that night. The cold gripped me tight and the wind was unwelcome company. I could feel my hunger, I could feel the ache in my feet, I could feel my hood loosening. No fire kept me company on that night or any night since. The cold is all I have left of Skyrim, of Breezehome, of Lydia. Some nights, I feel myself yearning to return to Skyrim. But I know now that that won't happen. My place is home in the sands, and as much as I can remember her smile and feel her fiery embrace on cold nights, I know in my heart the truth: I will never see Lydia again.
