II: The Gathering
Delvin Mallory was in a bad mood.
It seemed like the guild had hit another bad-luck patch. The new whelps never seemed to bring in anything worth more than a few gold teeth. Rings, lockets, candlesticks, silverware. Sure, they were lucrative enough, but they weren't big hits, and they weren't very exciting.
Maybe he was getting too old. He'd been doing this for so long, perhaps nothing could excite him anymore. He couldn't even remember the last job he'd personally pulled. For years now, he simply sent out the new thieves, the initiates, and turned over whatever they brought it. If he wasn't dealing with initiates in the Ragged Flaggon, or Brynjolf in the Cistern, then he was haggling with his contacts to turn over hot merchandise.
It hardly got his blood pumping.
His life had become stagnant. He knew this. He could remember being young, a new initiate in the guild himself, and pining for the position and power that meant he didn't have to go out and do the dirty work. Now that he had that position, he found he missed pulling jobs.
Gold always glitters more in someone else's pocket.
He sighed and turned to the pieces the new Dunmer girl had brought in, apparently from Dawnstar. Delvin didn't even know there was anything worth stealing in Dawnstar, and this measly pile of treasure sure want much example: a stack of books, a few pieces of jewelery, an elven dagger. Things that would sell, that Delvin could move and easily profit from, but they were mundane things.
He moved the books to one side and peered at the jewerly. Sapphire and rubies blinked up from gold and silver fittings, glinting in the dim light of the Cistern. Worth a few hundred septims, no doubt. But they were no Gems of Berenziah.
Reaching for the dagger, Delvin's elbow hit the stack of books, knocking them to the floor. Hissing a string of profanities, he quickly scooped them up, checking them over to be sure the pages didn't get bent or torn. Book people were finicky; one little dogear could drastically decrease a book's value.
They seemed okay. A bit dirty. He kicked himself for being so careless. He was definitely getting too old. But how does a man retire from the Thieves' Guild?
Simple. He doesn't.
He re-stacked the books, this time in the middle of the table. A slip of paper sticking out from a red volume caught his eye, and he eased it out of the book's grip. He unfolded the note, perhaps thinking he'd find a map to hidden treasure. Stranger things had happened in his life.
It wasn't a treasure map. The page was blank of words; rather, in the center was the inky mark of a big black hand print. He was very familiar with what this was, and despite his rational mind telling him this was nothing, a chill ran down his spine.
The Dark Brotherhood. They were long-gone, of course, destroyed by a posse or something around fifteen years ago. This little note, usually sent as a death threat, was just the lingering ghost of a bygone era. Much like himself.
He returned to work.
It was late in Heartfire, and the winter was upon them. The leaves were beginning to turn; the nip in the air called for spiced wine and hearty stew.
Ralof set his axe down, wiping sweat from his brow. Stretching the sore muscles in his shoulders, he caught sight of a group of pilgrims crossing the bridge, coming down from the 7000 Steps. He'd seen them begin their journey last week.
Sometimes he wondered if he should make that journey. Perhaps it would quell some of the last lingering regrets in his heart.
Just as he began stacking the chopped wood, his wife, Temba, joined him. "It's getting late," she told him, as if she didn't have a penchant for working long into the night.
"I know, dear," Ralof said. "I'm almost finished here." She reached out and gave his rough hand a small squeeze, bringing a smile to Ralof's lips.
"Finish quickly," she said, letting go. "Supper is ready." She turned and strode to their home, a modest shack they'd built together.
He watched her go, feeling the tingling warmth where she had touched him. The woman he loved, the woman who had hidden him from Legionnaires out for Stormcloak blood after Ulfric's death. She'd saved his life in more ways than one in the years after the civil war.
He'd never be able to forget the nights hidden away in her room at the Vilemyr inn, or ducked down in a pile of splintery timber, as Imperial soldiers searched small Ivarstead for any lingering Stormcloaks. Temba remained calm and collected in their presence, never letting on that she was hiding Ralof and dozens of other fleeing Stormcloak soldiers.
She herself had never been a soldier, but she had supported Ulfric and his cause. She'd helped hundreds of defeated soldiers that passed through Ivarstead, doing what she could to help them avoid capture and execution.
That amazing woman had been willing to give Ralof a job at the mill when it became obvious that Ralof had nowhere else to go. Returning to his sister in Riverwood would be too dangerous for both himself and his family. But he would never leave Skyrim, the land he loved and had lost everything to protect.
It wasn't much longer after that the two did marry. As the mill became more and more successful, with Imperial orders pouring in the reconstruct damage the war had caused through Eastmarch, Ralof and Temba were able to build a home together, and Ralof became owner of the mill alongside his wife.
They didn't have children. Temba was older, and their attempts had never been successful. Though emotionally wearing, they'd moved past it together, stronger than ever.
Ralof's life in Ivarstead was nothing short of a miracle, especially considering the fate of so many of his brothers and sisters in arms.
The war was but a distant memory in his mind now. The Empire and Skyrim still suffered under Thalmor interference, and it seemed like nothing had changed. But in Ivarstead, things were perfect, and Ralof was more than willing to accept this destiny.
Sometimes he wondered how Hadvar was faring. Gerdur had written of him only once, saying that he had retired from the Legion and was living with his uncle and cousin. She never wrote anything else, even if Ralof inquired.
"Are you Ralof?" a voice behind him asked, startling Ralof from his reflections.
Ralof turned on the young man, expecting Legion soldiers ready to take him in. Hand on the hilt of his dagger, he realized his mistake, seeing that it was but a courier.
"Sorry," Ralof said, relaxing his hand. "I am Ralof."
The courier smiled nervously, and held out a folded letter. "This is for you," he said, and Ralof took the letter. The boy turned and quickly walked away.
Ralof smiled and stuffed the letter into the pocket of his trousers and returned to his work. No doubt it would be a letter from his sister, even if the note was unaddressed. When they wrote to each other, they never marked the letters for fear a soldier should intercept it and find Ralof.
Careful Stormcloaks to the end.
Hadvar sat the in back corner of the Sleeping Giant, trying to nurse a hangover with a deep tankard of mead. He'd woken up late that day, his head pounding to every sound. He'd snuck out of his uncle's home, noisy with the sounds from the forge, and escaped to the inn before his cousin Dorthe could see him. He'd managed to get a few good sips in him before Sven began a rendition of "Ragnar the Red".
With a sigh, Hadvar laid his head on the table, closing his eyes for a moment. Just one. If he kept them closed for too long, the battlefield would stretch out before him once more. He never wanted to go back there again.
He emptied his tankard as Sven finished his song, followed by the appreciative applause of the inn's other patrons. Someone called for him to sing "The Age of Aggression." Hadvar hated that song.
"How goes it?" Hadvar heard Sven's voice beside him, and looked up to see the bard holding two foaming tankards. "Care for a drink?"
Hadvar smiled as Sven handed him one of the tankards and took a seat across from him. The only good thing about being Riverwood's resident hero was that everyone bought him drinks, even after over a decade since the war. These people did not forget easily.
Hadvar hated that, too.
"So how's the forge?" Sven asked, like Hadvar ever had anything to do with it. "I heard the Legion's been asking more and more from you guys."
"That they have," he said between deep gulps of the sweet mead. His uncle and cousin certainly had their hands full. Hadvar mostly got in the way at the forge, so he preferred to stay out of it altogether.
"Must be nice, all that coin," Sven said lightheartedly, drinking himself. Hadvar didn't respond to that, but drained his drink. He'd gotten good at putting drinks away in the years since he'd retired from the Legion.
The front door of the inn burst open, and a gust of chill air blew in. Brought in with it was Dorthe, who spotted Hadvar immediately and approached him, steam almost coming out of her ears.
"Here comes trouble," Hadvar said as Dorthe stood before him, folding her arms over her chest. A thick vein stood out on her forehead, which meant she was really mad at him.
"Of course, you'd slink your way back here the moment you got up," she spat. The inn grew quiet as she ranted. "Sounds about right, you in here, getting fatter and wasting our money while my father and I struggle to fill the orders your Legion keeps asking of us!"
"It's not my Legion," Hadvar said, lifting his flagon to his lips, only to be reminded he had already drained it.
She sighed, shaking her head. "I don't even know why I bother with you." She threw a folded letter into his lap. "The least you could do, though, is read your own mail."
Hadvar opened the letter, his eyebrows raising at the sight of a big black hand print in the center of otherwise blank parchment. "What is this?" he asked.
"How should I know?" Dorthe hissed. "The courier said it was for you. That better not be some threat over a debt again, like what happened in Falkwreath last year. Mother never forgave you for having to sell her sister's pendant to pay for it."
It was Hadvar's turn to sigh as he crumpled up the parchment. "Probably a prank or something," he said. "You should ask your friend about that."
Dorthe's glare deepened. Hadvar bit into an apple that was on the table, not meeting her angry gaze. He glanced to Sven, but found the bard had abandoned him, escaping the very awkward situation.
"I suppose we won't be expecting you for supper, then?" Dorthe asked, sounding weary now. Hadvar only shrugged, just wanting her to leave him alone. He hated thinking about the burden he'd become on his family. It made him feel guilty.
She sighed, all her anger leaving with her breath. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the inn.
Hadvar ordered another drink.
The stranger sat still in the back of the carriage, the cold wind tugging at his tied-back hair. He didn't feel the cold bite on his cheeks, nor did his body wrack with shivers like that of the driver.
Cold as the man may be, he was certainly chatty. He had been talking at length about Jarl Black-Briar's mead policies in Riften, but then changed the subject after not getting a single response from the stranger.
"There's been a lot of murder going 'round as of late," he said, speaking over the faint howl of the wind. "Big names, too. Why, in just the last week, three important people died. One of the big bosses of the Thieves' Guild in Riften, the mill owner in Ivarstead, and Captain Hadvar over in Riverwood." He paused to shake his head, making a tsk sound with his mouth. "Chilling stuff, isn't it?"
The stranger felt the hilt of the Blade of Woe at his belt. "Certainly," he agreed.