Now remembering and writing, I occasionally feel like gouging my eyes out from stifling shame - how can any person be such a wuss as I was (and perhaps still am)?!
Oh Kyne, my mind was blank then. It amazes me how bereft of will I was, and how many quiet blessings of fortune it must have taken from all the Divines together to have me survive thus far - I am still alive.
If I had written this journal (if it were even possible) earlier, perhaps as such and such happened, it'd have looked entirely different. Oh. I wouldn't have had the heart to admit even to myself the extent of my cowardice and mediocrity. I'd have lied and explained things that weren't, in case someone would have read those pages, so as to not reveal myself. But now I can mostly smile, feel even affection and pity towards this past-me - what a sweet wretch she was. And I can help her, by reaching through time to the 'there and then', and untangle that which I then had no strength or time to solve.
That dusk, once I was on my feet and feeling better, there was dinner served in the great hall, and though clamorous with all household people, a group of us formed a small circle by the Jarls chair, namely him and me and Lydia, and his court-magi, a Nord called Farengar, and his steward, the Imperial, Proventus – and it was all exceedingly dreary, filled with insinuations but never straight demands of my journey to Hrothgar, this would-be tactful fine-handing of my almost-but-not-quite palpable responsibility to obey that wish making me only lean to the thought I was in fact their second choice; were they absolutely certain I had any meaningful role concerning dragons, they'd force me and send an entire detachment as my escort, but at the same time they were too uncertain to entirely dismiss me, and so had settled with this halfway approach, with some chance of obtaining answers or clarity or whatever they expected, but without enough investment to mark them loss in the event I should fail. Bold with honey-mead I made a decision then to flee under night, to shake this madness off my hems and to make way where my summons first demanded me.
To casual inquiries concerning the whereabouts that had brought me there, I responded with a half-truth mirroring their half-honesty, of being employed by my current but undisclosed research which was pending on humanist sources as opposed to literary ones, leaving in the air an easy assumption that the topic was concerned with late history of Morrowind, therefore offering feasible explanation why specifically Skyrim had attracted me – where else were there mainland refugees in such quantities but here? To questions trying to specify my identity I would state only that I was a lecturer and a researcher in the mother college of mages – which wasn't really a lie at all –, and to steer the conversation away from Cyrodiil I asked about housecarls. Naturally then, listening to that discourse on history, honour and tradition, all presently manifested in Lydia, I couldn't avoid glimpsing at her and wonder what she felt like being ordered to a pact, that they (the Nords) seemed to take to heart – and just how grave this sense of duty was and is, I couldn't then have imagined. But then had Lydia wordlessly continued eating and lent not an ear to Farengar or Baalgruf, as if she knew all of that by heart and idiomatically agreed on every sentiment, or pretended obliviousness the topic was concerned with her in the first place. Yet even after their explaining, the role of such a bodyguard seemed indeterminate, on one hand she was not a servant, and calling her as such would have been insulting, but neither was she meant to be simply an escort, yet friendship and close bonds, though commonplace, were ideally frowned upon. Much more independent than a servant, but bound more severely than one at the same time – She was to answer for my life before else. It all sounded pompous and puffed up ceremonial nonsense, as if declaimed straight from some stone tablet upon which their forefathers had engraved all the commandments concerning such and such, and so I disregarded most of what they told as cultural propagation, guessing instead the truth lied closer to Housecarls being glorified servants, less useful than actual servants in duty but much more valuable as social status symbols of ancient honour or tradition. But I'll conclude here that I was blissfully unaware of the depth of my ignorance towards Nordic culture.
Later I was back in my small quarters, sitting by a writing desk and faced with the quietness of night slowly creeping onwards, hands crossed over Savos Aren's unfurled message and my mind falling back into eerie dreaming, until my eyes were swirling with fatigue, and the blots of ink on the paper that were a promise of reality and rationality began dancing in my eyes like little ghosts and phantoms, leaving me helpless in a brooding chaos.
I knew not what kind of precautions the Jarl had laid for me, and not truly caring I left my room in the middle of the night, adjusted that my attempt would be prevented, and that in this event I'd fully let them do so – What was to come, was to come. Yet the two sentries outside the doors of the keep merely shared a brief look and shrugged when to their questions I explained that it is my wont to go on night-time walks, and so they let me descend to town. Perhaps the Jarl hadn't with seriousness expected I'd try vanishing, least of all that night, and so hadn't given any specific instructions on how to treat me, for at the town gate another two guardsmen, though restless by my request and mutely disapproving, could neither refuse my right to walk out the gate-door, especially given my new badge that dangled visible for all eyes.
Soon I was by the stables, breathing freely under a glinting firmament, hugging and kissing Vienne and whispering words of nonsense in her ear whilst the grumpy stable-hand saddled her. For his troubles and broken sleep I tossed him some coin, which softened his sour looks and even earned a gentle pat on Vienne's back. The only remorse stinging my chest was the thought of Lydia; of leaving behind this cold and achingly beautiful stranger, who had even been intended by fate to be acquainted with me. Though such a short flash of her presence had already had an effect on me (though magnified in parts surely due to the tiredness of my conflicted spirit), at the time it wasn't enough to have me wholly identify what had happened, and so I defied what fate had seemingly intended to test me with, half-certain her image would soon enough blend into another dreamy figurine of a goddess forever unattainable, leaving only a small, small melancholy mark, a gentle pain that thrives in solitary humans and is not all unwelcome, because it acts as a cooling comfort like a summer rain, dousing unwanted charges like anger, bitterness and jealousy.
Indeed, trotting east an old paved Imperial road and filling my lungs with frisk northern air again and again seemed to dispel the haze of madness about Whiterun- the purifying ether seeped into me and invigorated my being, relieving pain and stress, so much the image of Lydia began dissolving into that same disappearing mental miasma, and I began believing she'd fall into oblivion in some days.
On the long road to Windhelm only two incidents happened, first being an illegal highway toll collected by some shady individuals manning an abandoned guard-fort, which stood in a narrow section where the mountainside pushed the roadside straight into the riverside. I had no way of going around the old checkpoint, and in preparation had cast what my slim illusion skills allowed, namely aging my appearance around sixty years, to help any men avoid unwanted thoughts. They were happy to get rid of the scared grandma who with shaking hands had paid the demanded 30 pieces upright – a preposterous toll for sure, but apparently fair enough the officials hadn't yet bothered to send a detachment to sort it out.
I kept a hard pace, afraid of the chance I was being chased or tracked from Whiterun. Vienne I could water by steep embankments of the river, and since I had kept her well, fed her by regular schedule and carefully avoided straining her throughout my journey, she could close great distances with her fine supple legs that were taut as the strings of a violin. Came nightfall I lodged at Mixwater Mill. For some coin my aging hostess kept me well; served sturdy stew, offered a bed by the fireplace and shared of her finer grains. I saw to Vienne's feeding myself, and spent some hour by her in the barn, sharing some idle ruminations, observations of the wind, of its melodies and its manner of talking in the north, of its whistling in crags and between rocks, of its rustling in the hay and of its playfulness with dried leaves and rolling tumbleweeds, and of my sadness that there would be no translating those voices. She listened patiently, eyeing me sometimes amusedly, gently snorting at the silliest bits. I told her I believed she is the wiser of us two, and she merely cocked her head towards me, letting a quiet but satisfied neigh. I wound my arms on her neck and pressed my face against hers, breathing with her for a time, thankful to Kyne and all Divines she was with me.
The second incident, by the next nightfall, appeared by western slopes of Eastmarch. Close to midnight the resting wind began acting up; alarmed I stared to the skies, witnessing a dark mass of clouds amassing everywhere, silently and with impossible speed, as if a divine tempest was being played out in heights beyond our hearing, soon completely veiling Masser and Secunda. The coldness of the wind was familiar and the clatter of Vienne's hooves turned uneven, hesitant. I leapt down from the saddle and pulled her close, stroked her mane as she whimpered in fear, "Don't fret, darling, I'll keep you safe. Follow my breathing, see how even it is, do you see? My chest rises like this, and goes down like so… There, there, my love, I'll hold you fast…"
So talking to her and spending all my strength into keeping my breathing even, I lead her to a thicket just off the road. There I hugged her, prying through leaves towards the skies. A cleft formed in the clouds, and from it descended a dragon blacker than the night. This one flew soundlessly, circled the East March and in its flight displayed an entirely different personality than the bronze one I'd met; deft its wings, but their beating sharp, controlled and forceful, its glide spurred by great strength rather than deploying the wind through skilled steering of its sail-like membranes. It spilled no fire, screeched nor sang once, but sought for something with its eyes that shone as two little stars. I didn't want to meet this dragon. The intensity in its every motion came as a warning; the thought of facing this specimen made me shiver – whatever it would say, or do, I didn't want to find out. After some passes it darted up and vanished into the cloud mass like a molten iron bolt shot into a clump of dough. A puff of smoke or cloud-matter dispersed from the point of impact, and nightly peace tucked the land back in sleep.
Not more but two miles ahead the very same road, when the snows of Windhelm county already loomed in our sight, a faint sound of canter from yond our backs had me halt. That sound, quickly strengthening, brought a sweat on my skin; heart stilled with a dread of being confronted by someone from Whiterun, I weighed for a blink whether to run or to turn. I urged Vienne to a gallop, but after some dozen yards stayed her again - what foolishness, as if I would have her gallop all the way to Windhelm - where else could I stop, and then what? I'd be caught at the gates or the inn. Come what may, I thought, and turned Vienne the other way, and then locked my eyes on the road, fists kindled with flame for safe measure. Not before long a lone, cloaked figure emerged on the slope of the last little hill we'd descended from. For a brief moment I squinted my eyes and looked hard at the figure, before I suddenly became very embarrassed. How in Mundus could I know who it was? A passer by to who knows where. A traveler like me, or a bandit. A patrol or a messenger. And he or she saw but a tense figure, saddled in the middle of the empty road as to bar passage, following their every motion with keen eyes like a lowly high-way robber. I pretended to not have noticed the rider, and turned Vienne towards the bank of the river that ran alongside the road. For some reason I also got the idea that my pausing would seem more plausible if I was dismounted, and so I kicked my leg over Viennes flank and hopped down, taking her to the waterside to drink. Kyne knows why this stupid idea seemed good to me - what if the figure was a robber themselves? Now I was unmounted, and could not flee. Realizing this I nervously peeked over the saddle (I was hiding behind Vienne) as the figure trotted down the slope. I couldn't see, but I knew those eyes were watching at me. Eyes in the shadows of a dark cloak, drilling into me. Soon the figure guided their horse off the road, close to where I had left it, and turned right towards me - my heart began racing, and I quickly ran around Vienne, placing myself in front of her, fists kindling now with visible flames, ready to blaze and to burn.
Perhaps I expected the sight of my fiery hands to halt the human - her, I soon realised -, to have her raise a voice, to flinch and to peddle back even, but she did none of these things, no; she strode slowly and calmly, lept off her saddle and treaded towards me, unarmed and without hesitation. And then... Just something happened. I didn't have the resolve. I was afraid – terrified even. To use a spell to stop her proved insurmountable - and at this instant as I dithered, she sprinted. She was fast, too fast for me; I had barely enough time raise my arms and yelp in fear before she reached me and grasped my wrists. Her grip was like iron; I whimpered in pain as she pulled me against her front so harshly that I couldn't stir even an inch.
"You blasted witch...!" She sizzled from between gritted teeth, "Let that fire go."
I obeyed her at once, tears of pain clouding my sights. "Please don't hurt me," I pleaded her, panting for air - and she let me loose. I stumbled a step and two away from her, tripped and fell onto the dirt, too weak and wavering in heart to even think of casting a spell.
She stood motionless for a while, waiting. Vienne had remained completely calm, eyeing me quite indifferently, completely unalarmed by what the woman was doing to its mistress - the voice, the shape of her face and the glinting green of her eyes, now revealed by lunar light, returned to me an image, and I sighed deeply. It was Lydia.
"Sorry..." I mumbled without really knowing why, stood up and begun swiping away the dirt off my robes. How in Mundus had she found me?
She turned the other way, and would look over her shoulder only after a lengthy moment. When she turned back to me her whole posture had become so tense it suffocated what little bravery I still had in my heart.
"You thought you'd go to Winterhold first?" She said, coldly and with malice, "Tough luck, witch."
"How did you know about...?" I stuttered, panicking - had they read Savos's letter?
"Why else would a little mageling be in this country? You rogue. Sly enough to deceive idiots, but not a wolf. Is there another way but through Windhelm? You don't have it in you to pass through the mountains."
"Alright," I snorted, offended, "And now what?"
She bounced off her pose and grasped my arm within a blink - my heart halted again, prepared for hurt, but she was content with gripping my arm just hard enough to have me wince, to wholly capture my frightened attention, "You'll turn track, and follow me to Hrothgar. What they'll say, they'll say - after, you may go where you want, and I must follow, perforce."
"You - my servant - order me to follow you?"
She pulled me in so close her nose squished mine. Her eyes were gleaming, "Not your servant, witch. This isn't some merry pact; you'll do what fate will have you do - play some small part in the turmoil of these times. You'll do as I say, because you are afraid, and because you can't desist me - you know you can't cast a single spell unless I allow you to."
Her anger, and that invisibly trembling strength that seeped into my body from her touch, drained all my faltering courage. She was right about the last part. I couldn't stand her virulent gaze, and laid my eyes low, thoroughly ashamed of my weakness, and muttering even more shameful words, "I will do as you say."
She shoved me away, puffing, "And don't run from me again. You'll drive me to misfortune."
It might be difficult to explain how even in that state, hurt, heart quite shattered and spent in agony, she stole what little could else have happened inside my head. Her anger was so frighteningly beautiful. I could but stare at her, mouth probably gaping.
She looked at me like I was an idiot, "Do you know how many lords will want to hire a housecarl who let their previous master die? You'll get yourself killed, I'm certain, if you don't let me do what I must."
"Alright... Sorry."
"No."
"What no?" I peeped, confused.
"Don't be sorry. I hate the word."
"Sor... Alright..."
She shook her head, "Come, saddle up. We can rest at Darkwater Crossing."
With easy assurance she went back to her roan, seemingly ready to gallop away at that instant.
What arrogance! I thought then, visioning in my mind how she must have spitefully smiled at me, how easily she'd put me down. "Did you read my letters?" I said sharply.
She went on fixing some straps on her spurs, saying nothing at first. Her muteness set my blood boiling. Thought she I was their pawn after all?
"Do you have any idea why I'm in your country? I didn't come here to climb your dumb rocks, least of all to be a part of your bed-side tales."
She ceased her work, still turned away from me, but I could see how her breathing turned heavy. But that didn't stop me, "Aha…! So that's what this is about. You don't want your dragons to talk with humans who have false blood in their veins. The shame of it! A Breton staining your virginal, stupid myth-"
She spun on her heels, and in a flash her hand was pressed on my mouth; she drove me up against the nearest tree so hard I quite lost my breath on impact. At that moment all the blood fled from my limbs; I could've well passed out – merciful Divines I was terrified of her vulgarity, so abrupt and fierce like I was with a beast and not a human; I remember clearly how I felt myself to be but a light little birch-bough on the mercy of a hard sea-tempest, so easily did she rough-handle me. She wouldn't let me even squeal, pinning me in a humiliating position between the trunk of the tree and her legs. She glared at me with a venomous smile, staring right down into my bewildered eyes, baring her teeth and sizzling through them, "Careful there, mageling. Not all ice is made to be tested with a stick."
I thought she'd really hurt me this time; my watery eyes begged her to reconsider, ogling at her helplessly and fearfully. I couldn't speak or move, and for one scant moment we'd remain so, eyes locked, touching; hers out of anger, mine out of fear – it was a short, short moment, but one that is imprinted in my mind - I had fallen completely limp, but she wouldn't ease her hold yet for a while, no; suddenly she looked confused, anger washed away as quickly as it had roused, as if it only now dawned to her what she was doing. She released me, took a step back, blinked and turned back to her roan.
My knees gave in at that instant, and I collapsed onto the leaf-covered dirt with a muffled thump, panting for air – I knew nothing at all. Soon she returned to me once more, pulled me up from the shoulders, albeit now a little bit gentler, "Come, my thane – on with it, I'm not your foe."
She walked me to Vienne and lifted me to my saddle, "Back the same road you rode, we'll take a path up the mountainside by fort Mistwatch."
I just nodded, dumbfound, and too embarrassed to even look her way.