A/N: Hello, all you lovely readers out there. So, I kinda broke the 15 page-limit I set for myself earlier so apologies for the long chapter, again. We're still in the exposition stage of the story so there's a lot to establish. I recommend taking breaks at horizontal lines if long fics aren't your thing. Hope you all are enjoying it (always feel free to criticize or praise me with a review).

Chapter 3

Melting Point

Sunlight heavy-air had set Skyrim laden with a bright and comforting warmth. The stones on roads seem to sizzle with mirth, inviting the rays to dance atop their igneous heads. Leaves that would have sooner cracked and crunched under minuet pressures now jostled contently by a passing breeze. Everything that made direct contact with the outside world was now a few degrees hotter than it had known to be normal. Nearby bodies of water provided a welcomed contrast to this spell, as the mists of a waterfall wafted through the air.

Fast asleep, Finnick lay with his head up against the back exit of the caravan, where a small circle of sunlight found its way in and decide to rest atop his blond hair. Temperature variations were nothing new to the young shipmate; he had slept through many treacherous conditions offshore. However, none of those conditions included having the side of your cheek stroked by a large callous hand. Finnick stirred from his sleep, quickly bolting up from his reposed state.

"Whoa! Easy there. It's only me."

The light happy-go-lucky voice was easily recognizable as his fathers. Reaching his hand through the opening in the back of the caravan his father reassuringly patted the back of his shoulder. By the looks of things, it appeared as though his son had had another sleepless night as was typical back in Dawnstar.

"Dad," he said waving a tired hand across his face. The straws scratched at the boards as he slowly scooting to face the opening Finnick asked, "I don't want to make any more sweet rolls?"

"…What? Is this another dream, oh let me guess," His father leaned forward, through the opening using his hands to balance himself. "Who was it this time… Helga Hagraven?"

Finnick shook his head in response. "Captain William Willy Willgo, scourge of the seas," the sleepily, slurred speech was something only a father could decipher.

"What does, Captain Willgo look like?"

"He's an Orc, about half as tall as a giant!"

"Divines, that's tall."

"Ayah, really tall, he has teeth like this," He moved his fingers in different parts of his mouth to signify teeth. "And has his hair like this," Finnick's short blond strands had been transformed into a ponytail by the simple placement of a hand.

His dad feigned shock and horrified looks as Finnick continued to describe the brute through various pantomimes. This sort of thing always amused his boy, made the nightmares seem less scary.

"And he loves chasing kids and eating boiled cream treats."

"I thought it was sweet rolls?"

Still half asleep, Finnick eyed his father in wonderment, batting his eyes with a puzzled look. Then as if trying to recreate the dream in his head, Finnick's eyes shot upward to reach a mental consensus regarding the nature of Willy's diet.

A holler came from the front of the cart. "Captain Wayfinder! I do have more stops to make!"

The captain had almost forgotten the reason why he came to the back the cart. After the long trip, they were now just outside of the town. It was now time to collect their things and be on their way.

"Dad, where are we, Riverwood?"

"Yes son, we are." The captain ran two hands down his long head of hair in disbelief. "Riverwood, can you believe it? Now, here, hand me those bags there."

Sitting in the far corner of the trailer was five bags of gear, supplies, and keepsakes from the Sea Squall. Well, technically, it was two large bags and three much smaller sacks. The bags were almost too heavy for Finnick to move; he had to use both his hands to carry a single one. After that, the rest of the unloading process took less than a minute. He ended up carrying the two sacks and his father handled the rest, barely.

Wayfinder counted out the coins from the purse tethered to his side. Looking up at the coach from ground level made him seem all the more menacing. An impeccant grimace only added to the effect. An easy remedy was to stare down and continue to counting coins, never looking up.

"23…24…25! There, twenty-five septims for the trip."

"Forty-five, you spilled— threw my lunch at that troll of yours" the words were said with the smallest hint of disdain.

"Biggest rabbit I've ever seen." Wayfinder chuckled, unaccompanied by the driver who didn't find the situation to be amusing in any degree. Losing an untouched bowl of venison stew was no matter to chuckle about.

Captain Wayfinder placed forty-five septims in the malevolent hand thrust in his face. Then he watched as the carriage clanked off over the bridge and downhill. It was unlikely that he had developed a lasting relationship with the coach, at least not a positive one.

"Dad," his son yanked at his pant leg. "Look at this place! It's gorgeous."

Wayfinder spun around to get a look at the new town. "Well, would you look at that?"

Trees majestically set themselves along the mountain side, a sight that would be considered abnormal compared to Dawnstar's tundra. However, it was the trees themselves that stuck out the most. White snow, black rocks, and dark bark where the only color the made the unsaturated pallet of the Pale, but here the world had sucked the life from the surrounding organisms and displayed it for all to see. This ambiance was coupled with the sounds, sounds of people living juxtaposed against the rustle of the leaves or the trickle of the water. The lonesome presence left by the cold had been purged from this land. Now, he viewed a colony embedded in vitality with a foothold in comfort.

Two figures approached from the inner dwelling of the city. The first was fair skinned women dressed in a long dark blue dress that blew in a way that reflected a kind and approachable aura. However, her most notable feature was the lengthy blond hair that was well passed her shoulders. On the women's right stood a bulky man who strode with a great amount of confidence and purpose. His clothing choice was that of a blacksmith. Other than his light brown hair and tender face, he reminded the captain of Rustleif from Dawnstar. Both had those over exercised muscles that had too many veins for the skin to cover.

"Why greetings and deveins bless you. Welcome to Riverwood," the woman said with a genuine smile spreading across her face. She extended a hand to the Captain who fruitlessly shuffled the items in his arms to try and receive shake.

"For god's sake, Alvor, help the man with his things. He can barely stand on his feet."

The face of the bulky man sprang to life and his meaty arms moved towards the captain. "Right. Here, allow me." The gravelly voice offered.

Wayfinder thrust the load away from the strong capable hands. "That's, quite alright. I am more than capable to…" The captain grunted unable to hold the load for much longer, but his pride as a captain and a father was at risk.

The women give him a cross look. "Talva told me you were a stubborn one, but there's no need for that attitude. Here in Riverwood, we enjoy helping one another."

"Talva!" Wayfinder grunted. "You, you know my… Thank you," The man named Alvor removed two of the sack from his arms mid-speech leaving him with one sack, enough to feel like he was contributing a little bit. "You've spoken with my wife?"

"Yes, before she began her work for the legion, she worked at my mill."

"You're the mill owner?" Wayfinder racked his brain, he knew his wife had written about her in one of her letters. "Your Grandeur… Gutter…" Both names we're met with blank expressions as the captain kept racking his brain.

"Gerdur?" offered Gerdur.

"AH! Yes! Gerdur!" Wayfinder felt like a ton of steel had just been removed from his chest. He hated the feeling of forgetting something as simple as someone's name. Though this hate didn't stop this from happening far too often. That's what was nice about have a crew of three, only had to remember two names. "I'd never thought I'd get meet you in person."

"Likewise, Captain Wayfinder. Though I guess it's hardly fitting to call you Captain anymore."

He threw up his shoulders in a mellow fashion.

Leaving the Sea Squall was a hard decision. He had dreamed of a time where he would show his crew what a great leader he could be. They would come to his with the utmost respect, and dutifully follow his lead. Who knows maybe when danger came for-front his crew would turn and say "Captain, what should we do?" It was always something Wayfinder though he would eventually achieve, he was still young. Then more important things came to play, a loving wife and child. Moving on was for the best.

"Excuse me," Gerdur and Wayfinder looked to see Alvor standing to the side, arms still effortlessly clutching the burden. "Where are we taking these?"

"Those! Right." Wayfinder's free hand tore through his pocket and pulled out a tattered scrap of paper. Clutching the paper in his on free hand he read each word separately as it refused to stay still in the lightest breeze. "The-Sleeping-Giant-Inn. Is that a good place to live?"

"Oh, there? It's a decent place, not but a few paces from here." Alvor toted the load in the direction of the inn.

"Alvor, aren't there any vacant homes? We can't really allow these two men to share a room there."

"Two? Where is the second one?"

Gerdur moved close to Alvor and whispered. "Behind our guest's legs, he's been hiding there the whole time." Her eyes motioned to a small body protruding out from the sides of the captain's legs.

Overhearing the chatter Wayfinder looked behind him. "Finnick, what are you doing back there?"

Finnick's eyes wandered around trying to think something to say. "I don't know." He said timidly.

"You're not scared of these people are you?"

Did you get scared? He pictured Rorick saying. Finnick puffed out his chest and stood beside his father. "No! It's just… I never met them before."

The large man came around and squatted next to him. "Do you need help with those bags, Son?"

"I got them," he said slightly confused by the man's use of the word "son". "My name is Finnick, what's yours?"

Alvor shot an amused look at Gerdur as if to say "How polite." He turned back and replied, "I'm Alvor. I'm town's blacksmith."

"You're a blacksmith?" Finnick said mesmerized. "Do you have a forge?"

"Sure do."

"I had a friend once, named Rorick, his father was a blacksmith too!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! He had a mother and she was smith too!" It was comforting to find some similarities between his two homes. Maybe this man could teach him how to use a forge. Maybe he could become better at it the Rorick.

Who am I kidding? Rorick's always better.

"Well, you'll have to tell me all about them on the way to the inn."

Finnick seemed to be so excited about finding a common interest with his new friend. He would tell him all about the sword he watched Rustleif make and the time when he learned how sometimes even when things don't look hot they still burn. Finnick step had an extra spring to it as they walked ahead leaving the other two trailing behind them.

From back here Wayfinder took the time to observe the infrastructure of his soon-to-be hometown. One thing that had begun to bother the captain was where the buildings in Danwstar were spread apart the ones here seemed to be built into one another. Everything felt a little invasive. The houses were built with fine masonry work, though, a far cry from the spotty work back home. These buildings towered on both sides of the group as they walked. Kids, Finnick's age, played a game of tag through the streets weaving in between the group. A dog also ran passed and barked with what must have been joy.

"Talva told me you needed some work while you were here, right?" Gerdur asked Wayfinder as they made their way across town.

Wayfinder's heart skipped a beat. A job opportunity was at stake, time for a little charisma to help secure a stable living for him and his son. Thankfully, The Captain's Book of Bartering had taught him one sure fire thing: empathy by reliability. If one humanizes themselves in a dignified and respectable manner, then one's opposition is more like to give.

"Please, I really need the work. I'm used to hard labor on the ship and I could really use the septims! You must understand I have nowhere else to go and no other income! I HAVE A SON!" He did skip a few pages in the areas of dignity and respectability.

"Easy there Captain," her hands held high to calm the blathering man. "Talva's a good friend of mine if she needs a favor I'll help. You can start work tomorrow morning."

In other words, Wayfinder, she is doing this for Talva, not for you so don't make a fool of yourself. He thought lofting mournfully in his boots.

The group made a sharp left ended up in front of the doors to the inn. A big building, one story high. The type of building that looked like it would have a roaring fire lit on rainy days. Massive stones were set next to a thick wooden door giving the building a sense of utmost safety The faint sound that Wayfinder recognized as a lyre could be heard playing just beyond the door.

Before anyone of the four could reach for the handle, they all felt a sudden hush grip them. Dogs refused to bark and all idle conversations seemed to have been halted. All that could be heard was the crashing sounds of a distant waterfall echoed onward. Then, in unison, the two guides stopped and turned to face south to the gates opposite the one Wayfinder had entered. As if in response, a soft yet distinct tapping sound grew out of the silence. It was a very controlled beat like that of a pickax as it clashes with a rock. Although it had begun softly it appeared to be getting louder.

"He's back," Alvor said flatly.

"Early too." She concurred.

"Who is back?" Wayfinder asked grabbing Finnick's hand. "Gerdur, is everything alright?"

She remained as still as a statue and peered off towards the horizon. Sure enough, there was a figure running for the town.

"Arvel," she finished in a stoic voice.

"Arvel?" Wayfinder asked, shoving his way into the conversation.

The smith shifted his head towards Wayfinder to answer, "Dark Elf, very trustworthy, he is our town's personal courier, so-to-speak. He collects information from Whiterun and Helgan and delivers it to us. Must be something important. We weren't expecting back for another three days."

Wayfinder felt Finnick's body slide around him to get a better look. "Is he dangerous?"

"Gods no, the poor soul couldn't swat a spider."

His father's sturdy hand grabbed Finnick's shoulder and held him close.

The man named Arvel trudged forward with breathtaking speeds. His face breathed dedication and his hand clutched something important. Everyone else in town watched this man pass by them. He knew something nobody else did and they all respected him for that. Whatever courier was, they were cool. Arvel rushed past the village and halted, in a pant, at Gurder's feet. His forehead was wet with beads of sweat that had run down his face and were now dripping from his brow. He took several uneven breaths before he finally managed to hold his head up and speak.

"Ma'am, I have returned from Helgan with," he took another breath, "tremendous news." He sucked in another breath prepare to say his next words, "This war is coming to an end!"

The man's words shifted and reformed into a virus that spread throughout the whole town in seconds. Could the war that had gone back as far as most remember really be ending? Had the fight between Stormcloaks and Imperials final come to meet its conclusion? Not to mention, who had bested who? Was it imperial leader General Tulius that held the high ground or did Ulfric Stromcloak mange to start a true uprising? Such news was unthinkable, sensational! Several onlookers had already begun to speak their minds.

"At last! Has Ulfric has been captured!?"

"About time this futile war ended."

Alvor moved in close to the Courier to signal a more personal conversation was needed. "Were there any… altercations with the Impearls?" Alvor face read that of stones atop a high peak: sturdy and ready to crush if you made the wrong move.

"Well," Arvel stopped to take more breaths, clearly he had been running for a very long time. However, the acute sound of Avlor's cracking his knuckles was all the motivation he needed to continue talking. His lips smacked together as started his speech. "You, see, action has yet to be taken. The pieces are all there, no moves left to make, they just need to be played."

"Speak plain! You mean Imperial or Stormcloak?" Gurder thrust her way into the conversation with a poignant air.

"Ma'am, I don't really know how to say this," Arvel's hand rubbed the back of his neck. "But the Stormcloaks aren't going to be around much longer. Once the war's over many soldiers who survive the next strife will be executed for treason against the Empire."

A heavy silence fell through the air. All eyes were on Gurder. She held her head low, strands of hair draped over her face, then brought it up with an overly neutral expression. Seeing a woman who had been so welcoming turn cold in a matter of seconds was truly a wavering sight. Then two simple words fell out and echoed in the men's ears. It had sounded overly bland as if she had been reciting the phrase slowly to herself for hours without stopping.

"I see."

"Excuse me, did I miss something?" All eyes now moved to Captain Wayfinder. "Um, well, since when did killing Stormcloaks become a bad thing? We've been fighting for years now. Shouldn't we be rejoicing that we can start over?"

Riverwood had always been officially ambiguous with who it supported in the war. However, being as close as it was to the imperially led Falkreath—coupled Uflric's "If you're not at our side you will be on the end of our blades," mentality—it was pretty safe to assume that most of the villagers held their sympathies with the legion.

Gurder ignored him. "Arvel, I would like you to meet with me in the Riverwood Trader." She began walking away from the group in the direction of the traders. By the speed, she walked it was clear to everyone that by "I would like" she meant "you will."

"Why there?" Arvel called.

"Lucan has a brother in the legion. I am sure he'll want to hear this news away from prying ears."

"I understand Ma'am."

"Alvor?" Gurder said in closing, "Be sure and help our guests move into their new home. We will speak later, I know you must be worried about Hadvar."

Alvor responded by holding up his hand sympathetically and gave a silent nod. They both understood what was to happen and each went their separate ways. The two men continued forward, through the door. They moved the bags into a small room in The Sleeping Giant Inn. It was very odd being hit with such a whirlwind of information than to just go back to business as usual. It seemed so hard to believe that Ulfric was going to finally be stopped. What did this mean for the rest of Skyrim? Was there really to be peace once again? Thoughts like these occupied the men so much so that they didn't even notice the extra trip they made to collect two sacks.

After a bit of rearranging, Gurder and Arvel made an acceptable spot to go over, in detail, what was to happen in the coming years. A table had Arvel's map of Skyrim spread flat across it, chairs at the both ends. The light cast from the fireplace made the map very readable. Even the many chalky vectors, that represented the paths of the different sides, could be seen clearly. At Gurder's request, they both went over the details countless times. Lucan was offering his help by cooking them a meal to eat while they went over the facts.

"So, there is to be an ambush at Darkwater Crossing?" Gurder reassured.

"Yes, you see Riften has been put under siege by the Imperials. They got blockades across Eastmarch." Several red x's were drawn in a jagged line and the lower-right portion of the map, "One of our Dunmer spies in Windhelm alerted us that Riften was getting desperate for supplies, bad fishing I suppose, so Ulfric was planning to send a relief convoy along the west side of Darkwater crossing."

Gurder followed his finger as it started in the right-most portion of the map, on the city marked Windhelm, and moved downward to a river. The river flowed southward all the way into Lake Honrich, a lake the bordered the western side of Riften. She took note of icons that indicated mountains drawn on either side of the lake.

"There's no way anyone could drive a convoy through that."

"Yes, that's the beauty of it. It's so rough looking it makes sense that Tullius wouldn't station troops there. Yeah, it was rough but they managed to do it, somehow."

"He knows they're men there waiting to kill his troops and he recklessly sends them off on a dangerous trail? That's suicide!" yelled Lucan.

"Lucan!" Gurder took a second to calm herself "Now is not the time." She returned her eyes to Arvel and motioned for him to continue.

"General Tullius saw an opportunity, he preemptively cleared his troops out of the way, and let the small caravan of supplies pass unabated. You see, now the Stromcloaks think they found a chink in the blockade. So, five of Ulfric's most trusted soldiers are delivering the goods to Riften just outside the palace when they see a curious figure dash out and drop a note that seems like it's from the town's leader, Jarl Laila Law-Giver. A note that she has written to Tullius, saying that she was open to negotiating Riften's position in the war. Like a treaty between the two. A treaty Tullius will be in attendance in person."

"Hold on," Gurder stopped Arvel. "There's no way five of High King Ulfric's best men would believe the words of a random letter. It's outright madness. Furthermore, Laila is one the most loyal of Ulfric's followers, they've worked together for so long."

"Apparently, the Legion contracted the thieves' guild in Riften to make some other 'official' notes and spread town gossip that just happened to be in the right places… and the right pockets. Also, their ties with Black-Briars mead industry helped. The Guild appreciated the imperials large donation of gold. And the food they promised that Windhelm would be supplying."

"Okay, so what happens next?"

"Well, once the five men return to report the news, the idea is Ulfric is going to charge down from Windhelm himself. Either because he knows Tullius will be there and he now has troops who are armed and ready in Riften or because he wants bludgeon those same soldiers to death for committing treason against his cause," he chuckled at his joke. "Either way, he wants to be the one to split Tullius head open personally. So he's going to take a small complement of his best men to storm in and kill the general with the troops in Riften. Because he is counting on his troops in Riften he won't take many of his own men. He also still thinks Darkwater Crossing is safe so we know what route he'll be taking and around how many people he'll have. Now this is where the ambush comes into play..."

"But, wait, I'm still at a lose. All Ulfric has to do is contact one of the Riften guards or the Jarl and they can assure him no such treaty exists."

"As I mentioned, the blockade has stopped communication between the two holds for months now. Not to mention, I heard The Guild was very extensive in covering all their bases. One of 'em even paralyzed the steward and took her place just to give the troops considerable doubts. Considering how much time that has passed since they last communicated it's only natural that Ulfric's faith would be marred. Hell, the siege itself justifies the unification of Riften and the Imperials."

"The Jarl is worried that her people will die under siege and would rather join the Impearls." The more Gurder thought about the plan the more she realized how intricate this plan was.

"The Jarl doesn't won't stand to see her people die and Ulfric has every reason to believe that that's what is happening. Not to mention, the man is outright bloodthirsty. Any chance Ulfric gets he takes."

She crossed her arms taking much umbrage with the whole situation. "Fine. So Imperials are gonna ambush them and what, kill everyone, right?"

"The plan is to capture them and move them all to Helgan."

"Helgan?"

"Nearest place with a chopping block. You see, Tullius also wants to be there to see Ulfric's head roll. So Helgan makes the most sense. They have aligned themselves with the Legion, are a short distance away from Darkwater Crossing. Also Tullius, up in Solitude, will have safe transit there too."

The chairs creaked back then forth in contemplation.

"So how long before this all takes place?" Gurder asked

"The Ulfric's convoy is still on their way back to Windhelm. Taking into account the government there, and the imperials this could happen anytime from a month to a year from now.

"A year!?"

"Maybe even several, these things tend to take time."

"And then it's—"

"The axe in Helgan," he reiterated.

"That's plenty of time to stop this."

Lucan looked down mournfully at the stew. Gurder expressed pain in a very different way than he imagined she would. She seemed almost distant but still hopeful. He would be sure to prey to Stendarr for her brother Relof's safety. Having someone as close as a brother be killed in a matter of days, or months, or even years was something he could not begin to comprehend. The only family he had left was Camilla. She was safe with him, though, not off fighting a war. Still, she had yet to come home… probably off with one of the boys again.

As if on cue, the doors opened and Camilla walked through clutching several coins in her hands that she quickly slipped into her pockets. No one seemed to notice. Though why were Gurder and Arvel in her house?

"Camilla, where have you been? Were you off with—"

"Lucan!" Gurder yelled finally snapping. "I appreciate what you're doing but please be quiet for a moment! This is very important."

"No need to yell." He grumbled to himself as he turned back to his cooking.

The group seemed to be very lively through the window which Finnick watched. He had given coins to the lady who saw him be quite. A trick Rorick had taught him when Finnick had accidently yelled too loud when they were playing Red Mountains past bedtime. His father never found out why his elbows were red the next day.

The Lady had moved closer to the man making food now and they seemed to be whispering about something. The man pointed to the shelf at a tall stack of bowls on the counter. She walked over to it and picked up the bowls while knocking over something shiny and gold to the floor with a loud crash. Finnick ducked briefly, he could almost hear the commotion from outside the window. When he came back up Gurder had whipped around to yell at the cook. While Arvel, still sitting, reached down, picked up the object, stared at it for a moment, then handed it back to the clumsy lady. The conversation resumed: pointing, talking, lips moving and words were spoken that were impossible for Finnick to hear. Then a final point, Gurder's finger, at the door. Arvel got up and moved on his way, only to be stopped and handed some bread and ale from the other lady. He drank and ate furiously and moved towards the door. Finnick made sure to counsel himself as best as he could before he heard the door open and the elf sped off into the twilight. Tonight he would have an unintended follower close behind.

Night had fallen over Skyrim. A new world emerged lit with wandering fireflies hidden amongst the nightshade. A Luna Moth flapped up into the sky to greet his mistresses hanging among the stars. At this height the forest became a soup of creature and foliage. Nothing was readily distinguishable. But why look down when the light above beckoned? The Ladies of the Sky looked so luminesced in a passionate fashion such that maintaining this altitude was perhaps the most important moment that ever crossed the moth. It ended, though, wings grew heavy and the ground suddenly became much more appealing. A formidable looking oak seemed like an ideal landing spot. That is until the noises started. A footstep sounded far off in the distance. They clunked about tearlessly, stirring the broth. Perhaps a higher limb would be better.

Finnick's eyes remained ahead of him at all times. He shoved and ducked his way through the many tree branches that lay in his path. The darkness made maneuvering through this forest nearly impossible. But he would not risk losing the elf. Thinking back on it, this was likely the most foolhardy thing he has ever done… without Rorick's help, that is. If he couldn't find the courier he would probably starve and die in this forest. Thankfully, Arvel's boots left a nice track of imprints for Finnick to follow. That is until they went separate ways. Finnick, in a huddle of confusion, stopped to catch his breath.

"Huh? How's that possible?"

The trail ended at a large tree where it seemed like one footprint went right and the other one went left. From his perspective it looked like Arvel had ran into a greatsword and split right down the middle, the two parts moving in opposite directions.

"You really thought I couldn't see you through that window?" A voice called from the trees.

Finnick jumped out of his skin. He spun around to face a tree behind him. One he didn't even notice before. Finnick's eyes scanned up the bark until his eyes met the figure. Sure enough sitting on one of the high branches was Arvel putting on his left boot.

"That's how you did it!" Finnick called pointing to the trails. "You took off a boot, wow!"

Arvel pushed himself off the limb and onto the ground. "And here I was thinking you didn't understand the concept of a window," sarcasm spilling from his lips.

Finnick looked at the man up and down again. He was clad in a leather armor that left his knees exposed to help him move easily. Then there where his blue shoulders jutting from the tops of it his half covered chest. Hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He reminded Finnick of someone he knew quite well.

"Do you know a guy named Ravam?"

Arvel walked ahead of him a looked down one of the paths he created. He turned back to the conversation his boots clapping on the forest floor. "Ravam? Yeah, we're brothers."

"Really?!"

"No, of course not. Never heard the name before in my life."

Finnick thought that sounded like something Ravam would say.

Arvel returned to looking down the pathway then the elf whipped around impatiently. "So did you follow me out here to ask annoying questions or did you actually have something useful to say?" his hands popped with gestures to emphases his confusion. "Not like the people here care much for me anyway. So what's it, lad? Why ya follon' me?"

That seemed like such a strange thing to say. To Finnick, it was obvious that everyone respected this man. The townspeople treated him like a hero. The way they all watched him and held important secret meetings with him, it was like living in a story. Arvel was like a walking or running, role model.

"I just wanted to meet you."

"…and so you have."

"And I really want to be like you!"

He scoffed. First time anyone ever said that to a courier. "Be like me? Boy, no one wants to be like me—I don't even want to be like me."

"But you're great! Did you see the way everyone looked at you when you came into to town? That was so cool! The everyone just… became silent and you… appeared! Then Gurder asked to talk to you in private about… your map! Everyone loves you."

A loose hand came to up to cover his gaining face. Such astringe conclusions derived from supposition. Barely making full strides he placed himself up against a tree and laughed.

"They don't love me, kid. They love the information I have. Couldn't care less about who gave it to them. When was the last time you read a storybook where the great and courageous courier saved the day?"

Finnick looked slightly dejected.

"Couriers aren't respected. We were just the leftovers who weren't patient enough to farm and not strong enough to fight. The only thing anyone ever thought about us was that we're fast and could stay that way for long periods of time. It, not a job, at least not one any sane man would choice."

Finnick could feel his saliva became harder to swallow. "…O-oh."

The elf threw his hands up in the air. "You work for whatever town will take you. And become the person slave of everyone in it. A luxury that's taken for granted. You become a tool, a convenience. Nobody cares about couriers."

Finnick had his head down low like an animal that had been lectured for bad behavior. Then he raised his head and asked the only question he could think of.

"Why are you getting mad at me?"

The words hit Arvel in an unusual way. He had gotten caught up in another one of his cynical tirades and with a child no less. It had been a long journey and he was tried. Divines, that's no excuse, the boy only wanted to hold on to his praise of the couriers. He had to make this right. Though soothing and cooing weren't his strong suits, logic and facts were. So he thought for a moment and gave it his best shot.

"No, no, I'm not mad at you. You just didn't let me finish. Nobody cares about couriers…" His own hands were prompting himself to think of something quick. "And that's why I'm gonna make them."

Finnick felt his eyes grow bigger with anticipation. "Huh? How?"

"Um… by giving myself a name, no a title! The people don't remember Arvel the for-hire courier, but they will know… Arvel the… Swift: fastest damn courier in all of Tamriel!" This honestly wasn't turning out half-bad for improvisation. The name had a sort of ring to it.

"Yeah!" Finnick cheered.

"Yeah!" He copied the boy's enthusiasm.

The Elf's big hands were now pushing him around to face the other direction. "Now, go back to your bed, just follow those tracks there and cross the river where you see all the big lights. I'm sure you'll have lovely dreams about people running places." He spoke as quickly as he could so the boy would not have any time to object

"No, I want to go with you." Finnick turned around and hugged the man.

Damn it.

"P-Please, stop that." Strangely, the kid responded as if he had just cracked a whip or something. "Listen, you're what, eight, maybe nine years old?"

"I'm eleven!" Finnick shouted like a solder responding to his commander.

"Fine, eleven years old. A boy like you should be with his parents not with a stranger he hardly knows."

"My mom's in Whiterun and my Dad's left me on an island once. For a week, so if I leave he probably won't look for me for... a week."

"Wait, an island?"

"Yes, my Dad is… was captain of the Sea Squall!" Finnick was so excited that his role model was taking an interest in his life. "I was raised on that ship all my life. One, day, we were out at sea and my dad…"

The kid continued to tell his story about… something. Ship-raised though, he was probably a strong and capable lad, probably used to roughing it. The trip was only to Helgan and back. Nothing dangerous either just had to make an appeal to one of the guards there to allow some of the Stormcloaks who were to be captured at Darkwater Crossing to be freed. Yes, it was pointless venture but Gurder wouldn't pay him from his last errand until he returned. The trip would take two days at the most. What was he thinking though? This was a defenseless kid. He can't take him there. Nature can be downright deadly at times.

"Sorry, I'm not risking you getting hurt on this trip. I don't need that on my conscience."

Finnick whipped out his blade from his side. "I can defend myself."

The elf leaned forward to take a closer look at the blade. The craftsmen ship was impeccable. The blade had been emblazoned with "F." It diluted the killing aspect of the blade and made it seem more like a piece of Nordic Art. Looking back, Arvel the Swift remembered how life was when he first fled the eruption in Morrowind. All he had with him was a dagger and a loaf of bread. This kid was kinda like him, a rock, a little rough around the edges but if he spent enough time in a stream of knowledge he smoothen out.

"So that means I can go now. Right, Arvel the Swift?"

Arvel the Swift folded his arms and looked over his shoulder. "I guess I don't see a problem with it. But if your dad asks this was your idea."

"Yay! Thank you so much!" Finnick went to hug him but remembered last time and stopped short.

"Okay, were not gonna be stopping until we reach Helgan so if you have any questions you should ask them now."

Finnick raised a hand to his chin and thought. "But I have so many?"

"Pick one." He enunciated his words with carful precision.

"Two."

"Fine, pick two questions."

"Alright, earlier you said 'I don't even want to be me.' And then you said, 'We were whelps who never got our chance.' Why did you say that?"

A personal question. This wasn't exactly what Arvel the Swift had in mind but whatever the kid wanted to hear.

"Okay, I guess that's fair. I just always just thought that I'd do better than this. I always saw myself using my intelligence to uncovering some great treasure or lexicon or something. But, it never happened, no one ever saw me as intelligent. I got robbed of what little gold I had so I took up this job. I thought it would give me some adventure but it gets old fast." Without even looking Arvel the Swift sensed the boy disappointment. "But that's just because I was freelance if you go to any of the holds and take the oath you can be sworn in as a true courier, much more adventures there."

"Really?"

"Bah, tons of them. If you work for one of the holds you become the voice and ears of a significant part of Skyrim. And it's not just the Jarls letters you'll be delivering but the people in that hold will send you all over from place to bloody place, even those of the opposite faction."

"Wow! I want to work for a hold one day." Finnick's head shot upwards looking to the sky. However, the many trees surrounding them obscured the view of his proverbial sea of endless possibilities. His head moved back down, anticlimactically, to face Arvel "and okay, my second question—"

"Nope, you already got two. 'Why did you say that?' and 'Really?' We don't have time for any more of this back-and-forth." The boy's smile stuck in Arvel's head for a little bit longer than it should have for someone trying to remain distant. He shook it off and began the walk in the direction of Helgan.

"One last thing before we go," Arvel Said, holding up a branch for Finnick to follow. "Let me see that dagger of yours."

"Sure." Finnick placed the blade in the man's hand and ducked, walking on ahead. The man followed behind him, flipping the dagger from side to side admiring its craft again.

"Rule one, you just gave your only weapon to complete stranger, that's stupid and will get you gutted. Rule two, daggers are typically weak weapons that require extremely close range to be used properly."

"That sounds like an observation." Finnick corrected.

"Just listen, boy," He kicked Finnick's leg lightly from behind. "No one in all of Skyrim ever expects someone with a dagger to be able to hit them from ten paces away. That's about as long as a horse and carriage."

"You'd need a big dagger," he agreed.

"Or a good arm. Daggers are the lightest of weaponry currently known to the world."

"What about arrows?"

"That's funny, I thought I said 'just listen.'" He shot Finnick a glare that made the boy dutifully cup his hands over his mouth and stare. Responds well to force, noted. As he tossed the dagger up and down in his hands, checking the weight of the weapon, he continued talking. "They can be thrown with great ease. No one expects a weapon that requires such a close range to be effective over long distances. Right as the bloke is charging at you can stick him right in his blessed forehead! Although, if you miss, that bloke will go straight through you, do you understand?"

Silence.

"Divines! When I ask you a question you can bloody well answer me." Arvel slapped the back of Finnick's head just hard enough to knock the hands from his mouth, hiding the part of him that was amused with the boy's sense of humor.

Finnick smiled at how angry Ravem… Arvel was. "Yeah, I got it."

"If you practice throwing that blade ten times a day you'll be safe for the rest of your life."

The rest of my life? Now there was a thought that had been going through Finnick's mind a lot recently. Old friends gone, new, older ones replaced them. Cold old home was gone, new warm one. But, what was going to happen to Finnick? Would he take the lack luster path of his father and enjoy life's simpler offerings. Or would he take the dedicated and prestigious mindset his mother embodied? Maybe he was here to forge his own path. Growing older is scary in Skyrim. Life can pass you by in an instant if you're not careful. The best way to get through it is to identify what your dreams are and if your skills lend you to follow them. And following, running, chasing, sprinting! That was something Finnick was very good at.

[End of Chapter]