IV.
The Thief that Wasn't
The Priestess of Arkay steps backwards.
'What are you doing here?' she snaps. 'The Hall of the Dead is closed to the public at night.'
Beneath the hood of her cowl, you see her eyes widen. 'Defiler!' She jabs a finger at you. 'Necromancer! Come here to steal the body of the deceased!' And she turns and flees.
Adrenaline surges through your body. You think about leaving, but you've come all this way.
Deciding it shouldn't be for nothing, you pocket the lock pick.
There's a stone pedestal to the left, with some sort of relic on top.
The relic looks like a stone ball, boarded by a star. Fat candles squat beneath the pedestal and on the floor around it. They flicker in the dark and cast tall shadows on the walls.
Dotted about are pots and vases, urns, an unlit fire pit, and a wooden table with a shroud spread across it.
The shroud is white, pristine. The bumps that rise beneath it, give a clue to what it obscures.
Your pulse increases, you run your tongue across your dry lips.
You grab a corner of the shroud, go to pull -
'This way! This way!'
The Priestess of Arkay's voice echoes. Follow by hurried footsteps and the clink of armour.
You step away from the table. Your brain runs through the layout of the hall. It's warren-like passageways, how they all converge on the main entrance. You could loop back around. But how many guards are there, and will you come across one on the way out?
Seconds tick by.
The footsteps get closer.
You're rooted to the spot. Your muscles tighten.
Stay?
Go?
Stay.
It's worse to run. You look guilty if you run.
You tell yourself, you are guilty. You've broken into property that isn't yours. You're trespassing.
The Priestess of Arkay appears first, skirts billowing out behind her. Two guards follow.
'See,' she says, once again jabbing a finger at you. 'Isn't it like I told you? Necromancer! Come to steal the body!'
Vilkas can't sleep.
He lies on his back against the cold, stone floor, gaze fixed on the narrow window just outside his cell.
His been staring at the window since nightfall. Watched as the sunlight evaporated and the sky blushed pink. Tonight there is no aura for him to watch. There isn't even a cloud in the sky.
A million stars look down on him, witnesses to his incarceration.
Cloudless nights like these are colder than the others, and Vilkas thinks about home. How on nights like this everyone gathers inside the belly of Jorrvaskr. How they press tight around the fires. Elbow to elbow, mug to mug. They swap stories, fill their stomachs, and fall asleep surrounded by friends and furs. Warm.
Vilkas shudders.
There's a blanket in the cell, but its thin and dirty, not fit for even a dog to lie on.
Time is absent here. Everything feels paused, and Vilkas, although he would not admit it, feels lonely.
The guard that usually stands outside his cell has gone away to rest. There's no one to replace her because Ulfric has taken the person who would for his army.
Vilkas thinks, it's hard to imagine life continuing, whilst trapped in here.
The door into the prison crashes open.
'Just saying that we do not know the full story, that is all.'
Vilkas sits up.
The cells all face a blank wall, and the door is out of view.
'What's that?' another guard says.
Vilkas recognises the voice that responds.
He gets to his feet, approaches the bars, rests his hands on them.
'Look here,' one guards says.
They stomp down the steps.
'I don't care if you are the Harbinger of Death, you broke the law. We can't prove whether you are a necromancer or not, but trespassing, forced entry. Those are all against the law. For that, you get to spend time in a cell.'
A dishevelled and shackled Harbinger appears. Escorted by two guards. They stop at the cell next door.
The Harbinger lifts their head, and their eyes meet Vilkas'.
The guards leave. The prison door clunks shut.
Vilkas sits, leans against the wall that boarders the Harbinger's cell. He brings his knees up to his chest, tilts his head back so that he stares at the ceiling.
He draws a long breath through gritted teeth. 'So,' he says. 'What happened? Necromancer, trespassing, forced entry? Shor have mercy. Tell me everything.'
As it happened, getting an audience with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, wasn't hard. Desperate men - Jarl or not - will see anyone when they need more people for their army. And Ulfric, though he tries not to show it, is a desperate man.
Ulfric sat on an ornate, wooden chair, on a dais in the receiving hall of the Palace of Kings. He slouched, propping his head up with one of his hands.
There was a cue of three people, leading up to the dais.
You hesitated, went to join the line, but -
As Harbinger, you couldn't risk becoming tangled in the politics of others.
The old soldier said you needed permission to investigate. But if you were careful, no one needed to know.
'So you decided to walk away?' Vilkas says. 'Concerned Ulfric will pull the Companions and everyone back at Jorrvaskr into his war. I understand that. A wise decision.'
Vilkas rubs the stubble on his face. He hasn't had a shave for a few days, and the hairs are getting longer. Soon he'll have a beard. He wonders if they will let him shave before they lop off his head.
He reassures himself that the Harbinger walking away was the right decision. Tells himself, that's what Kodlak would have done. But he can't help but dwell on what could have been. Had the Harbinger spoke to Ulfric, would they now be riding home?
Vilkas grits his teeth, flicks a piece of straw across the floor.
'You decided to investigate for yourself?' he says. 'Go see the body, see if you could find any clues which would tell you what really happened.'
Despite the circumstances, the corner of his mouth twitches. Does the Harbinger care so much?
'But I am guessing,' Vilkas says. 'They wouldn't let you examine the body? So you had to find a way of seeing it for yourself.'
The Priestess of Arkay barred the entrance of the Hall of the Dead with her arms. 'Absolutely not,' she said. 'If you are here to pay respects to the dead, then fine. But you aren't coming here to examine a body. Not a body that has already been examined. Now is the time to put that body to rest.'
You tried to argue, to plead your case, but the Priestess of Arkay folded her arms across her chest.
'You have no authority here. Go away.'
Night fell. Back in the rented room at Candlehearth Hall, you waited for the inn to grow silent.
When you were certain that everyone was either in bed or had left, you made your move.
You pulled on your leather gauntlets, and your darkest clothes. Pulled a hood up over your head, and crept out of the inn.
The Temple of Talos sits just behind Candlehearth Hall. Squashed between the front of the Palace of Kings, and a road that leads down towards the cemetery.
Like the rest of Windhelm, it is a gaudy building made from large blocks of stone. It towers over other buildings. Bird-like statues sit on ice encrusted ledges, accompanied by icicles the size of swords.
In the past, many people came to this temple. Now it is more a monument to Ulfric's defiance, than a place of worship.
You hurried across the street, followed the road to the cemetery.
The Hall of the Dead and shrine to Arkay, are in the temple's basement. There are no windows. The only way in, is through the front door, found in the city's cemetery.
You tucked yourself close against a wall, held your breath and waited. When you were certain there was no one near, you knelt in front of the door and picked the lock.
Twist here, clunk there, a push at just the right time.
The door creaked open.
Your heart pounded, sounded so loud in your head you wondered if others could hear it. You rested a hand upon your chest, drew in a long, slow breath.
'And you found the body. But let me guess, the Priestess discovered you before you could take a proper look.'
The Harbinger doesn't reply.
'She thought you wanted to steal the body, that you were a necromancer.' At any other time he would have mocked the Harbinger's folly. Laughed. He had neither the strength nor the conviction to do either. Instead he stared at the wall, and felt nothing but the heavy weight of dread.
'I am sorry,' he said. 'About this.'
He made the apology sound like it was for this situation. And it was. But it was also for everything else. Including the kiss.
The night passes in a whir of fitful sleep. When you wake, there's a tight knot in your shoulders, a crick in your neck.
The prison bars come into focus.
You remember what happened.
Thoughts torment your mind.
If you'd seen Ulfric. Perhaps then Vilkas would be free.
If you'd stopped Vilkas from leaving.
If you'd told him the truth.
If.
If.
If.
You roll over, fold your arms around yourself.
Straw pokes you in the face.
In the cell next to you, Vilkas' sighs.
There's what feels like an empty hole in your stomach.
On your lips you can feel the ghostly trace of the kiss.
When sleep comes again, it drags you into a dark and dreamless place.
It's the sound of shouting, that wakes you.
Your eyes shoot open when the prison door to Vilkas' cell, crashes open against your bars.
You sit bolt up.
Vilkas is on the floor, a guard pinning him down, whilst another pulls on the chains that shackle his wrists.
'There has been no trial,' Vilkas snaps, he digs his fingers into the stone floor. Then his eyes meet yours and they widen.
'Harbinger, they are doing it today. Now. They say I am to be put to death!'
You shoot up.
The prison bars block your way.
A pressure builds in your chest, as if your heart is about to explode. You grip the bars until your knuckles of white.
You demand to see the Jarl.
'Jarl Ulfric is busy with the war,' the standing guard says. 'He has left this matter in our hands.'
You ask whether the Jarl knows an innocent man is about to die, at which point both guards laugh.
'Innocent? He's as guilty as a Kahjiit found with a purse of coins in his hands.'
Together, they manage to lever Vilkas off the floor. When he is standing, the guard who'd been on top of him pulls back his fist, punches Vilkas in the stomach.
Vilkas collapses to his knees.
There's a pounding in your head. You rattle the bars, and yell at the guards.
In all the commotion, the dragon slips into your mind, coils around your brain.
You feel your breathing still.
There are footsteps. Someone is coming down the stairs. But you try not to pay attention to them. Instead you fix the word for Unrelenting Force inside your mind.
Fus.
When you speak the word the world goes still. Everything slows.
Your voice manifests in the air. It soars towards the two guards and Vilkas, knocks them backwards and into the prison wall.
The guards slide down the wall, collapse onto the floor. Their eyes are wide, their mouths open.
A helmet lies on the floor. It slowly rotates.
You press your face against the bars. If anything happens to Vilkas, you shout, you will call forth fire. You will burn this place and everyone in it.
The footsteps have stopped, and the old soldier you met yesterday stands by the first cell.
'Thu'um. You speak dragon?' the old soldier says, scratching his chin. 'What they say about you is true...' He looks at the soldiers on the floor, at Vilkas, then at you.
'What is going on in here?'
You tell him, in one long sentence without stopping to breathe.
Again, you demand to see the Jarl.
The old soldier nods. 'Alright,' he says. 'I'll take you to see Ulfric.'
Ulfric only has seconds to spare, before he must return to the war room.
In his large, rough hands he holds the life of many, and his decisions can save or condemn a man. But over this, he has little control, because he is aware that some people already doubt him. Making a decision they disagree with will only make these people become more vocal.
He heard the story yesterday. Galmar told him. And Ulfric thinks, a werewolf in Windhelm. But he has no time to ponder whether the right man has been caught.
Ulfric strokes his short beard.
Galmar paces back and forth in front of the stone dais like a caged bear.
'We're wasting time,' he says, voice as deep and craggy as the Vethlothi mountains.
Galmar stops, turns and faces the approaching newcomers. 'This,' he says, pointing. 'This is the Harbinger? Someone who goes skulking around in the night, breaking into temples and trying to steal bodies?'
The Harbinger snaps. Doesn't seem to care or has completely forgotten the respect one pays in front of a jarl. And Ulfric, rubs his face, hides the curl of a smile behind his hand. Thinks, it's nice to see passion and spirit in someone, when this world has beaten it out of so many.
The Harbinger says that they weren't stealing the body, and Ulfric leans forward. 'Then,' he says. 'What were you doing?'
Galmar places his hands on his hips. A broad shouldered, grizzled Nord who towers over the Harbinger.
It's early, and no candles have been lit. The deep blue shadows on Galmar's face, makes it look like someone has hollowed out his eyes.
Ulfric listens to the Harbinger's story. As he does, he watches the dust particles trapped in the first pale shafts of the frigid morning light.
The gaze from Jarl's housecarl bears down on you like a weight. Your heart clatters.
Whilst telling Vilkas' story, you study Ulfric's face. You see the expense of war in the wrinkles around his eyes. The deep lines concern has carved into his forehead. And that is all.
The butterflies in your stomach intensify their flapping. And with every beat you hear a whisper that tells you, Vilkas will die.
'I'm uncertain of your intentions,' the housecarl says. 'Or what you expect Ulfric to do. Time wasted here is to the advantage of the Empire. Ulfric, come.'
The Jarl of Windhelm gets up from the throne.
Your heart stutters, and you think, wait, wait, wait. But can't quite get the words out of your mouth.
'I fear this war will claim many innocent lives,' Ulfric says, steps down off the dais.
Is that what he wants? Innocent blood on his hands?
You remember the first time you met Ulfric Stormcloak. In a cart, on a rough track, heading towards Helgen. Towards execution.
Hasn't he ever been wrongly accused?
The Jarl turns to face you, head tilted a fraction to the side. The right side of his mouth raises.
'Ah,' he says. 'You have me there.'
'Ulfric -'
Ulfric raises a hand. 'One moment Galmar.'
The Jarl strides towards you. 'I remember you now,' he says. 'On the way to Helgen, when we were both about to meet the chopping block. And now you are Harbinger.' He raises his thick eyebrows. 'You have done well for yourself.'
He asks you if you're certain Vilkas is innocent. You tell him that you wouldn't fight for someone you didn't trust.
Ulfric nods, rubs his chin. 'I understand. I feel the same about my men. About Skyrim. Very well. I can spare you no men. You understand this? If you are to investigate, you must do so on your own. You have my permission, to look at the body, question who you must.'
The weight in your stomach lifts.
'And you have three days to do so. That is all I can give you. Some of the people of Windhelm already doubt whether I am fit to rule, do not give them reason to doubt further. When three days have passed, if you have no proof, I will not be able to stop the inevitable from happening.'
Three days. It's not much, but it might be enough.
You turn, go to leave.
'One moment,' Ulfric says, and he folds his arms across his broad chest. 'My men tell me you swept their feet from beneath them, and threw them against the ground. All without moving.' His eyes narrow. 'Magic like that is rare. Not like the telekinetic blast from a mage, but instead a raw and primal power. You know of the Thu'um.'
You finger the hem of your shirt, your chest tightens. You're not sure what to say, accept think, what's the relevance?
'Perhaps when all this is done you will come speak with me? You'll recall the compassion I have shown you, and repay it in kind?'
The Priestess of Arkay stands next to the table the body is on. She taps her fingers against her thighs, eyes the guard that escorted you in.
She steps forwards, folds back the white veil.
'His name was Torbar, so Elda tells me,' she says. 'He was staying at Candlehearth Hall.' The Priestess snaps her hands together. 'That is all I know. I've been trying to see if he has any family around here, but that doesn't seem to be the case.'
You thank the Priestess for the little bit of information she's given you, and she nods, then leaves. The guard goes with her.
Not far from where you stand, a woman kneels at the Shrine of Arkay. You try to ignore the sound of her sobs as you look down on the lifeless body of Torbar.
His skin is pale, his eyes closed, and his corn coloured hair is lank and scrapped back off his bloated face.
Crude stitches boarder puckered flesh. The Priestess has done her best to pack the wounds and seal them shut, mop up the blood.
You scratch your face with the back of your hand.
The stitches highlight a large gash in the abdomen, and you imagine the skin flapping loose.
There are no teeth marks.
A voice comes from over your shoulder. 'Stabbed.'
It is then that you are aware how silent the Hall of the Dead is. Not even a crackle of flame from the fire pits.
The woman has stopped sobbing, and when you turn she is inches away from your face.
'See the marks on his arms? He raised them in hopes of protecting himself.' She laughs. 'No chance there.'
She walks towards the body. Leans over it so her tangled and knotted brown hair trails against Torbar's skin.
'Lucky Torbar,' she says, and strokes the side of his face. 'It's okay now. He's gone and joined the hunt.'
You can feel heat in your face and your pulse quickens. You ask, what she means about the hunt.
She approaches you, her vivid eyes narrowed. 'Oh. You know.'
You breathe out, and your breathe is visible in the air.
'He was one of us,' she says.
And you whisper the word.
Wolf.
The woman smiles. 'Hircine,' she says. 'Torbar has joined Hircine, and Hircine has sent me to help you.'