Author's Note: This chapter has deviated quite a bit from my first draft so it took awhile to hammer out. Hope you like it! If any of you are opera fans, I fantasize Thorald's voice as something like Jonas Kaufmann. If you want a treat, look him up on youtube in Il Trovatore ( Ah! si, ben mio). I adore those totally insane, absurd Verdi plots.

4: Destiny Calls

Grelka's hair was sensibly braided out of her face but the stiffening wind lifted the loose strands at her neck. "I think Danica was right about a storm coming," Thorald said. There was no shelter at the Skyforge, of course, although Dragonsreach loomed far overhead as a wind break. "Look at how fast those clouds are rolling in. How long are you working today?"

"I've almost finished Avulstein's armor," Grelka said. "Tell him to come see me before dinner."

"He'll be pleased." Her grunt reminded him of his da. "Why the long face? You know he's eager to join the Stormcloaks."

"I don't want him to go. I hate this war, Thorald."

"I face danger when I go after bandits or beasts and you don't object to that."

"It's not the same. In the Companions you make your own decisions about what risks to take and when to take them. In the army you have to follow orders. Even if they are stupid orders. Especially if they are stupid orders."

"I guess there's no point in asking you to join up with me."

Grelka stared at him. "Is that a joke?"

"They need smiths as well as fighters. The harder we strike, the sooner it will be over. And Skyrim will be free."

"Now you sound like your uncle."

"I do? Gods help me." Thorald shook his head. "He's writing a letter for Avulstein to take to Windhelm. Not that he really needs an introduction to the jarl. Ulfric has known us all forever. But Uncle Vignar says Avulstein's sure to be made an officer right away. How I envy him." He gave her a look through sandy eyelashes. "Maybe next season."

"Maybe next season what? Oh no. Don't even think about it."

"You know this is important, Grelka. Skyrim needs—"

"Skyrim needs an end to this war, not more fighting," she snapped.

"The jarls bicker like children and Torygg does nothing to stop them. He's too young to be High King."

"The Moot didn't think so."

"The Moot cares more about Imperial gold than about what is right and true."

"Is that a quote from Jarl Ulfric?"

"The jarl cares about Skyrim and her future."

"My ma quoted Jarl Ulfric too. Back when he was younger than King Torygg is now, I bet. And she followed Ulfric to Markarth. She never came back."

"I know, Grelka. I'm really sorry about your ma. She's in Sovngarde now."

"That makes me feel so much better."

"I really am sorry."

"We didn't even get an urn. There were so many bodies, the mages burned them in a big pit. My da cried when he told me. Cried. And he had been so angry when she left. They had a big screaming fight."

She could still remember part of their argument.

"Ulfric's a fool to try to take Markarth," her da said. "I've seen Markarth. The city is impregnable."

"That's why he needs every strong arm," her ma said.

"He should stay in Windhelm. His people need him. He has no business in Markarth, chasing after glory."

"Skyrim needs the silver from the Reach. The empire won't lift a finger to help. They will treat with those treacherous natives before they send troops to take back what's ours."

"Ulfric should stay home and so should you. I forbid you to go."

"You knew I was a warrior when you married me."

"The Great War is over," her da said.

"I came back from that. I will come back from this." A pause. "Is this what you want our daughter to see, you wailing like a milkdrinker? I see you hiding there, Grelka. Come out and say goodbye."

"I want our daughter to see a mother who will stay with her and protect her."

Grelka knew not to tell her ma not to go. "I want to come with you," she said.

"You will have your own chance at glory one day, dear heart. Give me a kiss. I'll be back when we take back the Reach."

But her ma didn't come back. Not her horse, not her gear, not even her ashes. A chest of gold was all Grelka had to remember her mother by and now even that was gone. And Thorald wanted to go too. She saw the same restlessness in him that she had seen in her mother, the weeks before she finally left. She'd been seeing it for awhile.

"You were joking about leaving next season," she said. "Weren't you?" She gave him an anxious look when he didn't answer her right away. "Your uncle said your place was with the Companions." He still didn't answer. "It's noble work."

"Not so noble anymore," he said. "The Companions have become little more than a band of mercenaries."

"Better not let Kodlak hear you say that."

"He'd be the first to agree." Grelka found his quiet tone ominous, without his usual animation. "Skjor has been pressing me to accept the beast-blood."

They were considering admitting him to the inner Circle then. This didn't surprise Grelka. He was a fine warrior. But the beast-blood!

"Will you?"

"No."

"Thank Mara!"

"I didn't know you felt so strongly about it," Thorald said. "But I'm glad. I feel the same way. I honor my Shield-siblings, you know that. But that way is not my way." He looked out over Jorrvaskr. He saw Tilma below, hurriedly clearing off the tables from lunch. "Kodlak regrets it, you know, taking the beast-blood," he said. "And da told me once to put my faith in Skyforge steel and not look for other ways to strengthen myself. I didn't know what he was talking about then. As a kid when I heard the whispers, I thought people were talking about the wolf armor some of the Companions wear."

"When I was little my aunt told me never to go outside the city walls when the moons were full," Grelka said. "But she never said why." Grelka knew they were alone up here but she looked around anyway to be sure, then lowered her voice. "Until Aela and I became friends, I had no idea they were werewolves."

"The beast-blood has no appeal to me," he said. "I've got enough people telling me what to do. Don't need the moons doing it too." He sounded bitter. I've been ignoring the restlessness, she thought. Should I ignore this, too? Probably. But she couldn't.

"We all have our duties, Thorald."

"Don't worry. I know my place. I've had it pounded into me often enough."

Grelka frowned. "Vignar just wants what's best for you."

"Uncle Vignar wants what's best for the clan. Or what he thinks is best. He apparently doesn't believe me capable of making my own decisions."

"Of course he does."

"Is that so? I didn't even get to propose for myself."

"You didn't need to. We had an understanding!"

"Oh, aye. But sitting at the dinner table one night, he gives us that look. 'Enough canoodling, you two, when are you getting married?' Meddling old man. Next thing I knew, he and ma had set a date."

Grelka felt her mouth go dry.

"I thought that was what you wanted."

"I did too."

"Have you changed your mind?" she whispered.

"No!" He grabbed her hands. "No," he said more quietly. "But—"

A burst of wind whipped up the hill, chased by an ominous rumble of thunder.

"But—" she prompted. "You say no but that sounds like yes to me. You have changed your mind."

"I don't know how to say this without sounding foolish and selfish."

"Just say it."

"My life is all planned out for me. The Companions, marriage—ma's already talking about setting up the nursery, for Mara's sake. Before long, I won't just be sounding like my uncle, I'll be my uncle. I spend my days training whelps and running errands for milkdrinkers with more gold than sense. And none of this matters." There was another low rumble. The sky was noticeably darker now.

" It doesn't matter that we're making a life? Together? That's what people do."

"This is not what I'm meant to be doing right now." He understood her confused look; he felt confused too. "I don't know how to explain it. But I think it's the war. It's not right for me to be sitting idle here. It feels like everything is going wrong in Skyrim these days. I need to do something."

"These are wedding jitters," Grelka said. "Everyone gets them."

"I've tried to tell myself that." There was yet another growl from the sky. "I know how you feel about this war but I just can't agree with you. And I don't think it's fair to you if I—"

"If you—what? Break your promise and go off to war?"

"I never promised that."

"Your uncle did."

"Maybe he did. But he shouldn't have made promises for me."

"Just like he shouldn't have proposed for you, I take it. The guests are here, the gifts are here, the priest is on his way and NOW you tell me you don't want to be married? What in Oblivion is wrong with you?"

"I wish I knew," he said quietly.

"Fine. Fine! Talos forbid I should stand between a man and his doom," Grelka said.

"Doom? Call it destiny." There was a spark of his normal humor in his eyes. "That sounds better."

Grelka set her formidable jaw in the look he knew well. And dreaded. A long low roll of thunder continued, growing louder and louder until, irritated, Thorald looked up at the sky. "Enough interruptions already!" he shouted.

Rain began to plop down in fat cold drops. And then, with a blinding flash and a roar that made the ground tremble, lightning struck one of Dragonsreach's chimneys high overhead. Grelka yelped and snatched her hand out of her pocket as if she'd been stung. The skies opened and rain flooded down.

Thorald helped her gather up the armor she was working on. Grelka felt like screaming—just like her da had screamed at her ma. Was this sudden storm a sign from the gods? A warning? If she got in the way of Thorald's destiny, would the lightning strike her next? As they both ran for shelter at Jorrvaskr, Grelka yelled, "You're going to be the one to tell your ma the wedding is off."

There was a gentle tap at the door, then it swung open before Grelka could answer it. Olfina, cloak streaming water, stepped in.

"You didn't have to come all the way down to the stables in this weather," Grelka said.

"Oh, yes, I did," she said. She hung her dripping cloak on the peg by the door. "I had to get away from my family. You'd think Sheogorath had struck them all mad."

Grelka winced. "What's in the bucket?" she asked.

"Hulda sent some bottles of mead with her condolences. Where's your aunt?"

"Gone to bed early with one of her headaches."

"We'll drink her share then." The bottles clinked merrily when Olfina set the bucket on the table. Grelka peeked at the labels.

"The good stuff," she commented. "You want a mug?"

"Straight from the bottle is good enough for me. We're going to drink and you're going to talk."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Oh, no you don't. I got a belly full of martyred silence from my brother. Tell me what happened."

Grelka sighed. "Thorald wants to join the Stormcloaks and I won't marry a soldier. That's the whole story. I'm sure there are better tales going around the Bannered Mare by now."

Olfina snorted. "The rumor mill is grinding away. Everyone stopped talking when I walked in there just now. So I'm sure it's juicy. The only tale anyone would say to my face was that you jilted him when he refused to shave off his beard. And I'm not sure anyone believed it. They were just hoping."

"That sounds better than the reality of him jilting me. Before I forget, I have something for you. It got wet, sorry." She pulled a letter from her pocket.

Her eyes widened. "From Jon?" She took it, hesitated, then opened and read the note quickly once, and then again more slowly. Grelka had no doubt she would read it in secret again and again. She didn't know what it said but she knew Jon and she knew Olfina. Sappy nonsense, no doubt, with no practical solutions to anything.

"Thorald didn't suspect anything?" Olfina asked.

"No. I felt guilty, though, talking to him with that hidden in my pocket." Grelka couldn't help but give advice. "Listen, you know I don't think all this sneaking around is a good idea. Your da—"

"If my family found out I was seeing Jon, they'd ship me off to Windhelm before you could say Stupid Feud."

"Why Windhelm?"

"Uncle Vignar's been saying Whiterun might not be safe for us, especially if Jarl Balgruuf bellies up to the Empire, like everyone's afraid he's going to do."

"Bellies up? What does that mean?"

"The jarl will roll over like a dog if General Tullius kicks him hard enough. Well, that's what Uncle Vignar says. You know General Galmar is Jarl Ulfric's housecarl, right? But he's real busy with the war. So they've been talking about sending me up to help."

"To be Ulfric's housecarl?" Grelka asked in astonishment.

"No, I'll be an aide. Run errands and such. But my uncle is hoping I'll do well and work up to more responsibility. It would be a great opportunity if I wanted to leave Whiterun. Which I don't. Nothing is decided yet, thank Mara. When did you see Jon?"

"The courier from Winterhold just came in. Jon met him for me and received the pommel stone," Grelka said. "He paid the fees, too, as a surprise wedding gift."

"That was really nice."

"It was." Grelka had been so happy and excited to get the stone back. She couldn't wait to show it to Thorald. And now all pleasure was gone. "I set it in the sword just now."

"Can I see?"

"It's in my bedroom, come on."

Olfina admired the sword. "This is your best work, Grelka, it really is. Look how it glitters."

"I had asked for a fire enchantment like on my bow. The mages sent a note saying the stone was much better suited for shock damage and so they took the liberty of changing my instructions. They also asked where I got the material and did I have any more. That was the last of the dragon bone, alas. I spoiled most of what the jarl gave me, learning how to shape it. Do you want to hear something really strange? When I was up at the Skyforge with your brother, lightning struck Dragonsreach. I had my hand in my pocket touching the stone and it shocked me."

Olfina made a face and dropped the sword on the bed. "I have to say that any kind of magic makes me nervous. Da will foam at the mouth. You know how he feels about enchantment. What did Thorald say?"

"I never got the chance to tell him."

She gave the pommel stone a closer look. Without touching it, Grelka noticed. "So this is dragon bone. And you carved it. Why a hawk?"

"For Kynareth. Since I used wood from the sacred tree to forge the sword, I wanted to honor Her." Grelka looked embarrassed. "I call the sword Kyne's Wrath." Not only did Eorlund not hold with enchanting weapons, he didn't hold with naming them either. Said it was the warrior's job to earn a name, not the smith's to bestow one.

"Maybe Grelka's Wrath would be better. Are you really angry? You should be."

"I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now."

"I always knew Thorald was an idiot but this—" She shook her head.

"How's the family taking it?"

"Loudly. Everyone yelling. Except my da, of course."

"Your da didn't say anything?"

"No. Well, he called Thorald an idiot. We all did that. Then your da came storming over to the house and called him an idiot, too. Said he ought to be horse-whipped. Ma took offense. You know how she is. Thorald took most of the abuse pretty well but when Avulstein started in on him, he had enough. Walked out without his cloak. Hope he drowns, the rotten skeever."

"What was Avulstein mad about?"

"Uncle Vignar said if Thorald was to go to Windhelm, Avulstein had to stay here." She gave Grelka a careful look. "He's leaving tomorrow."

"Figures. Destiny calls. I guess he's happy now."

"He doesn't look happy, Grelka. He looks miserable."

"He'll get over it. Take him the sword. Maybe he can put it to good use with the Stormcloaks," Grelka said bitterly. Olfina blinked at her grim expression. She had a bad feeling. What would happen if Grelka sent Thorald a weapon in anger? Nothing good, surely. Anger had to be burning away under her friend's calm veneer. Would Thorald feel like he could accept her wedding gift, now that there was no wedding? Probably not. She had no doubt that her brother was stupid enough to send the sword back. Grelka was already nervous about the enchantment. Rejection of her gift would be a horrible insult. It would be like the old tales, when a jarl sends his enemy an axe. To return it would be a declaration of war.

"I'll take it," Olfina said. But I'm not going to give it to Thorald, she thought. I'll give it to da, let him decide what's best. Because I saw your secret, Grelka, when you bent over just now. You still have those wedding rings on a chain around your neck. So let's not declare war, Grelka, not just yet.

The next day Grelka trudged up the steps to the Skyforge, filled with dread. But facing his da is the easy part, she told herself. Sooner or later she would have to face Fralia. He had his back to her, working the bellows, but he stopped when she walked into his sight. She reached for the handle. Keeping the forge hot was her job when he was working. But he shook his head.

"It will wait," he said. "How are you, lass?" She shook her head, not sure how to reply.

"What did he tell you?"

"Not much," Eorlund said.

"He's not ready to settle down."

"Hrm. Don't you go off doing anything rash."

"I heard he's going to Windhelm."

"Left at first light. Fool."

"I should leave too."

"Don't. Give it time." He looked over at her face. Grelka's face was set, angry, but he noticed how many times she blinked. "People like us don't make good spouses. Or parents. Vignar was more a father to my children than I was."

"That's not true!"

"Got a speech, lass. I'm going to say it. Any tinker can pound hot metal, but to be a true smith, a master smith—to work the Skyforge—takes a special kind of knowing. The great weapons, the great armors, they have a soul. They're not just made, they're born. You know what I'm talking about."

"Maybe."

"You know. The Skyforge has her secrets. In time, you will learn them. But we pay a price for this knowing. The Skyforge takes us by the heart. Our family gets what's left. Thorald understands that better than most men. If he's having doubts, now is the time for them."

Grelka blinked at him. She had never given much thought to the state of his own marriage.

"Another thing, lass. Vignar may say only a Gray-Mane can work the Skyforge. That's his pride talking. She will choose her own master."

"I don't know if I can face everyone like nothing's happened."

"You can." He laughed at her grimace. "Worried about Fralia's sharp tongue?"

"Yes, in fact." She sighed. "I was thinking about making a trip. Just for awhile."

"Not a good time to travel, lass. War. Bandits."

"Aela has a contract in Riften. I've never been to Riften. I thought I might tag along. That smith I've been trying to get in touch with has never answered my letters. I could go look him up."

"You're not still on about that nonsense, are you, girl? Armor made out of bone? What's the sense in that when we have good steel, right here?"

"They say it's as strong as steel but much lighter. It's a Dunmer secret but supposedly this Mallory fellow in Riften knows it."

"You can't make armor out of bone. Bone breaks. You can cut it with an axe."

"Oh, I don't know. What if it was dragon bone?" Grelka asked.

"We're all out of dragons, lass."