Chapter Seven
If there is harm

"What's the burning of King Olaf?" I asked, twiddling my string taffy between my fingers. We all sat at Dragonsreach, in Dagny's large bedroom. We were all gathered to celebrate Dagny's sixteenth birthday. I was still full and sleepy from the earlier feast. Dagny and I sat on the bed while Lars sat at the table, making birds with folded paper. Mila looked through Dagny's wardrobe, casually pulling out dresses to examine them. The room was large and octagonal, windows lining the walls freely. The moon was high in the sky, stars shining brightly.

"It's like a ceremony that the Bard's College perform up in Solitude." Mila sat, half distracted by the satin garb in front of her. Judging from the lack of material, it must have been quite scandalous. I blushed as Mila turned to Dagny, holding it to her body, posing obscenely.

"You must have heard of it! Weren't you born in Solitude?" Dagny added, leaning over to snatch the garment from Mila, who laughed devilishly.

"Well, no I haven't. Not that I remember at least."

"I suppose you were quite young when the High King died… when was that? 200?" Dagny continued, after discarding the piece of fabric to the other side of the room.

"201," Lars corrected, tossing one of his paper birds at Mila. She caught it and crumpled it, receiving a teasing scowl from Lars.

"Yeah, Elisif thought it was a disrespectful ritual after that," Mila continued, pulling up a chair at Lars' table.

"High Queen Elisif," Lars corrected, plopping some taffy into his mouth.

"She's no High Queen," Mila scoffed, "she's hardly even Jarl!"

"Well, she will be, once this war is won," Dagny defended, assured.

"If it ever is," I scoffed, leaning into Dagny's feather pillow.

"Oh! Don't speak like that. All I was saying was that we should go to the damned ritual now that Elisif has decided to bring it back! All upperclassmen go!" Dagny proclaimed, folding her hands in her lap.

"Well then, count me out," muttered Mila bitterly. "We barely made enough coin for firewood this winter!"

"Obviously," started Dagny matter-of-factly, "we would take you with us!" Mila sneered, redness rising in her face.

"I'm not a charity case!" she snapped, suddenly jumping from her chair. Dagny only rolled her eyes, unfazed as she reached for a sweetroll. Lars only looked uncomfortable.

"Don't be like that." Dagny rolled her eyes. "You know that's not what we meant. The reason we want you there is because you're—well, you're you. We wouldn't have bothered otherwise." She ripped a piece of her sweetroll. "I don't do charity."


"We should play a game," Mila suggested, eyes bright with mischief. Lars chuckled and Dagny scoffed in response.

"Games are for children," Dagny pronounced, sitting up from her bed. "I'm to have my name celebration soon!"

"Sure, but you're surrounded by a thirteen year old, and two fifteen year olds!" Lars protested, leaning against the bed.

"You've invited the company of the utterly young and foolish, I'm afraid," Mila tested. "This is a democracy, you don't have a choice!"

"Actually, this is a monarchy," Dagny corrected, "and I am the queen!" We giggled at this, but we all knew Mila wouldn't stop.

"Well, if you want to be a milk-drinker," Mila tested once more, receiving a chuckle from both Lars and I.

"Oh please, that doesn't offend me. The brave are stupid, and the selfless are losers is what I say!"

Somehow, I found myself agreeing with her as I said,

"Milk is good for bones." I snuggled deeply into my pillow as my audience laughed in response.

"We might as well have Braith for company," whined Mila before turning out the last torch. I fell quickly into slumber, lulled by the soft whispering between Mila and Lars. They were too close for comfort, it seemed, but I didn't think either minded.


"Married?" Mother said, surprised. "Oh no, the Battle-Borns are a very ancient and rich clan. I doubt they would marry their son to any lower-middle-class girl."

It was nearing midnight in early Heart-Fire, and I was helping mother clean up. There wasn't too much of a mess, but the absence of Belrand was noted. His cleaning abilities were quite impressive, and rather shocking. That night, he found himself camping with the Drunken Huntsmen. They would probably arrive back two nights from now with two barrels of fish and enough game to last the winter. If meat and fish didn't go bad so quickly, I doubt the town would have minded.

"But Lars and Mila would be a good match," I argued, tossing more empty bottles into my bag. We would have to send them back to Riften to be refilled. I was surprised Mother didn't offer to go herself. She spoke of home often.

"Sometimes it does not matter," she replied, pushing in the bar stools. I flinched at the horrible groaning the friction of wood moving over wood made.

"That never stopped you," I retorted. Perhaps I had said it with bitterness in my heart and maybe my words, but Mother only laughed, throwing a clean rag my way.

She looked quite beautiful in mid laugh, her wide smile scrunching her eyes and her freckles brightening. Her laugh sounded expensive; erratic, like a rare treat only those who would appreciate it got to hear. She laughed a lot with Belrand, I remembered. I wondered if he felt rich.

"Oh hush child, and go clean the cooking pot, the gods know you made a mess of it tonight," she commanded, returning to scrubbing the counter. "Damn that old man, leaving us without a cook!"

"I still make better cakes than you, Mum." She smiled at me, and I stared at her. It could have been just a moment, or it could have been four. I probably looked dumb, standing there staring at my mother, but I was almost baffled. Her red hair was in complete disarray. It was long now, a few inches past her waist. It was clipped back, an attempt to keep the curls away from her face. She was flushed and sweaty, and wearing a cheap dress, her sleeves rolled up half way and her corset loose. Her apron was stained and smeared from tonight and from the many nights previous.

I remembered her standing clad in armour many years before, shrouded in black. I remember seeing her bow, and its intricate curves, its nimble beauty. I thought of the warrior she was, and of the hundreds of people she had killed, how many things she had killed. I recalled her war paint, smeared and old as she hunched over that dreadful black box, of it painted across her eyes on her second wedding day. I wondered if she'd worn it on her third.

I looked at her and I thought of all the forms of her I had witnessed throughout my life, and I thought and wondered about the ones I'd never seen. I looked at her, smiling and happy and I wondered if this was who she really was. I wondered if this was who I wanted her to be.


20th of Heart-Fire, 4E 208

Loralei the first
Yet to be named, No clan
Heir to Thane Elaira
(Solitude as of 4E 194, Whiterun as of 4E 206)

This is an official invitation to attend Torygg's Ball, located at the Blue Palace, Solitude for the first of Frostfire, 4E 208 at twenty hours.

In celebration of what would have been King Torygg's fortieth birthday, High Queen Elisif is hosting a masquerade ball in his honour. All attendants shall dress accordingly.

Miss Loralei and her mother (who has received a separate invitation), are invited to stay at the Blue Palace as guests to the Queen, her household, and the other special guests.

Cordially yours,
Falk Firebeard,
first of his name,
Steward of High Queen Elisif the Fair


Mother travelled with Belrand, and the adults of the Battle-Born clan travelled together, so as was expected, I was left to travel with the leftovers; Lars BattleBorn and the Bastard of Balgruuf. I met them at the stables, my luggage in hand. Mother had left the hour before, in her personal carriage brought over from the estate in Falkreath, and she had left me with money and warnings. Against my pleas, Mother had told Lydia to stay in Whiterun to run the inn in our absence. Ysolda had returned more refined and more learned, but Mother had insisted Lydia stay anyway.

I tried not to be bitter as I sat on the bench near the stables, awaiting my companion. The bastard stood, petting the horses of the carriage we were to take, having not said a word to me. He was taller since the last I'd seen him many months ago. He had left to travel some, doing gods-know-what, but he had come back older, having grown into his homely features. Still not handsome by any means, he was not ugly. Even I had to admit his features were striking, his pointed chin and refined angles his best accessories.

Cool breezes swirled around my fall skirts, making them dance with the wind erratically. I sighed theatrically before slouching into the back of the bench, pulling my hat down my head. It had probably cost a thousand coins, but I did not see why. Mother had told me to wear the current fashion for the Royal court, and this stiff black hat accessorized with a large bow had apparently been just that. I thought it foolish impractical. It hardly blocked the wind, and my ears were cold, unprotected from my hair which had been pinned back so tightly it felt like my face had been lifted.

To say this arrangement was irritating was to say the least. The discomfort I felt with the bastard and the discomfort this ridiculous, itchy outfit bestowed upon me, plus that godforsaken boy that chose the windiest day in fall to be late was making me reconsider going at all. Balls were not typically my definition of fun, but I had never really been to one, and I had had to remind myself not to judge so quickly before saying no. And I had been desperate to escape the hold, and even if it meant returning to Solitude to socialize with rich, royal-toe-sucking adults and their spawn.

I almost spat at Lars' feet when he finally arrived, a dumb grin on his face as he offered to haul up my bags. I cursed myself for having failed earlier. He merely smiled at the scowl on my face as he tossed them in, before letting the bastard go in first.

"After you," he said waving me in when I waited awkwardly for him to enter the carriage. At least the carriage was nice, I had to remind myself as Lars steadied my elbow and I stepped in. I decided to sit next to Nelkir. At least he didn't talk, let alone smile.

"So, how are you this morning?" Lars asked politely as we began to move.

"It's nearly afternoon," I reminded him as courteously as I could manage. I resisted the urge to adjust my hat.

"Yes, sorry about that," Lars continued. "My friend Olava had me for tea this morning. It was completely unplanned, I swear." I didn't even attempt to stop the roll of my eyes, until I felt recognition.

"Olava?" I repeated, trying to remember where I'd heard that name.

"Yes, she's that old lady who can see the future," Lars told me. He somehow managed to look smug. "I've known her for quite some time, you see. She makes nice tea."

"Belrand makes good tea," I commented quietly, surprised at myself.

"Your father?" Lars questioned, looking through his bag for something.

"My mother's husband."

"Ahh," he said, pulling out some fruit, offering to both me and the bastard, who looked out the window quietly, hardly noticing the gesture. "Elaira the Wife, the infamous Dragonborn of Legend." I chuckled at this but stopped quickly when I noticed the twinkle in his eyes.

"Hush you! That's my mother you speak of!" He laughed now, and I felt both dirty and rich as I smiled back at him.


I had apparently drifted into sleep by the rime the carriage rolled up to the Solitude stables. I was woken only by a hand placed firmly on my arm. "We're here," Nelkir said, shaking me softly from my slumber. I blinked unfashionably before I could keep my eyes fully open. I glanced outside the carriage window and saw that the sky was dark and the moon hung high.

I shivered slightly as I stepped out of the carriage, adjusting my cloak around me. It was warmer in Solitude than in Whiterun, but the chill of the night air sent goosebumps down my neck nonetheless. Handing me my bag, Lars asked, "My family has been invited to stay at the Palace—you know, being such big supporters of the empire or whatever. Are you staying there?"

"That was the plan," I muttered.

"Well, I'm probably going stay at the Inn; I doubt the court will be too pleased to receive guests at this hour, it's near an hour past midnight."

"I have a manor here, I'll sleep there I guess." He nodded, the dim torchlight shading every crease of his face.

"I forgot you used to live here," he added, shuffling on his feet. Turning to Nelkir, he remembered his courtesies. "Nelkir, where will you be staying?"

"The Inn," he said curtly, eyeing Lars strangely. "Our escort should be here shortly."


Solitude was dimly lit, though better lit than Whiterun had been the night I'd first arrived. My shoes clicked familiarly as I walked up the long city. I tried not to let my eyes explore my surrounding, focusing only on what was in front of me. The night air was quiet, even the inn, which was always so rowdy, found itself quiet, sleep overcoming all.

The air was fresh and with each intake of breath I felt the coldness revive my lungs. My breath spouted out of my mouth in what seemed like hot clouds, and I felt like a child as I observed it with such curiosity. It was not the first time I could see the soft puffs of warm breath connecting with the cold air of winter, but I couldn't help but wonder in fascination.

My escort walked me all the way to the front doors of Proudspire Manor, his armor clinking softly as he gave me a curt bow. "Goodnight, young Loralei, and welcome back to Solitude," he said before heading back to wherever it was he was needed. I turned back to the manor and lit the candles on either side of the door in front of me. It seemed smaller than I remembered, and simpler than I had probably made it out to be. The handle was rusting, and the loud click the key produced made me flinch. The door opened with a loud creek, sending shivers down my spine. Closing the door behind me, I lit the candles nearest to me.

The light did not do much to relieve the room, and I could not see much. I tried to remember how it had looked before; I tried to fill in the blanks. I felt a soft urge to run my fingers along the stone tables and wooden chairs, to touch the dusty tomes mother had stuffed into unsteady bookshelves. It felt like instinct to stride over to the fire and put on a cooking pot to make some stew. It felt like a strange, unforgiving pull for me to run upstairs into my mother's bedroom and sit with my brother between our mother and our father. I felt like picking up the broom I had probably set down somewhere in the basement and begin sweeping the floors, hoping to please Father, hoping to save Lydia the trouble. But as my eyes adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, I saw emptiness. Cobwebs lined the ceilings and six years' worth of dust had sheeted every surface in the area. Only a few forgettable tomes rested sadly on the wooden shelves, forever left behind. Vases which once bloomed with herbs and flowers and berries were now empty. Warmth and love and all the good and steady things I had thought I'd left with Proudspire Manor were gone. Or perhaps they had not been there in the first place.


The looking glass before me was tall and elegant; its frame made of ivory and carved by some talent's hand. I figured it must have cost a fortune. Or maybe it was an heirloom, or it had been a gift or had just come with the palace.

"You look beautiful," Mother said, her smile wide yet unsure. Her red locks were done up nicely, in the new fashion: tall and dramatic. Runa would have cooed.

"Thank you," I muttered, looking at myself rather curiously. My dress had not been made special for me, as there was not much time for such arrangements, but I thought it fitted well. Though the corset was tight, it was far more comfortable than the garment I had arrived in. The skirt was wide, but simple, a yellow-cream colour decorated in embroidered designs, all lined with tiny pearls. The neck was rather low, and my breasts were not fully covered, but it was done tastefully and simply. Mother had told me that the mask would be the main event in the outfit, that the dress should not be the first thing one sees. I was thankful for that, and I was happy with the dress mother had chosen for me. I rather liked its simplicity and refined elegance. I would surely blend in with all the others, not too extravagant, nor too plain.

Cocking my head at the reflection before me, I managed a smile. Mother had offered paint for my lips, but I decided against it, thinking I would look foolish to wear paint so young. Mother handed me my mask, and I held it up to my face. Its pearly and feathery extravagance was masked by the soft gold and white colours.

"Have you ever been to a ball before?" I asked, looking at mother from the mirror.

"In another life," she said, smiling to herself like a girl with a secret.


There was an orchestra of bards performing, and the music was booming and loud. The dancing was swift and formal and the food was refined. I talked and I might have flirted, but I did not care. I laughed shamelessly and I thought of many things; of many people, the ones who were not here. Onmund would have danced with everyone and Hroar would have floated and gloated in the attention he would have sure gotten from the pretty girls. Torygg would have cried.

I would bring Runa next year, I reminded myself later that night. I thought of her when our song was played.


"You look better without the mask," Lars commented once, before taking my hand for a dance. He was a terrible dancer, but he seemed not to mind when I told him so. I wondered if I preferred him with or without the mask, before scolding myself for the thought. I was afraid he could read my mind when he grinned wider and twirled me once more. I suppose I didn't really care.


I waited outside the door of Vittoria Vicci's house the morning before leaving the city. I was on time I knew. In the years that I lived as her neighbour, she had always left her house at the exact same time, never more than two minutes late. But I had been waiting for ten minutes now, debating whether I should knock for the last five.

I had decided to walk to Temple with her, like we had done so many times before. I longed for her endless chatter. I wanted to hear of her wedding, of her marriage, of her plans, of all the petty little gossip she just couldn't help but share. I wanted to listen to her complain about the East Empire Company and its highs and lows. I wanted to sit next to her in that temple with high ceilings and pretty windows, and feel my heart lower as the room fell silent for the sermons of the Eight to begin.

But when I knocked and no one greeted me at the door, I felt my heart lower not from anticipation but from something else entirely.


I lay Blue Mountain Flowers on three graves that day.


I believe in destiny. I know that every person in the world was built and made and shipped off into this cruel world for a purpose. Whether it is to save the world or to write a song; whether it is to serve as secondary characters in another's life, we all have something. But I also believe that some flee from their destinies. Though I trust that there is fate, there is destiny; I know that the future is still infinite. I know that tomorrow, anything can happen, that we don't know where we'll be ten years from now, we don't know if we will even be. The future is scary because it is new and it is unknown. It is endless and ruthless and no one understands it.

Human beings want to know, we want to understand. We hate being out of loop of the universe, of the government, of our town drama. It is our nature to seek more, always more. The more we learn the more we want to find out. With every answer come a million more questions. It is universally frustrating not knowing what may or may not happen. We don't know how or when we will die. We don't know if we will find love or die alone. We don't know if one day we'll find ourselves somewhere other than home. We don't know where home will be a week, a day from now. But is it not better this way? Are human beings too naïve, too young, too selfish to know the many truths and the many lies of the universe? Is the future beyond us? Is the knowledge of our own future a danger to us?


If you had the chance to know of your future, would you take it? Would you take the opportunity to learn the date of your death, the cause? Would you want to know who your soulmate is? Would you take the opportunity to glimpse at your children's faces before they were even conceived? If your whole future could be laid out in front of you on a canvas or a puzzle with all its pieces in place, would you look?

If you wouldn't, would you spend your whole life wondering if that prophecy you chose not to prophesise was right? Would you spend your life wondering if you would have lived differently? Would that fear of the unknown triple itself until you couldn't live life without thinking, I could have known? Would you look at your spouse and wonder if it was really meant to be? Would you lay in your deathbed thinking, am I doing this right?

If you would look, would you live your life in fear of the inevitable? Would you be forced to live your life in expectation, just waiting for your love? Would it all end up a disappointment? If you learned that you would die from the plague, would you not do everything to avoid your death? If you learned you would watch your lover perish, would you bother loving at all? Would this change your destiny, or would it lead you to it?

Would either answers change this prophecy, this destiny?

These questions were the reasons that humans weren't allowed the choice in the first place.

Except, there I sat on that day in the middle of Frostfall, in front of Olava the Feeble, her eyes peerless as they looked through mine.


What she told me that day seems unimportant now. Maybe it was some great prophecy of how my life would unfold, and maybe it would show me my destiny and all the great things I was designed to do. But it never seemed to change anything. Whether or not I ever fell in love or had children, or forgave those who wronged me didn't matter to me. I didn't care for the big changes, the big cracks and wounds. I cared about the little winds and the calm shifts. I cared about the songs that became something more than a song. I cared about the colours of flowers, and the drumbeat of the anvil. I cared about secret glances and youthful kisses. I cared about scars and bruises and the fortification of healing. I cared about my ears which were my father's, and my eyes which were my mother's.

What Olava the Feeble told me was nothing but things I had long ago forgiven. What Olava the Feeble taught me was nothing at all.


But did it change my destiny?

I don't know.


It was late in Sun's Dusk, 4E 208 when Mother and Lydia went to go on some adventure or another for a few days. Ysolda had left for yet another journey with the trading caravans; but taking care of the inn wasn't too bad. Recently, Mother had hired Olfina Gray-Mane, much to my surprise. She had a strange kind of beauty that I admired. She had hair so light that it was almost silver. Her eyes were bright and green and much like my own. She was strong and elegant at the same time.

That night during Sun's Dusk, she'd come up to me, after I'd handed Lars his drink and sweet. Her look was sweet and sincere as she smiled at me encouragingly.

"It's not easy being a woman in Skyrim, I know," she said, handing me a bottle of aged ale. "But stay strong and men will come to respect you, and maybe even fear you." I smiled at her apprehensively. "It's not too busy, take the shift off."

As I took a sip of my ale, Olfina turned around. Jon Battle-Born stood in front of her however, and she halted, surprised.

"So I'm, uh... writing a song for you..." he began, a shy little smile playing at his lips. I tried to be discreet as I observed them.

"Why, Jon Battle-Born," Olfina exclaimed, putting a hand dramatically to her chest. "You're writing me a song? Does it somehow involve blood, or beheadings, or the honor of my forebears?" Jon smiled, laughing quietly.

"Well, that's where I started." He paused, somewhat unsure. "But it turned into something of a ballad."

"A ballad? Oh, now I know you're joking with me," Olfina said, sarcasm dripping from her mouth.

"It's all true, I swear it," Jon pleaded. "You can hear it when it's done. I'll just need a year or two to smooth the rough edges."

"Ha! I thought as much." Olfina exclaimed. I could hear the smile in her voice. "So, have you spoken to that man from the Bards College yet?"

"No, not yet. But I will. I just haven't... gotten around to it yet." Jon said slowly.

"Oh Jon, stop dallying. You know you have to go. It's why Mara put you on this earth." she leaned in a little closer, and my ears strained to listen. "You think a few miles can truly keep us apart?"

"You mean you won't forget about me the moment I'm out of sight? Get yourself a nice old rich husband, have sixteen babies?"

"Tsk. You've uncovered my master plan. Now I suppose you'll never leave." Olfina sighed dramatically as Jon chuckled.

"Harlot." He paused before leaning in close, after inspecting to see no one was looking. "I want to see you when you're done working."

"I can't. Not tonight. I need to go home. I swear, my father is starting to suspect something." Olfina said worriedly, shifting slightly.

"That's your imagination running wild. Nobody knows how we feel about each other."

"Don't talk about my father like that, Jon. And the answer's still no. But tomorrow. Definitely." She began to walk away, but I was careful to notice the note passed to Jon.


"Alarik the Liar," said the man. He had dark hair, messy hair but a fair complexion. His eyes were dark blue and sorrowful. He was young, just a young man of two-and-twenty. His arm was in a sling and bruises lined his torso to his jaw. He sat upright, leaning against the wall, his legs laying limp in front of him.

"Why do they call you that?" I asked, calmly stirring his pain potion.

"I spent two years as a Stormcloak spy," he said, monotone. Since we had told him he could never walk again, he seemed motionless. Lifeless.

"That's interesting," I commented, handing him my concoction. He drank it in on swing of his good arm.

"Doesn't matter now," he muttered. "Shouldn't you be out there? Celebrating?"

"I've had many Old and New Life festivals and I will see more." I responded, checking his bandages.

"So? Why are you here?" he demanded, scowling at me.

"I didn't want you to be alone," In a moment, Alarik the Liar was crying, his wails soft and silent as I stroked his hair to calm him. I tried to imagine him a child, laughing with his brothers and sisters, running about. I imagined his father, patting him on the shoulder. I imagined his mother, crying into his shoulder, begging him not to leave for war. I wondered what he pictured. I wondered what he would do now. I prayed to the divines he would find his way; but with no legs, I couldn't help but wonder how he would travel his path.


Winter of 4E 209 was much like the year before, with snow heavy and lingering peace. The war was beginning to pick up again, though only few attacks affected the Whiterun Hold. I treated many wounded men and women with magic, with medicine, and with patience. The city was temporarily influenced by a plague they called the Violet Death. The sickness turned people's veins into a dark colour, almost purple seen from the surface of the skin. However, that only lasted for a month and a bit, dying out once the cure was found. Lavender, mixed with snowberries turned into a tea healed the remaining sick seamlessly.


It was one winter morning when I was woken by a sleepy Elaira, who said, "Wake up, child, some boy wants to see you," before sauntering back up the stairs.

Lars sat lazily on the living room bench, dressed in a thick black cloak, a large saber-skinned hat and mittens, most likely sewn by his grandmother. Mila stood quietly by the doorway, stifling a loud yawn as I approached, still in my nightgown. Mila's cloak was thin, and her gloves had holes, but she seemed not to mind.

"Good morning," I managed, as Lars and Mila tiredly watched me approach.

"'Morning," Mila said, yawning again.

"What are you both doing here? And what time is it?" I questioned, surprisingly defensive.

"The sun has been up for about two hours now, so I'd say seven or eight," Lars replied, stretching, tiredly.

"And we're here to invite—well force you to play with us." Mila added, peeling herself from the wall to stand next to Lars. "It was his idea,"

"Well, don't you think it would be fun to play in untouched snow? We could build forts or snowfolk or have a snow fight!"

"We're nearing adulthood," I began, feeling quite irritated. "I haven't played in a very long time."

"You sound like Dagny," Mila groaned. I figured early mornings were not her thing.

"You really do! And if we really are bordering on adulthood, then we should make fun out of the time we have left as respectable children," Lars smiled convincingly. I scoffed, but relented, leaving to fetch my cloak.


And so it was, twenty minutes later, I was outside the tall walls of Whiterun, soaking in cold wetness and laughing hysterically as Mila and I threw balls of snow at a laughing Lars. I wondered if I would have a fun like this again. I wondered if when we grew up, if when our names were bestowed upon us, we would have to grow up in ways growing taller never changed us. I hoped not, but I couldn't help but see that childhood was fleeting, stolen in the fury of time, and joy was fading, stolen in the rage of war.

But then I thought of mother who could still laugh for hours, laugh and laugh until her insides hurt. I thought of Belrand who could always find things to smile about, even if they were just previous smiles or memories. I thought of Balimund and the soothing he found in steel and heat and fire. I thought of that grey skin and her stable boy, how she could giggle in the delight of blossoming love. I thought of Lars' father, and how his blood rushed and his words unfurled in the talk of battle. I thought of all the smiles and laughing and all the wrinkles and scars and it was a wonder to find that they all coincided, curling perfectly together in tight, resilient knots.


23rd of First Seed, 4E 209

Runa,

I miss you, and hope the last couple weeks have been good to you. I got your letter last week, and I hope you'll forgive my tardiness.

I've been busy at the temple, there have been a few recent attacks near here, and I'm worried the Stormcloaks will attack Whiterun once again. We've still not fully reconstructed from the last time. The war seems endless, and I treat man after man, woman after woman, all wounded in war and battle and I worry that they will not be the same again. My greatest hope is that the Stormcloaks surrender, and no more deaths or injuries are to be had. I'm sick of seeing illness and unease, I'm tired of watching people stumble into eternal slumber.

I was glad to hear things are happy in Riften, and I'm glad to hear you're satisfied with the Battle-Born, Gray-Mane love affair.

Write soon please,
Loralei

P.S. You must sing me this song you're writing the next time we meet.


Spring crept into Whiterun like a thousand little spiders, and by my birthday, the snow had already cleared, and the harvests were blooming like an evening primrose, welcoming the fresh air of nighttime.

My birthday celebration was held at the Bannered Mare, a large cake as center piece. The cake had been decorated by my mother, Lydia, and Olfina, and it tasted like love and sweetness.

Jon Battle-Born joined in with the man whose name I never learned to sing me songs unto the dawn.

I danced with Belrand, laughing as he twirled me around and around until I nearly tripped on my skirt. I laughed with those Nords who were too blunt and too drunk. I gossiped with the girls who always had juicy tales to tell and secrets hidden beneath their fingernails. I played cards with the old men, and I sang soft songs to the old ladies. I talked and I laughed and sputtered quite a bit and I tried to ignore that red-haired woman who leaned on the bar counter, her expression both blank and misty, veiled with sadness. I only let my eyes linger as she twiddled with the blue flower in her hand and thought of the son who happened to be born first.

I wondered if she thought of what the world stole from him; from her.


Second Seed was a nice month, with as low as zero unhealthy or dead. I stood in front of that large dead tree after our meditations, and I looked sadly up at it. I wondered how long it had been since it was alive. I wondered if there was still life within it, a small weak heartbeat that was too stubborn with age and the ways of the old to really let go. I wondered what this tree had seen, what it had witnessed, now and before. I wondered if it had seen someone's first kiss, someone's first kill. I wondered how many wanderers it had met, how many sinners I had blessed.

Slowly, I stepped towards this beautiful dead thing, and moved my hands, connecting my young, soft skin to its rough, old bark. I closed my eyes, and I tried to summon the magic within my veins, within my own life. The warmth tingled through me, like tiny little calming shocks, rushing upwards to read the surface of my skin. My vitality, my strength, my life. My gods, my dreams and my spirit. They all slowly peeled themselves from their hold on my bones, my veins, and drifted towards my fingertips.

There was a soft whisper, or maybe a hum; a heartbeat of sorts, rhythm told through vibration. I smiled, opening my eyes as I removed my hands from the tree. My vitality snapped back into me like an elastic band, sending one hard shock through my body. I had to take a moment to steady myself before my senses took hold over my body once again.


"That tree, that big, dead one," I began, as we sipped our potions in the temple, soft slurps echoing in the silence. "What is it?"

"The Gildergreen, it's called. It's a bit of an eyesore at the moment. More of a problem for the pilgrims than for me, but not many of them are around anymore. See, a big dead tree isn't very inspiring if you're coming to worship the divine of wind and rains. Kynareth gives life, and a living tree needs to be her symbol," she said, taking silent sips of her potion, closing her eyes as it warmed her throat.

"What is it, though? Why not tear it down?" I asked, finishing the last honeyed gulps of the potion.

"To the east of here is a hidden grove where the Eldergleam resides. It's the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Maybe all of Tamriel. Our tree here in the city was grown from a cutting of that tree. You can still feel the glory of the mother tree through it." She looked to nowhere for a moment her eyes full of something… religion or faith or rain.

"I know that the Gildergreen isn't beautiful to the eyes of the onlooker, that's it's just a big, dead tree that haunts Whiterun… but I know it is not gone, not gone like those believe it to be…" She looked me in the eyes now, both assuredly and pleading. "Trees like this never really die." She paused to blink, letting her eyes stay shut for a moment too long. Maybe she thought. Maybe she prayed. "They only slumber."


"Must you go camping again?" said Elaira, irritation and pleading in her voice. Her husband chastely kissed her on the mouth before whispering something in her ear. She blushed and I looked away.

This was the second time in Mid-Year Belrand had left to go hunting, much to my mother's dismay. She smiled at him however, ever the doting wife. She adjusted his collar, before kissing him on the cheek for good luck.

Kissing me on the forehead goodbye, Belrand was gone.

I felt like this was something I'd gone through before. Some strange déja-vu which only led to disaster.

I wasn't surprised though. Bad things happen when people leave.

I only hoped that he would return.


On the third night after Belrand left, I heard noises from outside my bedroom door. Voices, familiar voices that sent shivers down my spine. I probably should have ignored those voices, and I most likely would have, if they had not made me think that strange, unforgivable things were happening. Getting up, and pressing my ear against the door, I strained to hear them properly.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice thin, like a tissue being stretched, ripping slowly at the pull.

"I needed to see ye lass." A strange accent. I closed my eyes at the recognition.

"I told you why I left!" she said desperately, as if it were too much. "Don't do this to me, you know I don't want this."

"Want what, Elaira?!" There was a pause. A long, drawn out moment of things from the past and questions left unanswered.

"You." It was heavy and uncomfortable and a lie that would have been successful if I had not known her for so long, if I did not know that if she were telling the truth, they wouldn't be there in the first place; in this house, with her husband away and her child seemingly fast asleep; with this man who managed to change everything. He seemed to know this too.

"You promised me you'd never tell me lies," he said, his voice tense, the words thick and overwrought.

"I've made a lot of promises in my life," was all she responded.

"I love you." It was quick and it was sudden and I couldn't tell if the emotions thick in the air were heavy or hot or just uncomfortable. I closed my eyes and breathed in thinly, the soft smell of old wood filling my senses.

I crawled back into my bed, forcing myself to concentrate on my breaths. I tried not to be curious about her response. I wondered if she'd given him that hard look, and said to him steadily, "I don't." I wondered if she started sobbing, sobbing and sobbing until she hiccupped. I wondered if she grabbed him by the neck and kissed him into Oblivion, her hands running through his hair. I wondered if she would slap him, flared in red hot anger and tell him to leave. I wondered if she had just stared at him, dumbstruck, furious, passionate all at the same time. I wonder if that was truly what it felt like: to be loved… to love in return.


That night did not go forgotten, and I stared in wonder as Elaira welcomed her husband home, welcoming him into her bed.


I tried to spot a difference with her; I tried to see how that night might have changed her. I looked to her freckles and wondered if the pattern had somehow changed. I looked at her flush and wondered if it was because of the thoughts she had for that red-haired man. I searched for marks along her skin that had not been there before; for love bites, for nail marks. But I found none. I found nothing at all and I began to wonder if it had only been a dream.


The Battle-Borns threw Elaira a birthday feast for her thirty-ninth birthday. I wished her happy birthday and I kissed her cheek, and I wondered who'd kissed her there before. Her husband, her father, her lover. I blushed in shame at the thought, and hoped no one noticed.


She vomited the feast the next morning, and I wondered if she'd had too much ale, or the milk had gone sour. I held her hair as she hurled and heaved, and I let her head rest against my shoulders as tears fled down her face from the pain and bile ran down her chin.


The beginning of Heart-Fire brought Elaira to the temple with sickness. She lay on a cot, pale and nauseous. She had been ill for a week now, and it made me ever so nervous. Danica's hands rested on Elaira's core, closing her eyes in soft concentration. I stood, holding my mother's hand as she did her best to keep her breathing steady. But when a smile crept onto Danica's face, I knew my mother was not ill.

Danica opened her eyes, and I watched as she touched Elaira's face, maternally, fondly.

"What is it?" Mother demanded, looking at Danica worriedly, demanding direct answers. My heart beat wildly, and I could feel it low in my body, thrumming in my belly. Danica leaned in close, her eyes twinkling with delight.

"A child."

"Pardon?" Mother replied, confused. My heart dropped even lower, pounded even harder. I felt my blood rush from my toes to my head and back again. I was afraid I would collapse right then and there.

"A life grows within you," Danica clarified. Mother's eyes widened and she looked to me for council. I squeezed her hand and I managed a reassuring smile, before she turned back to Danica, a smile to match my own. My smile faltered as she looked away from me, and I found myself clenching onto her hand, my knuckles changing to white. Mother seemed not to notice in her joyful confusion. "Kynareth bless both your souls."


Author's Note: Half way there! Only eight more chapters to go! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Please tell me all your thoughts, for they help me a lot, and I care about what you all have to say. Thanks again to my wonderful beta!


Published on 09/09/2014

Edited on 01/05/2015