It became obvious to Edna, soon after reaching the Throat of the World, that the Greybeards were insane.
And, surprisingly, it wasn't even about the fact that they chose to live on the highest and most inhospitable peak not only in Skyrim, but in the whole of Tamriel.
In fact, it wasn't even about how only one of them was physically able to have a conversation without the risk of killing someone. And it was not their unshakable composure either, though just being exposed to it made her skin crawl.
What it was about, was the fact that they had asked Edna to visit them in their cosy, freezing, highly-inaccessible prison only to offer her a day or so of training, some cryptic and discouraging information, and reassurance that she was indeed as far away from what she was supposed to be as she'd thought.
Oh, but that was fine, really, as it was perfectly alright for the Dragonborn to fail, as long as they didn't mind allowing the end of everything and everyone to happen.
So there Edna found herself, trudging the long and perilous road back down the mountain, with nothing to show for having made the trip other than a sore throat—both from training with the monks and the cuttingly cold air—and some vague instructions as to where she was supposed to go next.
Jordis, who'd dropped the stoic and indifferent mask soon after the reality of climbing the Seven Thousand Steps hit them in the face, at least had the decency to look at the assassin with the worry appropriate to the situation.
"They're not in their right minds." The Dragonborn muttered, mostly to herself, making a disturbed— if not disturbing— face.
"Dragonborn?" Now, the worry in Jordis' voice was bordering on outright alarm, and under other circumstances Edna might have found it amusing.
Amusing indeed, the kind of fierce, menacing guard Jordis had turned out to be.
"Should we set forth, Dragonborn?"
Edna took in a long, steadying breath—ignoring the pain it caused—and gave a shaky nod.
"Let's get this over with, shall we?"
Supposedly, they needed to go and retrieve some artifact or other from some Nordic tomb, and then do the trip right back.
Fricking-damned-great, what could she say.
Taking the first step onwards, Edna told herself not to panic.
Sure, she'd been recognised as the one-and-only Dragonborn despite all her hopes it'd all turn out to be a big misunderstanding and she had no idea how to get to the place she was going to, but at least climbing down the mountain was not likely to get her any more lost than she already was.
She promised herself to stop by a shop and get a map as soon as they got back, but first she made sure to ask her companion for the name of their destination.
She hoped to all Aedra and Daedra that Jordis at least had memorised the name of the tomb, because Edna sure as Oblivion didn't.
"Ustengrav, Dragonborn."
Right, that was the name.
Gods help them all.
"Ustengrav." Edna tested it out, but despite her mother's insistences that even the mention of their heritage should make warmth seep into her bones, the name sparked nothing in her chest.
Too-fricking-bad, really, since even with her natural resistance to cold she was shivering in her stupid leather armour like a leaf in the wind.
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Asgeir's home back in Riften felt very much different from his room in Solitude, but in a way, it was not much better.
Really, there were few things that could make him feel better left, now that he had lost someone else close to him so absurdly.
It had been different when his sister died. He had had time to adjust, to mourn, but most importantly, he had seen it coming.
Different too was the way his parents took the news.
While his brother's fury had been burning and loud after they lost Lilija, he said little to nothing when he heard about Vittoria. His mother's sad, consoling smile was nothing compared to the misery that had kept her away from home when her daughter was lost. His father, so bitter and vengeful over the death of his sister, simply wrote Vittoria's death off as just another plot concocted by the Imperials to discredit the Stormcloaks.
There was nothing to cling to for support at home, not when his family could not see past their own tragedies.
Asgeir supposed they all needed someone to blame for their misfortune, though considering what was taken from them, he just found it excessive—unfair, unhealthy, even—to place the fault with the entirety of the Empire for something mere men had done.
Or one woman, as was his case.
It was tempting, though, he well knew that.
The image of the assassin's stony, pale face was burnt for eternity in the back of his mind, alongside his bride's even paler one as she laid broken on the ground.
The Dragonborn—the mighty saviour—and hero of Nordic tales, yet the real woman was nothing but a snake with empty grey eyes. It set the hair on the back of his neck on end.
"Is it true, then?" His father started to ask just a week after his return home. "Is the Dragonborn truly a Nord?" The interest in the old man's voice was sickening. As if the Dragonborn being a Nord would change anything—as if it would matter more than her being a killer.
"Yes." Asgeir answered, flatly. "She is."
"Good." Spoken in such a sure voice, with such satisfaction, Asgeir turned his head away from the sound of it.
He had to grit his teeth together to stop himself from reacting.
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The world went on, like it always did. Were it not for the dark shadows roaming the skies in the distance, or the darker void in his chest, Asgeir might have been tempted to fool himself into believing nothing had changed.
Yet there was no escaping the truth, no matter how much he buried himself in his work, how the days passed one by one and stretched into weeks, or how the people and the sights remained the same.
Especially in Riften, there was always talk—about the Greybeards, about the kills, about the dragons—and all was centred around her.
The Dragonborn would not leave his life as easily as she'd taken it by storm. The opposite, really, as he would hear her name whispered even by old Edda as she wandered by the marketplace.
He tried —and even succeeded for a while—not to hear, but the talk reached him shortly, despite his efforts.
"The Dragonborn was seen climbing the steps a week or so ago."
It was Asbjorn—the blacksmith's apprentice—who said it, just as Asgeir happened to stop by the smithy to pick up an order from Balimund.
"Two blonde women were seen going through Ivarstead recently. There was talk that The Dragonborn was the smaller one of them." Asgeir did not know where the man heard it, and knew even less why he'd stopped to chat about it in the middle of the day instead of working, yet his feet refused to move and take him away and out of earshot of their conversation.
"Don't know what to say to that."
"They say she's not what you'd expect." Whoever Asbjorn was talking to said, seemingly in agreement.
"Heard she was almost beheaded for murder."
"Good thing she's the Dragonborn, then, ain't it?" Asbjorn said with a snort, and Asgeir felt sick to his stomach. "It comes with a certain amount of leeway."
It was as much as Asgeir could bear to hear, and he left without waiting for Balimund to come back.
Thank you all for the amazing reviews and support, it really means the world to me!
(And for those of you wondering what will happen now that Edna is on her quest to save the world, don't worry: Edna and Asgeir will have no direct contact for another chapter or so, but they won't be able to avoid each other for much longer.)
