27 Morning Star, 4E 195
Night has settled heavily upon Falkreath. The stars have been out for several hours by the time Beirir returns home—it is well past midnight. He is exhausted, both emotionally and physically, as he stumbles into the house.
As he makes his way to his room, he stops by Siri's door. She is sleeping peacefully, one arm over her head, the other resting on her abdomen, her breathing steady and deep. He smiles, leaning his head against the doorframe for a few minutes before he finally walks back to his room.
He pads back into his room silently, opening the trunk atop his dresser and placing his armor and knife inside before covering them with a couple of his rough-woven farm tunics and some potions. He shuts the lid as quietly as he can, locking it carefully before slipping into bed. Almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, he is asleep.
Siri rises at sunup. After eating some bread with tomato stew for breakfast, she runs back to her room, pulling on her hunting boots and her fur armor before she grabs her bow and arrows.
She pushes Beirir's door open slowly, peering around the edge to see if he has awakened yet. No such luck. Her big brother is lying facedown on his bed, his tunic discarded, covered to the waist by his blanket. His lean, sinewy back is exposed and bathed in the early morning sunlight, and Siri wonders when he got all those muscles. She doesn't give it much thought, however, instead sitting down on him.
Beirir jolts awake, rolling over and accidentally tossing Siri to the floor.
"What on—"
He hears the nasty crack of her head against the wood and realizes where he is. Leaping out of bed, he kneels next to his sister, helping her up.
"Siri!" he says, rubbing a sweaty palm on his trousers before he helps her sit down on his bed. She is holding the back of her head, fighting back tears. "Siri, I'm so sorry! You surprised me!"
He stumbles across the room, his legs still clumsy with sleep, and unlocks the chest sitting atop his dresser. He pulls out a healing potion, handing it to his sister, but in his worry he forgets to lock it. As she drinks the bitter potion, he smoothes down her hair, feeling the spot where her head hit the floor. There is a bit of a bump, but nothing too serious. He sits down next to her.
"Sorry," he says. "Looks like you've got a bit of a bump—you should probably stay around the house today."
Siri looks at him resentfully. "But we were supposed to go hunting!" she says. "Remember? You said you'd take me and see if we could try to kill a bear!"
Beirir laughs a little, putting an arm around his sister's neck and pulling her in, mussing her hair. "Rest up today, and tomorrow, I promise we'll go bear hunting!" he says. She pushes her way out of her brother's grasp, a smile on her face.
"I'm gonna hold you to that!" she says.
Late afternoon arrives, and Beirir wipes the sweat from his forehead with the old rag he keeps in his pocket. Although the air is still frosty, he is a Nord—naturally resistant to the cold—and the work he has been doing has been strenuous. He places one last piece of wood on the block, bringing the axe down hard and splitting the wood cleanly in two. Satisfied at the heap of firewood his efforts have left, he turns away, leaning the axe on the stump, and wanders back into the house.
Siri is sitting at the table reading when he walks in. A glance at its spine tells him that she is reading the book on illusion magic that he bought her—Before the Ages of Man—and he smiles involuntarily. He wanders to his room and changes his clothes, pulling on his hunting armor and tossing his farm tunic on the floor carelessly. He grabs his trusty hunting bow off the back of his door, along with his new quiver of Dwarven arrows, bought off an adventurer who was passing through Falkreath on his way to Cyrodiil. He waves to his father and Siri as he whisks out the front door.
Beirir has been gone for about an hour when Thongar hears a knock on the front door. He rises, leaving Siri to her book, and answers it, wondering who it could be.
"Zaria!" he exclaims, a bit surprised. "Hello, what can I do for you today?"
The Redguard smiles back at Thongar. "It's good to see you, Thongar," she says. "Your boy ordered some ingredients from me about a week ago, and I've managed to procure them all for him." She holds out a heavy package wrapped in brown paper. "The Briar Hearts were a challenge to acquire, but you can tell him that everything's there—a couple of giants' toes, some canis root, blisterwort, and Hagraven feathers, along with a few different varieties of flowers and such."
Thongar accepts the package. "How much will all this cost?" he asks, but Zaria shakes her head, waving a hand dismissively.
"Beirir paid me up front for all of it, so it won't cost you a septim," she says. Then with a smile she takes her leave, walking back up the road toward her shop.
Thongar shuts the door, taking the alchemical ingredients back to Beirir's room. As he pushes the door open, he notices that Beirir's trunk sits slightly open, and makes a beeline for it. He might as well put the ingredients where no sunlight can compromise them.
He opens the lid and places the package in the trunk. He is about to shut the lid when one of Beirir's work tunics shifts slightly and something beneath catches his eye.
Beirir sneaks through the underbrush silently, his shoes enchanted with a muffling spell. His hunting bow is in one hand, and he uses the other to push low-hanging foliage out of the way.
He finally sights the deer he has been stalking. It is a small, sickly-looking male, but it will have more than enough meat to feed his family for the next few days—longer, too, if they preserve it. Beirir prefers to pick off the small ones, anyway: he feels it is the natural order of things.
He draws near, crouching down, hiding in the dense underbrush of the Falkreath woods. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he pulls the string taut, waiting for the deer to present him its side.
A sudden hand on his shoulder startles him, and he releases the arrow instinctively. The shaft thuds into the buck's side and the animal, wounded badly, begins to run. Beirir whirls about angrily, only to find himself face to face with his father.
He had been a mischievous youth, much to his parents' chagrin. After his mother's death, his father became a much more serious man; he can recall many times when his father has been upset at his actions, but he cannot remember a time before when his father has looked this furious.
"Da?" he asks, confused. "Da, what is it?"
Thongar's face is a deep red, and a vein is evident on his forehead. When Beirir sees what his father holds in his hands, the younger Nord blanches, dropping his bow in shock.
"Explain this to me," his father says, his voice a deadly calm. He holds Beirir's black and red armor in one hand, and his glowing red dagger in the other.
For once in his life, Beirir is at a loss for words.
"Explain to me why you, my son, have the armor of the Dark Brotherhood stashed away in your room." Thongar's eyes burn with anger and sadness as he watches his son, his Beirir, fumbling, trying to come up with something.
"Da, it's—it's not what you think!"
"Is this where all of that money came from?" Thongar asks angrily. "Has it been blood money keeping my farm afloat?"
"Da, please!" Beirir steps forward, and is horrified to see his father back away.
"How could you do this?" Thongar is practically yelling at his son. "How could you think that this—this —was…oh, Talos help me…" Thongar drops his son's armor and the dagger, bringing his hands to his face. "How have I failed so as a father?"
"Listen to me!" Beirir steps forward again, seizing his father's shoulders. "Da, it's not what you think. I'm not a murderer! What I do…" he falters, his eyes dropping to the ground. It takes a few moments before he finds his voice once more. "People like Ergnir," he whispers. "People who kill without regard for the people it affects. People who commit heinous acts and escape with their lives, their freedom, their reputations unscathed…these people deserve to die, father! I am the hand of justice!"
Thongar looks at his son for a moment, and Beirir isn't sure what to make of the look in his eyes. His heart flutters hopefully—perhaps his father will see things his way—but Thongar looks away, and when his eyes finally meet Beirir's once more, they are cold and empty, and Beirir knows what his father is about to say.
"I am going to take Siri into town this afternoon, to have her fitted for new armor at Lod's," Thongar says, his voice as cold as his gaze. Suddenly the man looks much older than he is. "You have that long to get your things out of my house."
Beirir's eyes widen in horror.
"But what about Siri?" he cries, feeling as though his heart has been torn from his chest. Thongar turns away.
"You are dead to me, boy," he says. "And so shall you be to her. If you ever come near her again, I will see you off to the chopping block myself for your crimes." As he stalks off through the forest, Beirir hears him call one last thing over his shoulder, and the young man falls to the ground, broken.
"I am glad your mother is not alive to see you today."