Song of Hakonsdotter: A Warrior Rises

by gwap-queen

Honorary Title: All Dogs Go To Sovngarde When a traveling mercenary finds herself being accused of allying with the Stormcloaks, she's arrested and condemned to death. Salvation comes on the wings of ruin, but when she manages to claw her way to safety, she's granted a new lease on life. What will she make of herself with her freedom? And what destiny do the Divines have in store?

10. Chapter 10

A/N Hello, and welcome back for the tenth chapter of A Warrior Rises! Are you enjoying the story so far? Let me know! I post here as well as on AO3 under the username gwap_queen, AND I'm on twitter! Come to twitter gwap_queen00 to message me, or just enjoy my jokes, memes, and cat pics! I'd really love to hear from you guys!

And so, it happened: despite the horrific ordeal she'd survived and the surrealism of her life changing course so abruptly, Merrin did her best to get comfortable in Jorrvaskr – and it wasn't long before her efforts bore fruit. As the days ticked by one after the other and the back half of Last Seed slowly dawned into Hearthfire, the beginnings of a pattern started to form – a rhythm to how she spent her time.

Most mornings she rose before the sun, and it wasn't long before she could creep through the dark of the newblood's room without any problems. She loved the peace and quiet of the pre-dawn, but waking up so early ended up having another benefit; Tilma had noticed her up and about, and before too many days had passed, the old woman had asked Merrin if she would mind helping out in the kitchen, to make breakfasts - 'since you're up anyway, and all.' She had agreed, and every early morning since had been spent getting to know the tiny firecracker as they kneaded dough and fried up eggs.

The hearty breakfasts were a blessing, because Merrin's days were absolutely full to bursting. Ria, Torvar and Athis had made good on their offers to train with her, and most days she'd spend time in the yard, going blade to blade with one of them while the other two egged on whoever was fighting. Ria was even brave enough to spar her hand to hand – and the willowy woman was stronger than she looked! Between the three of them, she'd yet to use a practice dummy once.

As for Njada, the pale-haired woman seemed to be avoiding her – an arrangement that was suiting the both of them just fine.

Several hours of every day were devoted to meeting with Eorlund at the Skyforge, and working on her armor; work that was tiring in more ways than one. As she worked with the smith, her suspicions were confirmed. She found out that he was a headstrong perfectionist, who always pushed her to give her best – and was quick to call her out if she gave less. They bickered sometimes, but there was an odd kind of joy in it that she hadn't expected, and she found herself liking the old smith more and more with every passing day. And staying on her toes was well worth the effort – the armor was shaping up nicely, and each day she left the forge sweating but satisfied.

On one of the earlier days, she'd gone straight from the forge to the baths, and then she'd gone shopping. She'd arrived from Riverwood with almost nothing, and the market place had become much more familiar once she'd given it a thorough once-over. She couldn't mix potions – something Ria had tsked at when she'd found out – so she had to rely on Arcadia to brew her whatever she needed. When she eventually went to Belethor's shop, the list was even longer; she'd dropped a pile of gold on all sorts of things she'd needed, like several changes of clothing, a better rucksack, a cookpot for the field, and a brand new bedroll.

The gold had made her a welcome sight as far as Belethor was concerned, but the feeling was far from mutual; the guard that was posted in the market had warned her that Belethor was a 'sleazy' man, and Merrin found out for herself that it was true. When she'd turned to leave the shop with all her freshly wrapped parcels, he'd made some leering comment after her about being willing to buy her relatives.

Needless to say, she'd yet to go back there.

Aela had checked in on her every couple of days, and when she'd seen that Merrin was better prepared, she'd started sending her out on jobs.

They were simple jobs, of course; her armor was still a raggedy, sad affair, and it wouldn't be safe for her to stray far from Whiterun in it. But they were still jobs, and they still paid septims; several times now, she'd left the city with Torvar or Ria or Athis in tow, and they'd ventured out to the nearby farms to clear out pests – skeevers that were trying to make a warren in someone's cellar, or a pack of wolves that were picking off sheep, getting fat on summer meat.

They'd usually come trailing back into Whiterun as the sun was starting to set, but Merrin's days were far from over; between cooking, training, smithing, and working, there were always chores to be done, too. She had to grease her brand new boots, clean her armor, and maintain her bow. Her waterskin had to be cleaned out each day, and when it came to laundry in Jorrvaskr, it was every man and woman for themselves.

It was the busiest she'd been in a long time, and there wasn't much room for socializing, but somehow, she still managed. One night after about a week, she'd been able to take Adrienne up on her offer, and she'd had a lovely dinner with the smith and her husband in their home. The both of them were entertaining story-tellers, and as it turned out, Ulfberth was quite the cook – she'd wandered home late, more than a little impaired, and she now considered the two of them friends.

Ria had become a friend, too; her suspicions about the girl were proving correct. Between training, working jobs, and Ria just offering to lend a hand with anything she needed, she spent more time with the Imperial than any other newblood. In that time, she was learning things. She'd discovered that Ria was just a year younger than her, at nine and twenty, and that they had a lot in common – aside from joining the Companions for the same reason. Both of them favored the autumn weather to the heat of the summer. Both of them loved spooky ghost stories. And both of them had a serious sweet tooth; it turned out that it had been Ria's boiled creme treat she'd stolen on her very first day, and when Ria had found out that it had been Merrin who'd taken it, she'd burst out laughing.

But nobody took up as much of her spare time as Farkas. Like Ria, it seemed he'd decided right away that he liked her—and Merrin was glad, because the feeling was mutual. In fact, in the couple of weeks that she'd been at Jorrvaskr, the two of them were on their way to becoming fast friends – something she hadn't expected.

Farkas didn't seem to have any of his brother's reservations, and he took it upon himself to seek her out whenever he had the time. He was a member of the Circle, and so he had more responsibilities than her, but a day rarely passed where she didn't see him. Merrin liked these visits; they would sit against the back wall of the training yard, or walk through the Wind District, and talk about whatever came to mind. He was quick to smile, to joke around, and she liked the way his eyes sparkled when he made her laugh. Some nights, they would go down to the Bannered Mare together, often with other newbloods in tow, and have dinner and drinks by the fire.

Three times now he'd challenged her to a game of cards, and three times now she'd won by a landslide. But Farkas never seemed to mind; as she got to know him better, she was less and less surprised. She was learning fast that Farkas' intimidating size was fairly at odds with his genial personality.

The only other person Merrin really had any time for was their Harbinger; in the last couple of weeks, she'd managed a few more visits to his study, to drink dry red wine and talk about their days, and she had quickly grown fond of the older man. With his braided beard and dreamy eyes and his love of conversation, he'd reminded her of her own father. And if appearances counted for anything, he seemed to greatly enjoy her company, too. When the candles on his desk were burning low and the sleeping quarters had fallen silent, she'd bid him a huge, yawning goodnight, and he'd wave her off with a wide smile and twinkling eyes.

There was something ailing Kodlak, and she could tell it caused him no small discomfort; sometimes they'd be in the midst of conversation, and he'd suddenly grip his legs and grimace, and then down his cup of wine before straightening up and schooling his features with a sigh. But so far she hadn't dared to ask what was wrong – if he wanted her to know, he'd tell her.

By the end of each day, Merrin was exhausted; she would fall into her bed in the corner the second she'd wriggled out of her breeches, and was usually fast asleep within minutes. She didn't even have the energy to read some before bed—something she'd been doing since she could remember, even when she'd been on the road. And that was a shame, since she'd noticed early on that Jorrvaskr was full of interesting-looking books.

Farkas had ended up being right about Vilkas; since her testing, she'd barely even seen him. He seemed to be keeping a careful distance, so that even when they were in the same space, they didn't interact. But there were two things that she'd observed.

The first was that Vilkas seemed to be the one who balanced the Companion's accounts. Several times in the last two weeks, she'd seen him talking to clients and taking payments from them out on the backyard patio, and twice she'd seen him at the table, poring over a ledger of numbers, entering sums.

The second was that he was watching her. Every so often, she would feel eyes on her, and sometimes when she whipped around or lifted her head she would catch him staring at her from across the room, over the edge of some enormous book or the rim of his tankard. As soon as she met his gaze, he would look away, silvery blue eyes narrowing, and either go back to what he'd been doing or get up and leave.

But she gave Vilkas minimal thought; so long as he was leaving her alone instead of making her life difficult, then she didn't really care that he stared. He could think what he wanted of her, so long as he kept it to himself.

She might have been doing her best to settle in to her new role and surroundings, but that didn't mean that she'd forgotten the old ones; far from it. Not a day went by that she didn't find herself thinking of Morrowind, of the people she'd gotten to be friends with. Of Dalan Dufont, and what he might've been saying about her. Of the potential danger she could be in. Of the dragon.

And there were frequent enough reminders of it all here at Jorrvaskr that even if she was trying to forget, she couldn't. In the last two weeks, she'd had to dodge every single one of the Companions and Eorlund when they'd asked her at some point or another what she was doing before she'd come to Whiterun. She'd ended up telling some of them that she'd been a mercenary, but that was all.

Some of them accepted her reticence easily, but others grumbled – Torvar especially. It didn't really surprise her; it hadn't taken very long for Merrin to figure out that Torvar was a terrible gossip. Pretty much any secret was a secret he was interested in knowing.

And there had been much worse. A tenday after the attack on Helgen, ragged-looking guards had come marching through Whiterun to Dragonsreach. They'd delivered the official report of the destruction's aftermath to the Jarl; Balgruuf had wanted to keep the situation contained, but his eaves-dropping servants had other ideas, and in the way of all important news, it had spread like wildfire through most of the city within a day.

The news had hit Merrin hard that evening over dinner in Jorrvaskr; according to Torvar—who had gotten the scoop straight from the Jarl's chambermaid's sister—Helgen had been laid to waste. There wasn't a single building that hadn't been torched or smashed, and most of them were reduced to rubble. The corpses had taken days to retrieve, and apparently accounted for over half the village's population, and a whole slew of Legion soldiers too. They'd been identified as best as possible, but the entire process had been a nightmare – too many people, burned too badly. A partial list of known casualties would be posted at the city barracks in a day or so's time, with copies being couried to every major Hold. As for the village itself, it was to be abandoned – the guards had assessed that there was simply too much damage to be worth a rebuild, and the Jarl had agreed when he'd heard the extent of it.

A day had passed, and a sheaf of parchment had been posted in the barracks; Merrin had slipped out of Jorrvaskr unnoticed, and joined a throng of people all pushing to read through the list of names.

They'd been unfamiliar to her, and she'd sifted through them looking for just one – Dalan Dufont.

She hadn't found it.

Not seeing that name nailed to the wall had dropped Merrin's stomach into her feet. She'd been waiting anxiously for news to arrive, and there still wasn't anything definitive. Had Dalan survived the dragon's attack? Had he escaped to Morrowind? Was he laying low somewhere in the province? Injured? Plotting revenge? Or was he a burnt-out corpse on the outskirts of Helgen, too badly charred or smashed up to be identified?

Dead, or alive? Dead, or alive? If he was alive, what did that mean for her? Every worry she'd had in the Bannered Mare had come fluttering back up her throat like bile.

She hadn't even been with the Companions a week when the news had come to Whiterun – everything had been up in the air. But she hadn't wanted to think about the implications then, the possibilities. So she'd thrown herself into life at Jorrvaskr instead.

---

It was on the sixth of Hearthfire that she and Eorlund put the finishing touches on her suit of armor. It was a Sundas, and most of the other Companions were sleeping in; Merrin hadn't felt like training alone, so she'd decided to meet Eorlund at the forge earlier than usual.

He'd been pleased to see her, and had announced that if they put their backs into it, they could be finished in a few hours' time. She could see that he was right, and so they'd gotten down to it.

And now, it was spread out in front of them, fully finished, laid out on the stone workbench and shining in the morning sun. Both of them were standing there looking it over, comically mirroring the same proud stance, with arms crossed over chests. After several moments, Eorlund turned to her.

'So then, girl, will you be puttin' it on? Or just starin' at it?'

Merrin snorted, and rolled her eyes. 'Someone's impatient, I see.' But she was grinning as she said it.

She did put it on, then, and didn't need any help from Eorlund – another reason why she'd made this design. As soon as she was finished, she started moving around, testing the motion, getting the feel of the suit. She'd worn each piece many times as they'd shaped them, but never all of them together like this.

She was thrilled with the results.

Her helmet was fully steel, slightly arched in shape to encourage glancing, with an open face but a long, tapered nasal. Best of all, it had a skirt of mail around its bottom, carefully riveted at every quarter inch, dripping down fine but strong, to protect the back and sides of her neck.

Her breastplate was a simple, streamlined affair, with hardly any etched design at all – she hadn't wanted to take the time to do more. It was secured with ties along either side that she could fiddle with herself, and had been tempered for maximum strength and resiliency. They'd riveted on a pair of steel pauldrons as well, and now they sat over her shoulders in a sweeping shape. They had finessed the plackart by using rivets—such handy things!—to attach it to the plate, so that the fit was as flexible as it could possibly be, and she was rewarded with an essentially full range of motion in it.

Her faulds was made not of steel, but leather – a skirt of thick vertical strips, similar to what the Imperials wore, and laced tightly in the back with gut cord. This too had been a part of her design, and it shone through brilliantly; it offered basically all the same protection as steel to her thighs and groin, but was as quiet as a whisper, compared to the obnoxious clanking of steel lames.

For her legs, there were chausses made of fine, intricate mail that extended to just above the knee; it was truly fortunate that Eorlund had the mail already made and waiting for a project, because otherwise, the suit could have taken them months. Eorlund's supreme skill and ideas had also come through on the poleyns; perhaps his best adjustment to her design, they were expertly riveted directly to the bottoms of her chausses, and she'd no longer have to tie them with cord or buckle them with a strap, and worry about them slipping and leaving her knees unprotected.

For footwear, she got to wear her new leather boots, and over top protecting her shins were a pair of splintmail greaves, secured with straps and buckles around the calves.

Last were the rerebraces and vambraces; both were also made of sturdy leather, and tied up along the back of her arms with more gut cord. The vambraces had been fitted with splintmail for extra protection (at Eorlund's insistence) and were riveted to the upper edges of the leather demi-gaunts. As she slipped them on and secured them, she sighed in satisfaction; they were a snug, perfect fit, and each demi-gaunt came down in a diamond point over the back of her hand, to rest at the base of her middle finger.

Eorlund had tried several more times as they'd done their work to talk her out of them—so she was more than surprised when she turned to face him, and saw him holding out an archer's finger guard.

'Eorlund...what..?'

'I made this for you a while back, when I had a spare minute.' He huffed. 'You were dead-set on them demis, and I figured...well, here you go.' He shoved the guard into her open hand. 'Try it on.'

Merrin looked down at the guard in her hand, and blinked in surprise. It was finely made, with deerskin as soft as butter for her two pulling fingers that would trail down the back of her hand, sewn like a cuff around a bracelet of soft braided flax that had been knotted to loosen or tighten at the pull of two strings.

It was a beautiful piece, and as she slipped it onto her dominant hand and fitted it under the demi-gaunt, another lump of emotion was threatening to choke her. Her eyes were actually misty as she looked back up at the older man.

'You made this for me?' Merrin croaked. 'As a surprise?'

'Well.' Now Eorlund was looking terribly bashful; at the sight of her shining brown eyes, he'd cast his blue ones down to the ground, and a furious blush was creeping up past his beard. 'You were gonna need one. Didn't see the sense in makin' you shop around – figured I could do it instead.'

Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and she grinned. 'I love it,' she exclaimed loudly. 'I'll wear it until it falls apart. And then I'll take it back to you to fix it, so I can wear it some more. Thank you, Eorlund. It's a beautiful gift.'

Eorlund blushed an even deeper shade of red, but his eyes were twinkling as he shooed away her words.

'It was nothin'! I'm glad you like it. Now quit puffin' me up, girl, and tell me what you think of the rest of it.'

'You mean you don't know just by looking at it?' Merrin arched her brows, and shot him another grin. 'I think you and I are a damn good team. We do excellent work together.'

It was true; the entire suit of armor was a work of art. Each piece met seamlessly with the next, working together without a hitch, so that she could move freely and gracefully. They hugged her exactly the way they should. And the work was beautiful—the leather expertly stitched and oiled, the genuine Skyforge steel buffed and shining in the light, looking elegant and ever so slightly blue in color. The way he'd attached the plackart to the breastplate made it look like a parting curtain.

She didn't need a mirror to examine the results of their hard work; the armor she was wearing was a serious upgrade, even from what she'd left Morrowind in.

'Aye. That we do.' He'd crossed his arms tightly over his bare chest, and now he was surveying the suit with an expert eye as she moved. When she picked up a sword from the workbench and gave it a few swings to test her motion, he nodded approvingly. Then and only then did he allow himself a smile.

'Well, then. I'd say our work here is done, newblood. You're outfitted well.'

'Thanks to you. Skyforge steel...all my own...and partially made with my own two hands. You've made a fellow smith very happy, Eorlund. I can't thank you enough.' She allowed herself a single, frivolous twirl, and hugged herself with glee before she turned back to him and grinned.

'Now, let's talk shop. How much do I owe you?'

For a long moment, Eorlund looked at her like she had three heads, and then he snorted and shook his own. 'You don't owe me anything.'

'You can't be serious. This armor is expensive!' Now it was her turn to eye the smith like he was crazy; she knew from experience that a suit like this cost hundreds of septims in materials alone—never mind the blacksmith's time. She shook her head at him resolutely.

'No way. I went in to this assuming that I'd be paying for this armor, and you aren't changing my mind. We worked on it together, so I figured we could negotiate on labor costs, but the materials...' she eyed him pointedly. 'You can't possibly expect me to just take this from you.'

'There you go again, with the fancy fussin'.' He eyed her calmly, and then shrugged. 'Way I see it, girl, you don't got any choice. I'm not taking your gold.'

'Why not?' She asked, exasperated. 'Who pays you for this, then? Who makes sure you don't lose your shirt by giving away free suits of armor?'

Now Eorlund's arms were crossed again, and he eyed her steadily. 'Kodlak pays me a stipend. Not that it's any of your business, girl. I serve the Companions of Jorrvaskr – makin' arms and armor for the newbloods an' repairing whatever breaks is what I do. I don't expect payment on the spot. And most of em' like it that way.' Unexpectedly, he chuckled.

'Most new'uns come in here, they jump for joy when I set them up with a free new suit – couldn't afford to pay me, anyway. I doubt you have the gold for it right now, either.'

Merrin pinked up, because he'd hit the nail on the head, and grumbled. 'That's none of your business. I could set up payments, if you'd let me. I just want—'

He put up a hand to stop her, and chuckled again. 'That wasn't my point. My point is that my work for the Companions doesn't get paid for by whelps. And that most of em' like it that way. You seem to just be a special kind of stubborn, girl. Have since I met you.'

She stared him down, mouth open but with no reply, for several seconds. Then she deflated.

'It just doesn't seem fair,' she mumbled. 'I want to make sure you get what you deserve for this work.'

Eorlund smiled then. 'You're a sweet one, Merrin. I'll tell you what. You're so worried about paying me? How about you do me a favor and pay me a visit every now and again?'

Merrin looked at him uncertainly, and he continued.

'It's solitary work, up here at the forge. Most times, that's how I like it, but every now an' then, I could use some company. And you've got a good head on your shoulders. Why don't you make a point of droppin' by sometimes, and we'll call it even?'

She eyed him for a long moment, but then sighed when she saw he was serious. 'If that's really what you want, then I'd be more than happy to spend time here with you. But I feel like I'm definitely coming away with the better end of this deal,' she ended on a mutter.

'There's a girl.' Eorlund clapped her on the shoulder, and then turned away to clear the forge. After a couple of seconds, she had an idea.

'Say, Eorlund...what do you like to drink? And...what's your favorite food?'

He turned back to her, looking confused. 'Why do you ask?'

'I just figured, if I'm going to come and see you from time to time, it wouldn't hurt if I brought things with me. Some lunch now and again...some cake...some of whatever you like to drink,' she said innocently. 'Everybody eats.'

'Even people who weren't born yesterday.' He was trying to look stern, but the effect was ruined by his lips quirking involuntarily upward. 'You're not paying me with gold, and you're not paying me with food, either.'

'But, Eorlund!' She groaned. 'I just want to—'

'Uh-uh. I'm not hearing it.' He shook his head, and smiled for real. 'Go on, get out of here. I've got other jobs lined up, and can't focus with your jawin'. Go test out the armor.'

---

Most of the others had woken up by the time Eorlund sent her packing, and she did end up testing the armor, by training with Ria and Athis in the yard. It held up beautifully, and both of them were still complimenting her on it and reminiscing about getting their first sets of Skyforge armor when they headed into the mead hall for some lunch.

Things typically moved a bit slower on a Sundas at Jorrvaskr, and its inhabitants were usually less busy than on any other day of the week. As a result, they had a full house for lunch—something relatively rare—and the great table was already filling up when they came sauntering in. Kodlak was sitting in his usual place, at the left side head of the table, and the other members of the Circle were sitting clustered around him at either side. Farkas turned at the sound of the doors being opened, and when he saw who it was, his face lit up and he waved them over.

'There you are, Merrin! I saved you guys some seats.' He gestured at the three empty seats beside him, and then chuckled. 'Well, okay, they weren't exactly in demand. But they will be in another minute, so you should sit down. Tilma made meat pie.'

At first, Merrin hesitated to sit; Vilkas was seated directly across from him, and even though he was in conversation with Vignar Gray-Mane for now, she didn't want to sit so close to him. But she hadn't had any trouble with him in the past two weeks, and Farkas was sitting there, looking at her hopefully.

In the end, she couldn't disappoint him, so she flopped into the seat beside him, and nudged him in the ribs with a smile.

'Bring on the pie – I've already been working hard today. What do you think of my new outfit?'

His eyes widened, obviously noticing her new armor for the first time, and then he whistled. 'Damn! The two of you really outdid yourselves. That looks great!'

'Holds up great, too.' Ria leaned around her to look at Farkas with a grin. 'Now that she has armor that fits, Athis is hard pressed to land a hit on her.'

'Hey!' Athis huffed as Farkas laughed. 'That's not fair! You know full well that I landed three hits, thank you very much.'

Ria sniffed, eyebrows playfully arched. 'As I recall, Athis, it was only two.'

'It was three! You just refused to call the third one based on bias. She's new, so you go easy on her.'

'If you say so, Athis. If you say so.'

For a few more minutes, there was easy conversation in the hall as ale was sipped and fruit or cheese were snacked on. Torvar and Njada came filing in, dusty and sweating, and sat across from one another two seats down from Merrin. Torvar noticed the armor right away, and told Merrin that it was 'totally bitchin'. That seemed to irritate Njada, who put her helmet down on the table with a thunk and glared at her tankard of ale.

Then Tilma came out from the kitchen, smiling and holding an enormous cast iron skillet, and most of the conversations were quickly forgotten. Tilma took her seat sitting opposite from Kodlak, the pie was passed around, people served each other or themselves, and the meal really began.

The pie was savory and delicious, and Merrin was actually feeling at ease. All thirteen people who lived in the hall were sitting at the table, and conversation was flowing easily again all around her. Farkas was in the middle of telling her about the latest job he'd gone on when Torvar called down to Vilkas, a bit louder than everybody else.

'Ey, Vilkas, guess what?'

Torvar seemed excited; most of the people gathered looked over curiously, including Vilkas himself.

'What is it, Torvar?'

'I heard something very interesting just now when me n' Njada were passin' back into the city,' Torvar announced. 'The guards at the gate were talkin' back and forth about it. Apparently, a bunch of the farmers came in early this morning, tellin' the guards that they'd seen a dragon flying over the east woods. A dragon! The guards say the farmers are terrified it's the same dragon that did Helgen.'

Merrin's stomach lurched violently at his words, and the hand that wasn't holding her fork balled up into her lap. Feeling slightly nauseous, she stared at Torvar, who wasn't done talking.

His eyes were lit with excitement, and he swung his fork like a tiny battleaxe as he grinned over at the other man, oblivious to Merrin's stare. 'Sounds like they might be needing us soon, eh? Just think of it – a real dragon!'

She didn't want to think of it, but she was, anyway; Torvar's words had brought vivid images rushing back to her, of that day in Helgen – the chaos, the choking smoke and stench. The paralysing fear. The deafening roars of the glittering black dragon, only matched by the screams of so many burning people.

Her stomach was definitely twisting now, and she took a deep breath as she looked away from Torvar. Her eyes landed on Vilkas, instead.

He was looking more sour then curious, now, and as she stared at him, he scoffed at Torvar.

'Bah.' He grumbled as he picked up his drink and took a swallow. 'Don't get ahead of yourself, Torvar. Dragons. Now that they're claiming it was a dragon who burned down Helgen that's all we're going to hear. People will be seeing dragons everywhere.'

Someone to the side chuckled – maybe Skjor. Merrin couldn't believe what she'd just heard; underneath the table, both of her hands were balled so tight her knuckles were white.

He thinks the dragon was a lie?

Beside her, she heard Farkas speak in his deep, rumbling voice.

'Vilkas, what are you saying? You don't believe a dragon really burned Helgen?'

Vilkas snorted in response, and waved a hand dismissively. 'Of course not, Farkas. Think. Everyone knows the dragons are long gone. There hasn't been one in Skyrim for over a thousand years.'

'It was a dragon that burned down Helgen.'

The words were out of Merrin's mouth before she'd even planned to say them. Vilkas' last words had been met with more chuckling, but that died off in the wake of what she'd said; for the first time since she'd sat at the table, Vilkas' eyes met hers.

'Is that so?' He smirked, and she could see disdain written on his face as he looked at her and shook his head. 'It sounds to me like you've been letting gossip carry you away.'

The branded images of what she'd seen were still fresh in her mind, and combined with his words, they caught the embers of her temper and sent them into roaring flame. Instantly, she snapped back at him.

'It sounds to me like you should spend more time actually listening to people, and less time thinking you know everything.'

Somebody to her right snorted a muffled laugh, but she didn't care to see who. Vilkas' smirk had melted, to be replaced with a scowl, and now the two of them were staring each other down with burning eyes. After a second or two, he answered her.

'Oh?' His tone was challenging, and laced with sarcasm. 'Tell me then – were you at Helgen, when it burned? Did you actually see the dragon?'

She wanted to reach out and strike him; she settled for biting out an answer instead.

'I was. And I did.'

The sudden pin-drop silence in the room was what made her realize what she'd done. Instantly, she regretted her words, but it was too late.

Vilkas obviously hadn't been expecting that answer, and he snapped his jaw shut, looking surprised and dissatisfied. She broke away from his gaze, feeling sick, and looked instead at her plate of half-eaten food. Heat prickled up her neck as she felt the weight of many eyes on her; as the seconds stretched by in total silence, the weight became unbearable. Finally, she looked back up, and was confronted with the stares of the people around her. Some of them gaped, looking astonished. Others were looking openly suspicious – like Vignar Gray-Mane, their oldest Companion, staring at her hard with his beady blue eyes. She looked at Kodlak to her left, and saw how serious he looked – mouth pursed in a frown, grey eyes probing hers, as if seeking the truth, and looking mournful.

Merrin couldn't take any more. She hadn't wanted anyone knowing what had happened to her before she'd come to Whiterun – had gone to great lengths to keep it quiet. And now, in a moment of reckless anger, she'd announced it to everyone. She shoved away from the table and got to her feet in one motion – deafening, in the otherwise silent hall. When she spoke, her words were addressed to no one in particular, and she wouldn't meet anyone's eye.

'I need some air.'

Then she turned on her heel, and all but fled as she went banging through the front doors of Jorrvaskr.

She had only made it part-way down the stone steps when the doors banged open again, and then she heard Farkas' voice.

'Merrin, wait up. Wait!'

She didn't slow down, and she was at the bottom of the stairs before she felt a big hand on her shoulder. He spun her around, and then she was looking up into Farkas' worried eyes.

'Merrin, what happened in there? Is what you said true?' His face was screwed up with obvious confusion, and concern. 'A dragon attacked Helgen?'

It was plain that he was worried for her, but anger and humiliation still tore at her, and she shrugged out roughly from under his arm. 'Yes.'

'Are you okay?' Both the sadness and the confusion on his face deepened. 'This is awful. Why didn't you tell me?'

Regret stabbed at her, but she just shook her head at him. Another lump was rising in her throat, and staring at his anguished face was making it worse.

'Please, Merrin, talk to me!'

'Farkas, please.' The pleading tone in her friend's voice tore at her heartstrings, and she placed a trembling hand on his chest as she looked up at him and shook her head.

'I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't talk about this now. I need some air. I need to think.' Memories of Helgen were still rattling around in her head, and she wished she could close her eyes on them.

'I want to help you, Mer. Please let me try.' Farkas tried to take another step forward, but her hand on his chest held him in place. Again, she shook her head.

'I know you do. But please, Farkas, I need to be alone for now. If you want to help me, give me space.'

His eyes were the color of cornflowers when he was upset, and the sight of tears glistening in them made Merrin feel even worse. But after just a second, he nodded.

'Alright. I understand.' He took a step away from her, and nodded. 'Take all the time you need. I'll leave you be. But when you are ready, I want us to talk. Is that okay?'

She had no idea when she'd ever feel ready, but Merrin didn't tell him that. Instead, she nodded.

'That's okay.'

She stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, and watched him climb back up to Jorrvaskr. He turned around to look at her before he slipped inside, and the sadness she saw there made her stomach ball up. Then he disappeared into the hall, and Merrin set her sights on the Plains District.

She ended up huddled on the ground in the look-out culvert behind Olava the Feeble's house, with her back against the old stone. It was quiet there – no sounds just then but the wind and the birds – and she took comfort in the peaceful sounds as she rested her head against the wall. Slowly at first, the images of Helgen began to settle back into the dark of her mind, where she'd tried to force them. Eventually, after several minutes of deep breathing and feeling the sunshine on her face, they were gone.

The quiet gave her plenty of opportunity to think.

She wasn't surprised that Farkas had come after her when she'd left – the two of them really had become friends since she'd come to Jorrvaskr, and it was huge news that she'd accidentally dropped on their heads. But she hadn't realized how friendly they'd gotten until she'd seen those tears in his eyes. Farkas was proving to be a sensitive, emotional man, intuitive to the feelings of the people around him...but she hadn't expected that this would upset him so much. That seeing her upset would upset him.

They were going to have to talk about it, once she could handle it; it was obvious that he cared about her, and she at least wanted to explain to him why she hadn't said anything at all. Hopefully, he would understand.

She snorted at herself, then. Of course Farkas would understand. Farkas had proven to her since she'd met him that he was the innately understanding type – regardless of what the others said about him being stupid. When he'd asked about her past and she'd rebuffed him, he hadn't pried again.

It was facing everybody else that was going to be the problem.

The disturbing memories may have subsided, but the anger hadn't, and neither had the embarrassment. How was she going to continue on her day to day at Jorrvaskr, now that everyone would be wanting to hear first hand about Helgen and the dragon? How could Vilkas be so closed-minded that he'd dismissed the rumors out of hand, without even considering the alternative? People had died, and he'd acted like he had all the answers, when he wasn't even there.

Merrin shook her head, took a breath. She needed to walk, or this anger wouldn't go anywhere.

She decided to go down to the marketplace; she'd started to get friendly with a couple of the stall owners and other people who spent a lot of time there, and maybe a drink at the Bannered Mare would do something to help her relax.

---

Merrin had no sooner entered the marketplace when she heard a raised, angry voice, and it stopped her in her tracks.

'You foolish old woman! You know nothing – nothing of our struggles! Our suffering! Who asked you to make like you do?!'

The source of the shouting was coming from Fralia Gray-Mane's stall. Two men were standing in front of it. She recognized one of them as Idolaf Battle-Born, one of the first men she'd seen when she'd come to Whiterun, dressed in his usual Imperial armor. The other man was the one who was shouting; he was greying, dressed in fine blue robes, but she couldn't recognize him from the back. Beyond them, she could barely see Fralia herself, standing behind her counter, looking very red in the face. Merrin wasn't the only one to stop in her tracks; several people in the square were staring at the trio, including other merchants.

'Nothing?' It was Fralia talking now; her voice sounded hard and bitter. 'And what of my son? Hmm? What of my Thorald? Is he nothing? Of course not. So don't talk to me about suffering.'

Idolaf sneered. 'Thorald chose his side, and he chose the wrong one. Now he's gone—that's war. The sooner you accept that, the better.'

He'd said the words tauntingly, and they'd hit their mark; Fralia leaned over her stall counter with both hands on the wood, and got right up in their faces, her voice raising to a shout.

'I will never accept his death! My son still lives – I feel it in my heart! So tell me, you disgusting cowards, where is he? Where are you holding my Thorald?!'

'Father.' A third man got involved then, hurrying up to the stall. Merrin recognized him; tall and lean, with a trim blond beard and long hair tied back in a tail – he spent a lot of time in the market square. He grabbed the older man's arm.

'Father, stop this. It's gone on long enough. Can't you see there's no point to this?'

The man he'd called father turned around, and Merrin could see that his face was lined – accentuated by his cruel expression. Angrily, he turned on the man who'd intervened.

'And who are you to tell me what's enough? You, who disappoints me at every turn? Look at your brother, beside me. Do you see him presuming to tell me how to behave? Defending filthy Stormcloak traitors?! The only thing more embarrassing than your weakness is your utter lack of respect.'

So this must have been Olfrid Battle-Born, then; he'd referred to Idolaf as the third man's brother, and the stranger looked like a blood relative.

Olfrid wasn't done; the older man shoved the younger then, hard, so that he staggered and sprawled onto the cobblestone of the market floor. Several people gasped at the display, and everyone looked uncomfortable..

'Now mind your own business, and get out of my sight! I know when I've had enough.'

Where was the guard who was usually posted here? The place where he usually stood was deserted, and there were no other guards in sight.

Olfrid's younger son leapt to his feet, breathing hard, with a furious blush staining his face. For a second, he looked like he was going to lunge at Olfrid, but then he just shoved past him, storming up the stairs to the Bannered Mare and wordlessly slamming the door behind him.

Olfrid seemed utterly unaffected in the silence following his other son's departure; as if there'd been no interruption, he looked over to Idolaf with a sneering smile.

'Can you believe this old hag?' He laughed, and looked at Fralia, who was staring at him now as if he were pond scum.

'"Holding him?" Why, don't you know? I've got him in my cellar! He's my prisoner!'

He laughed for a second at his own cruel joke, and then took a step closer to Fralia, all pretenses of amusement gone. His voice was as harsh as rock grating rock.

'Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor. And you'd best learn to keep your mouth shut, before you suffer the same.'

'That's enough.'

Merrin had no idea when she'd moved; instead of standing at the edge of the market, she was two steps away from the Battle-Borns. Once again, she'd spoken without having any plans to.

Somewhere along the way, it had clicked in her mind: this was who the Gray-Manes were mourning for. Seeing the old man in front of her tormenting Fralia over her lost son had her even angrier than she'd been at Vilkas; when the two men turned around to see who'd spoken, looking annoyed, her face was as hard as chiseled stone.

'Leave. Now.'

'And who in Oblivion are you?' Olfrid sneered. 'My patience is already worn thin. I'll have no qualms about having my son deal with you, if you don't get out of my way.'

'Your son is welcome to try,' Merrin dead-panned. 'Who I am doesn't matter. I told you to leave. Now. Nobody wants you here.'

'Oh?' There seemed to be no end to this man's malice; he threw his head back and laughed like a villain.

'Do you even know who I am, you stupid girl? I'm above reproach. Nobody in this city would dare to tell me to leave.'

'That's where you're wrong.'

It wasn't Merrin who'd spoken; when she turned her head to see who had, she saw Anoriath striding towards her from his stall, glaring hard at the two Battle-Borns. He came to a stop beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder, facing the men down in solidarity.

'The lady is right. I think you two should leave.' His voice was harder than she'd ever heard it, and there was no trace of his usual smile on his face as he stared them down.

For a single beat, there was silence in the market place. Olfrid was staring at the two of them like something foul he'd stepped in. Then another voice chimed in.

'I agree. I don't want you here, either.' This time it was Carlotta who'd spoken, looking coolly at the two men, and she'd rounded her stall to take a place at their side.

Merrin's intervention had caused a chain reaction; people who weren't brave enough to stand on their own started flocking to join the little band standing in front of Fralia's stall. Sigurd came to stand beside them, and then so did Brenuin the Redguard beggar, mumbling something about Olfrid being stingy, anyway.

'They're right!' Ysolda put down her flower basket and stood beside them, hands on hips. 'You have no right to abuse people this way.'

Even little Mila Valentia ended up having her say; she came to grab a handful of her mother's skirt, and blew a loud raspberry at the Battle-Born men. 'Miss Fralia is one of the nicest people I know, and you two are just a couple of big bullies! Go away!'

It was astonishing; in the space of a minute or two, every single person who'd been in the square was standing in front of Fralia's stall, staring down the Battle-Borns as a united front.

The final straw was when they heard Hulda's voice, coming from the open door of the Bannered Mare; she'd obviously seen at least part of what had happened, and she was grinning rather unkindly at Olfrid as she had her say.

'They're right, Olfrid. If you want to shame yourself by smackin' your own kin around in public when they try to have you act decent, then for God's sake, don't do it on my doorstep.'

Merrin took another step forward, and couldn't help but smile at Olfrid then.

'Well, old man, I don't know. It seems to me like there are plenty of people in this city who would dare tell you to leave. You should stop harassing Fralia, and take our advice.'

If looks could kill, they would all be dead; Olfrid was ready to keep on fighting – but his son wasn't. Idolaf had been looking increasingly uneasy as more and more people joined them. In the moment of silence following Merrin's words, a resolute expression slid onto his face, and he grabbed his father by the arm of his robes and turned to whisper something in his ear.

Whatever he said must have been better received than his other son's attempt, because Olfrid finally stood down. He drew himself up to his full height, staring down his nose at the group of people in front of him.

'Idiots, the lot of you. You're all going to regret this.' He spit on the ground in front of them, and then he shook off his son's hand and stalked down the road, towards the Drunken Huntsman.

Somebody in their crowd let out a cheer as they left, and in the space of a beat, all the rest had joined in, cheering and laughing. Anoriath clapped her on the back, and Mila Valentia hugged her leg, calling her a hero.

'I'm not,' Merrin tried to insist, embarrassed. 'Somebody had to say something.'

'Nah, the kid is right,' Brenuin sidled up and cut in with a grin. 'You gotta have balls to stand up to the Battle-Born. Eh, I mean, you obviously don't have those, but—she's right, alright? Jeez.'

But the person who had the last word was Fralia herself. She'd been holding it together as the Battle-Borns left, but now she broke down into overwhelmed sobs; as quickly as she could, she was running around her stall, and then she crashed into Merrin, hugging her fiercely.

'Thank you, you sweet girl. Thank you.'

Automatically, Merrin's arms came up around the shaking woman, and she stammered a reply even she couldn't hear. The crowd around them was making sympathetic noises, and she felt several people brush around her arms as they patted Fralia on the back and tried to soothe her crying.

After a while, Fralia did calm down, her sobs easing to hiccups, and then Hulda spoke again from her place on the steps.

'There's a girl, Fralia, take a breath.' Then she addressed the crowd. 'Well. I don't know about you lot, but after all that, I could damn-well use a drink. They're on the house for the time being, for everyone who had a hand. Oh, and juice for our fairy, of course,' she finished, sending a wink Mila's way.

'So come inside, whoever's thirsty!' With that, she disappeared back into the tavern, leaving the door open behind her.

There was another cheer, and most of the group started clambering up the steps to the Mare. Brenuin was in the lead, whooping something about 'dogoodin' bein' thirsty work'. Carlotta and Anoriath stayed behind, asking Fralia if she would be alright; she insisted that she was fine and thanked them both for their support, and then they filed into the tavern, too.

In the end, it was just Merrin and Fralia left in the market square. Belethor poked his head out of his store's front door, as if he'd only now noticed there'd been a commotion, but when he saw a mostly empty square, he just shrugged and closed it again.

Fralia had ended up leaning against the counter of her stall, and in the new relative silence, she looked up at Merrin again with teary blue eyes and a small smile.

'Thank you again, dear. It means a lot to this old heart, you all doing what you did. It was mighty brave.'

Merrin grimaced, frustrated. 'It was nothing, really. I wish I could've done more. That man is an animal.'

'That's an insult to animals everywhere,' Fralia said, and sighed. 'Our families have been buttin' heads for a long time now. This is nothin' new.'

'What he did was wrong,' Merrin said angrily. 'You've suffered a terrible loss. Nobody deserves to have a lost child rubbed in their face like that. It's heartless.'

Fralia's feeble smile widened a bit, and her eyes were sad as she reached up with one bony hand to pat Merrin tenderly on the cheek.

'My husband was right about you – you're all heart. A shame some other folk choose to be so unfeeling.'

'I'm sorry about your son, Fralia,' Merrin answered quietly. The look in the older woman's eyes was tearing at her heart. 'I'd wanted to ask Eorlund about it, but I—'

'Thorald isn't dead.' Immediately, Fralia's eyes were filling again. 'Don't tell me you're sorry he is. Please.'

Merrin's stomach twisted uneasily; how did she respond to that?

'I – I'm sorry, Fralia. I meant no disrespect. I took it that he'd died, and the Battle-Borns...' she trailed off apologetically.

Fralia shook her head, chin jutting out stubbornly.

'They say that he was killed, oh yes. But I know better! I know my son is alive!'

There was no room for argument in the woman's eyes, and Merrin wasn't going to ask how she could be so sure; Fralia had already seen enough upset.

But Fralia was sharp, and she must have caught the question in Merrin's eyes, because she shook her head and tittered.

'You're too polite to speak your mind. But I've heard it all before. 'Fralia, how can you be so sure that Thorald isn't dead? He was a soldier, for God's sake!'' Her face hardened, but in her eyes there was desperation.

'But I am sure! I know he's alive. It's those Battle-Born...they're in with the Imperial Legion. They know it too, and yet they lie to my very face, and laugh at a mother's torment!' After her emotional outburst, she covered trembling lips with a shaking hand, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Merrin was shaken, and stood there feeling deeply uncertain; something about Fralia's words had chilled her. She was so certain that her son was alive...and Olfrid Battle-Born had taken such obvious pleasure in telling her that her son was dead...as she stood there and watched Fralia tremble, the beginnings of suspicion took root in her chest.

'Fralia, what makes you so sure that they're lying to you?'

The old woman's eyes snapped open, and pierced Merrin with their pleading, tear-drenched depths.

'It wouldn't be wise to discuss it here. But I speak the truth. Please, if you truly wish to help us, come with me to my family home. I'll tell you the whole story there!'

Her plea was so genuine, her tone so raw with emotion that Merrin didn't doubt she was telling the truth, and knowing it made her anger swell; something cruel was going on here.

She'd promised herself that she'd be less impulsive after joining the Companions, but that didn't stop her now from nodding her head – from putting a hand on Fralia's arm.

'Alright. Lead the way.'

For a second, the older woman looked as if she couldn't believe her ears. And then she clutched at Merrin with both hands. 'You mean it? Oh, by the Nine! Come then, let's not waste time!'

With Fralia in the lead, the two women hurried up the stairs to the Wind District and then crossed the footbridge over the man-made stream. Odeth saw them coming, and let out a bugled greeting as they passed, but Fralia paid the cow no mind. In no time at all, Merrin was being ushered past the rearing twin griffins and through the front door of House Gray-Mane.

Fralia bolted the door behind them once they were inside, and then turned to Merrin, nervously clasping her hands.

'Thank you for coming. Welcome to our home.'

'It's beautiful, Fralia.'

It was the truth; she'd been told that this home was ancient, and the inside testified to that. It was built in an old traditional Nordic style, similar to a longhouse. A long, central firepit was throwing golden light onto everything in the high-ceilinged main room, bouncing off of wooden pillars that were carved into the likeness of several different animals, who's paws and hooves were all raised in the act of holding up the ceiling or second floor. Woven tapestries of many faded colors covered the walls all the way down the room, and the far wall was dominated by a massive fireplace who's carved stone mantel was cluttered with what were likely family heirlooms. In front of the fireplace sat a banquet table, obviously well-cared for, but looking old enough to have been an original part of the house.

She'd only just gotten a feel for the room when the sound of booted feet came rushing down some stairs, and then she heard a man's voice.

'Ma, is that you? Who're you talking to?'

She turned to see who'd spoken, and came face to face with a man in plainclothes, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

His hair and beard were completely grey, but his face wasn't lined. He had hard features, made more prominent by a hard expression, and for one whole second, they looked at one another in obvious surprise. Then the man suddenly lunged to the side, hand darting into an open display case and coming back out with a steel sword that glinted wickedly in the firelight. With his lips curled back in a snarl, he pointed it at her.

'Who the hell are you?'

'Avulstein!' Behind her, Fralia was sounding absolutely mortified. 'Put that down!'

'What are you then, huh? Are you Legion? Here to try and take me away?' He growled. 'It's not happening. If you lay a hand on my mother, I'm gonna make you wish you were—'

'Avulstein, please!' Fralia shouted this time. 'Listen to me! She isn't an Imperial, she's a friend! She's here to help us find Thorald!'

Avulstein paused, but only for a second; his blue eyes narrowed even more as they swept over her, and he didn't lower the sword. She kept an eye on him for any sudden moves.

'Oh, yeah? How do we know she isn't some sort of spy for the Battle-Born? It was foolish to bring her here, ma! There's no telling what those bastards will do if they find me here!'

'She's no spy.' Now Fralia was sounding indignant, and she came to stand right beside Merrin, putting a hand on her shoulder.

'This is Merrin – the Companion's newest recruit! She's the one been workin' with your father!'

'Oh.' Clearly, the pieces clicked; the man's brows furrowed, making him look just like a younger version of Eorlund, and after another second, he lowered the sword. 'I see.'

'Do you? It's about damn time! Now put that thing away, I'm sick to death of weapons.' Fralia's voice was shrill, and full of tears. 'Please, let's just talk.'

Another long second passed; Avulstein was looking more sheepish than suspicious now. Finally, he nodded his head, and gingerly put the sword back in its case.

'Alright, ma.'

Then he held out one calloused, tentative hand, staring her directly in the eye. 'Avulstein Gray-Mane. It's Merrin Hakonsdotter, right? We've heard a lot about you.'

She had never seen this man before – how much had he heard about her? She shot him a wry smile, and took his hand for a shake.

'Well met. You have my thanks for not skewering me.'

He grimaced. 'It's been a hard year. A man can never be too careful.' He released her, and then looked her over again, expression growing dead serious. 'So. You really want to help with Thorald?'

'If he really is alive, then I'll do whatever I can.'

---

'They're the Emperor's biggest boot-lickers in all of Whiterun. Their connections to the Empire and the Legion are well-known. When ma sent word that he'd gone missing, there was no doubt in my mind.'

The three of them had sunken into armchairs clustered around one end of the fire, and Fralia and Avulstein had worked together to unfold the entire story for Merrin. What she'd learned so far was making her blood boil.

The Gray-Mane's middle child had been missing for over three months – there'd been a raid in his camp back in the spring, and he and several other Stormcloaks had been dragged off in the night. Other than that, there'd been no word – the family had no idea what'd become of him. The only reason they had that much information was because Fralia had written to Avulstein about his brother's disappearance, and he'd gone straight from his own posting to Thorald's, looking for answers.

Fralia had begged Avulstein to come home, but home wasn't much safer than the battlefield; they'd smuggled him into the city in the dead of night two months ago, and the reason Merrin had never seen him before was because he never left the house. Avulstein was a known Stormcloak rebel; there was a warrant out for his arrest. And the Battle-Borns had it out for them all. So he spent every day in the confines of his family's home, pacing the floors in frustration, a bird in a cage. The only reason he was safe was because the Battle-Borns had no idea he was there.

Still, their story confused her.

'But...why? What do they have to gain? Even if the Battle-Borns did tip off the raid, what would they get out of it?' She furrowed her brow. 'Favor with General Tullius?'

'That, and just plain old spiteful satisfaction,' Fralia replied, voice trembling.

'Why—'

'Because!' Thorald barked, frustrated. 'The Battle-Borns pitched in with the Empire years and years ago. They've never forgiven me an' Thorald for joining the rebellion. Olfrid would be happy to see us dead.' His eyes shone as hard as flint in the firelight, and he clenched his hands into fists so hard his knuckles cracked.

'It's personal, plain and simple. They had my brother locked up someplace just to get back at our family – to make us suffer.' He growled. 'And they know where he's being kept. I know it.'

Through her anger, her heart went out to the people in front of her; how bitter and twisted did a person have to be, to make an entire family suffer like this? She'd known that the Gray-Manes and Battle-Borns were feuding, but according to Ria, they'd used to be friends – was there no mercy left in the Battle-Borns? Was there nothing this war wouldn't spoil?

At length, Merrin's eyes flicked back to Avulstein's.

'If that's true, then I feel for your family, and Thorald. But those are serious accusations. We'd need proof to back them up. Not to mention to find out where Thorald is.'

Avulstein gave a harsh sigh, and raked his hands through his hair.

'Our hands have been tied. My parents can't get their hands on the information. I'd die before I'd send my sister. And if I tried to find proof, that would be playing right into the Battle-Born's hands. The second they saw me on their property, they'd have me carted off and arrested. Then we'd never find out what happened to Thorald.'

Seconds passed, and the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and an occasional sniff from Fralia. Then, suddenly, Avulstein's head snapped back up from where he'd been looking into the flames, and his eyes pierced Merrin's with dawning realization.

'Hold on...maybe that's it. Maybe this is where you can help.'

Fralia spoke up, sounding confused. 'Avulstein, what...?'

'She can get us the proof we need!' Excitedly, he turned back to Merrin. 'Think about it: the Battle-Borns don't know you from Akatosh. They have no idea that you want to help us. They'll have hidden the information somewhere, not wanting everyone to find out they've been lying. But maybe you can butter them up enough for them to let something slip!'

Shit. Merrin and Fralia turned to look at one another, and knew they were both thinking the exact same thing; when it came to Merrin and Olfrid, there wasn't enough butter on Nirn. Wincing, she turned back to Avulstein.

'That won't work. It's part of how I even got involved – Olfrid and I had a run-in. Those bridges have been burnt to the ground.'

Fralia had already sagged; Avulstein swore. Merrin gritted her teeth, feeling useless and stuck, and the room descended back into silence.

Then once again, Avulstein broke it. This time, he was speaking carefully.

'Hold on. It might not matter. There's more than one way to get information.'

Instantly, he had Merrin's attention; she met his gaze, alight with new hope.

'What do you mean?'

The big Nord rose from his chair, and walked to one of several side tables pushed up against the walls, opening a drawer and rifling around. When he came back, he stopped to stand in front of her, and opened a clenched fist to reveal what he'd grabbed: a set of lock picks.

Fralia saw them at the same time as she did, and let out a strangled gasp. 'Avulstein, no! We can't ask Merrin to do that, it's illegal! If she were caught, she'd be punished. We can't expect her to—'

'I'll do it.'

As mother and son fell silent and turned to look at her, a tiny voice screamed at Merrin somewhere in the back of her brain.

What did she mean, she'd do it? Why? She'd been doing her best to stay impartial on the war, so why would she illegally break into the home of law-abiding citizens to try and help a known Stormcloak rebel escape his fate? A criminal, in the eyes of the Empire?

But she squashed the voice out like a bug.

Not too long ago, she'd been considered a criminal in the eyes of the Empire, too. If it hadn't been for somebody showing her kindness, she would be dead right now.

She had done her best to stay impartial in the war, but deepin her heart, Merrin knew this was different. It didn't matter that Thorald was a Stormcloak – it didn't even really matter that she'd come to care for both Eorlund and Fralia, since she'd arrived.

What mattered was that if what she was being told was true, then Thorald had been targeted out of nothing but spite, and his family deserved to know where he was. Finding that out wasn't just the honorable thing to do – it was the right thing to do.

Outside of her internal conflict, Fralia was talking again, sounding nervous and wringing her hands.

'Oh, dear, you can't! We appreciate you wanting to help Thorald, we do. But that's asking too much. You seem like a good girl...I don't want you getting into trouble for our sake.'

Merrin stood resolutely, and shook her head at Fralia. She put a hand on the woman's slender shoulder, and smiled.

'I can handle some trouble, Fralia. You all deserve to know what's happened to Thorald.'

'But, Merrin,' the older woman started, blue eyes huge and anxious.

'Please.' Merrin interrupted her. 'I really want to do this. It's the right thing to do.'

Letting her hand drop from Fralia's shoulder, Merrin turned resolutely to Avulstein, and plucked the lock picks from his open hand. When she looked him in the eye, the determined fire she saw blazing there was a mirror of her own.

'What sort of proof am I looking for?'

---

It was a beautiful day in Whiterun, and a Sundas on top of that; most of the city's inhabitants were either strolling around and enjoying the market, or lounging around, enjoying the sun. Nobody had paid any mind to a lone woman passing through the Wind District.

And now, Merrin was crouched in the grass and tucked out of sight, with her back pressed against the farthest wall of House Battle-Born.

She'd done an inconspicuous circle of the house to choose the best entry point, and had been more than pleased to discover that someone had left a ground-floor window open on the side of the house that couldn't be seen from the road. She'd spent the last ten minutes sitting directly under said window, listening carefully for any sounds from within – and there hadn't been any.

It was time to make her move.

Moving smoothly and confidently, Merrin hoisted herself up onto the windowsill, and peeked through the glass.

The room obviously belonged to a child, with a small bed in one corner and several toys on the floor...and it was empty. Taking this as a good sign, she forged ahead. The window was opened just wide enough that she could shimmy through, and she did so head first, putting her palms on the stone floor to brace herself.

As soon as she was inside, she listened some more before moving a muscle; all was still as silent as before, so she tiptoed her way to the door, careful not to trip on anything.

The door to the child's room was closed, and she opened it by the barest of margins to listen for anyone on the other side, but heard no one. Finally, she dared to push the door open far enough to peek her head around.

The Battle-Born's home had seemed newer and better polished from outside than the Gray-Mane's – on the inside, it was even more so. The great room she now looked in on was richly appointed, filled with brand new furniture and all kinds of finery, and in a second it was made abundantly clear which family was the wealthier. But where the space was full of things, it was empty of people; she didn't see a soul anywhere in the long hall, and there were only embers in the hearth of the enormous fire pit on the far side of the room. As it happened, the layout of the house was to her fortune; the floor of the partial second story was directly above her head, and even if there were people upstairs, they wouldn't be able to see her if they looked down into the great room.

There was a set of double doors directly across the room from her, with a decoratively carved piece of wood nailed above the doorway. She could see there were letters carved into the wood's surface, and when she squinted, she could make out them out as 'O.B-B' – Olfrid Battle-Born. Seeing the letters, Merrin allowed herself a smile; it would seem that luck was on her side, in this particular endeavour. As quietly as she possibly could, she crept across the flagstone and put an ear to one of the doors.

Silence met her there, too – it looked like the family was out for the day like most everyone else, and Olfrid himself must've still been wallowing in the Drunken Huntsmen. Still, she was careful opening the door.

The bedroom she walked into was also very grand, with a four-poster bed heaped with green velvet covers, and genuine silver service sitting on a washstand beside it. A vanity with a large, oval mirror sat in the corner holding a woman's things, and that surprised her – Ria had told her that Olfrid's wife had died a long time ago.

Merrin closed the bedroom door softly behind her, and began the search in earnest. She went through his nightstands, the chest at the foot of his bed, and his armoire, finding nothing each time. She even searched the vanity, to no avail.

She wasn't surprised; Avulstein had warned her that whatever she was looking for would be hidden away.

There was a door on the other side of the room, slightly narrower than average – she'd figured it to be some sort of closet or linen cupboard when she'd first come in. But she was empty-handed. It was worth a try.

When she twisted the knob and found it locked, she broke into a smile.

It was a good lock, of much finer quality than a closet would merit, and it took her several minutes of delicate picking before she heard the telltale snick of the gates turning.

The room turned out to be a study, and she could tell right away that this was where the patriarch of Clan Battle-Born conducted his business. A bookshelf beside her was crammed to bursting with expensive-looking leather-bound tomes, and there was an iron safe sitting in the corner.

But she was drawn immediately to the desk against the back wall. All four corners were topped with fat, stubby candles, wax dripping down the legs of the desk, and in the middle of the desktop was a haphazard pile of paperwork.

She started carefully rifling through the paper, and found a wide assortment of things; personal correspondence from people who were obviously friends...letters from various businesses, thanking him for his recent donations...statements from a bank in Solitude. Even a letter of inheritance, stamped with the seal of Markarth.

None of it was of interest to her, and she was about to stop digging and rearrange the pile when something caught her eye: the official seal of the Imperial Legion, stamped in crimson wax.

Gotcha. Merrin was smiling triumphantly as she pulled the stiff, elaborately folded missive from the pile, and lifted the already broken seal to read the words on the paper.

But as she read the letter's contents, the smile quickly died.

To one Mr. Olfrid Battle-Born of Whiterun,

It has come to my attention that inquiries have been made as to the whereabouts of one Thorald Gray-Mane, also of Whiterun.

As you know, the person in question is a convicted Stormcloak rebel, who has been taken into the Empire's custody, and normally protocol would dictate that such inquiries were to go unanswered. However, due to the instrumental part you played in enabling the capture of Mr. Gray-Mane and a number of his compatriots, as well as the loyalty you displayed to the Empire in doing so, an exception will be made.

The purpose of this letter is to inform you that Thorald Gray-Mane has recently been removed from the original site of his detainment, and taken into the custody of Thalmor agents. From our prison, he was escorted to Northwatch Keep.

I don't think further elaboration is necessary; from here on out, it is in the best interest of everyone involved for the matter to be dropped entirely. With this in mind, I trust that there will be no further inquiries as to this matter.

Yours in duty,

Gen. G. Tullius, Military Governor, Ambassador of Cyrodiil

The letter was dated from a week ago. She covered her mouth with her free hand as she stared at Tullius' flourishing signature, and her heart plummeted.

The Thalmor.

The news couldn't have been worse – it would've been better if she'd read that Thorald was rotting in Cidhna Mine. The dark insinuations on the piece of paper in her hand were nothing compared to the weight of this reality; any Stormcloak in Thalmor hands was in the direst of straights. And only for so long.

A week...longer, since the response likely hadn't been prompt. She needed to get back to Avulstein with the letter, and now. They could already be too late.

She hastily returned the pile to the order she'd found it in, and relocked the study door on her way out. As quickly as she dared, she tip-toed from the bedroom and across the great room, to the child's bedroom with the open window, closing each door behind her as she went.

Her heart was pounding from the urgency of the situation, but that was nothing compared to what happened next. She was half-way through the window, with one arm and leg still inside the house, when she heard running footsteps and a child's voice, quickly approaching the bedroom.

'Alright, alright Mila, gimme a second!'

It must have been Lars, come to get something from his room. If she didn't move fast, in another second he would open that door and see her hanging from his window.

There was nothing for it; she wrenched her leg painfully the rest of the way through, biting back a curse as she fell gracelessly into a heap in the grass below. She'd cleared the window without a moment to spare – the door to the bedroom had come flying open, and now she could hear Lars clearly.

'Huh? Is somebody there?'

Oh, gods. He must've heard the scratching of her yanking herself through. As she scrambled to press her back against the wood directly beneath the window and hugged her legs tight to her chest, she could barely hear his approaching footsteps over the thundering gallop of her own heartbeat.

'Hello?' His childish voice was right at the window now; if he thought to poke his head out and look down, there would be nowhere for her to hide. Merrin held her breath, and resisted the urge to close her eyes.

For an endless moment, there was nothing but silence, and she was terrified that he would hear the hammering of her heart against her ribs. But then she heard Lars speak again, clearly to himself, sounding confused.

'Huh. Weird...oh well.'

To her immense relief, his footsteps picked back up again, heading away from the window. He started to whistle an aimless tune, and after he shut his bedroom door, she heard him call out to Mila, 'alright, I've got it! Let's go!'

Merrin sagged against the wood once he'd gone, and gusted out an enormous breath. That had been much too close, and if it hadn't been a little boy who'd heard her, it likely wouldn't have ended so well. As she took some deep, steadying breaths, she reminded herself again that not all of her luck was bad.

But she didn't rest there long; as soon as her pulse hit an even keel, she tucked the incriminating letter into her tunic and hastily got to her feet. She had bad, important news, and now she had to deliver it.

---

All of the blood had drained from Avulstein's face as he and Fralia had read the letter. His mother had finished a few seconds before him, and now she was clutching at her chest, her body wracked with silent sobs. When he finally looked back at Merrin, his expression was stunned, and his eyes were pools of despair.

'The Thalmor? By the Nine,' he moaned. 'It's even worse than we thought.'

Merrin had left her armor behind before she'd slipped into the Battle-Born's house, and she nodded at him grimly now as she picked the pieces up out of her chair and slid them back on, one by one. The sight of Fralia twisted in anguish was like a dagger being twisted into her chest, and once again she cursed the letter for bearing such hateful news.

The older woman let out a wail then, and she dug her fingers like claws into Avulstein's arms as she collapsed against him. He wrapped both arms around her so she wouldn't fall to the floor, and then she shuddered violently, choking words out in between her sobs.

'They'll kill him. Those – those – animals will tear him apart!' She moaned as if she were locked in a nightmare. 'My son...not my boy...'

Merrin couldn't take any more. She leapt forward toward the two, hands spread out in front of her, and words came tumbling out of her before she could think them through.

'Maybe he can still be saved! Don't give up now!'

Fralia kept right on sobbing as if she hadn't spoken, but Avulstein met her eye, looking resolved and tormented in equal measure.

'I have no intention of giving up,' he growled. 'The letter said Northwatch Keep. So I know where to hit them.'

Merrin nodded, over-eager, desperate for the purpose of action. 'Yes! So what's your plan, then?' When the Thalmor were involved, if you wanted to win, you needed a plan.

'My plan?' Avulstein scoffed. 'There is no plan. The plan is for me to leave Whiterun, get to Northwatch Keep, and get my brother back – dead or alive.' He gritted his teeth. 'If he can be saved, then I'll save him. And if not, then I'm bringing his body back home. I'll not leave it with those monsters.'

The meaning of his words dawned on her, and she gaped at him, open-mouthed.

'...What, you mean by yourself?' Merrin asked him, horrified.

He waved a hand at her, frustrated and dismissive. 'Who else? There's nobody I can trust to help.'

An idea clicked; more words tumbled from her.

'What about the Companions?! This is exactly the sort of thing they do! I'm sure they would help you, now that you know for sure where Thorald is.' She said it all in a rush, trying her best to reason with him. 'You don't stand a chance against all those Thalmor on your own!'

Fralia's wailing cries redoubled then, and Avulstein shot Merrin a glare as he guided his mother into the nearest armchair and started rubbing soothing circles onto her back. When he spoke, his tone was scathing.

'Bull. They've known for a long time that Thorald was missing – one of the first things my parents did was go to Kodlak and Skjor, asking them for help.' He hissed out a breath, looking furious. 'And do you know what they were told? That the Companions don't get involved in political affairs. That Thorald was a Stormcloak, and because of it, their hands were tied. It's bullshit,' he repeated on a growl. 'I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the glorious band you've joined is made of nothing but money-grubbing cowards.'

The words were like a bucket of icy water, splashing over her and chilling her to the bone. She didn't want to believe them, and standing there, she nearly told him so. How could they be the truth? The group of people she'd been living with didn't match the description Avulstein had given – they were loyal, heartfelt, brave...honorable. Even the least likeable of them carried themselves with honor and discipline. The idea that they would turn their backs on someone who needed them so badly was preposterous.

But what reason did Avulstein have to lie? The question hooked itself into Merrin's chest, making her squirm as it demanded an answer.

For several seconds, she grappled with doubt. But then urgency shoved it aside, with a hand that brought perspective.

Regardless of what the Companions had or hadn't done, the reality remained the same: if Thorald was still alive, he desperately needed help. And so did Avulstein.

One more time, Merrin's mouth opened of its own accord.

'Then I'm coming with you.'

She hadn't planned to say the words, but the second they were out, she agreed with them; there was no niggling voice in the back of her head, questioning her sanity. This was right.

Avulstein was staring at her now like he was questioning her sanity. Even Fralia, who'd been despondent since reading the letter, had choked back her sobs to stare at her. Avulstein was the first to speak.

'What? Are you serious?'

'You can't go alone,' Merrin replied steadily. 'Or you won't come back. If you're going to Northwatch, you need help. If you have nobody else, then I'm coming with you.'

For a second, he was silent – then he spluttered.

'Look—Merrin—I know you came because you wanted to help, and you have. But—but I don't even really know you! It's not—'

'I don't even really know you,' Merrin said, cutting him off. 'And you're a Stormcloak fugitive. I could be arrested for being seen with you!' She stared at him directly, irritated, willing him to see the sense in her words.

'But that doesn't change Thorald's situation. You are in no position to be turning down help, even if the person offering it is a stranger.'

He was looking defensive as he stared at her now, and his words came out sounding the same.

'Look. I appreciate the offer, but it's going to be a rough trip, and I don't know how you'd hold up. I don't even know if you can really handle yourself in a fight, and there's going to be—'

'Avulstein.'

It was Fralia. Her voice sounded strangely brittle, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as she stared fiercely up at her son.

'Enough of this. You know she's right. You can't get Thorald back on your own.' Her tone was on the verge of accusing, and she lurched back to her feet unsteadily, when it looked like she really should be sitting.

'Here stands somebody right in front of you—somebody capable—and you think to turn her down? You're being a fool.' Her voice cracked, and wavered with more tears. 'Will you really go rushing into that keep all alone, and make me lose two of my children at once?'

At first, Avulstein had looked ready to argue, but had deflated as she'd continued; now, he looked stricken with shame.

'No, mother. Of course not.' He drew up beside Fralia and hugged her to him, tucking her head under his chin and staring hard at the fire. 'I'm sorry for upsetting you. I just want what we all want. I want Thorald safe.'

They stayed that way for a second, locked in the simple embrace, and then Fralia pulled away to look him pointedly in the eye.

'Then go, but make it so that you'll be coming back home, too. Accept the help.'

Merrin had stood there while all of this unfolded, feeling slightly intrusive and out of place, but when Avulstein looked at her again, the feeling faded. He was staring at her hard, his expression clouded.

'Are you sure about this?' he asked, sounding uncertain. 'We'd need to leave straight away, and the trip will be made on horseback, so you'll need to ride. Northwatch is days from here – up in Northern Haafingar. And it will be dangerous.'

She heard his words, but they didn't deter her – she'd already made her mind up, and she nodded at him resolutely.

'I'm sure. I told you I wanted to help you and Thorald. I meant it.'

He looked at her for another long beat, and then slowly returned the nod.

'Alright, then. I won't lie – I don't understand why you're doing this thing for us. But you have my thanks.'

'All of our thanks.' Fralia came walking over to her then, and took both of Merrin's hands into her own. 'No matter...how this turns out,' she said with some difficulty. 'We'll never forget this.' And then she kissed both of Merrin's cheeks.

Merrin had rescued people before, but she'd never gotten used to the family's emotional reactions, and she was tongue-tied for a response. All she could do was smile at Fralia, and give her hands a squeeze. Luckily, Avulstein spoke up again then, and no words were needed.

'If we're going, then we'd better leave as soon as possible.' He turned to his mother, looking uncertain. 'What will you tell Da and Olfina? They're going to notice I'm gone.'

'Leave that part to me,' Fralia responded. 'I don't want to get their hopes up, in case...' she swallowed hard, and shook her head. 'In case it's too late. Best they don't know, for now. I'll think up something else to tell them.'

Avulstein nodded, and then he suddenly sniffed hard; he took a huge step forward and wrapped his mother into a crushing hug. They stayed that way for several moments, and this time Merrin spoke up from behind them.

'Don't worry, Fralia. Avulstein and I will watch each other's backs. I'll bring him back to you, safe and sound.' Then she turned her gaze to the big Nord man. 'Right, Avulstein?'

He smiled grimly at her. 'What, or else run the risk of losin' my da's new apprentice?' He snorted. 'He'd kill me. Yeah, I'll have your back.'

New apprentice? Merrin stared at Avulstein, feeling warm in the face. What had Eorlund been saying about her? Did he really consider her an apprentice? Unbidden, a huge smile spread over her face at the warming thought.

'Alright, then. It's settled.' Fralia pulled away from her son and stood in front of them with hands on hips. A new light of hope had sparked to life in her eyes, and she looked them over with a determined expression.

'We'd better get you two ready for the trip. The sooner you get going, the better your chances.'

Merrin and Avulstein nodded in unison; when he spoke, he sounded as determined as Fralia looked.

'I promise, ma. We're getting Thorald back, no matter what.'

---

It was quiet back in Jorrvaskr; everyone must have either gone off on some sort of job, or out somewhere to enjoy themselves, and she'd slipped unnoticed into the empty newblood's room.

That was exactly how Merrin wanted it. She was still angry, still embarrassed, and didn't want to have to answer any of the questions she was sure would be levelled her way if she was unlucky enough to run into anyone in the hall. And now there were more than just her own feelings in play; she was in a hurry, rushing to pack for the very unexpected journey she was about to take. There were probably lives at stake – she didn't have time to argue about dragons.

That was what she told herself over and over as she made her preparations – that she was only rushing because of Thorald.

She and Avulstein had parted agreeing that they would get ready as fast as possible, and then meet up again at the city stables. And so, she was getting ready. With practiced efficiency, Merrin dragged her rucksack out from under her bed, and started filling it with everything she thought she'd need – they were taking horses, so she was generous. A couple changes of clothing, including a heavier set, in case it rained. Several potions each of health, magicka and stamina. A salve she'd purchased, to ward off infection, and bandages for wounds. The cookpot she'd had to buy got squashed on top, and inside it went a bundle of hard-tack wrapped in linen, in case there was no time for cooking, and flint, for striking fires. She had no maps for where they'd be going, but knew it was far, so she packed her extra water skin in case the main one broke.

She fastened her brand new bedroll to the bottom of the pack, and her unstrung bow diagonally across it, and then set it on her bed. Her armor needed a once-over, and she gave it one, checking ties and tightening straps until she was satisfied. She grabbed her sword and slid it into its sheathe, and then after a few seconds of hesitation, she borrowed a long, elven dagger from Ria's armoire, and slid that into her belt, too.

She stuffed her quiver with all the arrows she had, and placed it beside her pack to wait, while she dealt with her hair. It was wild as usual, and she didn't want it in her face for the ride, so she plaited it back into a long braid and securely tied the end.

When everything was finally ready to go, she shouldered her pack, and then her quiver. The final thing she picked up was her helmet, and she slid it down into place before throwing her braid over her shoulder.

She climbed the stairs up from the sleeping quarters, and left Jorrvaskr without looking back.

---

When she arrived at the stables, Avulstein was already waiting for her, leaning against the inside of one of the stalls. She hadn't realized it was him until he'd approached her; despite the heat, he was wearing a long grey cloak with a deep hood pulled up, his entire face in shadow. It made sense – he was a fugitive, and nobody could know he was there. He had his own bulging pack on the ground beside him, and a battle-axe strapped to his back.

'Are you ready?' He asked quietly.

'Ready.'

The Whiterun stables were both large and full, with well over two dozen stalls, most of which were occupied. Avulstein led her to two stalls side by side, most of the way down the stables, and then opened the padlocks securing the stall doors with a key on a chain that he took from his neck.

Inside the stalls were two beautiful horses – a grey dapple gelding, and a chestnut mare. He spoke to them in soft voices, stroking each on the nose, and then he turned to her.

'You'll be riding my brother's horse, the chestnut. Her name is Sparrow. Do you need any help saddling up?'

Sparrow softly knickered at her then, and Merrin was immediately charmed, coming up to stroke the horse's velvet nose herself. She didn't need any help saddling, and told him so.

All of the tack was sitting in chests at the ends of the stalls, and the saddles on pegs from the wall; they got to work, and a short time later, she was vaulting herself into the saddle and urging Sparrow away from the stables, with Avulstein following suit. The stable hand was dozing in and out, and barely glanced their way as they set off at a trot.

In another minute, they were on the northern road headed away from the city. Avulstein drew up beside her, so they could talk.

'Aright. So far, so good. Nobody saw me leave – as soon as we're out of view of the farms, I'll take off this cloak...' In his saddle, he started. 'Oh! That reminds me. Hang on...'

Taking his gelding's reins into one hand, he partially slid off his pack, undoing the toggles holding it closed and throwing open the flap with the other. From the very top of the pack, he withdrew something large and bundled up, and held it out to her.

'Here. This is for you, and I didn't know if you'd think to bring one. You'll be needing it.'

It was another cloak, not unlike the one he was wearing – made of heavy grey wool, with a large hood trimmed in fur. She took it quickly so that he could fix his pack, but just held it in one hand once she had it, looking confused.

'Why would I need a cloak? I don't need to hide from anybody.'

He hadn't returned both hands to the reins; instead, he was using the free one to clutch at his hood, making sure it didn't fly off in the wind. From beneath it, he snorted. 'That's not what it's for.'

'Then what? It's still summer. We have another month of warm weather.'

He sounded impatient. 'That doesn't matter, where we're headed. Northwatch Keep is near the Sea of Ghosts. Have you ever seen the Sea of Ghosts?'

She hadn't, but she'd heard stories; as soon as he said the words, realization fell into place, and she winced.

'Oh. Right.'

'Right,' he repeated. 'Doesn't matter when you go up. The Sea of Ghosts is always the same. Summer doesn't even exist, there.'

They were grim words; all at once, Merrin was glad that she'd thought to pack a warm set of clothes. She didn't really have an opportunity to open her pack, so she draped the cloak across the horn of her saddle, and thanked him quietly.

On that cobbled road, the day was as beautiful as ever, with wildflowers of every color dotting their path on either side, and puffy clouds as white as snow scudding across a deep blue sky. But soon, that wouldn't matter a bit. As they settled into a silence back-dropped by the clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone, a fresh wave of realization really hit Merrin, in terms of what they were doing.

They were making a beeline for the unknown.