A/N: Hello again my lovely readers! I bring to you another chapter from the world of Skyrim!
I know I've said this before, but this time I mean it. The time you have all been waiting for has come. Really. Well, I'll just let you see for yourself.
This chapter was the brainchild of SilentPony, and I have been waiting for so long to write it. Once again, thank you so much for this. It is not the full one, and really, all there is is talking, but seriously, there is so much drama here I hope it makes up for that. So. Much. Drama. Hopefully not too much.
I've mentioned it in chapters past, but I'll just let you know again: in my head cannon, Hrongar is Lydia's father. I'm not really sure if she actually is, but it fits well enough with the story. And I took some artistic licence and made him anti-Imperial. It just works better.
I really wanted to explore Lydia's past and her background a bit more, and this just seemed the perfect place to do so. Hopefully I do it justice.
Alright. I am really nervous about this chapter, I won't lie. I pondered over so many parts of it, and I even considered scrapping the whole thing once. But, alas, this needed to happen.
I hope you guys enjoy it, and thanks so much, forever and a day, for all your support. It really means so much.
"Why are we going there again?" Lydia asked with a frown, shielding her eyes from the brilliant midday sun as the two of them took the long, tiresome walk up the stone stairs to Dragonsreach.
"Not too sure," Cato breathed, abandoning his attempt at taking the stairs two at a time. "The Jarl said he wanted to see us."
"Us?"
"Yeah. Both of us. Said something of great importance needed our attention. Said it couldn't wait."
"Hm," she mused, watching as the Jarl's Keep loomed higher ahead of them.
"Yeah. Sounds pretty dire," he smiled. "Wonder if Pelagia lost his cows again."
She couldn't help but smile back, but she shut her mouth and turned away before she said anything stupid. She had been getting good at that lately.
The walk to Solitude had been a long, cold, and very awkward one. Lydia did not mention that night, and neither did he. She had limped along after him and he had acted as if nothing had ever happened.
Typical.
Honestly, she was glad. She was so awkward when it came to things like that. She couldn't tell you what had happened, how she felt. She had no idea herself. Though she could feel that something was just… not quite right. Well, that was a lie. She knew exactly what was wrong. And it was there, like a small splinter in her flesh, hardly noticeable until something came up that would draw her attention back to it. Like a joke not told or a touch not given. She could feel the absence of it grow wider each passing day, like a wound not fully healed. And despite how good he was at covering things up, Lydia had been around him long enough to know he felt it too.
She cleared her throat and gave a strained smile. "Well, it better be important if the Jarl called us back from Solitude."
Cato frowned. "Yeah," he mused, "might need to have a word with him about that."
They stopped to rest for a moment when they reached the large wooden platform at the top of the stairs – the stage before the Keep, Lydia had always thought. Cato leaned against the railing, looking out over the city, and Lydia did the same.
Whiterun was simply crawling with activity today. She could see the towering domed roof of Jorrvaskr and a few Companions practicing out in the training yard. She watched as Braith chased Lars and Lucia down near the Gildergreen, and as a grumbling guard told that drunk – Brenuin, maybe – to go beg somewhere else, and as that robed madman down near the Talos statue preached his heart out to a non-existent audience. The stalls in the market buzzed as people, tiny as ants from where she stood, bartered and chatted, and she watched Hulda sweep the front porch of the Bannered Mare with a rather tattered broom. And, towering like a great jagged dragon tooth over all, the Throat of the World rose high in the distance, its snow-capped peak hidden in the clouds that forever seemed to shroud it. The grey water from the ducts roared out just beneath them, spraying mist into the air and landing coolly on Lydia's cheek. The town smelled of dirty smoke and sharp tanning leather and fetid water, but Lydia breathed it in and smiled anyways.
This was her home.
"Hey, Lydia," Cato began slowly, pulling her gaze away from the city. He looked unsure, wavering, and she smiled. "You know, whatever Balgruuf wants – whatever he's going to make me do – you don't have to come. I mean, well, you know," he stumbled out when she raised her eyebrows, "only because we've been walking for a week straight and you must be exhausted. You haven't really rested since your arm."
She glanced down to her arm with a frown. The bandage had come off, finally, as she was tiring of the itchy brown fabric, but it was still a hundred nasty shades of blue and black. It hadn't even started yellowing out yet. He was right, though. She should probably stay and rest. Maybe start working with a sword again, regaining the strength in that arm. Or learning how to use her other one.
But when was the last time she had listened to him?
"No," she said, placing a hand on his forearm without thinking and squeezing lightly. "I will come. I will not leave you now."
He glanced down to her hand for half a second before looking back up to her, and he smiled sheepishly after gazing perhaps a moment too long. It looked like he wanted to say something, maybe, perhaps about the last time she had touched him, and Lydia could not stop her heart from racing. But he must have thought the better of it. He looked away, back out over the city, but not before Lydia saw the red creep up to his dark cheeks.
She let go of him, remembering the other night, but she couldn't help it. She smiled smugly.
Is that all it took to make him do that?
He coughed after a moment. "Well," he said, nodding toward the doors, "best get this over with, then."
They walked together toward the great wooden doors of the Jarl's Keep, slowing down as they got closer. A lone guard nodded to them. Cato hesitated, only a moment, before he put his hand on the handle.
Lydia nodded and closed her eyes. Neither of them enjoyed coming here.
She heard him exhale sharply before he pushed the doors open, a gust of warm air almost blowing them over.
"Ah! Dragonborn!"
A deep, thick Nordic voice boomed out in the high wooden hall, off the carved pillars and the high balconies, the sound mixing with the hazy air that lingered from the hearthfire. Lydia turned around once she had pulled the great doors shut and saw the Jarl descending the steps near his throne towards them, arms outstretched in a friendly way. "You have come at last!"
The hall was nearly empty. The long feasting tables had been pushed to the sides and cleared of plate and food, but Farengar, the court mage, was hunched over one end with a dying candle and what looked to be many scrolls and some rather thick tomes. Lydia could not even see a single guard or serving maid. It was eerily quiet.
"Ah, yes. Sorry," Cato greeted, shaking the Jarl's hand when he reached them. The Nord was dressed in his usual gaudy gold garb, scruffy yet at the same time well-groomed. He was at least a head taller than the Imperial and his pale hand dwarfed Cato's tanned one. "We were quite a ways off in Solitude when we received your message. We got here as soon as we could."
"Yes, yes, I understand," the Jarl brushed. He nodded politely to Lydia and she returned it. He turned on his heel, gesturing the two of them to follow up the stairs. Lydia refrained from raising her eyebrows again. Maybe they wouldn't be here for hours, then. "Being the Hero of Skyrim can be quite taxing, I imagine."
"Ha. That's one way to put it, I guess."
"I don't know how you do it, Dragonborn. I can barely keep up with the business of Whiterun, what with the Civil War and dragons running amok. Or flying, I suppose." The Jarl paced briskly ahead of them, clearly determined. Farengar looked up as the two of them passed, squinting behind a seeing glass, and he gave Lydia a warm smile. She returned it as well. She had not seen the kindly robed court mage in too long. She had missed his smile.
The Jarl stopped when he reached his throne, but he did not sit down. Proventus, his Imperial advisor, darted over from nowhere and began fervently whispering something in his ear. He looked comically tiny beside the great warrior of a Nord, but if he was anything like Cato, she knew why the Jarl kept him around.
Irileth stood a ways off, near the Jarl's throne, her face in a permanent frown as she watched them both with her red eyes. She didn't even acknowledge Lydia or the Dragonborn, and that was fine with her. The elf frightened her at times.
And, standing off in the same shadowy corner like he always did, was the Jarl's younger brother and own personal Thane, Hrongar. Lydia's father.
Lydia's heart skipped a beat but she nodded to him stiffly. His frown deepened, though he nodded back nonetheless.
There were too many eyes here. Always watching, always waiting for someone to slip up, be caught, be thrown under the wheels. She had never truly felt comfortable here, or anywhere in the city, really. There was always an air of urgency, the palpable presence of more important things needing to be done. She could feel it now, like a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. It was difficult to breathe. It was like that here. Except perhaps Breezehome. It was quiet there. No eyes.
"Yes, yes, Proventus, I'm well aware," the Jarl whispered loudly, drawing Lydia's attention back to them. The advisor frowned but pressed on. The Jarl, though, was done.
"Well," he started, turning from his advisor, who gave him a rather harsh glare behind his back. "As you both are now certainly aware, there is an… issue, I would say, that needs tending to."
He sauntered back up to his throne and seemed to collapse in it. Lydia noticed he looked rather haggard and that he had dark rings around his eyes. He looked much older, too, as if the years had finally caught up with him. When was the last time she had seen the man? Maybe it was simply a trick of the light. Proventus took his place beside the throne, his scowl not yet gone.
"It is rather urgent, and I understand that you have other duties, Dragonborn, so I will not tarry longer." He leaned forward in his chair and sighed, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "One of our citizens, Danica Pure-Spring, has been taken."
Irileth shifted uncomfortably and Proventus crossed his arms. Lydia's heart dropped like a stone. Danica? Oh gods, that was not good.
"I'm – I'm sorry," Cato began, almost apologetically, his voice echoing in the silence. "Who's this Dana?"
"Danica," Irileth scowled in her smooth Dunmer voice, red eyes narrowing down at him. "She is a priestess here in Whiterun."
"And the head healer at the Temple of Kynareth," Proventus offered, arms still crossed. "So, as you can imagine, her absence is quite… troublesome."
"Yes, thank you both," Balgruuf said tersely, turning back to his audience. "Now, because Danica was a healer at the Temple – which, and I'm sure you well know – is a religious faction and falls under the City of Whiterun's jurisdiction, and considering the fact that such a prominent citizen was taken right off the streets, it falls to the Council and thus the Thane to– "
"Let me guess – you want me to fetch this Danica for you, right?" Cato interrupted.
Lydia glared daggers at him for speaking out of turn but he didn't seem to notice. And the Jarl didn't seem to care.
He nodded solemnly. "Yes. That is correct."
Cato nodded as if he knew this all along. "And I apologise, but, if I may ask, my Jarl – why did you need me to bring her back? Why send for me all the way in Solitude? Surely a few mercenaries could track a group of bandits across the plains."
"Did you not hear? Danica is too important to be left in the hands of some greasy-fingered thugs," Proventus glowered, and Lydia could have sworn he mumbled something along the lines of not that this is any better. Or something like that.
The Jarl nodded tiredly. "And we have reason to believe these are not mere bandits."
"No?" Cato asked, interest piqued. "Then what are they?"
No one answered. An uncomfortable silence swept the room. Balgruuf shifted in his throne and Proventus coughed awkwardly. Cato looked from face to face, each one turning away.
"What are they?" he repeated, slower this time.
"We… are not yet certain," the Jarl began slowly, "but we believe the men responsible for the capturing of Ms. Pure-Spring to be… cultists." He said the last word bitterly, like it left a bad taste in his mouth.
"Cultists?" Cato asked lightly, surprising the Jarl. "Well, that shouldn't be too hard then. We just had a run-in with some cultists not a week ago. Came out of that one almost whole, didn't we?" He smiled to Lydia who self-consciously hid her purplish arm behind her back.
"Then you know how dangerous they are, and why they are no laughing matter," Irileth droned, her fiery eyes staring down the Dragonborn.
The Jarl sighed. "I am loathe to say it, but you are correct, Irileth. The presence of cultists in the Hold is troublesome indeed. They are nothing more that irate fanatics. They do not listen to reason. Madness is their creed."
Lydia knew Cato was too curious to let this go. "Forgive me, but seems as though you have experience, my Jarl," he prompted, barely withholding the eagerness in his voice.
Balgruuf smiled bitterly. "Indeed I have, Dragonborn."
"My Jarl," Proventus pressed, leaning closer to the man, "may I remind you we are severely limited in our –"
"Yes, yes, I know, I know, 'make it quick'." The Jarl brushed back his advisor, maybe a little annoyed. The Imperial backed away but looked pleased with himself. Balgruuf straightened up a little and cleared his throat. "So, Dragonborn – what say you?"
Lydia felt the eyes weighing down on them now, more clearly and heavier than before, and she shifted where she stood, playing with her gauntlets. She knew her friend felt it too. "I – wait, wait," Cato said, shaking his head slowly. "Hold on. Where'd she go? Who are these cultists? Cultists of what? Why'd they take her?" He crossed his arms and eyed the Jarl sceptically. "There's a lot here that isn't adding up."
"So curious, you are," the Jarl smiled tiredly. "Whether that plays out for good or ill, in the end, remains to be seen. But all in good time, of course. Farengar here will –"
A thundering crack echoed through the hall as the doors to the Keep were thrown back against the stone. Lydia jumped, alarmed, and twisted around to see who had startled her so.
"Ah, of course. I nearly forgot," the Jarl said, gesturing to the doorway where the light streaming in almost blinded them all. Lydia hadn't realised how dim it was in here, and she blinked as a rush of cool air wound its way through the hall and washed over her. "Just in time. Welcome, Companion."
Cato whipped around to the door and squinted in the light and Lydia could not help but smile as she watched his face light up akin to that of a child's.
The Companion slammed the great doors shut, plunging the hall back into a hazy state of semi-darkness and causing the few candles scattered around to flicker. They strode across the hall, iron boots clinking heavily on the wooden floor.
"I took the liberty to engage the services of the Companions as well, Dragonborn. I am told you have had dealings with them in the past, so they agreed to send someone. You will not be going alone."
Lydia watched Cato's smile grow wider, saw him barely able to stay still with excitement… and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the smiled was wiped clean from his face.
The Companion, a lithe figure donned in Nordic armour with a hunting bow upon her back and a dagger strapped to her boot, stopped in mid-stride and mirrored the horrified, perturbed expression on the Imperial's face before her piercing wolf-like eyes narrowed in disgust.
"You?" Aela scoffed, not bothering to hide her contempt. "They want me to go with you?"
Lydia watched as Irileth's eyes widened in disbelief.
"I could say the same thing," Cato finally responded, pulling himself out of his initial shock. He crossed his arms again, and Lydia subconsciously inched closer to him, her hackles already raised as she glared at the Huntress. The woman's mere presence left a bad taste in her mouth.
"Indeed," Aela seethed, her cold eyes nearly sending a shiver up Lydia's spine. "My Jarl," she said, turning to Balgruuf with a slight bow, "the Companions appreciate your trust and concern – however, I am afraid I must decline your offer. Clearly there has been some mistake." She shot a look in Cato's direction, crossing her arms in severe disapproval. He returned the gesture in time.
"There is no mistake," the Jarl clipped, clearly displeased that she even had the audacity to question his motives. "And there will be no declining. I have not hired you so much as I've… enforced the Companions to honour their treaty with Whiterun."
"Treaty?" Aela ordered. "That treaty involves mutual aid for threats against the city. This hardly counts as a threat."
"The head healer has been taken from the streets," Cato said, glaring at her. "This is a threat."
"And what would you know of such a treaty, Imperial?" she threw back haughtily, narrowing her eyes. "Your kind are good at breaking them, I hear."
"My kind –?"
"That will be all," the Jarl warned.
"My Lord," Aela almost pleaded, taking a step closer to the Jarl. "If you would allow it, I can return to Jorrvaskr and retrieve another Companion for you –"
"No," he snapped, shutting her down hard. "There is no time. And I am told you are a respectable hunter and tracker, are you not?"
"Well, yes, but I –"
"I need a tracker for this mission. You are a tracker."
"I am not the only one in the city, my Jarl," she said bitterly between her teeth.
"You are a tracker and a Companion. This mission is too important for anything less."
"If this is so important then you've done a good job at keeping it quiet," she seethed. "I don't see the Guard scrambling to help."
"This isn't a matter for the City Guard," he said sharply. "This is a Council decision and the Council has decided to send the Thane and the Companions to retrieve our healer."
"Ha! The Great and Wonderful Dragonborn?" she laughed, gesturing to the man beside her. "You think he needs our help?"
"You never seem to complain when a dragon is attacking the city," Cato countered.
"My Jarl, you can't be serious!" Aela cried, voice raising higher in her anger. "You cannot send me with him! Ask him, if you must – he does not want me along either!"
"Do not use that tone against me," the Jarl warned, voice lowering dangerously. "I do not care what he thinks. And I do not care what you think. This conversation is over."
"My Jarl –" she began, a dangerous cloud of anger forming on her face. Lydia remembered it only too well.
"Enough," he growled.
"You – you cannot just –"
"Silence!"
"I refuse to be forced to go along with this – this – this fucking faithless scib!"
"Hey!" someone bellowed out, and then Lydia blinked when she realised it was her. Her anger rose in her throat sharply and it felt bitter, like the acrid taste of vomit, and she had to stop herself from heaving her fist in that woman's ugly face.
"Enough!" the Jarl roared, vaulting from his seat with a stormy look in his eye. Lydia hadn't realised she'd stepped in front of Cato, protectively almost, until he gently moved her back out of the way. But she didn't take her eyes off Aela.
What an awful, disgusting word. She was not surprised in the slightest the woman had said it.
"Enough of all this! You quarrel like a drove of unruly schoolchildren! Shameful! Simply appalling!" the Jarl bellowed, and the room grew too quiet. "You will not utter that word in my hall again, Companion!" he snarled, pointing a finger to her. "I do not care what you think of Imperials but do not bring your misjudgements here! You insult more than one of my court with your foolish choice of words. I do not tolerate that. Not even one from an Order such as yours. You do not cast the Companions in a good light. And you," he growled, turning to Cato who, for the first time since Lydia had known him, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "Do not put words into my mouth. You may be Thane but that title is honorary. You know nothing of Skyrim's politics and do not parade around like you do."
A silence such as Lydia had never experienced descended on the hall like a stagnant, vile haze, the thick film settling over the tables and chairs and people and casting a foul taste in Lydia's mouth. Worse than vomit. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared move.
The Jarl took a breath as if to cool himself down and he let it out slowly, smoothing the front of his coat. "A citizen of Whiterun has been taken from the streets," he began, kingly voice punctuating the smothering silence. "Our Thane will lead the rescue. His Housecarl will accompany him. And the Companion will escort. Do I make myself clear?" he said, pointedly looking at the Dragonborn.
"Of course, my Jarl," Cato breathed, not looking the man in the face. "This will not be an issue."
"Yes," Lydia squeaked, surprised her voice worked at all.
Aela merely nodded stiffly, looking anywhere but in the direction of the Imperial beside her.
The Jarl eyed the woman a moment longer before turning back to his Thane. "Good," he nodded, then motioned to Proventus, who darted over to his side and did not even conceal the contempt simply oozing from him as he glared at Aela. "Speak to Farengar," he waved to his audience, clearly dismissing them. "He will brief you on the details. Good luck." He turned to leave the hall, his Imperial advisor on his heel.
Lydia let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, but before she could simply breathe for a moment in this stuffy place, before she could follow Cato to where Farengar sat, surrounded by his scrolls and tomes, another voice, a familiar one, echoed around the hall.
"My Jarl," Hrongar's deep voice boomed out, stopping Lydia in her tracks. Balgruuf turned to his younger brother across the hall, a tired frustration still clearly etched on his face. "If I may have a moment with my daughter…?"
The Jarl's eyes darted back to Lydia, whose breath all but left her body. She was certain she would suffocate. She tried to swallow but her throat was so dry. She was only vaguely aware of Cato standing right next to her, so close he nearly burned her skin.
The Jarl nodded. Lydia's stomach dropped like a stone through the floor. She had been hoping to slip out before anything like this happened. When had luck been in her favour, though?
Hrongar nodded back to his brother. Lydia stepped up the remaining stairs on autopilot, throat still parched. She hadn't even noticed Cato's sympathetic glance as she left his side and trod a slow death march to that of her father's.
Hrongar nodded silently to her as she approached, his face hard as carved stone, like it'd always been. He looked the same to her, and he wore the same battered, fur-lined armour she remembered as a child. He had grown balder, perhaps, during the later years, yet he still kept his beard long and trimmed and tied neatly near his chin. Sometimes she thought he cared more about his beard than anything else in the world.
Lydia opened her mouth to say something, anything, but no words came to her. She shut it dumbly.
Her father – such a strange word; when was the last time she had used it? – eyed her carefully, searching her face with his cold eyes, like two chips of ice, as if he was looking for something there. But his expression gave nothing away. Maybe that was where she'd learned it?
"It has been some time, Lydia," he said finally, gruffly, looking her in the eyes now. Disappointed. A look she knew too well. "Too long, one might say."
"I –" she began, then had to clear her throat. "I've been busy, I guess."
Hrongar glanced over Lydia's shoulder and frowned. "So I see. Come," he said, and turned to walk up the stone stairs hugging the side of the hall.
Lydia swallowed and twisted to look behind her one last time. Irileth stood by the long table, hovering over Farengar who was feverishly pointing out spots on a map. Aela stood off to the side, arms crossed and expression grim. If looks could kill, the Huntress could have murdered an entire army. And Cato was there, pretending to listen as Farengar rambled on, but he wasn't looking at him. He was looking to his Housecarl, and he smiled to her. She could tell it was meant to be encouraging but she could see past that, now. It was sad. He was sad. Her heart ached and she smiled back. It was weak, she knew that, but she didn't want him to worry about her.
She turned and followed her father up the stairs, wishing to be anywhere but here. Wishing more than anything that the two of them were back in Breezehome. Alone. With no Companions or Jarls or parents, no eyes watching them.
Her father led her across the landing behind the hall, past the war room where hung the broad yellow flags donning the heraldic horse of Whiterun, and out through the tremendous wooden doors that led out to the Great Porch. The rush of cold air caused her to gasp, but perhaps it had more to do with the room itself.
The ceiling arced high above their heads and ran the length of a dragon – which was exactly what this room had been built for. King Olaf One-Eye, High King of the First Era, had confined the great dragon Numinex here in ages past, keeping him in a form of humiliating imprisonment. His skull still hung above the Jarl's throne to this day, a show of the power and mettle of the kings of old. A king whose blood ran in her own veins.
The porch opened up wide in front of them, offering an impressive view to the north. The mountains rose high into the sky before her, in a great line like the spine of the land, as if some vast beast had had simply lay down, never to rise again. They were covered in a rug of trees – yellow, scarlet, orange – though most were evergreens, their bare tops scarfed in snow. The mountains of Skyrim never truly lost their white caps, but she could spot, even this far away, waterfalls drifting like skeins of white nestled into the carved mountainsides. The land spread out like a great playing board before her, vast and yawning and free, and it was truly breath-taking.
She had always liked this room more than any other as a child, though it had frightened her to some extent. The view was so grand and so wide she had foolishly thought she would simply fall out into the sky. It had taken her so long to even approach the end and look over the side. Her brother had urged her to, long ago, and then he had laughed and grabbed her and made her believe, if only for a moment, that she would surely plummet to her death. It had taken her even longer the next time to walk through those doors again.
She smiled at the memory. She had not been here in years.
"So," her father began, shutting the great doors with a loud thud, and Lydia had forgot he was there.
"So," she replied, tearing her eyes away from the view.
They stood there facing each other again, and Lydia was at a loss for words. It seemed that was the only thing she was good at.
"You look different, Lydia," he finally said, voice thick with his Nordic accent. "Older. You've filled out more. Grown into your armour." He eyed her more intensely, more deeply, and Lydia was not sure it was a compliment. "You look so much like your mother."
Lydia smiled sadly. She had no idea if that were true.
"So," he said again, losing that look in his eye. "You finally come back after all this time and you try to sneak out without even so much as a hello to your own father?" Lydia's heart froze for half a second before she saw the slight twitch of his mouth and realised her father had been joking. Joking. Had she ever heard him joke before?
"Yes," she breathed out a shaky laugh, heart easing into normalcy. "I must apologise. It hasn't been that long, has it?"
He raised his eyebrows at her, the skin around his aged eyes crinkling. "Nearly three years."
"Sir?" Lydia almost choked. "Three years? It's been that long?"
"Aye," he said, searching her face again. She didn't like when he did that. Too many eyes. "Since that Imperial was made Thane. You walked out those doors and never came back."
"Three years?" she repeated. She had known Cato that long?
He gave her a strange look. "That's what I said."
"I guess I have been busy," she mused. Three years? Almost three? She could not quite believe it. Where had the time gone?
It felt as if she'd known Cato for a day yet at the same time, a lifetime.
"That is what I wanted to talk to you about," her father said, a frown on his face. He started pacing slowly toward the great opening, his boots clinking dully on the ugly yellowing carpet. She kept in stride with him.
Lydia felt like a child again, though she had not walked here like this with her father in such a long count of years. She could hardly remember a time when he did such things with her. It brought back memories sweet and bitter. She swallowed and glanced up to the ceiling. High above, no doubt rusted over and covered in dust, was the great contraption used to hold Numinex all those years ago, bolted into the stone.
"You say you have been busy," he began, returning her gaze to him. "I do not doubt it. Being Housecarl to the Thane is an honour any one of your colleagues would grasp in a moment. The honour to guard with your life, and lay it down to protect the one you're sworn to. You must be proud."
"I am." And she meant it.
"Do you know what my father used to say?" he pondered, staring ahead. " 'I am not a man. I'm a weapon in human form. Just unsheathe me and point me at the enemy.' He was a cruel man with little in his life, but it is a wisdom that holds true over the ages. And more so for those of us that pledge our own lives." He turned to her again. "You are a weapon, Lydia. A sword and a shield. That is all. There is no room in your life for anything else. You understand that."
Lydia's heart sunk. Of course she knew. It had only been drilled into her mind her whole life. She knew there was never anything else meant for her, nothing more than her years spent as a sword. She knew it, and yet…
"So tell me,then," he mused, crossing his muscled arms, "what is so special about this Thane that would keep you away for so long? Keep you so busy?"
"I –" she blinked, and for a moment, by the way his icy eyes pierced her own, she thought her father knew. Knew everything that had happened, everything she had said and did and thought about her Thane. Those things that had and almost had happened. Everything, even those things not so… tame.
Her cheeks flared red and he nodded, knowing. "He is the Dragonborn," she rushed out. "Of course we are busy. There are dragons and bandits and cultists, now. There is always something needing to be killed." She laughed a little but her cheeks still burned.
"I know you and the Imperial are close," he said, bitterness seeping into his tone as he stopped his walking. "I can see it in the way he looks at you. You do not notice it, but it is there. He thinks of you as a comrade. A friend, even. Maybe more."
Lydia swallowed again. "I – I can assure you that is not the case, Sir." Oh, but it was. She was lying through her teeth, and her father could tell.
Now she wanted to melt through the floor.
"Take me as you will, but do not take me as a fool, Lydia," her father scolded. "I am not blind. I know you feel the same."
Lydia did not respond. He resumed his pacing and she followed, more reluctant than before. They did not speak, but listened to the sounds of the fires crackling and the wild winds whistling off the stone. He was not a foot from her yet there was a bottomless chasm between them.
When they reached the end of the hall Hrongar stopped at the low stone wall and looked out over the land before him. Lydia blinked in the bright sunlight and her bewilderment at Skyrim's beauty washed over her again.
"That pass there," he said, pointing out at the mountains, "do you see it?"
Lydia squinted in the sun, scanning the distance, but the snowy glare made it difficult to see. Everything looked the same from up here. "Yes," she lied, shielding her eyes.
"That is Weynon Pass."
Weynon… she played with that for a bit, though she could not recall ever hearing it. A particularly strong gust of wind blew her hair into her eyes, and she brushed it aside.
"There was a garrison stationed there many years ago," he began, staring off into the mountains. "Just a few men, but they were there. The Pass is only small but it winds through the mountains to Dawnstar. It cuts travel time by more than half, and it ends right here, right outside the city. So you understand why the enemy would want to gain control."
Lydia's lips thinned. She did not feel like hearing a lecture just now, but she dared not say anything.
"There was a young man there, a young soldier, younger than you. He thought himself brave for joining the Stormcloaks, for leaving home so young. And he was. He was a good soldier. He rose through the ranks and made himself a Sergeant. Ice-Veins. He had his men and he had his title, and his whole life was laid out for him." Hrongar turned to her, his eyes hard and bitter. "But he was foolish. He made a grave mistake. Do you know what happened to him?"
Lydia chewed her lip. This story was quickly sounding familiar.
"A band of Imperials came upon them one night and slaughtered them all while they slept. Every single one. He had let his guard down, though he knew they were close. He trusted in their humanity. He tried pleading, he tried bargaining. They cried for mercy but they received none. The snow ran red that day with the blood of our brothers."
He looked out at the mountains again and gripped the stone wall tight, tense as a lute string. Lydia's heart began to ache, a slow, dull throb that only the loss of someone so close could create.
"The hearts of Imperials are black and cold as ice. Never forget that, Lydia. He may be Thane, but he is just the same as every other faithless coward from the Empire." He turned to her again, his fists clenched, his anger bubbling just under his cold exterior. "He is not your friend. He does not love you, no matter what he says. Imperials are capable only of lies. He will use you if given the chance. They are the monsters you hear in the stories. Nothing more."
Lydia could only stare at her father, simply incapable of comprehending what he had just said. Something hot and painful churned inside her, roiling in the pit of her stomach uneasily, and she clenched her fists in order to keep it down.
"That Companion was right about one thing. The man is a scib. When the Empire surrendered to the Aldmeri Dominion, they shamed us all." He looked deeply at her again, a steely look in his eye that frightened her right to the core. "I will not have you shame me. Do you understand?"
"I –" she stuttered, "he's not –"
"I do not care what he is. What he is not, however, is trustworthy. Do not make the same mistake your brother did."
Lydia expected the pain and the hurt to hit her like a brick wall, like a blast of dragon-fire, but it didn't. She felt strangely hollow inside, much like the day the letter had come, delivered by the shaking hand of some scrawny Stormcloak recruit. She remembered that day well. It was the day both her brother and father had died. She had been mourning their loss ever since, though it had been difficult when one of them still stalked the halls of Dragonsreach.
But then the anger came, slowly at first, like the embers of a fire catching hold. And, like a beam breaking through the trees, she saw her father in a blinding new light. He did not look strong to her any more. Had he ever? His age had begun to stoop him low, and the blood of the kings, the same blood running through her, crossed his old, gnarled hands in thinly-concealed veins. She felt like spitting. She was disgusted at him. At herself.
"I won't," she growled, menacing and low, looking him one last time in the eyes she knew would never love again. "He trusted you. That was where his fault lie."
She turned from her father and the mountains beyond, and marched down the yellowing carpet to the great wooden doors. It took nearly everything she had to do that, and not to run and hide like she would have as a little girl.
He was the monster. He always had been. She hated this place, the Great Porch and the hall and everything in this gods-forsaken shithole of a city, down to the rats in the sewers and the weeds in the cracks. It had all been poisoned. Oblivion take them all.
She half expected her father to call out to her, make her come back, but he never did. She wouldn't have listened anyways.
She threw open the doors and did not shut them. Let the wind snuff out the candles. She did not care. So much had already been taken from her.
How dare he try to take Cato from her? Use her brother against her like that? To twist her views, poison her mind, on Imperials, on the Empire like he did? After everything he'd done? Everything he said? Let the man rot here, grow old by himself with nothing but his regrets as he stared at the mountain pass. He had already died long ago. She needed to let him go.
A sob rose unexpectedly from deep in her chest and she caught it before anyone heard it. Her heart bled and beat wildly in her throat, and she took a moment to catch her breath, leaning against the cool stone wall.
It was quiet. Nothing but the sound of the hearthfire and the wind whistling just outside. There was no one up here, no guard or maid, no one to watch her suffer. It had always been like this.
Time passed as it always did, and whether it had been a moment or a lifetime she could not tell. But it didn't take long after that for her to regain some semblance of control. She couldn't lose her head. If that man she called father had instilled one thing in his daughter, it had been that. His pure Nordic stubbornness.
She straightened up and took a deep breath. She felt dirty, unclean, like a sour apple just by being here. She needed to leave.
She made her way down the side stairs to the main hall, slowly, evenly, running her hand along the stone as she went, like a ghost in these halls. It felt cool against her burning skin.
As she approached she began to hear voices. Irileth's smooth, stern one. Farengar's lilting tone, injected with too many large words. And Cato's light one, his Cyrodiilic one, laughing at something someone said. Lydia's cold heart warmed a little and she smiled despite herself.
As she reached the bottom the little party turned to her and her eyes found Cato's. His face simply lit up and he smiled warmly at her. He was happy to see her. It was so genuine that her heart twisted inside her chest and she nearly let out another sob. How many people could she say were the same?
"Hey," he said, walking to meet her halfway, his leather armour creaking dully. "We're nearly done here. Farengar was only telling me a story about you, you know," he teased, smiling playfully. He was so warm. How was he always so warm?
"Oh?" she managed to squeak out, her mind still hazy. Farengar smiled sheepishly behind him, organising his cluttered scrolls absentmindedly. "Which one?"
"Oh, nothing really," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Just something about a waterfall and sweetroll and a certain city guard..."
She raised her eyebrows at the mage. "That never happened," she said weakly, voice cracking. She coughed to cover it up.
She smiled thinly at Farengar for a moment before Cato had replaced her view, his face twisted in concern.
"Hey," he spoke quietly, closely, only for the two of them. "You ok?"
"Yeah," she coughed again, looking away from him. He didn't let her. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. His hand, rough from his bow and the life of an adventurer, burned against her skin, too hot as always. Despite his concern, the tenderness of it made her lose track of her thoughts.
"No, you're not," he pressed. "Did everything go ok up there? Do I need to kick some ass?" He smiled a little but she knew he was serious at the same time. "Because I can, if you want me to."
She looked into his eyes, full of concern and care, and she knew then she loved him. Maybe not in the way lovers should, or maybe even friends ought to. But she did.
She looked into his eyes, his very Imperial eyes, and she knew his heart was not black or made of ice. He was not faithless, he wasn't a coward – he was most definitely not a scib. He was a man that cared a great deal for his friends, and she loved him. He had the purest, biggest heart of anyone she'd ever met. There was a great void in her own heart, yawning and gaping and raw where her family, her blood, had left her one by one.
Had they ever truly been there?
But, somehow, this man, despite everything he was or did, had managed to fill it. All of it. How was she only realising this now?
Her mouth opened in awe, in utter amazement at her own stupidity, at her elating, wonderful, heart-soaring realisation. She loved him. Her heart ached for the second death of her father yet it beat with the ferocity of finding family in someone else.
What a strange feeling.
Cato gave her an odd look, no doubt worrying about the myriad of emotions criss-crossing her face, and he let her go. "Are you ok?" he repeated.
No. Yes. Of course. Never. Always.
His touch had grown cold on her face yet it never left her. It warmed her. It held up the walls crumbling around her. It was the spark needed to bring her dead heart back to life.
She wanted to kiss him. The thought struck her suddenly like a bolt of lightning but it was not unwelcome. Not anymore, because she knew why, now. She loved him.
Now was hardly the time to. There were too many eyes, always too many eyes here. Why did it take so much of her strength to keep away from him, to tear away from his pull? Why did it have to be here, of all places?
But she didn't care anymore, and she nearly laughed at that. She wanted to kiss him. So she did.
She grabbed his head and pulled him to her, almost roughly, and she kissed him, here in the place she had first met him all that time ago. Never softly, that was not who she was, but with a swift gradation of intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy, swaying world. It wasn't perfect and she could feel him stiffen under her lips, but she didn't care. He was so close, so warm, and before a swimming dizziness spun her round and round, she felt him kissing her back.
He pulled her close to him, his arms around her at last, his skin so hot she might have been burning in dragon-fire, and she was certain he would never let her go. She didn't want him to. And, through the muddled tide of warmth that was her mind, it occurred to her that he was kissing her the just the way she had imagined him.
She couldn't stop herself, and maybe it was going too fast, but she ran her tongue, just a little, along his bottom lip. He tasted like Cato, simply Cato, and she'd never experienced anything so right in all her life. He was so warm, even through both their armours, yet Lydia wanted to get even closer, to feel his skin against hers, even if it burned her. The thought, and the feeling of his hands on her back, sent wild tremors along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known she was capable of feeling.
Her lungs burned and cried out for air, so it was only reluctantly she pulled back from him to gasp. He was breathless, too, and she'd never seen his face so red, nor his eyes so wide, nor that look he gave her now, something like desire mixed with trepidation. He looked more striking, more attractive, than he ever had before. She realised she still had her hand twisted in his short hair, but she kept it there. His own hands rested around her waist, soft but not letting her go. She felt wanted. Needed. Alive. It made her heart soar like the dragons inside of him.
"Well," he breathed, leaning closer so only she could hear, a smile spreading slowly across his face. "That was long overdue." The stubble lining his jaw grazed against her own cheek as he spoke, and she laughed, hugging him close.
He had never said anything so true in all the time she had known him.
A/N: That was long overdue, wasn't it?
Haha! How was that? FINALLY, you are all thinking. I know. You have been so patient with me, and here you go. Hope it was decent.
Scib is a random racial slur/derogatory word that I made up in about 3 seconds. It's not the best but hey, it gets the point across.
Because it is currently way too early to be up and writing, I have decided to wait until tomorrow to post the review replies. I hope that doesn't bother you. Just hang tight if you want to read yours. Does anyone actually read them?
Anyways, thanks again guys. Hope you enjoyed it!
EDIT: Here at last are your review replies! Sorry, but life has a way of, well, getting in the way.
TheGreatJabberyJamie: Thanks for your reply! Glad you liked the fight scene. I haven't written one in a while so I had a good time. Thanks again for your support!
SilentPony: Haha! Sorry to make you so mad! And no, it wasn't that hard to make her just grab his head and kiss him. I did it here! You actually inspired me to write her doing that. You just seem to have a way with inspiring me quite a bit of the time, and for that I thank you deeply. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
Derpy: Thanks for your review! Glad I could make you happy, worried, sad, super happy, then angry all in one short chapter! Hope you enjoyed this one!
Valerianus: Thanks, once again, for your most lovely, long reviews! I really look forward to reading them, and I truly appreciate your honestly. I need some constructive criticism and you always do a fantastic job! Glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and I'm super glad you enjoyed this one! Honestly, my chapters tend to be really good then really… not so good. I honestly have only a very loose idea of where this story is going but no real definitive plan or outline. I'm sort of making it up as I go. I think I got sidetracked for a bit and felt the need to explore how much they (Cato and Lydia) meant to each other, but I think my readers already knew that. I think I was proving it to myself, mostly. Which is partially why I hurried things along and they kissed here in this chapter, establishing the romance (finally!). Once again, thank you so much for your amazing support! And don't ever feel the need to go easy on me. I need all the help I can get!
Pinkie Pie: Thanks for your review, and I'm glad you liked the chapter! Your chickenshit comment made me laugh so hard! For you, I hurried the romance along. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks again for your support!
no: Thanks for your review! Glad you like the story so far. And sorry, but this chapter has no fight scene. Next one will, though! So stay tuned!
Spiritslayer: Hey! Thanks so much for your review! And wow, all the chapters in one go? You're brave! Glad you like it so far! And yeah, I'm trying to get across the progression in both Lydia herself and her knowledge, views, and understanding of the world as well as her relationship with Cato. He is pretty static, but I think Lydia needs something stable in her world, especially with all of the above changing for her. Hope you liked this chapter!
RelIni5: Thanks for your review! Hope this chapter satisfied you! And hope you liked it!
6122PandaMiss: Thanks for your review! Yeah, ff does weird things sometimes, one of the more annoying ones being PMs not sending. Oh, well. We still love it. Anyways, glad you enjoyed this chapter. Hopefully this one is a bit less frustrating ;) and thanks again for your support!
Azaisya: Thanks for your review! Glad you enjoyed it! They are getting somewhere, wink wink. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks again for your support!