"After such a memorable adventure, we knew we had the name for our shop."
"… it was good to hear from you boys again. I hope when I come here that I find Skyrim is as fine a country as you have said. I'm sure it will be. Love, Father."
Elrindir smiled as he laid the letter aside. He and Anoriath had both been hoping their father might come to visit them at some point. Now it seemed he would. He'd be here in about a month; it seemed too long a time away. Elrindir shook his head. That was a ridiculous notion.
He looked around the Drunken Huntsman. It was late in the afternoon and the place was slow; he supposed he could afford to step out for a few minutes to hand the letter to Anoriath. He smiled fondly, knowing what Anoriath's sole topic of conversation would be for the next month.
Before he could move out from behind the counter, the door opened, and in stepped a guard. He headed straight for him, walking slowly and stiffly. "Mr Elrindir? I need you to come with me," he said at once. He was a young guard, it was plain, and his voice was trembling.
"What's happened?" he asked, frowning. He could not see the guard's face, but he shook his head. Feeling dread form in his stomach, he followed the guard outside, and then up the street.
People were lingering near the stores in the marketplace, and looking at them, Elrindir saw only terror and shock on their faces, even Nazeem's. Near the stalls was a large group of guards with their swords drawn. "Back! Get back!" one of them shouted. But—where was Anoriath?
"Let Elrindir through!" the guard with him yelled to his comrades. They looked at him, then at each other, and quietly moved. He realised that they had been gathering around Anoriath's stall, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. He moved, quickly; broke away from the guard and headed straight for his brother's stall, and then craned his head a little and—
No. No. No, this couldn't be.
But it was. It was his brother whom the guards had gathered around, and it was his brother who lay slumped next to his stall, an arrow sticking out of his throat. His brother, it was his brother.
"ANORIATH!"
In that instant, he lost all sense of where he was. All sense of dignity. All sense of… everything. He stepped over to his side of the stall, and knelt, and he grabbed Anoriath and pulled him into his lap, and oh gods but he could feel him cooling, and he was so limp, so awfully limp… His brother, his little brother, who he'd never been apart from before, who hadn't even reached his first century… and here he was. Here he was, and he was dead.
He was shaking him; he was dimly aware of that. He was screaming; he was dimly aware of that. Somebody was trying to restrain him; he was dimly aware of that. He was dimly aware of everything, everything but this. Anoriath was dead, murdered. His little brother… Somebody had shot his little brother like he used to shoot his prey, and he'd not been there to stop them, to save him. He'd not been there… Then one thing, just one, broke through the haze of grief and despair and horror clouding his mind, and he found himself howling.
What was he going to tell their father?