Chapter Thirteen – The Camp
"Ralof!" Alda shouted. She walked up to him, standing by the quartermaster who was sharpening his axe. "A letter came for you." Alda handed him the letter and stood there, grinning. Ralof took the letter but did not open it. He looked at Alda.
"What?" He was annoyed by her grinning.
Alda laughed, and composed herself. "It came from Riverwood..." she gave him a knowing look, turned, and walked away. No, not walked. Swaggered. Alda was weird.
Why ever did he tell the other soldiers about Nyíl? Alda and Rogen knew about her, of course, and asked if she had lived. Asked who she was. Why she was captured by Imperials. Caged at Helgen. Since Ralof had been adamant about saving her, they were naturally intrigued.
Ralof tucked the folded, sealed letter in his pouch and waited for his axe to be finished.
Riverwood. From Nyíl? A reply, then. But a month later? Or just his sister. News about the town? He felt a lump form in his throat. Normally no news was good news.
The axe was finished. Ralof returned to his pup tent. He was a troupe commander now – not a full officer yet, though – and therefore had a tent of his own. He crawled inside the hide walls and fastened the opening flaps closed. The winters were colder in the mountains. He wrapped a bear fur around his upper body.
The letter. Ralof's name on the outside fold. Sealed with red wax and a symbol he recognized as belonging to Lucan Valerius at the Riverwood Trader. Why would Lucan write to him?
The daylight that usually came into the hide tent was fading. Ralof lit a small oil lamp.
His thumb slipped under the seal.
Ralof, it began. There were spots of ink near his name, as if the quill was held over the paper, paused.
The next few lines were not what Ralof expected.
He thought he recognized the words. A song? Yes, a ballad he heard once, long ago. An old, very old Redguard ballad. Was it sung often in Bruma? Ralof wondered. He heard the music as he read the words...
These words... Gerdur had given Nyíl the letter, then. But these words were not Nyíl's. Could she not think what to write? He didn't blame her, of course. His own words to her barely made sense, after all.
Ralof looked at the small dots of ink that were dropped near his name. Yes, that's it. She couldn't find her own words.
"My own true love," Ralof repeated the last four words aloud. He lowered himself onto his bearskin bedroll. The oil lamp sat by his shoulder.
Love.
He stared at the letter. Was this Nyíl's response?
Then she did feel the same. Or... it was a song about war. Just a ballad. A ballad that has been around for centuries. How many others have heard these words? Heard the song? Sung to them? For them?
He lay the letter on his chest and sighed, staring at the tent ceiling.
No, he eventually convinced himself. She feels the same.
He refolded the letter and tucked it back into his small pouch attached to his belt.
In several days, they were due to move camp near Whiterun. South-east, he learned. South. Riverwood.
Before the battle began, Ralof would be going home.