OLD FRIENDS

Arenar

Arenar sipped his ale, given to him for free by Orgnar, Delphine's husband, who was bartender and cook atThe Sleeping Giant Inn.Ralof and Hadvar had left the village, so he sat alone in the chair he'd been bleeding in a few days earlier, staring at the blazing fire pit.

His leg was feeling better, thanks to his Restoration magic. What had been a severely burned leg now felt more like a semi-severely burned leg. He could walk on it, though it killed him to do so. Scars would remain, he had no doubt, but Arenar didn't care.

His magical abilities—or lack thereof—only allowed him to do the weakest of healing spells. His magicka regeneration was too slow to manage more than one spell a day. He suspected he'd need another two days of recuperation before he could meet Katjaa in Whiterun.

If I had more healing potions I could get there sooner.He dismissed the thought. The Riverwood Trader had been robbed of most its goods the night before his group had arrived in the village. This, of course, included any potions available for sale.

Orgnar had offered to make Arenar some homemade potions at his alchemy table the afternoon Katjaa left. After the concoction paralyzed Arenar for three hours, he decided to rely solely on his magic.

It was about three hours past noon. Orgnar was preparing some sort of stew in the kitchen behind the bar. The smell wasn't exactly pleasant, but seeing as it didn't cost him a Septim and his immobility took away any option to seek food elsewhere, Arenar didn't object to the bowl he was handed.

He picked up the brown liquid with his spoon and poured it back, a disgusted look on his face. "So... what is this exactly?"

"Food."

"Are you sure?"

Orgnar shrugged. "If you think this looks bad, you should see Delphine try to make something half this appealing." He turned and walked back to the bar where he had a bowl for himself.

For the first time that afternoon, Arenar noticed someone was missing. "Where is Delphine, anyway?"

"Out." He stared at his stew as he ate it.

A man of few words, it seems."Out where?"

He had to wait until Orgnar swallowed his food. "She left for Whiterun last night. No—I don't know why, so don't ask." He pointed to the bowl in Arenar's hands. "Better eat that before it gets cold. I'm not making any more till dinnertime."

Arenar raised a spoonful to his mouth and placed it gently on his tongue. Thankfully the taste was better than the smell, though not by much. The stew was thick—chewy almost—and heavy. In hope of improving the taste, the Imperial emptied the rest of his ale into the bowl. He filled the spoon again and put it into his mouth, smiling happily when the mixture proved more flavorful.

The door behind him opened. Arenar suspected Embry, the village drunk, had entered the building. Every time the Nord had left the inn, he'd returned soon after, likely to remedy his dying buzz with more alcohol.

To his surprise, when he turned and looked at the door, it wasn't the drunken Nord. Instead it was Katjaa and a High Elf. She looked the same as she had the morning she left The Sleeping Giant Inn,excluding a ruby necklace hanging around her neck. Upon further examination, he also saw small specks of blood on her armor. None seemed to belong to her, but it was still alarming.

The Altmer next to her did not have any blood on him. He was of average height for his race, and had the same pale yellow skin and amber eyes his people were known for. Blond stubble matched the blond hair underneath his hood. His robe was a bluish-gray color with white trimming. Decorating his bare hands were several rings, made of different metals and embellished with different gems. Arenar imagined they were all enchanted, if his clothing and race were any indication he was a mage.

The elf's age couldn't be determined just by looking at him, like with most Altmer thanks to their lifespan of a thousand years. But Arenar knew this mer in particular was 227-years-old the second he saw him.

He smiled at the mage, which said mage returned. "Rimion Volanare?"

"Damn... it's been too long." Rimion said. He walked over and sat in the chair next to him. "Arenar, I have to admit something."

"Which is?"

"You look like shit."

Both men erupted into fits of laughter. Arenar, while gasping for air, remembered that his oldest friend—in both the Altmer's age and how long they'd known each other—had left Cyrodiil for the College of Winterhold a year ago. Rimion had suggested Arenar join him, but was turned down because of Arenar's lack of magical aptitude.

Once the laughing died down Katjaa sat down in the chair next to Rimion and said, "So you two know each other?"

Rimion nodded. "I can't believe that you didn't mention your injured friend was the Ner—"

"So how are things at the College?" Arenar asked. He hoped the elf would take the interruption as more than just an opportunity to hear about Rimion's past year in Skyrim.

To his merit, Rimion caught on quickly. "Not bad, not bad at all. I became the Arch-Mage some months ago when I indirectly killed the last one."

"I'd ask more, but I am a little more curious about something else." Arenar turned Katjaa, who was eyeing his stew with an expression similar to his own as he'd eaten it. "Why are you here, instead of Whiterun?"

She looked away from the bowl. "Are you not happy to see me?"

"Nothing could be further from the truth. I'd just been expecting you to wait there until I arrived." He rubbed his bad leg. "Though that would have been another couple of days."

Katjaa opened her mouth to respond but Rimion asked while pointing to the Imperial's leg, "You want me to heal that?"

"Go right ahead."

Rimion's hands glowed with an orange hue. Arenar pulled up his pant leg and removed the bandages covered his burns. Rimion's hands carefully rubbed the wound, mending both the internal and external damage. He kept up this healing spell for several minutes.

Finally the spell faded away and he removed his hands. "That should fix everything."

Arenar placed the stew on the ground next to the empty bottle and tested his leg. Just as Rimion had said, all the pain was gone. There were less scarring than there'd have been with Arenar's own magic, most of which would be obscured when his leg hair grew back.

"Anything else need healing?"

Arenar shook his head, grinning. "Not a damn thing. Thanks."

Rimion simply brushed the hair away from his face. "I'm sure you'd do the same thing for me, if your magic wasn't rubbish."

The Imperial returned to his seat and looked at Katjaa again. "So what brings you back to Riverwood?"

"I did as Delphine requested: I asked Jarl Balgruuf to send guards to Riverwood. After I confirmed a dragon attacked Helgen, he readily did so. Then he assigned me to a quest for a Nordic relic related to dragons called the 'Dragonstone.' According to his court wizard, it's in Bleak Falls Barrow—the ruins on top of the mountain west of here."

"I volunteered to join her while we were at Dragonsreach," Rimion added.

Katjaa continued. "I was going to ask Delphine for directions to the ruins, but she doesn't seem to be here. Do you know where she is?"

"I figured you would have seen her. Orgnar said she left for Whiterun last night," Arenar said.

"I didn't see her," Katjaa said. She looked at Rimion. "You slept outside most of the night. Did you see her?"

"I didn't seeanyone, but I heard someone walking past the camp around four in the morning. I looked around for the person but whoever it was wasn't using the main road. They didn't want to be seen."

"I wonder why she wouldn't have gone to Whiterun with me if she'd planned on going to the city anyway," Katjaa said. She sighed. "Well, now that presents a new problem. We need directions to Bleak Falls Barrow. If not Delphine, then who—"

"Orgnar!"

The Nord looked up from his food.

"How can we get to Bleak Falls Barrow from here?"

"Take the northern road out of town. Once you cross the bridge, there's a dirt path northwest of it that takes you up the mountain. From there you should be able to find your way."

Arenar nodded. "Thanks."

"If you go there, watch out for bandits. They like to hide out in the small fort outside the ruins." Orgnar went back to eating as if he'd never stopped.

"We ran into bandits near the bridge," Rimion said. "But we took them out rather easily."

So that's where the blood on her armor came from.Arenar looked at Katjaa. "Are you all right?"

She sighed again. "I'm fine. You don't need to ask me every time I get into a fight. I'm not some helpless woman."

"Sorry. I'll try not to bother you so often about it," Arenar promised. "So when will we head out?"

"We planned to resupply before leaving, so once we do that we'll go."

"Not going to happen," Arenar said flatly.

"Why?"

"The Riverwood Trader was robbed while we were still in Helgen," Arenar reminded her.

She slapped her forehead. "I completely forgot about that." Her annoyance quickly shifted to curiosity. "I wonder if the same bandits who attacked us were the same ones who robbed the store. If they are, maybe the shopkeeper can tell us more about them?"

"It's possible," Rimion guessed.

Katjaa stood up and started for the door. "I'll go check it out. You two want to join me?"

Arenar shook his head. "I need to get my armor on. Shouldn't take too long, so meet me back here when you're done."

"What about you?"

"Nah," Rimion rejected. "I'll wait here with Arenar." He gave Katjaa a cheeky smile. "Make sure he doesn't hurt himself too badly. He's seemed to have become less competent since I last saw him."

Katjaa smirked. "Good point." With that, she left The Sleeping Giant Inn.

"Follow me," Arenar requested. "We have a lot to talk about." He rose—pleasantly without pain, thanks to Rimion's powerful magic—and went to his room. He shut the door once they were both inside. His steel sword rested in a sheath at the end of his bed. On his chair were pieces of his set of iron armor, given to him for free by Alvor, Hadvar's blacksmith uncle.

"Armor" being the word Alvor used. Arenar wasn't as sure of the description.

The helmet protected the top half and back of his head; from his nose down, face was exposed. Wide eye slots prevented little of his sight from being reduced, but were large enough to be an easy target for capable archers. Protruding from both sides were short, decorative horns curving slightly inward.

His cuirass was composed of two separate pieces held together by leather straps; one to cover his chest and another for his back. It had a V-shaped neckline and a somewhat upside-down version of the same shape that revealed most of his lower abdomen. The armor stopped at his shoulders; his arms were almost completely unprotected. Arenar's thick, long sleeved tunic covered more of his body than the cuirass did.

Leather gloves with iron plating strapped around them to serve as vambraces. The only nice thing he could say about his gloves was that he could easily slip in and out of them without the Moon-and-Star complicating the process.

The boots were a similar case. Instead of iron boots, he'd been given leather ones with iron plates to cover his ankles. The backsides of his legs were just as unprotected as his arms.

All in all, it was one of the worst excuses for armor he'd ever seen. The lack of protection would at least allow for more maneuverability than a decent set of heavy armor would. Hopefully that makes up for the multiple stabbings I'll receive in return.

Rimion noticed the faults also. "Hope you didn't pay for that. I wouldn't."

"It was given to me as a gift," Arenar explained. "I just wish more time and sense had gone into making this like Katjaa's had."

Rimion sat on the bed and examined the sword next to him while Arenar started equipping his armor. "This is a fine sword... but what happened to the one that had belonged to Nerevar? What was its name again?"

Arenar paused after sliding on his first gauntlet. "Trueflame. That was its name."

Rimion motioned for him to elaborate, and he swore under his breath.

"It was taken by Imperial soldiers when I was killed outside the Skyrim border."

Rimion's brow rose. "When did this happen?"

"About four days ago. I walked into a Stormcloak camp by mistake just before an Imperial ambush. I tried to escape but I ran into a horse-thief. An Imperial captain bashed my face with her steel boot—that's where this scar came from. Woke up early the next day and traveled to Helgen.

"I found out the Stormcloaks were being held in Helgen's Keep, waiting for execution without trial. Ulfric Stormcloak had stopped his men from attacking me, so I figured I owed the man. I made my way to the dungeons undetected and broke him and the other prisoners out of jail. Katjaa was among them.

"The rest you probably know: a dragon attacked the village, it burned me; Katjaa and I—along with a Stormcloak named Ralof and a legionnaire named Hadvar—escaped Helgen, and eventually we made our way to Riverwood."

"You're right about the last bit; that I knew. But Katjaa didn't tell me anything about being arrested and meeting you in a dungeon. Nor did mention you dying, but I suspect she didn't know about that either."

"She doesn't."

Rimion silently nodded. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised she doesn't know the truth, even after everything you two went through and the amount of times she called you her friend. Guess I got lucky when I found out you're the Nerevarine."

"It's not exactly something people take lightly."

"I'm sure you're just telling them wrong. Next time, try saying: 'Oh, by the way, I am the reincarnation of the last Chimer leader. He was murdered by his wife and friends when they wished to become gods. Don't worry about them; they're dead now. You're welcome. Also, I can't die. Sure, I'll bleed out and stop breathing for a while, but I'll be back.'"

Arenar smiled. "Maybe you're right. Or maybe you're an ass. Probably both."

"Well... at least I'm right." Rimion's smile faded. "Are you going to tell her?"

The Imperial shrugged. "Not right now. Though there's something about her..."

"Gossip time? I love gossip time!"

"No. She reminds me of someone I loved. Her name was Lielle. She died thirty years ago at the beginning of the Great War. All thanks to the Thalmor." Rimion looked slightly guilty. "I didn't mean it like that. I know you didn't do any of that stuff."

"Still, it's sick I almost did those things. Glad my career as a Thalmor Agent began and ended in the same week. My hands are clean, unlike most of my race."

"But Katjaa and Lielle... They have the exact same hairstyle, hair color, eye color, height..." Arenar trailed off, listing more similarities as he finished the straps on his boots and gloves. "...and all of that could be coincidental, but Katjaa has a scar across her neck exactly where Lielle was fatally cut. That's way beyond coincidental. That's just—"

"Unbelievable," Rimion said. Arenar nodded in agreement. "I've never heard of such a thing. At least not as detailed as your account. Perhaps they're related?"

"Lielle never mentioned a relative. She even said she was a single child and that both her parents were as well."

Rimion rubbed his chin. "I'd suggest magic was involved, but if so, it's a spell unknown to me."

"Whatever is going on, keep it to yourself. I don't want to scare Katjaa away."

"I won't," Rimion promised. "But she obviously cares about you. Even if you're a tad bit overprotective." Arenar opened his mouth to argue but Rimion's finger rose. "Let me finish. Now, I'm not saying she would believe you about Lielle—I barely believe it, since it's such an outlandish thing. However, I doubt she scares easily. Besides, the whole 'immortal' thing would probably scare her more, if at all."

Arenar picked up his helmet and hooked it to his belt. "Probably. Well, let's head back out into the main room. Katjaa shouldn't be much longer."

Rimion nodded. He followed Arenar back to the room and they sat together. A few minutes passed before Katjaa reentered inn, a second woman behind her. Arenar recognized the fellow Imperial as Lucan's sister, as she'd been talking to the bard earlier that day. He couldn't remember her name.

Katjaa stopped in front of both men. "Camilla here thinks they are the same bandits. Go ahead and tell them."

The other woman—Camilla—spoke. "One of the things stolen from us was a golden claw. Lucan found it a year after he opened the shop. He never quite explained where he got it. He's a tricky one."

"I'm sorry, but how does that help?" Arenar asked.

"I know what she's talking about," Rimion said. He reached around his neck and presented an amulet with carvings that appeared Nordic. "I used several claws when I was scavenging around to make this amulet. They are used to open ancient Nordic puzzle doors. Without the right claw, you won't be able to pass through the door."

His eyes filled with questions, though only one passed his lips. "On the bottom of the claw, were there any symbols?"

"There were images of animals. A bear, a moth, and an owl, if I remember correctly."

Rimion snapped his fingers. "Then those bandits likely knew your golden claw went with a door in Bleak Falls Barrow." He stood abruptly. "We should leave right now, else they might take the Dragonstone."

Arenar followed the example. "Let us go, then."

Katjaa turned to Camilla. "We'll return the golden claw to you if we can, and any other supplies that they stole from you."

"Thank you."

Arenar walked toward the door and opened it, taking in a breath of fresh air as he did so. "To Bleak Falls Barrow."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bethesda isn't entirely consistent when it comes to ages of races, so I'm going to run with a consistent headcanon in that regard. Without outside help, Bosmer and Dunmer can reach 500-years-old and Altmer can reach 1,000. Bosmer/Dunmer age and mature at 1/5 the speed of a human, and an Altmer at 1/10. So, for example, Rimion has physical body and mentality of a 22/23-year-old man.