Morndas, 4:14 PM, 12th of Morning Star, 1E 174

Tvalistead

It was snowing today.

For weeks now, Emund had walked west. He walked through the forest and along the rivers, on roads foreign and familiar. The trees of Eastmarch had given way to the plains of Whiterun Hold, and those plains had given way to the low hills at the foot of Eldersblood Peak. The journey might have been quicker if Dragonfleet were still with him, but after leaving Mzulft, the stallion was nowhere to be found. That was fair. There was no longer any rush.

Now, Emund walked along the road to the village he'd known his entire life. Tvalistead. It had been the only place he could think to visit first, now that he was free.

He was no longer the Gray One. His identity was his own. He'd never felt better about anything in his life.

The last time he had been in his home village, it had been early autumn. Sometime in Last Seed, as he recalled. Five months had passed. Now it was the dead of winter. And it wasn't an especially strange or portentous winter—it looked the same as it always had, every year as Emund had grown up. But he was looking upon it with new eyes.

The buildings of Tvalistead lay in the distance ahead, nearly on the horizon. Emund could faintly see the gray columns of smoke from their chimneys rising into the dim, cloudy sky. Everything was blanketed in a slowly, steadily growing layer of snow. And he was alone out here on this road. It was completely silent, but for the sound of his footfalls crunching along the path.

Fortunately, the cold meant nothing to him. He wore a dark hide cloak so as to attract less attention, but underneath was the dragon priest robe he'd received from the Blades of Men. The fabric was torn where Ceyrel's sword had sliced and stabbed through it, but its enchantment was very much intact.

Emund was dimly aware that he had no idea what to expect today. But he had to come here. If absolutely nothing else, he had to see everybody one last time. Or rather, he had to let them see him.

He'd been missing for five months. With Nocturnal's curse active, no one would have even remembered him enough to realize he was gone. Now he had no idea what to expect.

Eventually, the path took Emund to the outlying fields of the village. A few houses lay in the distance, far back behind the fences of their snow-covered farmland. He crossed over the familiar bridge to the main, northern side of the village—the river beneath was frozen over—and began to pass between the buildings there. The mill, the sawpit, the shopfront houses.

The Whitefeather Inn.

He laid eyes on it from a hundred yards down the road, and the sight sent a tingle down his spine. No one else was out here to witness this moment. No locals, no travelers, not even any animals. He was alone, looking at the place he'd lived and worked and called home for so long. Doubts began to creep into his mind. There was no telling what would be waiting for him inside the inn. It might have been something he'd rather not see.

There was nothing to do but continue onward. He would never forgive himself if he didn't come here now.

He walked up to the inn's front in silence. The wooden porch was bare, protected by the roof above from the snowfall. Through the front windows, he could see the warm orange glow of the hearth inside. Voices were speaking on the other side of the door, audibly but faintly. Many voices, at the same time. Guests having conversations with each other. He knew the sound well. Upon closer listening, it was accompanied by a faint, strumming melody of some musical instrument. He knew that too.

Emund placed his foot on the first step. The wood of the staircase creaked softly under his weight. He couldn't help but observe how much easier this would've been with the Place guiding him. How easy everything had been, when he could just take the option of surrendering himself.

That option was gone forever. And he didn't really miss it. But doing this now was far from easy.

He walked up each step of the porch, passing from the snow-covered outdoors to the bare shelter. Once he was no longer being snowed on, he stamped his boots on the porch, shaking off snow from his soles and insteps and ankles. He took off his cloak and flapped it with both hands, beating the cloth against the air until it too was clean. Then he donned it again, lowered both hoods of his outfit, and placed his gloved hand on the door.

Home at last.

Emund took a deep breath in, and pushed his way inside.

The inn room was packed. All different people were taking shelter here. People who couldn't move forward in their travels, who had to rest until the biting weather passed. He knew none of their faces.

But the mood was pleasant. The guests were chatting merrily with one another, drinking from their tankards, all the usual things. In the corner, a musician Emund didn't recognize was playing a gentle tune on a lute—the source of the melody he'd heard.

As Emund stepped in through the doorway, a few of the guests turned to look at him, though only for a moment. Across the room, a figure in a white apron was bent over one of the tables, speaking with the guests there. The guests laughed at something he said, and he laughed too.

The figure stepped away. He wasn't bent over the table at all. That was how he always stood. It was Teed, the village cripple whom so many people had picked on. He was walking with a cane now. In his free hand, he held a serving platter.

Teed had taken Emund's job. And it looked like he was doing it well.

Their eyes met across the hearth. Teed froze in place. So did Emund. For a long, long moment, they stared at one another.

One of them had to speak.

"Hello, Teed," Emund said, putting on a gentle smile. "Remember me?"

The hunchbacked Nord continued staring for a moment. Then he turned aside and called out, "Hezran, sir! Hezran!"

The far left guest room door opened. Emund's father came striding out, as big and imposing as he'd ever been. He looked at Teed, opening his mouth to speak. Then he looked where Teed was pointing.

Emund wondered what he'd expected to feel in this moment. He'd never been all that close to his father. But this was the life he'd always known. Working for his father, right here in this very room. The elder Nord was a large man, it was true. But it all seemed so small now.

Over the past five months, Emund's world had expanded a thousandfold. He'd seen Mzulft. He'd seen a Falmer warrior in the flesh. He'd seen a Daedric Prince. He'd joined the Blades of Men, been on speaking terms with a Chimer and a Dwemer, and read an Elder Scroll with no ill effect. If he hadn't grown up in this inn, it would've been just another speck in his view of things. So no, seeing his father again didn't faze him very much.

Before the man could react, Emund stepped around the hearth and said, "Father. Do you remember me?"

His father stood there, speechless, for a long moment. Then his eyes widened. "My son," he breathed. "Emund. What… happened? What happened to you?"

At that moment, four clawed feet came trotting loudly out of the guest room. Picker emerged into view.

Now that was a different matter.

Emund sank to his knees and held his arms out wide. "Yes, you too! It's me!"

The dog came leaping at him so fast, the impact nearly knocked Emund to his back. He could hardly keep Picker in front of him. She was reaching and writhing every which way, yowling and whining, trying to put herself all against him. It was an utter outpouring of emotion. Emund just laughed and did his best to pet her the whole time.

He looked up at his father again. "You wouldn't believe where I've been."

His father looked stunned. Paler than usual. He was fumbling for words. "It's… it… it's been a long time. Months, even. I couldn't remember your name. I couldn't remember you at all. What happened?"

"I got cursed," Emund said. "By a Daedric Prince. That's the really short version."

A lot of the guests were looking at him now. Their conversations had paused. Whatever was taking place here was obviously much more interesting.

Emund's father raised a hand in recognition of them all. "This is my son, Emund," he announced. "Finally returned, after a long time away. Let us celebrate! A drink for everyone, on the house!"

The room erupted in cheers.

A few minutes later, Emund was seated at the counter at the end of the room, with his father standing across from him. A tall mug of ale sat on the countertop, waiting for him to drink it. Everyone else in the room was far ahead of him on that count. Picker had worn herself out from her hysterical greeting, and was now curled up around the base of Emund's stool, nuzzling at his ankles and making more little noises. He was petting her head absently with his toe.

Teed was back to serving tables. He seemed surprisingly good at it. He was doing an odd technique where he'd set his serving tray down on the edge of the table before unloading its contents. But it seemed to work. Maybe he had some sort of trick for chopping wood, too.

Emund returned his attention forward.

"You've got some explaining to do," his father said. "All this time, I felt like something was wrong, but I could never figure out what. Even letting Teed live in the cellar room felt strange. Didn't remember it used to be yours. Why couldn't I remember you, son?"

He had to think about how to explain this.

At the end of the counter, there was a basket with half a dozen whole heads of cabbage piled up in it. Emund had no idea what it was doing there, but if he still worked here, he would've put it someplace more suitable. The placement mildly irritated him. Obviously, this was the price he paid for having moved on.

It wasn't very helpful when he was trying to think about explaining the past five months. Still, he tried his best.

"One day in Last Seed, we had a guest come in whom we couldn't seem to keep track of. He had a magical mask in his possession. The Gray Cowl of Nocturnal. Something made me put it on, and it erased my identity in the world. I tried to get you to remember me, but you wouldn't even recognize my face. You couldn't read my name when I wrote it down. It was terrifying."

After he was done talking, Emund took a hefty drink of his ale. It was cold and bitter on his palate. He didn't mind one bit.

His father nodded slowly. "Huh. I'm sorry, then. What'd you do after that?"

"I went on a mad adventure all over Skyrim, met a lot of people, learned how to fight, saw good Nords get killed, and a lot of other things like that. The important thing is, the curse is gone now."

"I'm glad for that," the man muttered. "Do you wish it hadn't happened?"

"It certainly wasn't my idea of a good time. But I was needed out there. It worked out in the end."

"Then I'm glad for that too."

Emund drank some more from his mug. The ale was cold, but it still put a nice fire in his belly. He supposed he could use that today.

There was more to say here. He knew it. He'd known since even before he'd arrived. But there was no easy way to put what was coming next. Emund took a deep breath in and out, and gathered his thoughts one more time.

"Father?"

His father was another mug of ale from the casket under the counter. He looked up briefly. "Yes?"

"I don't think I'm going to be staying in Tvalistead."

His father nodded. "I know."

That threw him off. Whatever he'd been planning to say next, whatever explanation he'd had in mind, it just evaporated. He paused and tried to think of a new reply. "Wh… you do? You're not wanting me back to work?"

The elder Nord set the mug down heavily on the counter, leaving it for Teed to scoop up.

"Son, I used to be a warrior. I'm an innkeeper now because it's a peaceful job for a peaceful Skyrim. But the reason I always raised you so hard was because I didn't want this job to make you soft. Looks like you got that dealt with already. I can't make you any stronger. If you're ready to leave the nest now, then so be it."

Then that was it. There would be no return to the old ways. Emund didn't know how he felt about that—relieved, maybe, that there wouldn't be more of an argument about it. Things in Tvalistead seemed like they were right where they needed to be already.

"I'll stay for the night," he said. "I'd want to do that anyway. This is a bad time to go north. Too much snowfall."

His father raised an eyebrow. "You're taking the mountain pass?"

Emund looked down beside himself. Picker had finally relaxed. She was laying her head on the floor beside Emund's boots. It wasn't going to be easy to leave a creature like her again. But he also knew he couldn't spend the next few years here on account of a dog.

"That's right." He looked back up. "I made a few friends in Snowhawk while I had the mask on. I want to see if any of them remember me."

He even had a special ceremonial sword to help jog their memory. It was still on his person, in his haversack with all the other belongings.

As the minutes went on, Emund looked out over the room behind him. All the guests enjoying their drinks, the warm fire burning in the hearth, the merriment of the Nord way. This had been his life—but that life was so far behind him now, even the clandestine life that had replaced it was now a thing of the past.

Emund doubted he'd ever be able to outdo his deeds over the past five months. And despite all that had happened, they were five months that couldn't be discussed. His mission had been a secret one, and the people he'd met all worked in the shadows. No songs would be sung of his honor. Not his, not Yngva's, not Gelther's, not anyone else's in this whole chain of events. The world would move on, and nobody would remember the sacrifices they'd made.

But he wasn't done yet. Whether it went remembered or forgotten, Emund's future lay ahead of him. And that was just fine. He knew exactly who he was.

"So," he said, turning to his father again. "What are you planning on doing with these cabbages, anyway?"

The End