A/N: In which they end up in Windhelm, and Onmund remembers that Rannve is the Dragonborn.


Chapter Forty Four | Circle of Protection

They made it down the mountain in a matter of days, thankfully not getting lost (too much) as they went. By the end of the week, they had hit a main road, and Rannve had taken one look at it and began leading him confidently down it as if she had walked this way countless times. When they passed a road marker that told Onmund they were going in the opposite direction, though, he wondered if she remembered that they were supposed to be on their way to Winterhold. Which was to the north. Not the south.

"Um. Where are we going?" he asked her, feeling a bit helpless as she took the lead. He was slightly useless when it came to adventures and all they entailed, including direction.

Rannve, though, just shrugged. "Windhelm," was her answer, said so breezily and with such little concern that he could only flap his mouth at her in shock.

When he finally found his voice, he spluttered, "Windhelm? Why? We're supposed to be on our way back to the College!"

The awkward rift between them had healed, for the most part, from Rannve's admission several nights before, but there was still a strange chasm between them. Perhaps only Onmund could feel the distance that laid out between their two souls, but he felt it strongly. It was uncrossable, almost, as if he had no hope of convincing her that her worries could very well be wrong. That she might just live to see Alduin's defeat, and the world that would blossom as a result. That – perhaps, all was not hopeless after all, and that they might even have that chance that Rannve was so convinced was lost to them.

In all honesty, it was aggravating to him. While Onmund was quiet, for a Nord, and more understanding of the finer intricacies of life, he still had the hot-blooded drive that his brethren had. That Rannve would not give in, even a little bit, to the feelings she clearly felt for him was…disappointing. He had come to understand her perspective despite his misgivings, but it still frustrated him. After all, if one had only limited time left, didn't that make it even more imperative that the life in question was lived to its fullest?

She didn't agree with the notion. She seemed to think that it would be better not to cross that boundary at all; to keep their relationship, and their feelings, dampened entirely, like they were wayward stars that did not belong to any one constellation, forever ignored in favor of the other, brighter ones.

He had tried to convince her otherwise several times, but Rannve was the most stubborn person he knew. She had only sighed at him and told him that she wished things were different, while giving no indication that she meant to do anything at all to change it. It aggravated him to no end, but there was little he could do about it.

Ahead of him, Rannve called, "We are on our way to the College. We're just taking a small detour first."

He hardly considered a trip into Windhelm to be a small detour, which he quickly told her. He had gotten much braver with his words as well as his actions since the onset of this journey, and he had little trouble in arguing with her despite the fact that he knew she would find some way to contradict him. She seemed to live for the final word.

"A small detour?" he questioned with no small amount of exasperation. "We're going miles off course!"

But Rannve only responded, "We need supplies. Do you know how many bandits like to take unsuspecting travelers off guard? Besides, I want a warm meal."

Bandits and a warm meal? Onmund sighed, but knew better than to make a fuss about it. She did have a point, after all. They were almost out of the fish they'd brought from the lake in Blackreach, and the ones they had left were starting to smell a little off. Plus Onmund didn't know how much longer he'd be able to take sleeping on those musty old furs, as lucky as they were to have stumbled upon them.

Luckily they were not very far away from Windhelm. When they entered the city gates late next morning, the bustle of life that waited for them took Onmund off guard a little. He was out of his element in this busy city. The family farm he'd grown up on had been very sparsely populated, and the College had fewer applicants each year, it seemed. He wasn't used to crowds.

But Rannve was. She maneuvered around the bustle with innate grace that hinted at a worldliness Onmund did not have, and he stumbled to keep up with her as people cut him off and then turned to give him distrustful glances after he'd accidentally bump into them. Ah, yes, the merits of being a Nord mage. He had forgotten how few said benefits were.

"My house is this way," Rannve called over to him, glancing back just as a tall, fierce looking Nord collided into his shoulder and sent him stumbling. Her words were drowned out when the Nord turned to Onmund and scowled, eyeing his College robes with a peculiar sort of disdain bred entirely of blatant suspicion. Magic-users were certainly not looked upon very fondly in most of Skyrim, but it seemed that Windhelm took it to the next level.

With a glower that rather reminded Onmund of Urag's menacing frown, the Nord spat, "Watch where you're going, mage." Onmund, shocked at the disrespect, stood there staring at him with his mouth flapping open. The expression seemed to make the Nord angrier, for he stepped into Onmund's space and growled, "Got something to say, you dimwitted necromancer?"

Onmund's face turned an angry red at the insult, but before he could start an argument Rannve stormed over and clasped the Nord's shoulder, roughly pulling him around to face her.

"Move along, Rolff, before you regret it," she told him firmly, eyeing the man with dark eyes.

The clear threat in her voice seemed to do the trick, though, for the man put his hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, "Alright, alright, Dragonborn, whatever you say. Just keep your mage on a tighter leash. We don't need no mages to add to the scum of this place." Then, mumbling, he added, "This city's dirty enough as it is…"

Onmund was shocked at the disparaging comment, but Rannve only calmly said, "Come on, Onmund," and turned without saying anything further.

He wasn't sure what was worse: that he'd just been insulted in such a rude way, or that Rannve could so easily wave it off. Scowling, he went to follow. He'd only taken two steps, though, before the Nord snorted, "Yeah, listen to your master, mage."

His anger returned at full force, blistering up inside of him like a storm, and Onmund turned to snap at him. To his surprise, though, Rannve twisted back around and snarled, "Move along before I make you, Rolff."

There was something quite shocking about Rannve's anger. Perhaps it was the backdrop of it, the way it coiled in these city streets, around people who knew her and respected her titles. Perhaps it was merely Onmund's own heart, that burst into the very same endearing warmth he had fought with for months now wherever she was concerned. All he knew was that she suddenly looked like the Dragonborn, not Rannve. She looked like a Thane and a Lady and a Warrior Maiden. Like everything he had imagined her to be before he had met her and found out the truths of her character and how human she really was.

He wasn't quite sure what to think. A part of him wanted to grin at her defensive tone and the fact that she was using it for him. Another part, however, balked at the thought of her sudden display of power. That part of him was the part that often drowned in the presence of the Dragonborn – that silly, errant hero-worshiping part of him that made Onmund wonder why she was even defending him at all, bumbling mage that he was.

Rolff frowned at her but didn't say anything further, instead wisely choosing to amble off instead of get into an argument with the fabled Dragonborn. Her name had power. Her very presence seemed to ooze it, when it suited her to use it to its full extent. And right now, it did. No one insulted her mage like that and got away with it.

As she darkly watched the Nord walk away, Rannve muttered, "As I was saying, my house is this way."

And then she turned and started in the opposite direction, and Onmund was left to hurry after her, feeling more like a dog than a man in wake of her lithe footsteps. Thankfully, though, they had no other problems. Rannve seemed to know the city fairly well, for she took a quieter path that few seemed to use, leading him between stone buildings that rose up into the sky.

Onmund had never been to Windhelm before. He'd never been anywhere, really. The sights and sounds were fascinating to him as they passed grand houses and intricate gardens. He assumed they were heading into a wealthier part of the city, for the buildings looked expensive and large, and the few people he saw walking around were dressed very finely.

They didn't bat an eye at the sight of Rannve, but they did glance at Onmund. Their gazes were confused and a little bit disparaging, as if they were wondering what he was doing by her side. By the time they reached what must have been her house, he was starting to wonder that, too.

His doubts hit him rather hard in the chest when Rannve stopped in front of a very grand, very large building and ambled up the front steps of it as if she owned it. And, when she began patting at a few pockets, grumbling to herself before producing an old iron wrought key, Onmund realized that she did in fact own this house.

He swallowed, casually looking at the home and comparing it to the others on the street. It seemed to tower over them imposingly with its tall structure and stained glass windows. Traditional Nordic markings were intricately carved above the door, painstakingly transforming the wood with a series of knots and lines. A well tended garden took up the sides of the house, spanning out of sight as it curved around the back of it. Even the vegetables seemed to ooze wealth.

"Are you coming or not?" Rannve demanded suddenly, and Onmund's attention crashed back to the present. She was waiting for him in the threshold, having finally unlocked the door after much aggravated mumbling, and he could just barely see into the foyer of the home from where he stood. Even his small glimpse made him balk.

"Erm…yes, of course," he muttered, ducking his head as he entered the place.

Rannve shut the door behind them, tossing the key haphazardly onto a nail that was hammered near the door, and shouted, "CALDER!"

A sudden clank of armor sounded through the quiet house, alerting Onmund to another's presence as heavy footsteps approached. His eyes were quickly drawn to a fierce looking warrior who stood in full regalia, axe included, as the man stepped into the room.

"My Thane. I wasn't expecting you," the man said bluntly, and Rannve snorted.

"When do you ever?" she dryly wondered, making the man chuckle.

Onmund watched the exchange silently, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in this place. It had looked quite large from the outside, but inside it felt like a castle. The ceilings were high and vaulted, showing off a classical Nordic construction that spoke of wealth and power. The surfaces showed off objects that made his throat close up – gleaming things that looked like they were worth more than him. He even saw what looked like a jeweled ship on the large mantle, its golden surface glittering in the light.

He felt very…out of place.

"This is Onmund. We'll be staying the night and then leaving in the morning. I'm sure he'd like a bath," Rannve said, casting an inquisitive glance his way. She didn't give him time to accept or refute the offer and just added, "We'll want some supper too, Calder."

The man's only response was a grunt, but Rannve hardly blinked an eye at it. She sent Calder a wide smirk and chuckled, "You're better than half a dozen maids, Cal. Don't ever leave me, I'd be lost without your cooking."

Onmund balked at that, too, but he retained his silence. What sort of relationship did she have with this man, anyway? Why did they live together? He found himself rather disliking the thought.

Finally, Rannve turned her attention to Onmund and said, "This is Calder, my Housecarl. Sworn to protect, and all that. All I care about is that he makes the best rabbit stew I've ever had. Come on, I'll show you around. This place is pretty huge, isn't it?"

Her tone was overall quite breezy, as if she was commenting on a cloudy sky and not her own wealth. To be honest, though Rannve appreciated having plenty of niceties (she did like glittering things), it was the power and the prestige that she liked most of all. She didn't need this manor – it was just an added benefit to her becoming Thane.

Onmund, again, remained silent as he followed Rannve upstairs. He kept his mouth firmly shut as she led him through the ornate halls, passing more traditional Nordic carving that seemed to cover every doorway. It was only when she pushed open one of those doors that she stopped, waving her hand for him to enter the room. He did, and swallowed tightly at the very comfortable, very expensive furnishings inside.

"Did the Jarl give you this place when he named you Thane?" he found himself asking, and then cringed at the question. It was rather rude, really, asking after such a thing, but he couldn't help himself.

Rannve only shrugged and lightly said, "No, I bought it. I've got places in most of the cities. I'm surprised you don't know about that, considering your stalking tendencies."

At this, his face turned a lovely shade of red and he spluttered, "I do not stalk you."

Rannve laughed. She put a hand on his shoulder and gently said, "I was only teasing, Onmund. There's a washroom down the hall. I'll have Calder get some water ready. My room is a bit further down. Just so you know." It was her turn to cringe. Just so he knew? Talos! It sounded like she had just prepositioned to him in an altogether round-about fashion. She cleared her throat and hastily added, "If you…need anything, that is."

Onmund stared at her, then chuckled. "Alright."

They fell into a strange, awkward silence that had them both shuffling a bit on their feet, until Rannve cleared her throat and murmured, "I'll be downstairs then. I'll let you know when that stew is ready."

He watched her make a hasty retreat and found himself chuckling again at the sight of her, despite the discomfort that still pressed against his heart at being in such a lovely place. He couldn't help it – he had never been around such wealth in all his life, and the thought of being in the Dragonborn's home, sleeping in one of her beds, using her bathtub – it was making him a little dizzy.

He couldn't really be blamed for having such feelings, could he? It was, after all, something straight out of a dream. Or – a fantasy.

The thought made his cheeks flare up brightly, and he cleared his throat, pursing his lips at his wayward imagination. That was a dangerous road to go down, especially since Rannve had already convinced herself that it was not a path she could follow.

But even the most stubborn of hearts could not truly be dissuaded from fate's urging hands, and even though this particular brush of fate was not an expected course, it still lingered there in the expanses of their future, silent and inaudible, waiting until it was time to make itself known.

That time was fast approaching.