"You know what to do."
Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas nodded. It'd been a pain to get them away from the rest of the Companions, but Nariilu finally managed to pull them over to a corner of Jorrvaskr. She wasn't even certain if even this level of secrecy was necessary, but Kodlak would never approve of what Nariilu had in mind, Skjor would blab to Kodlak like the good second in command he was, and anyone outside of the Circle didn't need to know anything about it.
A somber celebration of life carried on behind them, a far cry from what had occurred over a year ago when some Companion died clearing out a den of trolls somewhere near Dawnstar. This was nothing like the high-energy send-off they'd thrown for him, for a death in battle protecting the citizens of Skyrim. At least Kodlak was able to slam the doors in the Thalmor's faces; Companions only in Jorrvaskr.
But the trick to this would be to find a way to lure the Thalmor out of the city, at night preferably, and Nariilu figured rumors of some illegal shipment would be enough to provoke a search of a caravan. Or she could spread word of some little Talos Shrine out in the plains somewhere, let the Justiciars search for it and get caught unaware by a few werewolves.
"It'll look like an accident," Farkas assured.
"It needs to look like more than an accident," Nariilu replied. "Thalmor don't just die to bandit and bear attacks, and they're already suspicious of the previous murders." She was surprised when Aela drug the twins along with her; they'd seemed reluctant to…turn into…Nariilu wasn't quite sure of the proper term for it. Transform? Regardless, they danced around questions she forced on them before she fled the Companions, even when Farkas was trapped in that tomb with her, very obviously a werewolf.
Aela shrugged. "The only thing I'm worried about is the Silver Hand getting more bold if they hear of blatant werewolf attacks."
"I'm more concerned you won't be enough to take them down. If it's just the soldiers, yes, but with even one Justiciar, I'm not sure how long you'll hold out," Nariilu admitted. "Perhaps we should focus on just the soldiers."
"We can handle it," Aela said. The twins hummed in agreement. For a second, Nariilu remembered how young the three were under their war paint and impressive builds. She recalled Farkas mentioning something about being born after the Great War.
"You haven't seen what a Thalmor wizard can do," Nariilu said. "Not one that's really fighting. Elenwen wasn't even trying when she killed the priest and destroyed the statue. Neither of you have much experience against any sort of mage that's worth their spells. One of them paralyzed Stormcloak for hours. That's not a skill that comes easy, but if one of them managed to conjure a battleaxe, I'm more concerned about her."
"So what? An axe is an axe, magical or not," Vilkas argued. "I saw the way she handled it. Amateurish."
Nariilu shook her head. "It's more difficult to summon a weapon than a Daedra, and Daedra-summoning isn't exactly child's play. It's more about what she can summon that's not an axe." She skipped over how it was more likely than not that the conjured axe had trapped the Graymanes' Souls in whatever gems the executor had on her. Perhaps Farengar had noticed the telltale signs of a Soultrap if he was present for the execution.
"I've torn apart my fair share of mages and whatever little hell-beasts they summon," Farkas said, crossing his arms.
"You've torn apart Winterhold rejects and failed apprentices," Nariilu said. "Look, a bit of caution never hurt anyone. I'm not planning on another funeral any time soon."
"Yeah, we weren't even planning on this one," Aela said. She cast a glance over her shoulder to the crowd, trading stories of how they slew enemies with Eorlund's blades or how Vignar somehow always knew who to bet on for brawls. The mood had lightened from the funeral. Nariilu imagined it had a huge amount to do with the lack of sobbing children. "Is he going to be alright?" She motioned to Stormcloak with her chin; he sat cross-armed and somber a seat away from everyone else, staring at the fire like he expected it to jump out at him.
"He blames himself," Nariilu said, dropping her voice low. He hadn't spoken much since that morning when Aela had broken in. "Even though there wasn't much of a trial, he thinks he could've stopped it, somehow."
Farkas scoffed. "Yeah, more like get himself killed. Even I know nothing could've stopped those executions."
Nariilu made some noncommittal sound of agreement. She'd had a breakthrough the night before, and now he was back to being just as depressed as before he realized she was a god. He just needed time to mourn, she assured herself. After he saw her taking steps towards reforming the Blades, towards gaining the subservience of the Jarls, he'd come back around.
Lydia, on the other hand, was pissed about something Nariilu couldn't quite sniff out and she hadn't found the time to ask Stormcloak about. She'd stomped off while the bodies were still burning on the pyre, muttering about going to sleep early.
"It's not about the executions, I don't think," Nariilu said. "He fought a war to keep the Thalmor out of Skyrim. Two wars."
"And he failed," Aela concluded. They all stood in silence for a while before Aela added, "And he blames you."
"What? No," Nariilu said. But of course he blamed her, why wouldn't he? It was her army, her sword that brought him to his knees. She bit her lip and tasted blood as the almost healed split cracked open again. Stormcloak was a man that held grudges; against the Empire, against Dunmer and Argonians, against the Thalmor, against…her. She just wished it wasn't so obvious.
"Why wouldn't he? You took him prisoner, for one, ignoring whatever happened to his army," Aela said.
"I didn't take him prisoner," Nariilu lied. That was supposed to stay quiet. Purely need-to-know basis. And, even then, she didn't really capture him. He'd been free to do whatever he liked since they passed through Windhelm's gates.
Vilkas rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure if Ulfric would agree. He gets touchy whenever topics like 'being captured' or 'rescuing a hostage' come up."
"That's because-" Nariilu caught herself before she finished her statement. Because he was held and tortured by the Thalmor and held as an Imperial prisoner for years. Instead she sighed. "This is irrelevant. Just don't try to fight that Conjurer two nights from now, and every eighth day after that. It'll be the Necromancer's Moon."
The Companions shuddered. "I don't even want to know what that means," Aela said.
"I'll watch the gates every night, 'cept those," Farkas said. "And, Nariilu, sorry again for scaring you."
Nariilu slugged him in the arm as hard as she could; Farkas didn't flinch, though she felt a sharp tug at her shoulder and the familiar icy burn of a pulled muscle, a tear in her skin and a trickle of either pus or blood sink into fabric. "I've seen gruel more fearsome than you."
Kodlak watched Nariilu speak with the youngest members of the Circle from the corner of his eye, unwanted Wolf's hearing picking up every word and little hummed pause between them. And he didn't blame them for wanting vengeance against the Thalmor, atonement for killing two of their own and their entire bloodline. Blessed Kyne, Kodlak wished he'd ordered the extermination of the Silver Hand years ago, before more joined their ranks and they were armed with holy silver and charms to weaken the Circle, their damned lives.
Vengeance had its place especially within the hall of Ysgramor's Companions, conceived in adventure and forged in revenge.
But what Nariilu suggested, what Aela and the twins agreed to-Kodlak wanted no more bloodshed. He'd thought Farkas and Vilkas were as tired of the Curse as he was, but he smelled the agony in the air. Failure to protect their pack, even if neither Vignar nor Eorlund cared to accept their rightful places in the Circle out of fear that they'd put their families in danger.
He felt eyes on him, Aela's. He met her burning gaze; she knew he knew what they'd been speaking of. Aela, always so in tune with the Wolf. Sometimes it felt like she was able to see right through him and the rest of the Circle, to look and sense and feel through them. It was always a little disconcerting, but she loved nature and the hunt in a way only Hircine could match. She'd have found a way to get her Curse-her Blessing-no matter where her life had taken her. Kodlak was glad it had led her to stay with the Companions, to their family so tight nit and ever growing, ever shrinking.
Without moving her eyes from him, she easily reached out to catch Nariilu before Kodlak even noticed she was swaying to fall. Her staff scraped against the floor with a harsh sound as she regained her balance, drawing half-interested looks that only acknowledged the source for a split second before they returned to trading stories of Vignar and Eorlund. Aela nodded at Kodlak's wordless request, saying a few words to Nariilu and leading her away from the twins towards him, allowing her to lean heavily on her, modifying her gait to disguise her limp. Kodlak rose to meet them more than halfway, near a pillar where Nariilu could rest against it as Aela left her to wander around the Hall and tempt a few unlucky Companions to a drinking contest.
"I'll cut right to it," Kodlak said, sensing exhaustion in her, sickness, weakness that made his predatory instincts prick stronger with each whiff of blood. She was bleeding from no less than three places across her body, a slow trickle that renewed the dried blood along her skin, clothes. She'll hold back the pack. Hold back the pack. Risk to us. See how she stumbles, weak! She cannot hunt, no. Dangerous times. Cannot hunt, cannot protect her. Not now not now, she is a risk now. The pack is at risk. My pack. Kodlak prayed to the Divines to still his Curse, for at least a moment.
"I…I've been a bit busy, Harbinger," Nariilu replied, too fast for him to continue with what he meant to say. The Wolf grew stronger as he approached death. Kodlak figured it was preparing him to enter the damned Hunting Grounds, to serve Hircine for all eternity. She fiddled with a piece of metal in one hand in her insecurity. "I've done some preliminary reading, but Battlemages never really deal with curses, I'm afraid, especially not those of Daedric origin-"
"I understand. Don't worry yourself, child," Kodlak cut her off, and she bristled a bit. "What I wish to discuss is a development of the unfortunate events of earlier, may their Souls rest in joy in Sovngarde." And he almost felt her heart drop into her stomach; the blame and guilt dripped off of her. "We need a Companion to tend to the Skyforge. I believe that Companion should be you."
She relaxed somewhat, but stood silent for a while, staring at some point just beyond him. "Why?" She finally spoke, "Why me?"
Yes, why her, she who is injured? She who is frail in a world of enemies! The pack stays together, stays strong. She leaves. She is a stray. She will betray the pack to save herself. She who fears the blessing of our most powerful Lord Hircine! Blessings to be accepted on bent knee! How weak to fear power she so desperately needswantscraves.
"Eorlund never did special requests for anyone," Kodlak answered. Had she really never noticed that his only variations were in armor sizes? Out of respect for the ancient molds, Eorlund kept everything standard. Exact. Perfect. And he'd dedicated weeks to creating her a set of armor that belonged in a museum. "Except for you." Nariilu clutched that piece of metal. Kodlak paused. He'd thought she was too injured to wear such a complex set, even if it was much lighter than all but a set of leather, but the metal was held with too much shame. "I know you were once a valued smith, both in the Imperial City and in the Legion. I can think of no one better to succeed Eorlund."
"I am honored to have been considered worthy by the great Eorlund Graymane and by you, Harbinger," Nariilu finally spoke. "But I must refuse. I am Dragonborn. A smith, yes, but my destiny calls me elsewhere. I know you understand the cruel twists and turns our fate leads us down. I have already made one promise to you, and I intend to at least fulfil that one before taking on another."
It wasn't her destiny that led her from the Companions, no. Her eyes were distant, distracted. Her destiny was fulfilled, and she had the scars to prove it. Battlescars. Noble in origin. Weak in persistence. The Hunt has no space for weakness. She is to be hunted. The prey to be hunted. Sanctioned by merciful Lord Hircine, she fulfils her place. No place in my pack. "Aye." Kodlak agreed. "May Talos guide you along your path."
"Talos guide all of us."
Nariilu left Jorrvaskr alone; Stormcloak didn't seem to care when she announced her leave after one hour too many of stories about the Graybeards that left a bitter taste in her stomach, unrelated to the spiced mead that flowed freely. And as the atmosphere lightened along with everyone's cups, more Companions dared to ask her about Alduin, had she really been to Sovngarde, flown on the back of a dragon? She answered the basics, swearing to tell the entire story later, at a more appropriate venue than a memorial.
She stepped down from the Companion's Hall, Skyforge darkened when it would usually be tended to throughout the night by Eorlund.
Of course he had to die when her armor was in shambles.
Perhaps it was a blessing; he couldn't scold her to Oblivion and back for bringing ruins of some of his best work (by her own opinion, the old man would probably say his masterpiece was some mundane sword) to him to fix. Nariilu wondered when she'd be able to lift a hammer to fix it herself.
The plaza was empty in the early night save for a few guards on patrol and stationed around the Winds District. Nariilu wandered with little aim; she almost felt like she was looking for trouble to start, though she knew she couldn't finish it in her state.
"Keep moving, Elf." A guard posted by the stairs to Dragonsreach ordered with a jerk of his thumb. Nariilu realized she'd stopped in front of where the Shrine to Talos had once stood, her free hand offering a coin to nothing. It'd been replaced with a banner of Whiterun, a fresh mound of dirt holding it up in front of the obvious ruin of a statue pedestal. She lifted the hood of her cloak over her head and continued wandering.
Wandering past the House of Clan Graymane, its windows dark and a single board nailed up to block the door. The house loomed over her and breathed down her neck as she sped up her pace as much as she felt comfortable. "They got off easy," she spat at the house from over her shoulder, muttering to herself and hoping that no one was around to hear her curse the damned place. Perhaps she'd purchase the once-grand estate, once the ghost stories that would no doubt be surrounding the hall soon died down, decaying with its former owners.
The Hall of the Dead was brightly lit in contrast, its windows an inviting golden streaming down on nightshade and lavender that grew outside of the ancient walls. The priest was probably inside preparing the bodies, even at this late hour. He was only one man, if she remembered correctly, and an influx like this would keep him busy. Nariilu thought back to the days after the Siege of Whiterun, when the Hall was overwhelmed with bodies stacked up outside, more being delivered from the Temple of Kynareth every hour for days as soldiers succumbed to their infected wounds.
Her breath caught in her throat. The Siege wasn't the last time that priest had been up to his coffins with bodies. Nariilu swallowed hard and tried to force her feet from carrying her inside the Hall.
The door was heavy, the air inside the Hall heavier with scents of oils and incense and leather and blood. The chapel to Arkay was neatly maintained, though the rugs had little drips of blood leading from the entrance to the catacombs, still a fresh off-red. The door was slightly ajar, sounds of clicking tools and gentle sobs carrying up to the entrance.
And the sobbing stopped as Nariilu made her way down the stairs, through the chapel; her footsteps were uneven and loud, louder still was the muted thud as her staff hit the embroidered rugs. The priest pushed through the door to the catacombs and closed it behind him. "Blessings of Arkay upon you," he said, his face not marred with tears.
"I'm here to mourn," Nariilu said, hearing her own voice shake against the clot that suddenly appeared in her throat. When was the last time she'd been in a Hall of the Dead? Had she ever been in one for a reason other than to deliver a soldier's corpse?
"The catacombs are closed while bodies are being prepared, I'm afraid," the priest replied. He motioned to the shrine and its pews. "You're welcome to stay in the Temple as long as you'd like, however. I pray Arkay guides you in comfort." The priest turned to slip back in the Catacombs.
"Wait," Nariilu said, holding up a hand. "Do you only take Nords?"
That gave the priest pause. "Elves are more than welcome to be interred in the Hall of the Dead. If you give me your name, I can have you put down for a cremation when the Wheel of Life turns upon you, in a style similar to what you'd receive in Morrowind. But I urge you to enjoy your life, rather than dwell on death."
"I-no, this isn't about me." Nariilu didn't care to think about her own death, especially when such a thing would never occur. Or, if it did, she could care less about what happened to her mortal body as her Soul ascended to its rightful place as a Divine. "What about Khajiit?"
"There aren't any Khajiit in Whiterun," the Priest answered.
"No, but there was one." She tasted salt in her mouth, salt mixed with rust. "When the dragons came. I…He died." Nariilu blinked, seeing a flash of J'zargo's ruined corpse spread out before her. "Did you-"
The priest looked her up and down. "Yes. He was cremated and given all the proper blessings as Lord Arkay commands."
Cremated. Not even embalmed; he wouldn't get up and start walking like the dead were prone to do a few centuries after their deaths. She'd never see him again. Nariilu almost wished her mind would fool her just once more. There was a steady hand on her arm and another at her back, just between her shoulder blades, leading her to sit at a pew. "Can I…" Nariilu stumbled over her words. How many Nords would approve of spending an eternity with their ashes next to a Khajiit's? "Where?"
"Please, rest here," the priest urged. "Come back in a few days; the catacombs will be open for visitation."
Nariilu stared ahead at the altar, incense rising between little stacks of coins and what looked like handmade sigils for Arkay. A soft thud sounded as the door to the catacombs closed behind the priest. 'Khajiit is in no hurry to die,' he'd said. Nariilu could still hear them clear as day, Elswyrian accent cutting through the winds of the Great Porch. He was probably laughing at the irony of his last words.
She rose from the pew and cast a cutting stare at the shrine, imagining she was staring at Arkay himself. When she ascended, she'd have some choice words for him.
Jon Battleborn slipped into the Clan Hall late at night, his nose clogged and his cheeks undoubtedly swollen from sobbing over his lover's body. Andurs finally kicked him out of the Hall of the Dead; the priest refused to let him see him embalm Olfina, though he wordlessly carried out the rituals over the rest of the Graymanes while he was there, staring into Olfina's closed eyes, her eyelids just as delicate and as beautiful as they'd been in life. He pulled her death shroud down to just cover her chin, not daring to reveal any more of her ruined body, blood pooling around where…where she'd been-
"You've got some nerve, boy, I'll give you that."
Jon blinked and stood up straighter, his father standing at the peak of the stairs silhouetted against the candles behind him. He looked larger than life, with the same fierce glow he had when the first catapult shook Whiterun during the Siege. Jon squared his shoulders, promising himself to stop turning a blind eye to whatever kid was bullying Lars all the time. "Thank you, father," he replied. "Good night."
He stepped up the stairs, keeping himself as close to the wall as possible to maybe slip by his father. Instead, Jon was caught by a firm hand on his shoulder as he neared the top. "You disgrace us all."
Jon didn't answer. He'd heard similar before, after he decided not to join the Legion, and to go to the Bard's College instead. And he'd gotten a similar critique when his father came to the Bannered Mare and heard him rouse the patrons to a drunken dance, even though his father had been clapping along during the song before he noticed who the Bard was.
"How long?" His father asked, grip tightening.
"I've been out all evening," Jon answered. "Hulda's been short on help ever since Saadia was arrested. I heard she was taken to Hammerfell."
"Don't act stupider than you are." A warning. "How long have you been whoring around with the Graymane bitch?"
There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere Jon couldn't see; someone else in the family was listening in. Probably Idolaf, his waste of a brother-in-law had been extorting him for free drinks at the Mare ever since he'd caught the two together a year prior. Jon was at a loss for words; he wanted to defend Olfina from his father's taunts, he wanted to draw his sword and thrust it through the old man, he wanted to burn down his Clan Home.
But there wasn't really much reason to. Olfina was dead.
"Get out of my house."
The lump in Jon's throat shrank. Get out? Leave? To where? "Father, I-"
His father's face twisted into a pained scowl. "Outside of the disrespect you've done to me, to your Clan, you've invited suspicion upon us. Would you see this entire family beheaded, just so you could rebel like a child against your Da?"
Rebel? No, he'd never rebelled. Snuck around, defied idiotic decrees made only for pettiness from one Clan to another, yes. But rebellion? Jon scoffed. His father had categorized him in the same level of hatred he held for the Graymanes and the Stormcloaks. "Not rebellion, love," Jon said. There was no turning back now. His father had never once changed his mind, not even for the most mundane things. "You wouldn't understand, since I dared to love something other than bloodshed or money."
The stairs pressed against his back once, twice, the floor scraped as he skid back. Jon's mouth filled with blood, his tongue on fire in a way that a bard's tongue never should be. He looked up at his father, arm still extended from where he'd shoved his own son down the stairs. No, Jon supposed he wasn't his son anymore. "I SAID GET OUT!" He yelled, standing firm as his mother came around the stairs and protested against him, trying to reason with him.
"You'd let this feud pull apart more than Clans?" She shrieked, grasping at his father with frail hands. "You'd cast out your own son? He's been punished enough by that girl's death, Olfrid. There's enough rifts in Skyrim already. Don't you dare build another between your own family."
His father looked down at Jon, to his mother, to some point far beyond the wall he stared at. "He tore it himself, the first time he decided a woman was worth more than the Empire. Look where it got her, boy!" Jon grit his teeth as his father growled, a dull ache rising in his bruises, in his heart. "There's other legs out there to pull apart, especially for a bard as talented as you think you are. I won't see the Battleborns follow the same foolish path as those worthless Graymanes. Now go find your own to tread, Jon."
Jon pushed himself up and spat, aiming for the nice rug that came from somewhere in High Rock. "G'bye Ma." He didn't let the same slight quiver worm its way into his voice as did his father's. "G'bye Da. Blessings of the Nine to you." And Jon gave a slight bow and left, closing the door softly behind him. His hands shook almost as much as his breath.