"Stop squirming, dear, I'm almost done." Tilma's skilled fingers, calloused and cracked from years of wringing out rags and soaping dishes, massaged soothing paste over Sofie's hands and forearms.

"Sorry," Sofie replied, her attention on the clouds passing in the sky above. "It itches." She sat almost reclined in a low chair, with Tilma kneeling beside her on a pillow; the cushion present only at Sofie's stubborn insistence. After all, it wasn't Tilma's fault that Sofie's hands were burnt. Why should the kind old woman suffer needlessly?

"I know, I know. Can't tell you how many times I scalded myself building up the hearth. It's funny, though, how after a while, your hands grow used to the heat. Nowadays I can grab a burning pot straight off the coals, long as I put it down again right away."

"I didn't burn myself on a pot, Tilma." The sun shifted over Jorrvaskr, and the long shadow of the mead hall fell on the pair. Although no one was currently training on the dummies, Njada Stone-Arm and Aela were engaged in a hushed conversation at a nearby table. Sofie strained her ears, but no clear words of their discussion reached her. Where are you, Farkas? I never did find out.

"Course you didn't." Tilma rubbed harder, and Sofie took a sharp breath through her teeth. "And maybe the pain will keep you from doing such a damn fool thing again, hm? You don't know how my heart leapt, when I heard the screaming from the Skyforge. When I thought…" Her voice trailed off into a sigh.

Sofie refocused herself in the moment, and turned her head towards Tilma. "I'm sorry. I know I've said it enough already, but...it wasn't what it looked like. I wouldn't do that to you, or to the others."

"Then why, dear?"

She was saved from responding by a commotion near the Skyforge steps. A thin Nord in prisoner's clothes, perhaps a few years older than Vilkas, was walking towards the training yard. This was in spite of the priestess matching his stride and delivering an expletive-laden tirade.

"Stop, skeever brain! I'm trying to save your life here." Lucia tugged at the man's ragged sleeve, but he pulled free from her grasp and continued his march. "You need a bowl of warm stew and bedrest, not to go off half-cocked on some moronic quest for Danica!"

"I have rested...to the point of restlessness." The man came to a stop, panting slightly. He leaned on one of the posts holding up the pavilion, and cast his attention towards Njada and Aela. "Aela. I believe you have my possessions. I need them."

"Ah. The ghost of Helgen." The lines of her warpaint curved as her lips drew up into a slight smile. "Scarcely recognized you. I will retrieve your things: wait here."

Lucia growled, "Don't encourage him", but Aela had already slipped through the doors to Jorrvaskr.

Understanding dawned in Njada's narrowed eyes. Her arms tensed on the arms of her chair, as if she were about to rise in anger. "You're that squatter got Farkas killed."

Sofie stood, ignoring Tilma's fussing, and moved closer. She leaned against a wooden pillar and peered past it at Lucia and the ragged man.

The ghost refused to meet Njada's gaze. "I am called Miraak. And that oaf was perfectly capable of getting himself skewered without my help."

They all turned as the doors opened again. Aela emerged with a satchel in one hand and a curious expression on her face. "An uncommon name, to be certain. Though novelty alone will not brand your name in the honored histories of our company, Miraak."

Njada scowled. "Hold on a second. Don't tell me you're thinking of letting this lout join. Ysgramor would spit on us from Sovngarde if he saw one like this walk into Jorrvaskr. Aren't you supposed to keep these types from wandering over, girl?"

"I tried to stop the crazy fool. Tell him he can't be a Companion, and maybe he'll come to his senses."

Miraak accepted the satchel from Aela. "You did not inform them of my intentions?"

"I thought it best to wait to see if you would survive the dungeons. Some part of me thought you'd find some way to end your tortured existence there. Now, on to this 'quest for Danica' the priestess speaks of...it seems you've forgotten my advice, given in good faith. Go on, sit."

He settled in one of the chairs, his hands shifting at his sides. "I remember. You suggested I complete simple tasks for paltry rewards. Uou said a warrior is built from the hard work of a thousand days."

Aela returned to her own seat, and ignored Njada's glares and Lucia's fidgeting. "So your mind has not failed you. And yet."

"And yet I doubt that any warrior sitting here has earned glory collecting flowers and delivering letters. Do tell me if I'm mistaken."

Njada grunted. "That's milk-drinker work. You'd be good at it, beggar. Old Danica's been trying to get someone to trek out to Eldergleam Sanctuary ever since the elves burned her tree. If she had any real gold to offer, one of us mighta done it. The few drifters that agreed to help never came back. Got scared off along the way, or probably died on the journey, the pious fools."

Aela said, "My shield-sister speaks truly. The cavern is in the heart of Eastmarch's steaming badlands, far from any patrolled road. Countless dangers lie between the gates of Whiterun and your destination. From what you have shown me of your martial skills, I have little faith you'll make it far before the wilds claim you. Even in this fair weather."

"Do I not deserve the chance to prove myself? If I perish, the fault will be entirely mine. Do not patronize me by suggesting any of you would shed tears over a weak man of vague acquaintance."

"Then what do you ask for, if not permission?" Aela leaned forward, studying Miraak. Sofie noticed him shrink back at first from the attention, but then he raised his head and looked Aela in the eyes.

"Merely your assurance that restoring the Gildergreen will earn me more than Kynareth's approval. Let the temple have its spiritual rekindling; I demand a whelp's bed."

Njada laughed and rocked back in her seat. "Listen up, snowback. If you get back here in one piece, I'll make that bed myself. But you ain't going to make it. My axe has tasted the blood of many brave fools who thought spirit alone would carry the day."

Lucia nodded fervently. "That's what I told him. You think you're the first desperate fella who's ever thought this capsized boat looked more inviting than a freezing street corner? Kynareth's breath, you'd have an easier time applying to the city guard! You're already friendly with some of them, and when you fail at least you'll still have all your limbs attached."

An eagle landed in its nest atop a weathered section of the city wall, and Sofie turned to watch it as the conversation continued. Melting snow dripped from the crumbling stones, and water fell like teardrops on the wet dirt far below. Tilma had slipped off to attend to some chore or another; even with many of the Companions out on jobs or in the city, there was always something for the old maid to do. Sofie had helped Tilma for a while after Farkas' ceremony. Or helped the best she was able, with bandages covering her hands.

Now even the novelty of housekeeping had lost its appeal, and Sofie had not been able to hide the bitterness in her voice earlier in the day when she had bid Hugs-the-Shadows farewell at the city gates. He was meeting Skjor at a distant ruin to face his proving. To become a true Companion, at last. And where was she? Licking her wounds in Jorrvaskr, less than useless.

"I'll go with Miraak," Sofie announced as she turned back to the arguing group and stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Sofie?" Lucia crossed her arms. "How long ya been standing there? Aren't you s'posed to be healing up?"

"Tilma said my bandages are nearly ready to be removed." Sofie refused to meet Aela's gaze: she feared what she would see in those all-knowing eyes. So she focused on Njada instead. "Think about it. Companion or not, he's going out in the name of our company. I can make sure he doesn't fulfill the task by dishonorable means, and also observe his skills in combat. I won't let him die, but nor will I fight his battles for him."

"You'd stake your honor on this stranger?" Aela asked, refusing to be ignored. "If you accompany him, the shame of any foul deed he commits will fall on you as well. This man is not yet a whelp, my sister, and perhaps he never will be. No one is asking you to help him. If this concerns your lack of jobs, recently...perhaps it was wrong of me to try to keep you here. Your life is your own, to do with as you will. I could find some work for you with more honor in it than this. More coin, too; I doubt he's got any to offer you."

"No. This is what I want."

Miraak, who had remained silent since Sofie's entrance to the conversation, finally looked up. Like a child, he lacked the wisdom to hide his heart, so he stared at her with equal parts curiosity and confusion. Strange, for a man of many years. Who are you, ghost? What about you is worth dying for?

Lucia groaned. "You've all been drinkin' too much mead. You're really gonna let Sofie go runnin' off on her own with this sorry soul, after what she did to herself?"

"No, priestess." Aela smiled. "Not on her own. I'd like you to go with them."

Silence reigned, until the clanging of Ria's hammer reached down from the Skyforge. It was Sofie's turn to be confused. "Lucia's no warrior, Aela. She scarcely ever leaves Whiterun."

Lucia interjected, "'Cause if I did, Danica would be swarmed before ya could finish a single prayer. 'Specially in the winter. There's food and water to deliver, blankets to beat out, street children to corral...I've wasted so much time tryin' to save this old fool already, probably while ten other old fools have been starvin' to death."

Aela considered. "I'll lend my hand to the temple, if you would agree to accompany my shield-sister. Though this stranger from Helgen once helped us in our time of need, I am not yet certain he would not slit her throat in the night during some fit of madness."

"You're really temptin' me to come along, now. Leave the city, Lucia, go out into the wilderness in the middle of winter, Lucia. Protect your friend who sets herself on fire from the strange man of questionable sanity, Lucia."

Sofie spoke, "I'd be happy to have you along."

"Guess I'll agree to think about it, if only to get out of this conversation."

"Very well." Sofie glanced at the sky. "I'll prepare the provisions we'll need and have Tilma remove my bandages, while you get Miraak ready. We'll leave in three hours. I'd like to take advantage of the weather while it lasts. If we reach Valtheim by the week's end, we'll be making good time."

Aela looked significantly at Miraak, who had been quietly absorbing the shifting of his fate as dictated by the Companions. "Just keep in mind a pack is only as swift as its slowest member, Sofie. I've walked with this man before - he will drive himself to exhaustion before uttering a word of complaint."

"Wise words, shield-sister," Sofie replied with a grin that felt strange on her face. "But I've walked with Lucia before, and only to the stables. For a trek all the way to Eastmarch, I'm sure she'll complain enough for the three of us."

Lucia nodded. "Walkin' is for horses. Anyways, I haven't even agreed to go yet."

Njada laughed again. "Ten gold says they don't make it to the Loreius farm before they turn back."

For some reason, Sofie found comfort in the fact that Aela wagered fifty septims they would return with Miraak's task complete, and that Njada did hesitate for a moment before matching the bet.

"What do ya mean, ya have no money?" Lucia stared daggers into him as they paused beside the steps to the Skyforge and he rummaged around in his satchel.

"I mean simply that." Miraak pulled out his keepsake, and noted with dry amusement how Lucia's expression curdled at the sight of it. The ancient metal was cold against his bare fingers. "This mask is my sole possession of potential worth."

"I sure wouldn't buy it." She moved to his shoulder to get a better look; Miraak could have told her clarity did not improve the view. "What is it, a family heirloom?"

"Of a sort. Though a family I no longer belong to." The dragon stirred at that, showing its teeth, and Miraak's stomach turned. He spoke quickly to distract himself. "I believe I recall seeing a smithing shop at the city gates, perhaps they would be interested in melting it down for the rare metals."

An excited voice called, "I'll give you two hundred septims for it!"

Miraak glanced up to see a small woman observing them from the forge's platform. She wore the same manner of armor as Vilkas, with the wolf motifs on the shoulderpads. A member of the Circle. Does her keen hearing stem from the gift of Hircine I have set my heart on?

Already Miraak's spirit was drained from the many conversations of the day, and with Lucia and that odd woman with missing fingers as his travelling companions he foresaw even more talking in the near future. Even so, he clambered up the steps to the Skyforge and engaged in weary dialogue with its smith, who was evidently named Ria. To his surprise, she was not interested in melting down his keepsake, and in fact did not wish to destroy it at all.

"Has it seen many battles, or deeds of glory?" She regarded the mask in his hands with awe, and Miraak shifted uncomfortably. "It must have, it looks positively ancient!"

"It has witnessed the fall of empires and the deaths of gods." He thought it best not to mention which empires or gods. "Though I doubt any being alive now would recognize its worth. You are certain you do not want to reduce it for the metals? The dagger forged of this material would be of unparalleled rarity."

"No, no, I couldn't. This is going right next to Ysgramor's soup spoon in my collection. Here are your septims...oh brrr, it's cold! And look how it catches the sunlight - oh, dazzling!"

For the first time in many years, Miraak felt a pang of gratitude towards the mask that bore his name. It served a final purpose in distracting Ria so that he could slip away with his jingling purse of gold before she could capture him in some inane discussion. All that he had seen of the Companions so far told him that they were all obscenely fond of the sound of their own voices. Experience dampened his hope that Sofie might turn out to be different from the others. How oddly she regarded me just now. Have we met previously? His first passage through Whiterun on the way to Dragonsreach had been unpleasant, and he had forgotten most of what happened that night.

Although Miraak knew of the merchant Belethor from overhearing words passed between guards, Lucia led them past the corner of the market square where that Breton's shops held dominion in favor of a smaller establishment run by a small Khajiit named Kishla.

"An Alfiq," Miraak murmured when he saw the shopkeeper hop on to the counter to appraise her new customers. "Rari's Varieties in Furstock: 'although this form of Khajiit resembles the common domestic feline, Alfiq are as intelligent as their bipedal counterparts and are fully capable of speaking and performing magic.'"

Kishla glared at him, and her tail swished back and forth like a pendulum. "Khajiit will be happy to provide a demonstration. Priestess girl, why have you brought this stinking Nord into Kishla's shop to frighten away her paying customers?"

Lucia grabbed Miraak's arm and pulled him away from the counter. "Sorry, Kishla. Don't worry, he does have gold."

The Khajiit maintained her disapproving stare until Miraak passed out of her sight behind a shelf of clothing.

"I dunno where in Oblivion ya came from, but around these parts it's considered rude to talk at people like that." Lucia shook her head and sifted through a pile of shirts. "For a second there, I almost forgot ya just came from the dungeon. Ya used to sell books or somethin?"

"Sell them, no. Am I not capable of purchasing garments on my own?"

She gave him a sideways glance. "Those rags you're wearin' are almost falling off. When's the last time ya wore somethin' that couldn't have served as a potato sack?"

Miraak thought for a moment. "You would have been a child, I believe. Fine: do as you will. But do not let it slip your mind that we will surely be drawn into combat soon. I value practicality over vanity."

"I never woulda guessed."

After what seemed an eternity, they returned to the front counter with armfuls of clothing. Kishla, who wore miniature robes of her own in soothing shades of lavender and rose, tallied up the cost with the efficiency of a Dwemer while Miraak waited in dumbfounded silence with his open coin purse.

"Are some of these for you, as well?" He eyed the pile of cloth dubiously.

Lucia leaned against the counter and rolled her eyes. "No, stupid. They're all yours. Three good shirts, two pairs of trousers, a few sets of undergarments, some woolens and long socks, a winter coat, and a horker-skin travelling cloak. The bare essentials for survivin' winter in Skyrim without all your fingers and toes freezin' off."

"I have survived nine years without these things."

"Yeah, and look at the state of ya. Just pay Kishla so we can get movin'."

Despite their awkward introduction, Kishla was kind enough to let Miraak change into his new clothes behind a draped corner of the shop. Lucia had insisted he at least bathe at her temple before going to Jorrvaskr, so his skin felt relatively clean after he peeled off the old rags that had served as a second skin for far too long. The small mirror showed a lean Nord of many years with scars older than Tiber Septim cutting through the half-starved lines of his stomach and chest. Old wounds told stories best left forgotten.

Miraak hastily slipped into the fresh clothes, and opted for the cloak instead of the coat; for now, at least, the air outside was not so threatening. What the mirror offered now: a man, though not one he recognized. A thin man, and clearly one who had suffered the consequences of an unfortunate life, but he no longer thought he'd fit in so well with Helgen's devastation. The well-tailored cloth felt luxurious against his scrubbed skin, and leather patches sewn into the vital areas offered decent protection. He pulled on the lamplighter's gloves and boots and stepped out to join Lucia with less than half his fortune remaining. Whatever the state of his wealth, the clean clothes lightened his spirit in a way he'd never have expected. Every direction I turn, strange new powers present themselves.

After they'd passed through the doors, Lucia explained that Kishla's business had only survived Belethor's crusade to swallow up every shop in the market because she had powerful connections; her twin ran the Thieves Guild down in Riften, and she was in charge of the local branch.

"He is an Alfiq, as well?" Miraak spoke to distract himself from the strange feeling of walking down the street like an ordinary mortal instead of a scurrying creature. "His rise to power must have been an interesting story."

"I ain't privy to the details. I only know about Kishla 'cause half her agents in Whiterun used to be regulars at the temple. Orphans, war widows, wounded soldiers - all the folks who were left after all the dyin' was done with, who found nothin' for them but hunger and cold. Not much choice in it, at that point. Steal or die. The Divines frown on theft, supposedly, but I can't look down on these folk. I probably woulda started workin' for Kishla too if Danica hadn't taken me in. Not too many paths open for us street urchins, then or now."

Miraak quickly learned not to shy away from the people they passed, after Lucia's sharp corrections and a few confused looks. Now my failure and shame are hidden behind a veneer of civilization. Though he could hide nothing from the dragon. It had been merciful for a long time, but Miraak suspected it was waiting for the right moment to strike. When I am at my most vulnerable; and if Aela has the right of it, the beast will not have to wait long.

Lucia hastened her pace at cries of children around the corner, but when they rounded the turn they found S'argo of the Silver Dawn amidst a small mob of delighted young souls. Some clutched at small bundles of food packed into baskets hanging from his sides, but many of the children seemed content merely to stroke S'argo's dark fur.

"Make sure everyone gets one before anyone grabs for seconds," Lucia called when they walked by on the opposite side of the street.

"Do not worry, kind Lucia." S'argo turned his large head towards them and smiled without showing his fangs. "Khajiit and his friends will ensure no youngsters go hungry in Whiterun tonight."

"Thank ya much," she replied, and Miraak thought she walked with a tad more bounce in her step after they'd left S'argo and his charity behind.

He saw buildings he recognized from his first dizzying trip through the city, and soon the charred carcass of the Drunken Huntsman came into view, looking over the entrance to the city like an undead watchman. As Aela had said, the passage of souls here was constant: a handful of more well-dressed children sat poking their toes into the streams of water that ran on either side of the gates, their behavior unchallenged by the guards nearby. A Redguard beggar rested in the shadow of the city walls - he appeared happily dazed by the evening's warmth. Two figures looked up at the Huntsman and spoke in low voices. Miraak recognized the armor of the Silver Dawn on the taller figure, and at the sight of the shorter one Lucia scowled and spat in the dirt.

"You have a quarrel with that Breton?" Miraak asked as they passed. He thought now that the knight might be a woman, but a silver mask obscured half their features. When a ray of sunlight peeked over the city walls and lit up the warrior's face, he saw scar tissue where the mask did not reach.

"That waste of Kynareth's breath is Belethor," Lucia growled. "If not for the temple's work, and his shaky truce with Kishla, he'd have had every soul in Whiterun eating out of his hand by now. Look, there's Sofie over there by the braziers. Go help her with those packs; I gotta have a quick word with someone before we go."

Sofie made no comment on his new clothing. Her back was bent under the weight of a heavy backpack and three satchels.

"How much can you carry?" She asked coolly. "And be honest. If we have to fight and you're exhausted, then you'll die."

"If everyone's estimation of me turns out to be accurate, it seems I will die regardless. But hand me a satchel or two. My strength has increased since last I walked this road."

Lucia took the other two satchels when she joined them, and by the time Masser and Secundus were high in the sky above Whiterun, Sofie had secured much of their gear on to her mule waiting at the stables. The trio left the warmth of the evening braziers behind and walked with the burdened beast between them into the wordless darkness of the plains.