THEME: Blessings by Adelyn
Here is the 2nd part of what will be a 3-part 'premier' of this story. Please enjoy!
Disclaimer: Skyrim is the property of Microsoft through Bethesda Softworks. This work is intended for enjoyment purposes only, and no ownership is intended.
"Please! PLEASE! I-I-It was just orders! I never tortured anyone! I SWEAR!" A young man begged for his life through the black hooded covering his face; the dark fabric hid the wet stains fearful tears left on his cheeks.
"Oh, shut up you blubbering idiot! Let's get on with it..." came the sly, snakelike voice of the imperial torturer, impassive underneath his own hood.
The pair felt hands grab them roughly as a thick rope was placed around their necks. The assistant struggled and squirmed against his wrist bindings, thrashing his head in every direction to avoid the tightening noose against his throat. His boss simply extended his neck. Large hands gripped their shoulders tightly.
"No! PLEASE-" With a rough shove, the two men were tossed over the side of Helgen's southern wall. The ropes caught tight, snapping their necks as their bodies collided in midair.
Above them, Galmar dusted his hands, placed them on his hips, and took a breath. The rising sun illuminated a growing city of Stormcloak tents that adorned the immediate vicinity around Helgen. As the morning warmth bathed his skin, a smirk stretched across the Stormcloak general's gruff, bearded mouth. He looked at his comrades standing with him on the wall.
"Good morning, countrymen! It's a grand day when a coupl'a imperial bastards are hanging!" His deep, raspy voice broke into guffaws of laughter, grasping his men by their shoulders and leading them towards the camp for breakfast.
It didn't take long for the Stormcloak host to pick up where the Imperial Legion had left off. While the citizens of Helgen tried to pick up the pieces of their crumbling city, the rebellion garrisoned over a thousand soldiers in the foothills surrounding their most recent conquest. Small white tents popped up in groupings stretching well past a mile from the walls. To many of the nords living in Helgen, the Stormcloak victory felt like a liberation of sorts; to any imperial loyalists, it was an occupation.
The men lined up for a hearty breakfast of soup and bread when Galmar was grabbedby the shoulder and spun on his heel. Steady, he came face to face with his recently rescued leader. A moment of silent acknowledgment passed between the two, tension rising in the air. Galmar bristled with anger.
"You…arrogant…BASTARD! You put our whole cause-NAY-our whole country at risk with this stunt! THE NERVE!" Galmar was beet red, with steam practically spewing from his ears.
Ulfric held his gaze, stoic and unafraid. After a beat, Galmar could bear it no longer and burst into fits of laughter. Ulfric released a wide smile as the two of them embraced.
"I know you just led a striking victory over our enemy, but go easy on the stew, my friend! We have men that still need to eat!" Ulfric quickly slapped his housecarl's armor above his gut, causing the older soldier to guffaw with laughter as he threw his arm around the jarl's shoulders.
"You reckless man! You should be eatin' fer the two of us!" They laughed loudly as they grabbed their food and mugs of beer to wash it down.
Nearby, two men lounged on the ground, legs stretched out. One of them, a blonde with a thick accent, had a large bruise across his face, and his blue armor was a few strings away from tatters. He smiled smugly while taking a drag from his pipe.
"See," Ralof began while blowing smoke from his mouth, "I knew there was no reason to panic. Maybe that horse thief would have lived a little longer if he had just calmed down."
Next to him, Arin, shoveling a spoonful of soup into his mouth, raised an eyebrow. He looked far worse than his counterpart; his long black hair was tangled and disheveled, and his clothes were made up of whatever sturdy materials he could gather off of the dead imperial soldiers. He spoke around the food in his mouth.
"I'd wager a bag of septims that everything you just said is troll shit. You had no clue Ulfric had a contingency plan ready!"
"I am pained by these lies," Ralof laughed in mock offense, "I am a lieutenant of Jarl Ulfric, I knew what was going to happen from the moment they put us in the carts."
"I'm sure you were," Arin took a swig from his mug, "Although, I seem to remember you being awfully prepared to see Sovngarde, my friend."
Ralof waved him off dismissively, "Your memory is troll shit. Something probably hit your head during that explosion."
The two men chuckled, glad to be alive, yet not fully believing it were true. Once their laughter subsided, Ralof changed the subject.
"You know, we could use a man like you in our ranks. Come back to Windhelm with us! Take the oath; help us take the fight to the empire! You have plenty reason to, anyway."
Arin stared at his bowl. Considering the events of the previous couple of days, he'd nearly forgotten how close to home he actually was, let alone how long he'd been gone. And Ralof had a point. He had every right to want to fight the empire now...
"Ralof, you're a gifted recruiter, but I want to go home first. I want to see my family before I make any decision like that."
Ralof bowed his head, "Tell me about them your family."
Arin smiled, pleasant faces returning to the forefront of his mind.
"My siblings,"
"How many?"
"Three. Not by blood though; we're all adopted. My older brothers, the twins, they're Companions. And my little sister, she's the most hot-headed warrior I've seen from Skyrim to Daggerfall! I miss them dearly." With every detail, Arin's smile grew wider. His heart ached to be with them soon.
"Arin, do you believe that family is the most important? Would you do anything to protect them?" Ralof asked with a sudden sincerity that caught Arin off guard.
"Aye,"
"Good. As do I. So, then, I hope you will allow me to volunteer to be your 'personal escort', at least to Riverwood where my sister Gerdur and her family live. We can stay there, get fresh clothes, enjoy some hot food and a warm fire, and you can move on to Whiterun from there. It will give me an excuse to visit her, and I get more time to try and convince you. What do you say?" Ralof extended his arm, lowering himself in a mock bow.
Arin gave it a moment's thought, before grasping his new friend's arm in affirmation.
"I see no problem. We're what, half a day's ride from Riverwood? Might get there by nightfall if we left soon. You can at least watch my back for any more horse thieves or ambushes."
"Aye," Ralof chuckled as he took another drag from his pipe.
The pair reached Riverwood just before the sunset. The evening light glistened off the wooden structures of the town. Ahead, Arin could see the yellow cloaks of the town guards patrolling the sparsely populated streets. The only real noise came from the clang of a blacksmith beating down on his anvil.
Just before the gated entrance, Ralof halted his horse, before rummaging in his pack for a minute. Considering how close they were to their destination, Arin wondered what he could possibly need at this moment. Ralof then pulled out two hooded cloaks and tossed one to his companion.
"What's this?" Arin asked, holding up the ball of cloth.
"We're in neutral territory now. I grew up here and I'm a known rebel; the less attention, the better. Yours," he paused, pointed at Arin, "is to keep you warm. I've been listening to your teeth chatter since we passed the Guardian Stones. And you call yourself a nord!" The last comment came with a mocking scoff. Arin rolled his eyes.
"Daggerfall is a lot warmer than Skyrim..." he grumbled as he threw the cloak over his shoulders.
Whatever the reason for the cloaks, they succeeded. Not a soul paid them any attention through the small, riverside town. The only glance they received came from a man leaning on the railing of a local tavern, but he looked more than a little drunk in Arin's opinion.
They halted their horses on the eastern edge of the town, on the backside of a small cottage. Ralof took the lead as they dismounted and tied up their horses before walking up to the back porch.
He knocked three times in a stuttered pattern then stepped back. After a moment, the door opened only a crack, the dull glow of candlelight creeping in from the opening.
"Quickly." A female voice said curtly, the door opening just enough for the two men to slip inside, then slamming shut behind them.
In all honesty, Arin didn't know what to expect once they got inside. Though he had grown up in the hold capital of Whiterun, he had never visited Riverwood. He'd heard it was a small, charming village, but not much else. That being said, Arin certainly didn't expect his first interaction in the town to be a dagger at his throat. Yet…here he was.
"Who are you? SPEAK!" a blonde nord woman barked, the edge of her dagger digging into his Adam's apple.
"Arinbjorn of Whiterun," Arin answered quickly, his hands raised in surrender.
"Stormcloak or Imperial?"
"Neither! I've only just returned to Skyrim. I've been gone three years."
Ralof tried to come to the rescue, carefully resting his hands on the woman's arms.
"He's with me, Gerdur! He's a friend!"
Gerdur wasn't quite satisfied yet, though.
"One more question. Do you keep Talos?"
"Yes," Arin responded almost immediately.
The fire did not immediately leave her eyes, but she lowered her weapon. Arin swallowed hard once the point was free from his skin. The woman took a quick breath before composing herself.
"That will have to be good enough, then. I do not trust you, Arinbjorn, but I trust my brother. And if he will vouch for you, then I will take you at your word," she slipped her dagger into her belt before calling out to the other end of the house, "Everything is clear, Hod!"
Arin looked behind her to see a large man with graying-blonde hair walk up to the two, sheathing his own dagger. A young boy ran out from behind the large man straight towards Ralof.
"Uncle Ralof! You're here!"
"Frodnar!"
The young boy ran towards his uncle, who engulfed him in a large hug, then held him at arm's length to look at him.
"My, you've grown! Won't be long until you're fighting the Empire with me!" Pride colored Ralof's voice as the boy beamed back to his uncle.
"You really think so?"
"Don't worry Frodnar; your turn will come and Sovngarde will prepare a seat just for you. But first, our guests need to relax and speak with your father and I. Run to bed, now." His mother interjected to bring the conversation back around.
There was ice in her voice, enough for her son not to have to be told twice. The adults then sat themselves at the table.
"Here. Some mead to warm your spirits," Hod said as he filled mugs for the guests.
A thick silence settled over the group for a beat, before Ralof took the silence and broke it into a thousand pieces by downing his mug of mead and slamming the mug onto the table with the same enthusiasm he'd had when leading rebel soldiers. The iciness of Gerdur warmed slightly at the sight of her brother's boisterousness, but her smile lasted only for a moment.
"Brother, I apologize for the cold welcome, but you must understand. You are in neutral territory, but it's not safe here! Just last week a legion marched through heading towards Helgen!"
Arin and Ralof made quick eye-contact, a movement not lost on their host.
"What...?" she asked with narrowed eyes.
Ralof gave an apologetic smile.
"Well...the good news is Jarl Ulfric has taken Helgen. We were there to see the legion driven out-"
"What's the catch, brother?" Gerdur cut in, prompting Ralof to get to the point.
"We...were prisoners. Ambush hit us on the banks of the Ilinalta. That's how my friend here got caught up in all of this. He'd been travelling with us for only a day. We were staring the headsman in the face, before Galmar launched the attack," Ralof sighed, letting out a soft chuckle, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
Gerdur took a breath, the news of her brother's near-execution sinking in, before she too grabbed her mug of mead and downed it, slamming the cup on the table. Hod gave an amused smirk at the siblings' similarity. Arin swigged from his mug quietly, inadvertently gaining Gerdur's attention.
"Is this true? The empire was ready to execute you just for travelling with them?"
"Aye. My horse had been stolen, and the Stormcloaks aided me. I tried to leave when the ambush happened, but I was caught too," though the memories were fresh, they felt distant in his mind.
"My head was on the block when the fighting started. I tried to help where I could, but I was of more use helping a few of the remaining townsfolk get to safety. We holed up in a tower until the fight was over."
"Good lad," Hod chimed in, drinking his mead.
Gerdur leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
"Kill any of those bastards?"
There was a tone in Gerdur's voice that gave Arin chills. She hadn't asked him a question; she'd issued him a challenge. In Daggerfall, he'd heard how belligerent the fighting was becoming, yet being in the presence of it was something totally different. As far as he knew, the woman in front of him was a non-combatant. Yet the tone in her voice held all the emotion of a jaded war veteran. Hate. It needed nothing more than the death of its enemy, and the news of said death was a taste worth savoring.
"One. He was trying to kill a man who was leading his family to me. I…stabbed him in the chest."
Gerdur smiled with a devilish delight that made the hair on Arin's neck stand tall.
"Good. You now have my respect, Arinbjorn of Whiterun. You can stay here as long as you need, though I'd caution you against staying in one place until you are back around people you trust. Like it or not, you are on the Empire's list now. Just like us."
Arin nodded, "I figured, but you said Whiterun is neutral territory. I shouldn't have any trouble as long as I keep my head down, right?"
"Ideally, but if Jarl Balgruuf's past on the well-being of the people is anything to go on, the neutrality will shatter soon. This land will not be neutral much longer, one way or another-," Gerder stopped mid-sentence, a new thought forcing its why from her lips and into the dimly lit room, "Arinbjorn, you could be of assistance to us."
"How's that?" Arin raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden outburst.
"Go home," Gerdur's eyes were wide with excitement at the plan she was formulating, "Go home to Whiterun and report to Jarl Balgruuf! Tell him about Helgen falling to the Stormcloaks!"
Arin sat up straighter, listening intently.
"Balgruuf has been riding the fence of this war for too long. The man is wasting time, money, and resources to support both sides, just to ensure nobody thinks he is supporting either one. If he finds out about Helgen, then he should realize the pressure Ulfric is putting on him. Either he comes to his senses and openly pledges to support our cause, or he accepts Imperial support and we can finally end this stalemate!"
Realization dawned on the young nord as he understood the position he had unwittingly found himself in.
"Launch a war…" he whispered more to himself than anyone else.
"Correct!" Gerdur pointedly remarked, "Just deliver the message. Ulfric has spies watching all troop movements in and out of Whiterun Hold. If Balgruuf scorns your warning, we'll know."
Arin's mind began to race. This was so much more than he wanted, so much more than anything he might have signed up for. His words could begin a war in earnest.
He met Gerdur's gaze as his lips and the tips of his fingers went numb.
"And what if I don't? What if I just go home and forget all about the last few days? What if I just want to live a normal life? What happens then?"
This time it was Ralof who cast the challenge. His voice was calm, with all the fury of a winter sea storm.
"Then Talos damn our new friendship. Should we march on Whiterun, I cannot guarantee your safety. The time to choose is coming, whether you are ready or not."
The dark of night was something Arin had grown accustomed to; many nights had been spent under the stars over the past three years. Some nights, when he couldn't sleep, he would lie back and trace the constellations, grouping them together the way he had learned when he was young. On this night he traced them once more.
Arin sat on the ground outside the house, having just finished tending the horses. The peace and quiet of the night calmed his mind. After hearing Gerdur's plan, and Ralof's ultimatum, Arin wanted to be home now more than ever. He'd decided to return to Skyrim a month ago, never dreaming he would have embroiled himself in a war he mostly wanted to ignore.
Footsteps on the road pulled Arin from his reverie. He was thankful Ralof had enough sense to tie the horses behind the house at the edge of the woods. Rising from his seated position, Arin was hidden well enough, and could just make a person running into the town.
It was Hadvar, the legionnaire from Helgen.
"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?" The guard near the entrance pulled his weapon, but overall seemed nonplussed about the situation.
"Lieutenant Hadvar of the Imperial Legion! I come seeking shelter with my relatives!"
"Very well." The guard sheathed his sword as he continued his rounds, allowing Hadvar to catch his breath and hobble through the town with a slight limp.
I need to tell Ralof!
Arin stood cautiously, ready to sprint inside. Instead, as he turned around, he ran directly into Ralof's chest, falling backwards onto the ground. Ralof remained standing, watching the road where Hadvar had disappeared into the darkness.
Once he regained his senses, Arin began.
"Ralof," Arin whispered audibly, "Hadvar just came into town! Does that mean the imper-"
Ralof held up a hand, silencing his companion. He then dropped down to his haunches, and let himself fall to his rear, setting himself up against a tree. He pulled his pipe from his trousers, a bag of tobacco from his belt, and began packing the dried leaves into the pipe.
"Have a light?" he asked innocently.
"What?" Arin was dumbfounded for a moment.
An enemy has just walked through the gates of the very town we're hiding in, and yet Ralof has decided now was time for a smoke break!
"Ah! Never mind, I got one," Ralof said as he pulled a match from one of his pockets, used the sole of his boot to light it, and began lighting his pipe. He puffed on the wooden pipe, pulling the flame onto the leaves inside, and took a long drag. Satisfied, he met Arin's gaze and motioned to a tree right across from him.
"Sit."
Arin did so, sitting up against a nearby tree, waiting to hear what was going on.
"Let him rest. The battle is over, and the legion retreats without any organization. He's probably been on high alert and without sleep since. Let him rest."
Having seen the fury in Ralof's eyes during their fight at Helgen, Arin couldn't believe what he was hearing. Ralof spoke so nonchalantly about allowing his enemy time to recuperate.
Ralof could read Arin's mind.
"Hadvar and I grew up together. We spent countless summers helping my father at the lumber mill, winters keeping warm at his Uncle Alvor's forge. We'd run through the woods with our friends, or just ourselves, and pretend the whole of Skyrim belonged only to us. We even snuck up to Bleak Falls Barrow once. He never quite liked the dark after that one…" Ralof's chuckle was colored with melancholy at the memories of a time long forgotten, "We were close. But then the war started...and we were on different sides. I beat him in Helgen; honor, and our past, demands I leave him to lick his wounds and try again. He'd do the same for me."
A silence fell between the two of them. Arin spoke first.
"Ralof, I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I still don't know if I'll have anything to do with this war. I came home because I missed my family. I'm by your side right now because we were both captured by the Empire, but...now that we're free and I am almost home, I can't help but wonder what I should do next, or if I should do anything at all.
"Gerdur's plan makes sense, but is that really what I want? I...I don't really know. Other than Talos, I don't have a dog in this fight!"
"I understand, my friend, and I am sorry that such a choice has been thrust upon you. Truly," Ralof began, blowing a puff of smoke into the air, "but whether you want to see it or not, this war is coming for all of us. You could have run away with the other citizens when the wall came down at Helgen. Instead, you chose to stay. Not to fight the imperials, but to protect the people caught in the middle. You may not have much of a stake in this yet, but this world is cruel. It will give you a reason to fight. Talos has chosen you. He will find the proper time to lead you."
The air hung heavy as Arin took in his friend's words.
"What will you do from here?" the younger nord asked.
"I start my journey back to Windhelm tomorrow. Jarl Ulfric won't wait long to capitalize on his victory in Helgen, and I need to be there when he does."
"Why?"
The question caught Ralof off-guard.
"Why what?"
"Why," Arin repeated himself, "Why do you need to be there? Why is this the life you've chosen?"
Ralof took a quick puff of smoke as he thought for a moment, then looked directly at Arin. His eyes were just barely visible in the moonlight.
"Frodnar," Arin's eyes beckoned him to continue, "I love my sister, but as you've seen, she's just as much a warrior as I am, if not more. She probably would have joined Ulfric before me if she didn't already have her son. Now she has a different role in our struggle, but her fire is still there.
My nephew, though...I don't want all of this to be forced on him. I want Frodnar to grow up in an independent Skyrim; to freely worship Talos; to live a life of his choosing. So, I guess, to answer your question...I do this for him. This life chose me; it gave me purpose. If I give my life for that, then so be it."
Then Ralof took a long drag from his pipe, and lost himself in memories that were long past. Arin let the silence hang between them this time. He leaned back against a tree and looked up at the stars again, drawing out the constellations he could see.
It was mid-morning when Hadvar arrived at Gerdur's house. Hod and Frodnar had already been busy at the mill for a couple of hours by this point, and Gerdur was planning to bring some breakfast on her way to join them. A brusque knock at the door halted her preparations.
She pulled the door open and scowled.
"Hadvar. To what do I own this unwelcome pleasure?" Her distaste rolled off of her tongue as she looked away from him to return to her work, pulling down a cloth from a drying rack and wrapping loaves of bread in it. Hadvar took this as permission to enter her home.
"Good morning, Gerdur. I'm here on legion business. Have you seen Ralof recently?"
Gerdur was on him immediately, facing the legionnaire nose to nose. Her voice was barely a whisper, with all the power of a shout.
"You have no right to say his name! And no, I haven't, not for quite some time now," she spat, which was a half-truth; her brother and his friend had left well before dawn that morning, "But do you really think, if I had, that I would tell you? That I would sell out my kin to the Empire? Take a look around, Hadvar; there are some here that still know what loyalty means."
Gerdur's face was red from the outburst, the volume of which made the hair on the back of Hadvar's neck stand up. Gerdur had always been the hot-headed sibling compared to Ralof's good-natured humor, but it had been many years since he'd been on the receiving end of a dressing-down from her.
"Gerdur, you must listen. Ral-" a glare from Gerdur cut him short, "Your brother...is an enemy of the empire! He assisted Ulfric in murdering High King Torygg, and is willingly leading a rebellion against our country. Tell me again about loyalty!"
Gerdur slowly turned to face Hadvar, grabbing her logging hook from the table, and clutching it in her hand.
"You will leave my house now, Hadvar. You will not come back, or Talos help me, I will hang your head on my doorstep." She gripped the hook tight enough that her knuckles were white. Her voice remained murderously calm.
Hadvar met her glare, the tension between them suffocating. Then he nodded, left the house, heading back in the direction of his uncle's forge.
As he walked away, Gerdur once more saw the young man she had seen grow up with her younger brother. Memories of the two boys hard at work with her father, being paid with any scrap wood they could find for a bonfire to chase away the chill of night. Alvor accepted their help at his forge from time to time, but they were usually just in the way, so they'd take the lower quality swords and practice fighting with each other. And they were happy.
But when she looked now, all Gerdur saw was the imperial soldier that had betrayed her brother.
Frodnar was barely more than a toddler the last time Hadvar and Ralof had shared a happy memory. Those days were long gone, and if Gerdur had any say in it, they would never return.
"HALT! The gates are closed for the evening! No visitors unless approved by the Jarl himself! State your business in Whiterun!" The guard shouted from his post above the entryway. Guards flanking him at either side had arrows aimed directly at Arin. The sun was still pretty high in the sky; it couldn't have been later than four in the afternoon.
Arin took a breath and played the card he most didn't want to. However, no matter how many times he replayed this scenario in his head as he had ridden to Whiterun, he saw no other action that would repay the kindness Ralof had shown him. Contrary to his expressed desire the night before, Arin spoke.
"I bring news to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The Stormcloak rebellion attacked Helgen, defeating the Imperial garrison there and taking the city."
The arrows pointed at him lowered as the guards whispered to each other. After a few heartbeats, Arin heard the words that eased any of his concerns.
"OPEN THE GATES!"
Arin actually smiled and breathed easy. He was finally going to walk home and get the rest that he had been waiting for. He'd get through this meeting with the Jarl, then it was straight to Jorrvaskr to round up his siblings.
These thoughts stopped dead, though, once Arin saw a guard standing in his way at the gate opening. His balding head beaded with sweat as he held his helmet at his side. A scar ran the length of his forehead horizontally, giving the impression of a second brow. He gave a toothy grin that was missing several teeth, and there was a chunk of his left nostril that was missing from the time he had drunkenly tried to brawl with a man named Sinmir. His name was Garulf…and he had always hated Arin. The reason for this hate, Arin still did not fully know.
"Arinbjorn," Garulf mocked jovially, "what a surprise! It's been a while."
"Sure has, Garulf. You…uh…you're still a city guardsman, I see." Arin absentmindedly scratched the back of his head.
"Yes. I still am. And, as such, I am often tasked with escorting…difficult…citizens up to Dragonsreach, for a private audience with the Jarl," his voice was smooth as silk, if you snagged the silk on chewed-off fingernails. It was an oily, sticky, overall off-putting voice attached to a very off-putting man. And now Arin was being detained by him.
"It's your lucky day, Arin! Welcome home," he crooned.
Arin scoffed, and shook off any attempt the other guards made to grab him, but he walked forward nonetheless.
It was a quick walk up to the Jarl's palace. Since they had avoided the market by taking the back route through the empty neighborhoods, there were no people to question why Arin was basically arrested and being led to the Cloud District. The only person that seemed to notice anything was Heimskr, the ever-suffering priest of Talos, yet even he only ventured to make awkward eye-contact while continuing to preach a gospel that every nord in Whiterun already believed.
Arin remained calm throughout the walk. In fact, he was almost glad he'd been able to skirt around the city without running into anyone he knew. He got the chance to enjoy the city he remembered; breathe the crisp air and listen as water tumbled from the Cloud District over the artificial waterfalls into the pools of the Wind District. It was soothing.
What was far less soothing, however, was being thrown to the ground at Balgruuf's feat once they had reached the throne room. Balgruuf hadn't changed a bit in the three years since Arin had last been here; if anything, he had gotten worse. His slouch was more pronounced as he leaned back in his chair. Grey was beginning to speckle his disheveled hair and beard, and his eyes were sunken. A bored frown pulled at his face.
Irileth, the Jarl's dark-elf housecarl, stood next to him, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, ready to cut off any hand that strayed too close…or any head.
Garulf stepped forward and knelt, bowing his head while he spoke.
"My Jarl, I bring troubling news. According to this...vagrant, Helgen has fallen to the Stormcloaks!"
The hall grew unsettlingly quiet as the news sunk in; even the fireplace seemed to hush itself. Finally, Balgruuf sat forward, breaking the silence with a thick accent and a gravelly voice. He addressed Arin.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I was present for the battle." Arin said as he rose to his feet, standing tall to look the Jarl in the eyes. Gods he disliked this man…
The older man sat straighter on his throne, appearing taller and looking far more intimidating.
"Rebel, then?"
"No," Arin replied adamantly, "I was being held prisoner by imperial soldiers without cause-"
"Ha! Every criminal in the empire has used that excuse," the Jarl scoffed, cutting Arin off, "Garulf, you are dismissed."
The slimy guard bowed and saw himself out.
"To be quite honest, I don't care what crime you committed, just don't bring it into my city. Vagrancy is not a good start, I'm afraid," he finished.
Arin took a step forward, a move matched by Irileth, her hand not even twitching on her blade.
"I'm not a vagrant; I grew up in this city!" Arin shot at the Jarl.
"So did Brenuin," Balgruuf deadpanned, "Irileth, please dispatch a squad to the border with Falkreath. I would like to find out for certain these claims. Proventus, see to it that Riverwood and Rorikstead have garrisoned troops prepared. If the rebels choose to march on us, they will be in for a rude awakening."
"As you wish, my Jarl," Irileth and Proventus said in unison as they bowed before their liege and hurried from the hall.
Balgruuf faced Arin once more.
"As for you, I do remember your face..." he studied Arin's face, taking in the annoyed and defiant features of the man before him, "You were one of those orphan whelps, no? There were four of you."
"Aye," Arin affirmed suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.
"Who was it again that raised you lot?" Balgruuf scratched at his beard, searching for the answer in the rafters above his head.
"We were wards under Eorlu-"
"Eorlund Grey-Mane!" the Jarl interrupted, as if he had come up with the answer, "You were brought up by Eorlund…Grey-Mane…" A sick, twisted smile smeared Balgruuf's face as he spoke the Clan name of the man that raised Arin and his siblings. The air chilled as the Jarl of Whiterun locked his eyes on Arin, a deadly glare full of contempt that was masked by a conditioned, blonde beard. The sick smile dropped into a hateful frown. Balgruuf returned to his slouch.
"Leave then. Leave my sight and mind yourself in my city. The Grey-Manes do not hold the same esteem they once did."
Arin gave a half-hearted bow.
"Thank you, I'll see myself out." Arin spun on his heel and left the hall, his boots leaving a lingering echo off the dark, sloping walls.
Once out of the suffocating atmosphere of Dragonsreach, Arin took a moment to welcome the crisp dusk air of the Cloud district. However, like most moments in his life recently, it was unexpectedly cut off by someone else. Unlike the previous days, however, this time was cut off by someone quite familiar.
"ARIN!" he heard before he was nearly knocked over by a deceptively strong hug. Looking up, his attacker was a woman. Smaller in stature, with slender arms and raven black hair, but she was clad in strong, steel armor with a sword at her hip and a shield at her back. Her pale, almost ghostly skin caught the light from the setting sun in an eerie fashion, but the face it illuminated, currently smashed up against his chest, was only full of love and affection.
"Lyd!" Arin exclaimed as he returned her hug. Warmth filled him as he held her close.
Three years was far too long...
"You sure took your time comin' back!" A deep voice called out.
Arin looked up to see, alongside Lydia, twin warriors who were simultaneously exactly the same and completely different. Of the gathered group of siblings, only these two were actually blood related.
Farkas, the larger of the two, stood proudly with his hands at his hips, his armor shining brightly in the fading sunlight. His wide, muscular frame casting a long shadow behind him, barely masking the enormous greatsword held on his back. His ever-present smile was on full display.
Vilkas, the smaller of the two, still carried himself in a distant manner; his arms crossed against his chest, and his perpetual scowl contrasting nicely against his brother. He was wearing new armor, a grey piece with a wolven crest across the chest. His dark warpaint failed to hide the dark circles under his eyes that were his signature since youth.
Arin disengaged from Lydia and walked up to the twins, hugging the two in kind.
"Farkas, Vilkas, it's wonderful to see you all!" A genuine smile pulled across Arin's face, casting away any memory of the previous days. He was filled with energy and vigor. Now he felt home; now he had reached his family.
"Well, when you leave for three years and rarely write, it's easy to miss your family..." Vilkas chuckled, only half-joking. His thick accent weighed his words down, making his sentences feel heavy even when he was happy.
"Oh, shut it, Vil," Lydia teased, joining the group, "We can kill him for his poor communications skills over a pint at the Mare, eh?"
Lydia smacked Arin's shoulder to get him moving as the foursome began descending the steps over Dragonsreach. Arin nearly lost his footing from the force of the impact.
"What about Jorrvaskr?" Arin asked in confusion.
"The Circle is hosting a meeting. Tell you about it over some drinks," Farkas chimed in.
"Things have changed much in recent years, Arin. We'll make sure to sugar coat it for you as best we can," Vilkas added. Arin had missed that sneer.
"How did you guys know where to find me? Garulf caught me at the gate and brought me straight up here himself," Arin asked as they crossed the Wind District courtyard, entering the Plains District.
"Garulf? That balding sack o' shit detained you?" Farkas sounded somewhere between mocking and disbelief.
"Yeah. Looks like he still has it out for me. But I got lucky this time. Stormcloaks got Helgen a few days ago. Sharing that bit o' news got me past the gate."
"Damn. Looks like you've got stories to tell us too, huh 'Rin?" Lydia smiled.
"To answer your question," Vilkas cut in, "Aela and Ria were returning from a job at Pelagia Farm when they saw you being marched up into the keep. Ria came and told us, so we came on up to rescue you-"
"But'ya got yourself outta there before we could burst in," Farkas finished Vilkas' story, earning a deeper scowl from his brother.
"I appreciate the love and concern," Arin beamed as the group reached the tavern, opening the door for his friends before making their way to a table.
"HULDA! 'NEED FOUR TANKARDS, THE ARGONIAN STUFF!" Lydia called out to the publican as she took a seat next to Arin, while the twins shuffled in next to each other on the other side. The room was dark, lit dimly by the scattered lamps and candles. Mikael the bard played a jaunty tune while making uncomfortable eyes at Lydia, a gaze she tried her best to ignore. Sinmir sat in a corner having a conversation with a muscular woman Arin did not recognize. She looked nearly as big as Sinmir himself, just with newer armor.
Within a few minutes, Hulda shuffled over lugging four large mugs of alcohol, sweat matting her auburn hair to her forehead.
"'Ere you go, Lyd. Normally you don't buy the expensive swill," she commented, her hand pinching her chin, "What's the occasion?"
Lydia raised her mug in a toast, Vilkas and Farkas mirroring her.
"My brother has returned home!"
"To Arinbjorn! The wayward child!" Farkas added.
"And to the end of our easy, uncomplicated lives as we know it!" Vilkas finished.
Arin rolled his eyes and raised his mug as well. His three friends chuckled as they all took a swig. Hulda's eyes widened in shock.
"Talos! Arin...you've grown since I last laid eyes on you…" Hulda let the last sentence draw out, admiring the young man's features. Arin shrunk back in his seat a bit, reddening at the attention from the older woman and the guffaws from his friends. Hulda chuckled and returned to the bar.
"So," Farkas started, leaning forward over his mug, "The last time we heard anythin' from you, you were a few days away from the border. I know you suck at keepin' contact, but what gives? You could'a at least let us know you were almost in town."
Arin smirked, taking a long swig from his mug.
"I got into a little trouble..."
"Fuckin' A!" Farkas exclaimed, smiling wide and smashing his mug against Arin's and drinking deeply. Vilkas scowled and rolled his eyes. Lydia simply leaned her head on her hand and listened contently, waiting for her brother to continue.
"To be specific, I got caught in an imperial ambush. Taken to Helgen to face the headsman. AND I was there with none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself."
Stunned silence crept across the group, with three jaws waiting to be picked up off the table. Vilkas was the first to recover, grasping his mug.
"Fuckin' A..." he muttered as he took a swig.
Lydia and Farkas made eye contact, before both immediately turned to the bar.
"HULDA! ANOTHER ROUND!" They said in unison, then Lydia gripped Arin's face tightly with her hand, staring him directly in the eyes.
"'Rin. You are going to start from the beginning and you are not going to leave a single thing out. Understood?" She pointed a calloused finger directly between Arin's eyes.
"Uh-huh," Arin muttered between smushed cheeks.
A half hour later, all members of the party were horrified and amazed by the story they had been told.
"Goddamn, 'Rin. You really suck at laying low, huh?" Lydia's eyes were crossing a little.
To this, Arin just smirked, before remembering finally why they were in this tavern to begin with.
"So, what's the meeting at Jorrvaskr about?" Arin asked as he wiped his mouth. Vilkas looked up from his mug, the brevity of joy leaving his dark eyes once more.
"They're trying to mediate a meeting between the Grey-Manes and Battle-Borns. Tensions have been escalating recently between the families, ever since word got out that Thorald went missing. Grey-Manes think Battle-Borns leaked the route he was taking to Windhelm to join up with Ulfric. Battle-Borns aren't exactly denying it, but they're blustering all of their arguments around 'exposing the traitors to the empire and the legion' or something like that.
Kodlak hoped he could help guide them to some sort of understanding, for the good of the realm, you know? But no one really expects much. 'Blood is too bad."
Arin's gaze lowered as the news of unrest settled in. He'd heard about Thorald's disappearance nearly a year ago while he was in Daggerfall. Staring hard into the dark, frothy liquid, he saw only his own gaze looking back. A face not many have easily recognized since he got home.
"How is Fralia? You know...with Thorald missing an' everything?" That was the best he could do. What was supposed to be a happy homecoming was beginning to feel less and less appropriate.
"She gets along well enough it seems, or as best as you can when one of your true born sons goes missing," Lydia answered, stopping to take a swig of her ale before continuing, "Can't be easy though. First losing Papa, then Thorald."
A sad silence overtook the table. Lydia broke the silence by rising from her seat.
"But it's okay! You're home. That's what matters. Anyway, I'd better get going. I've got an early morning tomorrow. Y'guys can probably start heading back to Jorrvaskr now. 'Meetin should be finishin' up," she said as she grasped her mug to take a final sip, "You should see Papa, too."
Arin hesitated with some confusion as her words sunk into his inebriated mind.
"Wait...early morning? What are you doing?" Arin asked, concern growing in his voice.
To this Lydia smirked, sticking her tongue out.
"I've got a job! You are looking at the newest housecarl in service to Jarl Balgruuf's newest Thane. It's…as bad as it sounds," she then downed the rest of her mug and dropped it on the table, "I'll tell you about it later. Thane Helbane leaves for Riften before dawn tomorrow, so it'll be a couple of weeks before I return. I'm happy I got to see you before I left, big brother; We'll catch up more when I get back."
With those parting words, Lydia kissed Arin on the crown of his head and sauntered out of the tavern, dropping a small bag of gold septims on the bar counter as she passed.
Arin sat still, a little dazed at the news he had been given, which somehow seemed more shocking to him than anything he had told his friends.
Lydia is a housecarl?
Vilkas saw the look on Arin's face, chuckling as he finished sipping his mug.
"Aye, nearing only a few months ago, Lyd joined with the city guard, but apparently, she was staring at some shite postings, probably Rorikstead, so she made a last-minute switch and took an oath as a housecarl-in-waiting. New thane came along three weeks ago. Krios Helbane. Real nasty fellow. You'd have to ask her for the full story; I only know as much as she's told me."
"We tried to convince her to join up with the Companions, but she wasn't feelin' it, or somethin' like that," Farkas continued for his brother.
Arin was finally starting to pick his jaw up off the ground, but had to admit to himself it made sense.
"She does what she wants, that's for sure…"
"Always has…" Farkas said.
"Don't let her hear you say that. She's still just as hotheaded," Vilkas added. The three laughed at that, before Arin frowned as something dawned on him.
"Farkas. Why aren't you in the meeting? You're in the Circle, right?"
Farkas grinned wide, leaning across the table close to Arin as if he was telling an unknowable secret. The stench of argonian ale was ripe on his breath. Arin leaned in, his face concerned and serious.
"Yah, I'm supposed to be there," Farkas' whisper was phenomenally loud.
"In other words, he's playing hooky," Vilkas filled in with a scowl.
The faux-seriousness of Farkas, coupled with his twin's deadpan delivery, caused Arin to break character and snort with laughter. He raised his mug and crashed it against Farkas', and both of them chugged their mugs until there was no ale left.
Sometime later, after the three men had sobered a little, they found themselves at the doors to Jorrvaskr. The great wooden hall stood proudly, as vivid and imposing as Arin remembered, and slightly smaller than in his dreams. For so many years, this had been home, and now it was home once more. At least, until he found a place of his own.
Arin pulled at the heavy wooden doors, the creak of the noise echoing down from the hill Jorrvaskr sat perched on. There was an austere serenity that came with the building, like a sword buried on a battlefield. On the opposite side of the doors, however, the serenity was broken.
"I REFUSE TO BE IN THE PRESENCE OF SUCH IDIOCY ANY LONGER!"
Arin and the twins quickly found a seat on a bench to the side of the door and watched as the meeting continued.
The outburst had come from Olfrid, the aging patriarch of Clan Battle-Born, a man whose remaining strength was almost entirely held in the volume of his voice. He was flanked on each side by his two sons: Jon, his trueborn son and the overall disappointment of the family, and Idolaf, his son-in-law who had interestingly taken the Battle-Born clan name and was every bit the successor to Olfrid that Jon wasn't.
In this moment, Olfrid's infamous short fuse had just been put on display, as a dagger sat in front of him, stabbed into the panels of the table.
The Circle members, on the contrary, were not pleased with the display. Skjor had pulled his sword, and Aela's bow was drawn to full tension, zeroed in on Olfrid. Only Kodlak, the Harbinger of the Companions (and, it appeared, the mediator of this meeting) remained calm, not breaking eye-contact with the Battle-Born clan leader.
Opposing Olfrid, Vignar Grey-Mane sat unmoving, staring up at his rival defiantly. While his body was old and wrinkled, his mind was still as sharp as the dagger at his side. Flanking him were his niece and nephew, Olfina and Avulstein. Avulstein was clad in scaled armor with a battle-axe on his back, trying to look tougher than what he was actually able to display. Olfina, on the other hand, was cut from the same cloth as Vignar. Stoic and calm, Olfina stood unimpressed by Olfrid's outburst. A trained eye, however, would notice the occasional glance she stole towards Jon, who always returned the gesture with a small smile.
Olfrid's voice was anything but calm.
"We will no longer treat with these traitors! This meeting was a farce, and damn you to Oblivion for making us believe there would actually be progress! Vignar," Olfrid pointed a fat, tanned finger at his counterpart, "you and your lot are traitors to our great Empire. Daedra take you!"
With the final curse, Olfrid and his group stormed out of the building, paying no attention to the quiet observers on the edge of the entrance. The Grey-Mane clan soon rose to do the same, albeit with far more respect to their hosts. Arin rose to his feet, showing respect to Vignar, who bowed his head and smiled at Arin as he passed; Avulstein followed suit with a curt nod. Only Olfina peeled off to say hi.
"Arin," she greeted in a pleasant voice, "it's been a while! How are you?"
"Olfina! I'm well. It doesn't look like you can say the same right now," Arin gestured to the meeting that had just ended.
"Yes. I long for the days when our families were fierce friends, but I fear those are gone for good. Sorry to be brief, but I should catch up with my uncle; we need to make sure everyone in the clan knows there was no progress made. But it is wonderful to see you back."
Arin nodded in appreciation as Olfina departed to catch up with her family. Turning to rejoin his friends, Arin saw Farkas enjoying a left-over leg of turkey, while Vilkas had found a horn of mead to sip on. Before Arin could say anything, the trio was joined by another, far less jovial addition.
"Where the hell were you?" Skjor asked Farkas as he reached the group at their bench. His voice held all the experience of his forty years, full of paternal stress and correction. His seeing eye burned with an annoyed indignation, while his blind eye wandered as it pleased. His face was creased with stress lines following his receding hairline, and a red spot had developed where it was obvious he had been pinching the bridge of his nose.
Farkas took his time chewing his food, holding up a hand both to ask for a moment to finish, and to make a show of the moment in question. Skjor tapped his foot impatiently.
"Important business came up. 'Had to escort a VIP around the city," Farkas finally belched out, talking around the pieces of meat his tongue was trying to pry from between his teeth.
Skjor raised an eyebrow, then looked at Arin.
"It's good to see you, Arin, and I'm glad you made it back to Skyrim safe…but accompanying you to the Bannered Mare is not escorting a VIP," he finished his sentence staring at Farkas, indicating the reprimand was for the Companion.
"Oops," was all Farkas replied as he shrugged and took another bite of his turkey.
"Farkas, you're a Circle member. There are responsibilities that come with that title; responsibilities that shouldn't be shirked! Vilkas, you're usually the responsible one! Why didn't you say anything to him?"
Vilkas sipped his mead, and responded without looking at Skjor.
"I'm not in the Circle. What's it matter to me?"
Skjor rolled his eye and ran his hand over his thinning hair.
"You boys need to get your priorities straight. Farkas, you are in a leadership position. Act like it! And Vilkas," Skjor turned to the quieter brother, still searching for eye contact that wasn't there, "Get over yourself. You got passed over, so maybe look at yourself and figure out why."
With that, Skjor stormed off to report with Kodlak. Arin grimaced at the awkwardness of the situation, but Vilkas waved him off.
"Don't worry about it. I'll drop your stuff off in the whelp's quarters next to my bed. Go see Eorlund."
Arin nodded and spun on his heel, walking out the door and across the path to the stone steps of the Skyforge. The stars shown bright across the night sky as the large stone eagle above the forge came into view. The orange glow of the forge illuminated the bottom of the eagle, giving the illusion that the entire outcrop was ablaze, an illusion aided by the embers of the forge rising in the wind to dissipate in the cold, evening air.
Climbing the steps, Arin could feel the heat of the forge begin to kiss his skin, until he found himself on the landing at the top. The ground was polished from years of boots walking back and forth. A stone workspace hugged the forge itself, glowing a deep orange color. A trash pile of broken metal and leather scraps sat nestled against the back wall. Blades, helmets, pretty much anything to suit one's needs were strewn about the workspace, all in various states of completion. A grindstone was pulled close to the workspace.
Arin took a seat on the grindstone, sitting in quiet reverence, he lifted his gaze to a shelf above the workspace on the forge. There stood an ornate urn, gold catching the moonlight, heat from the forge continuously warming the contents.
"Hey, Papa. I've made it home. Gods be praised, I've made it home."
Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy it! Feel free to review, question, and pass on to your friends! Whatever you like, remember: you are worthy, you make this world better with your presence, and no matter what, the sun is always shining somewhere. - K.C.