Chapter 15: To Acquire What One Desires

The gateway arched over the main street into Riverwood was crowded with soldiers. My heart skipped a beat when I sighted them clustered around a campfire beside the entryway; had war come to Riverwood? Because surely, the Legion would not have chased me here.

But - no, on closer inspection, they wore Whiterun's colours, not the Imperial Legion's. With a quiet laugh, I realised that I had in fact been the cause of these particular guards, and was cheered in the knowledge that Jarl Balgruuf hadn't delayed in sending his promised legion.

The new guards paid me no mind as I entered the township; they were watching for dragons, not people. Unquestioned and unhindered, it wasn't long before I found myself bounding up the steps to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

While built of wood and thatch like all the other buildings, the Sleeping Giant Inn looked like any other tavern within; stone floor, large central hearth, tables along the walls, and resident bard sitting across from the entrance, waiting for somebody to pay him to perform.

He was cradling a lute – and quite a nice one at that. He looked up when the door clicked closed behind me with a warm, gentle smile.

This must be Sven. I nodded a wordless greeting across the way to the attractive blonde Nord.

I didn't recognise him, and he didn't recognise me, but that was of no great surprise. One bard did not know all others, and Sven looked like he was about thirty, so he would have been at the college when I was a girl. He was slim; slimmer than most of his kinsmen, with long hair flowing and swept back from his chiselled jaw.

First impressions count, a lesson from the college assailed me. Prepare your exterior as you do your voice; with precision and purpose. Tell the audience which emotions they might expect, and reward their astuteness by delivering confirmation of their cleverness through song. Braids and warpaint for drama, curls and rosy cheeks for humour, long sweeping hair and a focus on the eyes for romantic.

"Greetings, traveller," he continued to smile placidly. "Let me guess; just passing through?"

So he's going for romantic, but fails to woo or flirt with clients. A romantic bard, already in love, I concluded, amused by the riddle. Though after Mikael's treatment, it was a manner I found welcome. "That's right. Not stopping or long."

"Always the way in these dark days," Sven glanced away, motioning further into the common room. "Orgnar can organise lunch, and Delphine a bed, if you change your mind."

I glanced toward the bar. There was a man and woman in conversation; he behind it and she leaning on one side. Neither seemed to have noticed my arrival. I frowned as I glanced around the rest of the inn; there was a lumberjack-type with thick red hair, guzzling from a tankard, and a white-haired man taking his lunch at another table.

That was it.

I turned back to Sven, whose eyes were trained on his instrument. "Excuse me but...where are the mercenaries for hire?" I asked in an undertone.

Sven threw me a curious look. "Not in Riverwood, sweetheart. Any mercenary setting up here would die of starvation or boredom, long before they landed a job. You'll have better luck in Rorikstead, or Whiterun."

Perhaps he noticed how my face paled as he spoke, for his voice grew a little more sympathetic as he continued. "But, check with Orgnar. He knows most of what's going on in these parts; might know of someone nearby looking for that kind of work."

"Thank you," I murmured. With a deep, fortifying breath, I turned away and dragged my feet toward the other end of the tap room.

"Any time," he replied idly over the top of gently-plucked notes.

My heart thudded, hard and fast in my chest as I approached the sullen-looking, dark-haired man standing behind the bar. What I was going to do? Even if there were no mercenaries as such in Riverwood – why hadn't I secured someone in Whiterun?! – surely somebody would know how to use a sword or bow or axe and be interested in taking my – Lydia's – money to accompany me to the Barrow.

The barkeep was still talking to the blonde woman, whose words and stern tone told me that she was the owner, and he an employee. She was Breton, but wore a very typically Nord dress of blue with a cinched tan bodice, discussing a shipment of ale that was due to arrive and whether or not to put it into immediate rotation. The pair quietened and turned to me in unison when I leant gently on the bar.

"Hello," I smiled, casting both a friendly smile. "Sven told me to ask you about mercenaries?"

The blonde woman – Delphine, Sven had named her – turned around properly, her face full of confusion - but the large Orgnar sidled closer first.

"Haven't seen a mercenary 'round these parts for years, lass," he reached under the bar with a frown, then withdrew a handful of notes. "Let's see what we've got here," he flicked through them. "Bounty...bounty...miners...thievery..." he muttered.

I glanced between him and the notes. He frowned all the while, reading to himself. The hard eyes of the publican were still on me, and while I waited I glanced at her again, offering a small, apologetic smile.

The judgement in her eyes burned me, but also prompted me to speak; useless babble, to fill the weighty silence. "I'm sorry for interrupting you," I told her meekly. "I've never had to hire anybody before, so I'm not sure how it's meant to be done," I admitted.

Great, I winced. Why don't you tell them your life story while you're at it?

Delphine openly looked me up and down. "After a bodyguard for some fool's errand, I assume?"

I nodded automatically, oddly relieved to discover she had a voice, despite it being hard and sharp, like the edge of a knife. I tilted my head to the side as I reconsidered; could I call Farengar a fool?

"Something like that," I answered eventually.

"War's made travelling all manner of unsafe, hasn't it?" Orgnar mused in a bored tone that told me he was delivering an oft-spoken, generic response.

Before I could reply, he shook his head and stowed the sheaf of papers back under the bar. "Sorry, lass. There's nobody after mercenary work for miles. Best you try in another town."

"But I don't have time for that," I shook my head desperately.

Orgnar held his hands out and shrugged. "Either you make the time to find someone, or you journey alone."

"Where are you headed?" Delphine asked swiftly, almost cutting Orgnar off; her voice still a bark of efficiency and barely-restrained frustration.

I shook my head futilely, turning away from the pair. "It doesn't matter. Thank you, for your time," I added belatedly. There was no point in being rude, after all.

I could feel their eyes on me for a moment longer as I walked toward the exit, staring at the floor and commanding myself to practise my breathing exercises. Then Orgnar asked Delphine something about rotating the mead barrels, and I was alone in my plight again.

I felt dazed as I stood on the top step of the inn and stared out at the river, and at nothing. My mind churned through the options. Go to the Barrow alone and likely never return; find a mercenary in another town; give up the Dragonstone entirely and never return to Whiterun.

There must be a way, I schooled.

The rhythmic tink tink of metal meeting metal filtered through my fog of despair, hooking my attention. I grinned, recognising it and turning toward the sound with relief, locating the low rooftop, slim verandah, and beyond, the glow of the forge.

Before I decided anything more regarding this Bleak Falls Barrow business, I would pay Hadvar's family the money I had earned for them, and tell him about the contract with Warmaiden's.

–

Alvor caught sight of me from his seat by the anvil and cast aside what he was working on. His brood of concentration transformed into a wide, welcoming grin.

He shook my hand and quietly thanked me for speaking to the Jarl; the guards at the gate were evidence of my success. Ushering me toward the house, he asked if I was hungry.

I let him lead. I hadn't eaten, and I was more than willing to exchange gold and talk away from the eyes and ears of the town.

As the door had closed behind us, Alvor's booming voice did surface, echoing around the small upper level. "Sigrid! Dorthe! Celeste's here!"

I startled at the shriek from below – Dorthe, I presumed. A clatter of small shod footfalls landed on the stairs, then the tall, mousy-haired girl was on the upper level, grinning widely at me. "You're back! You'll never believe what happened after you-"

"Dorthe," Alvor cut her off cautiously.

"What?" I swivelled to Alvor; sudden fear tightened my chest. "What happened after I left?"

"Nothing happened," he offered a seat and threw his daughter a warning look.

I sat, but turned on Dorthe as she drew closer. "Did you see the dragon?" I asked hurriedly.

Dorthe crossed her brows a moment before realising – remembering – then shook her head and giggled. "No – that's not what I meant. It was Hadvar, he-"

"Dorthe," Alvor growled, rougher this time.

The girl rolled her eyes, sat back in her seat and pouted.

I gripped the edge of the table, confused. Panic drifted through me like tendrils of smoke, winding around my heart and squeezing - but nobody was reacting as though anything was wrong.

"Please?" I asked Alvor quietly. "What's happened? Is Hadvar all right?"

"Nothing is wrong. He is well," Alvor dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"You're not pestering Celeste already are you?" Sigrid's voice sounded from the landing.

I turned to regard her, feeling anxious despite Alvor's reassurances. If Hadvar was well, then what was Dorthe bursting to tell me? It couldn't be bad news - could it? - but that meant it was personal in nature. Perhaps they'd received a letter from him, and he had mentioned something about our farewell dance on the bridge?

Why would he do that, I panicked?

"I'm not!" the girl insisted defensively. "Why can't I tell her what Hadvar did?"

"You know why – we've talked about this," Sigrid cut in, joining us at the table and placing a hand on my shoulder in welcome. "It's so good to see you again. Apologies for my daughter worrying you. Hadvar is fine."

With a rush of heat to my cheeks, I prayed that they didn't know what had occurred between us at the bridge out of town. Despite conducting ourselves in broad daylight, it was a private moment that was all the more precious for being private.

"All right," I accepted steadily, glancing to Alvor with a recovered smile as I remembered the money and potential contract. "Then I will share my news."

I retrieved my pack, digging inside for the coin pouches while Sigrid took a seat beside me. "You sold everything?"

I nodded as my hands fell to the necklaces, and changed my mind. "All but the silver work, and that's my fault," I explained with a hasty glance Alvor's way; I didn't want him to think nobody had wanted them. "Whiterun was...complicated," I trailed off as my eyes widened. "I held the necklaces back. The shopkeeper there was awful and would never have appreciated them. Let me find the right buyer."

"The leatherwork, then?" Alvor asked in a low, hesitant rumble. "You were able to offload it?"

Withdrawing the coin pouches and placing them on the table, I smiled. "Adrianne Avenicci bought the lot, for 550," I began counting it out.

"How much?" Dorthe shrieked.

Sigrid laughed and Alvor looked stunned. Dorthe's wide eyes fell to the coin pouches.

"That is excellent news," Sigrid rested her hand on my shoulder again as she rose and moved to the hearth.

"You have done me a great service, lass," Alvor added with a depth of gratitude to his tone.

"Can I help count it?" Dorthe scrambled to my side.

I nodded, handing her one of the two coin pouches. "Some of this money is mine," I inwardly winced – Lydia's. "I need to hire a mercenary when I go," I added idly. "But it was easier to put all of the money in one place to travel."

"You were granted access to your accounts!" Sigrid called out warmly as she approached with the teapot and several mugs. "I'm so relieved for you! I wondered if that was why you had been delayed."

I was about to shake my head, and thought better of it. "As I said – Whiterun was complicated," I cleared my throat, focussing on creating piles of gold in front of me. Dorthe glanced at me, mirroring my actions; counted the septims into piles of ten.

"A mercenary?" there was a frown in Alvor's voice.

Grateful for a change in subject, because I did not want to tell them about my account being frozen by the Legion, I smiled reassuringly. "Yes, at least, I hope so, very soon. Unfortunately, I had no luck finding anyone at the Sleeping Giant," I half shrugged, busying myself with the gold again. "Sven suggested Rorikstead, which I suppose I will try next," I sighed, "as those for hire in Whiterun weren't exactly...suited to the task."

I was talking idly. In the welcome comfort of their home, I had let my guard down without even noticing.

"Sorry," I shook my head, trying to laugh it off for fear of worrying them. "I'm rambling."

Sigrid placed a mug of tea in front of me. "Where are you headed that requires a mercenary? Rorikstead is a fair journey in itself – further than Whiterun."

Her tone was light and conversational, but I caught her concern behind it.

I really didn't want to tell them. Lydia had reacted badly to Bleak Falls Barrow, and I knew Hadvar's family would respond in much the same way. They wouldn't like it, and would want to know more. And that would lead me to Farengar's unspoken suspicion that I was Dragonborn.

"I'm..." I created another pile of 10, weighing my response. I had grown curious of the fact myself. Not that I had any idea what being Dragonborn might mean, in this day and age; I certainly wasn't equipped, physically or emotionally, to become a dragon slayer, no matter what happened in Bleak Falls Barrow.

"And then, I'd tell them the truth. I find that's generally the best thing to do."

I smiled at the memory. Had Hadvar only spoken those words to me days ago? It felt as though months had passed since we had spoken.

I glanced back to Alvor and Sigrid, sat across from me now. "I need to go to Bleak Falls Barrow," I admitted soberly.

With a clatter, Dorthe knocked over a few piles of coins.

"You can't!" she cried as the coins scattered; her eyes, bright and wavering, fixed on mine. "It's full of draugr!"

Nerves mingled with panic as I knelt to recover the fallen septims. Sigrid and Alvor ducked under the table to help.

Draugr!?

"I've entered into an agreement," I told her hurriedly, trying to convince myself that everything was fine. "The Jarl's mage has requested that I retrieve something in there for him."

Stop panicking. That's why you're hiring a mercenary.

Sigrid and Alvor cast each other worried glances as they helped retrieve the gold, but said nothing.

Dorthe didn't have their restraint. "No, Celeste, please!" her voice trembled as she knelt down beside me, the coins forgotten as she grasped my hand in her small fingers. "It's too dangerous!"

"Give her time to explain, Dorthe," Alvor rumbled kindly, his hazel eyes meeting mine with the same, hard look I'd seen there when Hadvar had first told him about the dragon; advising me to delay explaining the full of the matter no further.

I nodded a wordless, grim acknowledgement, rising and dropping the collected money onto the uncounted pile. The moment Sigrid had taken her seat, Dorthe abandoned her task and sat on her mother's lap, staring at me with anguish in her eyes.

I counted out the money to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to look at. "I know it'll be dangerous," I admitted quietly. "That's why I'm hiring someone to go with me. Someone who can clear the way," I shrugged; the coins in my hand chinked together.

Silence met my words. I bought time, glancing over the piles of coins, determining that it was all there. I put the remainder away, calculating that I might have almost 400 septims to pay a mercenary with.

After that, I had no excuse not to look at them, and did so with an apologetic smile. "I've given my word I will do this," I affirmed quietly.

Dorthe looked up to her mother; uncertainty in her eyes. Sigrid's brow was knitted with concern. Alvor seemed both confused and grave. The silence continued.

"Say something, please," I spoke in a low tone, then reached out to grasp my tea; another welcome distraction to keep my hands from fidgeting. It was pleasantly warm, and the sip I took was just as soothing.

Alvor's eyes widened as he exhaled and shook his head, as though he didn't know where to begin.

"All right," Sigrid schooled her expression and nodded, shuffling to adjust her daughter. "While I don't understand what might have possessed you to enter into such an agreement," she sounded slightly curt, "you're a grown woman, Celeste, and it is not my place to-" she cut herself off, pursing her lips.

She was trying to stop from saying something she might regret.

Alvor spoke up, his tone more measured than his wife's. "Have you considered what Hadvar will think of such a scheme?" he asked delicately. "After all you went through to escape Helgen-?"

I nodded swiftly. "I can imagine exactly what he would say," I lifted my eyebrows briefly. "But there's...a lot riding on going. I can't give in to fear."

I met Alvor's eyes, feeling exposed, and realised what it was that I saw in his expression. It was disappointment – and not aimed at me, but the situation, as though the world had once again let him down by asking this of me.

I was taken back by the look; it conveyed a trust in me that I wondered if I deserved. I was moved that I had somehow managed to earn it.

And Hadvar...oh, Hadvar. I shook my head. What would he say? Would he try to stop me from going; try to protect me from the unknown evils of the world by preventing me from living through them? Regardless of what had passed between us, that would never do. Even if we had promised anything to one another, which we hadn't; I was not to be caged to stay safe and ignorant while others fought and died for their freedom.

Tell them; just...a little more delicately than that.

"I do acknowledge your concern," I recovered with a respectful tilt of my head; the weight of embarrassment I had been feeling lifting in the face of their open kindness. I was left with a resolve; not only to keep my word, but to rise up and be brave, for those in front of me, and those who were absent. "And yes, you are right. Hadvar would not like this. But he is not here," I held my head up higher and sighed. "Neither are thousands more men and women, who are doubtlessly better equipped to fulfil the Jarl's mage's request. They are away, at war, and so all manner of strange tasks fall on our shoulders in their absence," I nodded with determination, trying to convince myself as much as them.

"Celeste..." Sigrid started delicately.

I wasn't finished. "I may not be able to fight my way around draugr or bandits, or whatever else Skyrim decides to throw in my way," I continued, my intention swelling like a victorious song in my heart, making me feel bold. "But I can learn. Better to learn to face the world, than to run and hide from everything and everyone. I'm not afraid," I told them with conviction, settling my gaze on Sigrid.

She smiled somewhat sadly, turning her eyes to her husband. "Another one too brave for their own boots."

This made Alvor chuckle, though it was with some exasperation, and the exchange made me laugh a little, too.

They mean him.

Of course they did. I smiled knowingly across the table at the little family, as Alvor rose to his feet.

"If you are determined to do this, then it is not our place to dissuade you. And if you are in need of protection – I would like to introduce you to somebody," he tilted his head toward the door.

I stood, glowing. "You know of somebody who I could hire to come with me?"

Alvor half-smiled. "Perhaps. Let's go talk to him."

–

Alvor introduced me to Faendal, who we found chopping wood by the river side nearby the lumber yard. The smith introduced me to the Bosmer as Celeste, a family friend.

I shook hands with Faendal as I inspected him, recalling that I had already heard his name. It was he who Hadvar had arranged to chop wood for the forge in his absence. He wore the common clothes of a farmer, stained with wood sap here and there. After we had exchanged pleasantries he leaned on the handle of his axe, regarding me with sharp, dark, garnet-coloured eyes.

Alvor's suggesting I take a lumberjack to Bleak Falls Barrow?

"Faendal and I - we've been doing a bit of an exchange," Alvor leaned back against a wooden workbench, crossing his arms. "Gotten to talking of late. As it happens, Faendal is an expert marksman."

I glanced back to the Bosmer swiftly, raising my eyebrows in evident interest. An archer? That's more like it.

He was frowning at Alvor, as though wary of his point. "Was, Alvor. Before I came to Riverwood. I'm more a...hobby hunter," he directed the latter to me as the crease in his brow deepened. "Are you after archery lessons? I...don't really do that any more," he hesitantly shook his head.

I flickered a glance at Alvor, but the smith just raised his eyebrows. So he was leaving the rest to me.

If Alvor believes you need Faendel, you must win him. "While lessons from a Master would be helpful," I smiled thankfully, imbuing my tone with a warmth that I hoped would break through the mer's regret, "I'm seeking one who might be interested in a more...immediate payoff," I faltered. Surely his reaction to the Barrow would be the same as everyone else's.

Faendal's look turned into one of scepticism. "What kind of contract are you talking about?" he asked in a warning tone.

"Security," I replied steadily. "I have an artefact to retrieve, but I have been led to believe that the journey will involve some danger. I have money," I added swiftly.

"She's been asked to go through the Barrow, Faendal," Alvor interjected.

Faendal's garnet eyes widened perceptibly as he turned back to me. "Why would anyone ask a little thing like you to do that?"

"The Jarl's court mage asked me to do it," I spoke quickly, before I lost control of the conversation. "And I have given my word that I will go."

If anything, he grew more dubious. "Who are you to the court mage?"

I shook my head dismissively. "Nobody. I'm a bard-"

"A bard?"

"-and I'm as confused about his asking as everyone else," I assured, despite his outburst. "Would you accompany me and clear the way?" I implored. "I have money, and you can have all the loot you like from the Barrow, excepting the artefact I'm seeking."

Faendal paused, considered, then glanced down and shook his head. "Bleak Falls Barrow is not a safe place. You would be better off returning to the Jarl's mage and reminding him of this," Faendal lifted off his axe handle, and stepped past me.

I looked to Alvor for help, but Hadvar's uncle's eyes were on Faendal, and he was frowning.

Faendal returned to his work; placing a log on a chopping block. With a swing of his axe that made the muscles on his arm ripple, he sliced it clean in two with a thunk.

I startled; in my mind, the Stormcloak in Helgen took place of the log. Staring at the chopping block, my eyes glazed as I heard the dour-faced Imperial Captain instructing me to walk to the block next.

And then the dragon had arrived. Did it realise it had saved me? If...if I was Dragonborn, would...could I have somehow, unconsciously, in my final moments, called it to me?

Was the dragon appearing in Skyrim my fault?

Once the idea sprung on me, I had to know. Farengar had told me he would answer my questions once I returned with the Dragonstone, so that was what I had to do.

I jumped again as Faendal's axe split another log down its middle; the sound brought me back to where I was.

"Is 400 gold sufficient?" I licked my lips.

Faendal shook his head as he piled the chopped wood to one side and reached for another log. "I wouldn't do it for 4000. Neither should you," he added pointedly.

"Faendal," Alvor said quietly, reasonably. "There is more to life than chopping wood. When did you last venture outside of Riverwood?"

Faendal cast Alvor an annoyed glance then swung, splitting another branch with a crack. Before he could lean down to gather the pieces, I grabbed the pieces and piled them with the others he had already cut. His sharp eyes tracked my movements.

"If you don't want money; what would it take?" I posed desperately.

Faendal waited until I was out of the way before he brought his axe down on the chopping block, and left it there. "That which I need is out of reach. Even for a...bard."

"Tell me," I urged as a hope kindled inside of me. "You don't know the extent of my resources."

Faendal cast a wary glance toward Hadvar's uncle. "Alvor, you might as well get back to your forge. Celeste and I might be a while, negotiating terms," he sighed in defeat.

I grinned gleefully between the pair. Now I was getting somewhere.

Alvor eased off the workbench, chuckling as he shook his head. "My work here is done," he bid us farewell.

"Thank you," I called after him; he raised a hand in reply. "I'll be back as soon as I've settled things here!"

The Bosmer watched Alvor's progress with that suspicious look on his face. I waited for him to talk or turn back to me, or even resume chopping wood, but he didn't shift until Alvor was out of sight.

Then swiftly, he turned to me. "All right. Here's the situation. You help me resolve it, and I'll take you through Bleak Falls Barrow for free."

Heartened, my smiled widened.

He told me of a woman, Camilla, who he'd been in the process of courting when 'the bard' (Faendal referred to him as scornfully) stepped in and swept her off her feet with his pretty words and songs and sweeping golden hair.

I tried not to laugh, schooling my expression into one of empathetic interest as Faendal idly ran a hand over his own ashen mane, tied back into a low ponytail. "I have a plan, but I can't be the one to deliver it," he dug into his pocket and retrieved a small piece of notepaper.

Remaining silent but deeply interested in the complex love triangle, I opened the note.

My Dearest Camilla,
I yearn to have you as my own,
Washing my linens,
And my fine blond hair,
To cook my dinner from my stove,
And tend to my house while I wander.
Yours Truly,
Sven

A small scoff escaped me and I clamped my free hand to my mouth to muffle it. These were not the words of a bard, and Camilla would be a fool to believe Sven had written it.

"What?" Faendal asked sharply. "Don't you think it will work?"

Swallowing my laughter, I folded the note and feigned calmness. If Faendal wanted to engage in a war of words with Sven, he was hopelessly unmatched. He couldn't have picked a more suitable task for me; this, at least, I was qualified to help him with.

I handed the note back to the elf. "I have a better idea," I replied in a conspiratorial manner. "Love won through treachery has little chance of remaining true," I spun; my flowery words would set up my proposal nicely.

Faendal leaned back. The sharpness of eye softened as he idly tucked the wretched note back into his pocket. I faltered, wondering if I should tell him to destroy it?

"What do you suggest?" he asked, crestfallen.

I smiled encouragingly. "Write Camilla another letter. One I will help you write. If her affections have been swayed by the words of one bard, let us return her to you with the help of another," I held my hands out. "I can write you a letter that will guarantee she doesn't even look at Sven again," I promised big. "What do you think?" I raised my eyebrows, holding one of my hands out, prompting him to shake on it.

His hasty nod surprised me, and he shook my offered hand at once. "All right. But here are my terms," he was suddenly all business; not the jilted lover. "You deliver the letter to Camilla this evening. If she replies tonight instead of going to Sven at the Sleeping Giant, then tomorrow morning, I'll take you through Bleak Falls Barrow to collect your artefact."

I raised my eyebrow at his haste, but couldn't dispute it with regards to my personal quest. "On the condition that you take out any foes before us on the journey."

Faendal grinned widely at me. "Don't worry yourself about that. If you help me win Camilla back, I'll be armed to take on whatever lies in our way."

I wanted to laugh at his bravado, but held off. Instead, we got to business. I didn't doubt that Sven was smitten with whoever Camilla was; the romantic bard, already in love, as I had noted when I had met him. Truth be told, I thought Camilla to be the villain of this piece ,with fickle heart and eye to be swayed so easily between two devotees. I tried not to think too much on it, though, as I knew nothing but Faendal's side of the tale.

And I had a job to do. Even if Sven was in love, I had to hope that he would recover from the loss.

Over the course of the afternoon, Faendal regaled me with stories of Camilla; her virtues and mannerisms and habits. All the reasons he loved her.

While I listened, I couldn't help but smile at the joy talking of the woman brought him. He gave me paper and charcoal, and I noted down some of the things he said verbatim, in case I could use them in the letter. When I had pages filled and a firm idea in my mind of what Camilla looked like through Faendal's eyes, I said farewell to leave him to his job, with the intention of returning to Alvor and Sigrid's to finish mine in solitude.

"Thank you," Faendal stopped chopping wood as I made to leave. "Nobody has ever helped me with this sort of thing before."

I waved at the proof of his love I had scribbled. "There's still a lot to do, but I will try my best. Divines willing you'll have a reply from, if not see her tonight."

"And you tomorrow," Faendal nodded pointedly. "I'll meet you at Alvor's forge at sunup. Be sure to acquire some armour, before we set out," he turned and returned to the chopping block.

–

Things did not go to plan, and as the afternoon wore away, my vexatious panic rose.

I drafted letter after letter from the dining table in Alvor and Sigrid's house, which in hindsight, had not been the best idea to begin with.

Dorthe was insatiably curious about what I was doing, and I didn't feel comfortable telling her about it. Word would get around, and Faendal would be mortified. When she determined I wasn't going to share my writing with her, she started asking me questions about Whiterun; what I'd done there, who I'd met, what the Jarl had been like, and why I suddenly needed to go to Bleak Falls Barrow. I promised I would tell her over dinner, when I could tell her parent's as well. In the back of my mind, I reminded myself to bring up the contract with the Avenicci's tonight, for I'd not had a chance to earlier.

But while Dorthe had accepted my stalling, it was never long before she asked me another question relating to my activities.

When Sigrid appeared at the top of the stairs and asked her daughter to help peel vegetables, the girl retreated to the hearth and started humming contentedly. I schooled my response; felt my relief on the inside. I liked Dorthe a lot, but I had a job to do and time was short.

The quiet was better but still not enough to make the letter to Camilla spring to life. I mused over my words, scribbling out more than I committed to page, my brows perpetually crossed and my own heart, utterly unsatisfied. I tried to write a letter that I would want to receive to no avail. Despite Mikael's horrible jibe in the Bannered Mare, this exercise cast a vivid light on my inexperience in the art of romance. Everything sounded too aloof, or possessive, and just simply not right.

Scritch scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch.

I shook myself out of my perturbed thoughts to glance at Dorthe peeling, then picked up my materials and stood. "Do you think anyone would mind if I wrote in Hadvar's room? I would like to...consult one of his books," I reached.

Dorthe looked up; an open, honest gaze that made me feel wretched. "Of course not. Mama and I cleaned it up for you while you were away. You may consider it your own."

"Oh!" the guilt intensified. "Thank you. You didn't need to do that."

"It was no trouble," she smiled happily, then returned to peeling.

I descended the stairs and traversed the lower hall, bundling my papers in one arm so I could turn the door handle.

It opened and I glanced around the tiny room, unable to suppress a smile, even as a surge of guilt flushed my cheeks. Everything had been dusted and washed; the shield on the wall gleamed, the bed linen was fresh and folded neatly, and a lantern sat on the side bookshelf beside a pitcher of water and a small, ceramic bowl. On the bed a simple, yellow and cream tunic was spread.

The room contained additional furniture of a sort; the Legion armour I had worn from Helgen was arranged on a small dummy in the far corner. I tilted my head at it, wondering at its appearance, but quickly shook the confusion off. Alvor was a smith; they probably had lots of them to display his wares on.

The sight of the armour was welcome, despite what I had endured wearing it, for it meant I wouldn't need to ask Alvor if I could borrow something for my journey to Bleak Falls Barrow tomorrow. If I ever got this blasted letter completed.

Closing the door with a soft click, I hurried in, cast the unfinished notes onto the bed and my writing materials on the side table. The tunic Sigrid had laid out for me caught my eye, and I picked up the hem of the sleeve, inspecting the thick, even stitching. Small yellow flowers were embroidered onto the cuffs; a detail I hadn't noticed at first glance.

I frowned at it. It was not hers; the tunic looked brand new. They didn't need to go to all this trouble for me, but it was so nice to feel welcome. And, perhaps I would be able to write if I cleaned and composed myself first.

I hurriedly washed and dressed, resolving to wash the dress I'd borrowed from Sigrid before I returned it to her. I would not leave it for her to wash.

The new tunic was soft and warm, with simple ties running down either side at the waist to adjust the fit.

As I re-braided my hair loosely to finish my preparations, I glared at the notes in a pile on Hadvar's bed. No more procrastinating, I told myself sternly. I sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the jug, bowl and lantern out of the way so I could write on the side table.

I looked over what I had written so far with a sigh:

Beautiful Camilla,
I miss your melodious voice, the peal of dulcet tones as your lips form my name,
Your eyes, two forest orbs, brimming with their kind serenity.
I miss our walks together in the evenings, watching the torchbugs play in the spray of the river as salmon leap and dance between the foam to catch a glimpse of your perfection.
Honour me with a twilight walk tonight, that we might resume the felicity of honourable courtship.
Forever yours, your devoted admirer,
Faendal

I scrunched my nose at my work. It was dreadful. Awful. If I received such a letter, I would throw it away and avoid whoever had sent it for the rest of my days. There was flattery, but it felt false; memories, but they felt contrived. And at the close, it was begging for her to return to him. It felt weak.

Isn't love a weakness?

I shook my head, irritated as I drew my socked feet up onto the bed to curl underneath me. I rest against the headboard, propped up by Hadvar's pillow. A swift thought reached me, and faltering, absurdly worried about being caught in my folly, I sniffed it quickly. Clean cotton and soap. With a sigh, I leaned back and stared at the dark, wood-panelled ceiling, a part of me wishing that Sigrid and Dorthe hadn't been so thorough in their preparations. Despite being away with the Legion for the past three years, the smell of him would have been a small comfort.

Perhaps love was a weakness? Perhaps the letter was suitable? Who was I to judge? I had never received a letter professing love, or anything even close to it in my nineteen years. There had been childhood, my studies, my music, and the Bard's college. Mikael had tried to collect me as a conquest, and had managed to score my first kiss – something I had never told him but always regretted with mortification. Ataf had harboured a crush, unbeknownst to me, until I had short-sightedly and selfishly kissed him. And then there was Hadvar, who I had known for a single day, who I felt closer to than my friend from the college. Hadvar's kiss had not made me feel weak; quite the opposite. He had left me with bright hope and courage.

Where is he now, I wondered? In Solitude? On his way to his new post, or already there? I smiled as a different thought pressed upon me; that he would not expect me to be sitting on his bed now, writing a love letter. I closed my eyes and remembered our farewell encounter; his trembling hand grasped my waist, his fingers curled through my hair, drawing me to him. I remembered the dark, intense storm behind his longing eyes, his soft lips stealing my breaths, and the heady, intoxicating haze that surrounded us.

I shuddered, uncomfortably warm as I opened my eyes and glanced guiltily to the note on my lap. I flushed at where my mind had taken me. Now was not the time to dally, and I wasn't certain that I should be having these sort of thoughts about Hadvar. We had agreed to write to one another.

I read what I had written again but my yearning boiled, my head still full of our goodbye; the bright hope and courage Hadvar had awakened within me. Did this letter inspire hope? Did it promote courage? In a sense, yes, I decided after another careful read. The hope was plain. And perhaps I could use it to rouse courage.

There was only one way to find out. Instead of delivering the letter to Camilla's house, which was above the general store, I walked back to Faendal's chopping block.

The elf was still hard at it, seemingly tireless as log after log split in half and his pile of firewood grew ever higher. I watched him; the sun glinted off his silvery hair as his arm muscles flexed; he brought the axe down again with a thunk.

It would never do for me to deliver this note; not if it was to inspire the courage that I felt pure, truthful admiration needed. Faendal must re-write it in his hand, and Camilla must receive it directly from him. I was merely the sieve that had organised his thoughts and feelings, and for it to have the desired effect, he would need to be brave and face her. If love truly thrived on hope and courage, he would be living proof of it.

He seemed confused when he finally noticed me, but leaned on the handle of his axe and waited for me to explain. I passed the note over to him, confident in what I had produced, and detailed how the rest of the evening would need to work.

Faendal was not opposed to the plan. I left him full of nervous confidence by the river side, and he reminded me to be ready to leave Riverwood for the Barrow at dawn.

A/n: This is proving to be a much longer story than I anticipated. Thank you so much for sticking with me, wonderful readers and reviewers, and Cake-san, I agree with you! Celeste has no idea what she's getting into, and that's part of the (welcome) challenge with her character; a headstrong, somewhat spoilt girl who can't fight to save herself, in the wilds of Skyrim (and Dovahkiin no less). The next chapter might take a while to flesh out; the Barrow is - naturally - not going to be all smooth sailing.