Svana wasted no time.
She cringed as she pulled her old dress and cloak over her shoulders. Gods, it had only been days and her clothing had been through so much. It was starting to look and smell the way she felt. Tired, worn and absolutely grimy.
Still, she had more pressing matters at hand. She was hardly dressed to see the Jarl at his court, but perhaps if she looked as ragged as she did, maybe he'd believe her.
Or cast her out and call her touched in the head.
She pushed her way past the busy inn, full of guards stuffing their faces with plates stacked high with food, and merchants loading off produce for the kitchens. The smell of breakfast over the fire tempted her to stay, but she promised Alvor to send word, and she wasn't about to break that promise.
It had been surprisingly easy to make it past the guards that flanked Drangonreach, the grand longhouse that the Jarl and his family resided in. She wondered then if the Jarl regularly allowed common folk to simply enter and demand his presence. She was ready to fight any means of Imperial-touched bureaucracy to demand his audience.
And yet, all she did was greet the guards and they let her in through the front doors.
The longhouse seemed more like a castle when she walked into its halls. And it was a grand sight, indeed. Svana had never known wealth and power like this. She couldn't help but crane her neck this way and that as she stepped past the heavy, imposing doors.
The wooden pillars were carved in traditional Nord motifs of dragons, dancing and playing in the carved rafters like kittens. Large sconces and hanging fixtures illuminated the grand hall, as bright as the morning light outside.
The long table that commanded the hall was crowded with food. Breads of every type were presented in ornate baskets, still steaming from the oven. Slices of smoked meats and cheeses were arranged on plates, next to fruits and jams. Barrels of mead and pitchers of water sat in impressive silver containers.
Yet all of it remained untouched.
In fact, as Svana scanned the room, save for the two guards outside, the hall was devoid of life. Not even a stray servant was to be seen.
Either this Jarl was the most trusting man of all of Nirn…or she had just walked into something very troubling.
Sure enough, as she walked further down the hall, she heard it. There was no mistaking the frustrated undertones of what sounded like three people bickering. Strange that the guards hadn't stopped her then, if she was interrupting something.
As she approached the throne, she saw who the voices belonged to. Jarl Balgruuf was like how she envisioned a Jarl to look like: as blonde as the fields of wheat in his hold, and a mighty beard with braids to match.
Yet his steward was another story. He looked Imperial, or some sort of foreigner. His dark skin stood out in a place like Skyrim, so too the cunning eyes and his short, slight build.
But most impressive was his Housecarl. Or, at least, who she hoped.
A Dunmer woman pulled away from the argument, raising her blade right at Svana, prepared to strike at the slightest provocation. Her ashen skin glowed under the firelight, and the markings on her made her look even more strange and alien. Her armor betrayed slivers of coiled muscle along her limbs, and her scowl was impressively frightening. This was a Housecarl.
"State your business." It was all she needed to say.
"W-Who are you?" Stupid question, Svana thought, a moment too late to stop it.
"I could ask you the same thing." The Dunmer narrowed her ruby red eyes, menacing in the low light.
Suddenly Svana wondered if this was a fool's errand all along. She squared her shoulders, and uttered, "I have word from Helgen."
"You know about Helgen?" The Dunmer sheathed her sword, eyes wide and disbelieving. "No time to waste then. What's your name? The Jarl would speak to you."
"I'm Svana, of Kynesgrove."
At her instruction, Svana followed the Housecarl up the dais and before the throne, where the Jarl and his steward immediately turned their attention on the newcomer.
The steward, the foreigner, was first to speak. "Irileth, what's the meaning of this, we can't afford any interru-"
Irileth cut him off just as suddenly, addressing the Jarl instead. "My Jarl, this girl has information about Helgen."
Jarl Balgruuf focused his eyes on Svana, who suddenly felt very small.
"Is that true?"
Svana was torn between bowing and answering, but lowered her gaze respectfully all the same, kneeling before the throne. "Y-Yes, I came from there actually, I escaped with two other survivors when the dragon came and- and burned everything."
She heard him shift in his seat. A long, terrible pause came between all four of them, as though realization had dawned upon everyone at the same time.
If the dragon still soared the skies, there was no telling who would be its next victim. The question burned in everyone's mind: Would Whiterun become the next Helgen?
Svana feared his answer. She had known men in power to gamble away the lives of nobodies if it meant keeping the people who mattered, alive and safe.
And Riverwood was a village of nobodies.
The Jarl leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, gesturing for her to continue. She felt the weight of his gaze on her, saw the intense fear burning in his eyes. Something deep inside her called him a fool for not acting sooner, tugging at her to take matters into her own hands.
You have the power to stop this.
Svana quieted the voice in her mind, and took a breath before she spoke.
"I was taken prisoner by the Imperial soldiers."
"Because you allied with Ulfric?" Accusation laced the steward's question.
Svana did not cow to his words, biting back a half formed retort. "No, ser. They took me because they found an amulet of Talos around my neck-" some sympathy from the Nord Jarl, perhaps?
"-it doesn't matter why they took me, what matters is that I saw the dragon and I saw what it did to Helgen. Nothing is left of that village. And last I saw, it was headed this way. The people of Riverwood are frightened, they don't have any protection so they asked me to send word to you."
The Jarl was a clever man. She supposed he had to be, otherwise he wouldn't be fit to rule a city. "Riverwood, eh? How do you know of the village?"
"When I left Helgen, it was the closest place for me and my friends to rest. It was Alvor who sent me to warn you, soon as I could walk on my own feet."
Jarl Balgruuf stroked his beard thoughtfully, "Alvor? The smith, isn't he? Reliable, solid fellow. Not prone to flights of fancy…"
He carefully regarded her, "And you're sure Helgen was destroyed by a dragon? This wasn't some Stormcloak raid gone wrong?"
"I swear on Ysmir's tomb."
There was an uncomfortable, heavy pause. The tension hung so thick in the air it was palpable. Svana could almost choke on it.
"Well then, Proventus," Jarl Balgruuf turned to his steward, "Should we do as you say then? Continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon that can fly?"
The steward, Proventus, shuffled nervously in place. "My Jarl, it's not-"
"My Jarl," Irileth spoke above the steward, who only gave an annoyed shake of his head, but did nothing to stop her.
Oh, she liked this one. "We should send our men to Riverwood at once, it's the one closest to the danger if the reports of the dragons are true."
"The Jarl of Falkreath would see that as provocation," Proventus stressed, "The city of Whiterun has not chosen a side, this is a political nightmare."
But Jarl Balgruuf would not sit on his hands.
"I'd rather risk a few hurt feelings than watch my people being slaughtered by that thing." Anger bubbled under the Jarl's voice, "I am not some soft lordling, standing idly by. Do I make myself clear?"
The steward looked away, pursing his lips in frustration. Irileth stood ready, shoulders straight and head held high.
"Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once," came the command, "Not the entire retinue, enough to help our people get to safety- do not sacrifice the men needlessly."
"Yes, my Jarl." She saluted with a fist to her chest, a traditional Nordic greeting. With a soldier's precision, she turned on her heels and left down a hallway, to the barracks.
"Well then, since this has all been decided, I will take my leave then, my Jarl," the steward spoke, dismissing himself. "If we are arming the people for a dragon attack, I will prepare what's necessary."
As he too disappeared down the hallways of the grand palace, Svana was suddenly more than aware that she was still kneeling before the throne.
"Don't mind Proventus, I know he seems the worrier, but I would not be able to run this city without men like him." The Jarl gestured for her to rise, "Your courage is admirable."
"The common messengers must be very brave then," Svana blurted out before she could stop herself.
Thankfully, the Jarl only let out an amused laugh. "Aye, that they are. But you came here of your own volition. Where did you say you were from, lass?"
"I'm from Kynesgrove, in Eastmarch."
"You've come a long way."
"I… I was looking for my brother," gods, this must have been the hundredth time she told this story, "He had run away from home, I thought he went to my Oma's."
"Either way, you've sought me out on your own initiative. That's commendable enough. Most men would bury themselves in an early grave at the talk of dragons."
"Thank you, my Jarl." The title sounded awkward as she addressed him, but he gave no indication of being offended.
"Don't thank me yet. I suppose you'll be on your way back home?"
Svana twisted her fingers anxiously. "I don't… I don't know the way back. I might just rest here for some time. Get my bearings."
"I am not a man that lets a good deed go forgotten, is there anything I can help you with?"
A hundred ideas pulled and tugged at Svana in her mind. Ask him for gold, weapons, a carriage back home. He's a powerful man.
Ask if his spies found Onmund.
She thought for a while before she answered. "I need someone to write a letter home for me."
Jarl Balgruuf looked surprised, and Svana half-wondered if she should have also asked for gold. No, no, money held no value if she couldn't see her family one last time. They deserved to know what happened, if rumors of Helgen had begun to spread…
Ysmir's beard, they probably think I'm dead.
"A fair request," he summoned a scribe by way of a servant, and before the Jarl, Svana wrote her message to her family:
Ma, Pa,
Don't know what you heard on the wind. Helgen is gone, but I'm not. I'm in Whiterun. Don't ask- it's a long story. I'm going to keep trying to find Onmund. By the time this letter reaches you, hopefully I've found out where he's gone off to.
Tell Elsie if she's been good she can let Frigga have my side of the bed.
Your daughter,
Svana
It was always a good day when the late morning sun warmed the ancient stones of the College of Winterhold. And today could only get better.
The Hall of the Elements buzzed with excitement. The rows of seats each had a folded circular, and the chattering only grew when the apprentices read its contents: a trip was to be had and the apprentices were given the opportunity to study ancient relics.
Brelyna and J'zargo each held their copy in hand, eyes darting over the words again and again.
"A trip!" Brelyna couldn't stop herself, "So early in our studies?
"Perhaps the masters have uncovered something. Skyrim is full of secrets, is it not?" J'zargo piped up.
Onmund honestly didn't know what to say. "I mean, I guess the same could be said anywhere, right? I've only heard of things like barrows and ruins, but never actually been to one myself."
J'zargo shrugged. "There is a first time for everything, this one has not delved into the caves of this province, perhaps there is value in such a place."
"Value?" Brelyna raised a brow. "J'zargo, we talked about this."
J'zargo sighed. "Very well…"
"Well, whatever this trip is," Brelyna began, steering the conversation back on track, "Let's see what Tolfdir has to say, before we get our hopes up too much."
Onmund could only focus on the words. A trip. He had never seen much of Skyrim outside of home. Even on his journey to Winterhold, he had gone under the cover of the night. And the carriage driver made sure to stick to well-travelled roads, and ones with little to see at that.
Discovering Skyrim's secrets, the circular read, what could it mean? Growing up in a small village, most rumors of treasure-filled caves were dismissed out of hand entirely; no point sending young folk off to their doom chasing some whimsy.
But this was the College, and they didn't do anything whimsy. Or at least, Onmund hoped not.
Soon enough the students settled down when the familiar screech of the door rose above the loud and excited conversations. Tolfdir shuffled in, carrying an impressive amount of books with a Telekinesis spell.
"Thank you for waiting, and apologies for the delay, I could have sworn I've misplaced all these- nevermind, nevermind," Tolfdir waved. "I'm sure you've all read the circular?"
The apprentices nodded, while some mumbled, "Yes sir."
Tolfdir clasped his hands together. "Very good, let's move onto the announcement then, shall we?" He approached the blackboard, and pinned a map onto it. "The College was recently given permission to study an ancient Nordic ruin, Saarthal."
Onmund's eyes shot wide open.
He knew the name, knew the story, but he didn't know Saarthal actually existed. Growing up, it had been a cautionary tale against the foreign powers of elves. How Ysgramor and his Companions drove out the offenders and saved the very first men who stepped upon Skyrim's lands.
Saarthal was real.
"Ah yes, Onmund." Tolfdir gestured in his direction, and he shrunk in his seat as the entire class' stare followed. "As a fellow Nord, I'm sure you're familiar with the legend of Saarthal. Would you like to give your classmates an introduction to the tale?"
Onmund barely found his voice when he asked, "You mean it's not a legend?"
Tolfdir shook his head. "Not at all, in fact, the location of the city had been known for sometime. Most researchers were wary of conducting any studies on their own due to the age of the location and the dangers it may possess. We were able to secure the location thanks to our numbers alone."
Blood pounded in his ears and drowned out Tolfdir's words. Saarthal was real. Ysmir's beard, Saarthal was real?
"-Onmund?"
"Oh, yes!" He tried to find the words in Common, but the tale sounded so much more… heroic in Nordic. And clever sounding too, when the skalds always found a way to make the whole thing rhyme.
"-Ysgramor came to Skyrim with his Companions and built the first city in Skyrim, Saarthal. It was said that Skyrim didn't even have its name yet." He recounted the tale as best as he could, though he realized more and more than his word choices in the Common tongue had been blunt and clumsy.
"T-the elves… I don't know what kind of elves, I'm sorry," he could feel the gaze of his classmates on him, waiting for him to misspeak, "B-but they found something in Saarthal and wanted to take it for themselves, or stop it? I-it's not really clear. The story goes that the war drums were beating and Ysgramor rallied our- his people."
Thank the Divines that Tolfdir interrupted when he did, kind as always. "As you are all aware, we have all heard stories of bloodshed and conflict amongst each other. Yet one must remember when reviewing historical texts, how different sentiments can be when compared to our contemporaries. In other words, what may have been commonly held beliefs then are frowned upon today."
Onmund shuffled nervously in his seat. He really wished he hadn't been the only Nord around now.
"But Onmund has done a commendable job at recounting the story- it is not so easy to recite in Common, thank you, lad." Tolfdir returned to the map pinned on the board. "But Saarthal is still, nevertheless, a historically important place. My ancestors, and Onmund's ancestors, founded one of the very first cities here in Skyrim." He circled an area just outside of the Winterhold border with a long, thin pointer.
"Here, we will hopefully be able to see how ancient Nords utilized their magic, and how some of the earliest inhabitants in Skyrim survived their trip from Atmora."
The students began to chatter excitedly once again. Onmund's heart raced when he heard the word 'magic'. The ancient Nords used magic? He wanted to shoot his hand up in the air, but Tolfdir kept droning on and on.
"Now, here's where things get exciting," Tolfdir paused, scanning over the students with those tired, warm eyes.
"-We will all be taking a trip there next week, together with some of the senior mages."
The Hall exploded in an uproar.
Saarthal. They'd be taking a trip to Saarthal. Mara's mercy, Onmund could feel the wind knocked out of his lungs. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever hope to come so close to his ancestors. Such a connection would be… gods, he didn't know how to describe it. The ancient Nords, only ever characters in books to him- real enough that he could believe they once journeyed across the sea, but so far removed from the present world.
He could barely wrap his head around what their lives must have been like. And to see those first attempts at settling, first hand...
"Onmund?" Brelyna asked, and he jolted out of his daydream.
"Huh?"
"Is… everything alright?"
"It's… just so strange to think. Saarthal is… it's like the legend to my people, you know? Everyone knows the tale, they make a bedtime story out of it for children."
"That's… grim." J'zargo pulled a face.
"I know, but, that's just how important it is. We always talk about when something is made well or special, it's like it was made in the days of Saarthal. How our ancestors did the best with what they had."
"Reminds me of the Nerevar legend," Brelyna added, "everyone knows it, no one likes to think it happened."
"Exactly." Onmund shook his head, still reeling from the shock. "Gods, Saarthal."
And within the next week too? With the senior mages. Onmund didn't dare hope a certain Breton mage would be joining them.
Any thoughts of the trip vanished his mind in an instant. Alrek would find this interesting, Onmund reasoned. He was clever like that, would probably see the value in it.
He'll be there, Onmund was sure of it.
The lecture, in the end, had been a historical one. Saarthal seemed so mundane when Tolfdir showed etchings from researchers who had been able to visit. And yet, even then, it made the legend all the more lavish. How the people lived such simple lives and yet overcame a horrifying tragedy.
He wrote everything down, so fast and so excited, his letters began to loop over one another.
"And of course," Tolfdir then held up a rock, etched with a marking, "an important find from Saarthal."
Onmund's eyes widened when he realized what the marking was. Nordic runes. Old and worn enough that the once sharp edges had been rounded off, but he recognized the mark all the same.
"Kaunass," he spoke, and almost immediately realized that the class had their attention back on him.
He found his voice easier this time. "It's the Nordic rune of fire, the sun, and of life. Usually we mark these when there's danger."
"That's right."
And with a flick of Tolfdir's wrist, the stone sparked to life, busting into flames.
"The ancient Nords knew a thing or two about enchanting, which is why even today, many Enchanters still use our ancestor's runes to bless their weapons, armors and yes, even their bed slippers, with powerful effects."
Onmund watched, captivated by the sight before him. Never in any story had he heard such common mentions of magic, when it was only ever reserved for the elves or evil, wicked characters. Or when they aided the hero, they were often weaker, strange folk who only ever stared too hard at the sky and made no sense.
Yet here, before him, was proof that the ancient Nords- his ancestors- used magic. Someone, thousands of years ago, used those runes, Nordic runes, in their everyday lives.
"The ancient Nords believed magic was a gift from the Old Gods, and those who wielded it, were clever, gifted folk indeed." From where he stood in the front of the class, Tolfdir smiled reassuringly at Onmund, and Onmund found himself smiling back, at ease for the first time in a while.