Homesick was not what Eirid would call herself as she entered the inn; the creak of the floorboards—a familiar yet uninviting rhythm—made her never want to set foot in the place again. Her legs involuntarily tensed as she took one more step inside, while shaking fresh snowfall from the shoulders of her cloak. She unclasped the lute at her back to rid it of snow too, hoping it hadn't melted into the wood. It would be awful if the timbre of the instrument warped.
"Welcome traveler" her father's voice drifted in greeting from the end of the taproom, obviously not recognizing her. Not that it was an easy task, considering her head was covered in a hood and then wrapped up in a long scarf to protect her face from the bitter cold.
"Hello Pa," she tugged the scarf loose enough to speak and pulled back her hood as well. The warmth of the hearth enveloped her smile at seeing him again. She may not have missed Winterhold, but she had missed her family.
After a moment of stunned silence, his voice finally boomed out with joy, "You've finally come home!"
Home. The word caused a subtle dread to rise in her—the meaning insinuated this is where she should stay. She'd been gone for the past four years and would have stayed away longer if not for her obligations—the entire reason for her absence was to train at the Bard's College.
There was good reason the Frozen Hearth had never retained a bard. One reason being, her parents couldn't afford to pay one. The patronage to the inn was sparse as far as travelers went, and only the locals kept a steady demand on ale which was the bulk of revenue which kept the inn afloat financially. The residents were not affluent either, so a bard wouldn't be able to make much on tips. Besides, what person in their right mind would willingly perform in such a dreary place?
Eirid had never imagined herself to take up a bard's occupation but she often sang to herself while she did chores and made up stories to pass the long, lonely hours. It was by her Mother's suggestion that she apply to the Bard's College—then if accepted, she would learn how to entertain properly, and return to provide the inn with some much-needed cheer. The extra coin couldn't hurt either. Her intentions were aligned when she had departed but now...
Dagur called for Haran, and her mother soon appeared from the cellar, looking to have been brewing more ale in the vats below. She swiftly embraced her daughter, which was followed by more forceful, encompassing hug from her father that surrounded the first. It sure made Eirid warm faster than simply standing in front of the fire.
"I can't breathe," she managed to exhale and her parents loosened their grips. She was their only child and she understood they had missed her, and it gave them heart to know she had returned safely. It gave her guilt, though, knowing she'd rather had not returned at all.
She could have been content writing to them the rest of their lives with occasional, brief, visits. They had exchanged letters while she had been away, telling of any events of significance. She wrote to them when the Jarl of Solitude allowed the Burning of King Olaf festival to commence once more—it was a major development as the event had been forbidden for many years after the passing of the High King of Skyrim. Her parents, in turn, had notified her of Nelacar's departure from the inn. The former college mage had been a long-time occupant of the inn, and his studies had taken him outside of Skyrim. She would actually miss the high elf's presence—his witticisms at dinner, his candid lectures about magic—he had almost felt a member of the family. It just proved nothing lasted forever.
Her parents unwrapped themselves from around her and she, in turn, unwrapped herself from her cloak and placed it on a peg that stuck out from the wall to hang. She unwound her scarf but kept it on; it reached her feet on both sides where it kept hung around her neck.
"Your training—it is completed then?" Dagur asked.
Eirid nodded with a smile and showed them her lute—she had earned it as a part of her graduation. Headmaster Viarmo had concluded this was the instrument she was most talented with, therefore had it commissioned for her.
"Play us something!" her father eagerly requested.
The room was as silent as a graveyard at the moment but not for the wind blowing against the inn—causing the thatched roof to shudder and groan against the wooden beams.
Eirid positioned her fingers over the neck and plucked a string. It rang out over the silence—and her parents' expressions were of rapt attention. She smiled lightly before singing her favorite song. It was one of a lost love being found again—inspired by the Poetic Edda that was the entire work that guided the Bard's college in everything from stories and songs, to the way they played their instruments.
Dagur and Haran seemed nothing but proud that their daughter had become an accomplished student and had an remarkable singing voice. She would be a boon to business. Not only did Eirid sing very well, but she put the right amount of emotion in her melody to make other's feel the story.
Her favorite part of the song was the lovers finding one another again and it always made her arms prickle with bumps when she sang the conclusion in a joyous crescendo.
That was when the door to the Frozen Hearth opened unceremoniously.
Her cheer was all but blown away, as the cold winds gusted inside—carrying with it, two new guests. They stomped the snow off their boots in a rhythm that was off beat from one another. The first—a blond man in leathers and decorated with at least two weapons—spotted the bar and grinned in appreciation. Her first guess about him was that he was a blade-for-hire.
The second was a face she recognized, but wasn't glad to see—he had long, dark hair and a thin layer of whiskers that would have made it harder to guess his identity if not for the copper and ruby circlet placed upon his head. He wore a long, fur-lined, cloak over a fine tunic. Dressed in such a style, he resembled his father a great deal.
"Welcome back, my Jarl!" her father greeted with a deep nod of respect.
Assur sauntered inside as though he had never left. Eirid held in a scoff of unpleasant surprise. Jarl? it had to be some kind of mistake. Since when did anyone think it was wise to bequeath leadership to this arrogant cad?
Winterhold had been rid of him once already, and his presence now made the place all the more unpleasant. He had found her a willing playmate when they were children but reflecting on those memories, she became embittered. He had treated her like she was nothing but a servant, telling her what roles she could and couldn't play in their games, proclaiming her ideas and opinions weren't worth anything and not even trying to understand. She felt her frown deepen thinking about how he hated mages and elves just because he was too stupid to think for himself.
"Do you have mead?" his companion asked Dagur, sidling up to the counter desperately. She'd be desperate for alcohol too if she'd had to travel with Assur.
She stood with her lute in hand, her posture stiff, seeming to wait for him to notice her. He pulled off his gloves and sat in a chair not far away, looking around the taproom as if taking in sights he had missed.
How could anyone ever miss Winterhold?
Haran made sure to approach swiftly and take his order, listing off the available meals that had been prepared. At the mention of her father's horker stew, Eirid's tummy gave a ferocious rumble, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since the night before.
The noise caught Assur's attention, and his sight finally did land on her.
"Eirid? By the nine, is it really you?" he stood abruptly and approached her, looking her over with an amused curiosity. Everyone in the room seemed to still at his invocation of a ninth divine. Talos. Winterhold had been 'cleansed' years ago—making a small settlement even smaller—and no one wanted to see a Thalmor agent ever again.
Of course, the idiot was oblivious to this fact since he had left before the horrors truly started.
"Hello Assur."
He raised a brow, assumedly at the way she casually addressed him in such a public place.
It wasn't as if she were used to calling him anything else but his name. She clenched her jaw and spoke through her teeth, forcing herself to amend it to, "My Jarl."
A smug grin crept across his lips, "I'm surprised to see you here. Didn't you always say you were going to leave this place?"
"I did leave."
"But...?"
"I came back," her tone dropped, "Same as you, it appears."
She began to absently strum the strings on her lute, trying and failing to find a note to start a new song to entertain with, as her mind raced with questions about him. What had he been doing all these years, and why had he returned?
He never seemed to like her idea of leaving Winterhold, he never seemed to like any of her ideas.
"Found you again, wretched elf!" he shouted as he stomped through the snow and turned a corner of one of the decimated old homesteads to find Eirid huddled in the piled stone husk of what was once a fireplace. Her cheeks were red, kissed by the cold wind that she was trying to shield herself from by hiding away in that spot. She would have rather been inside but her mother told them they'd be underfoot running around the inn.
He lifted a stick that he had been carrying, pantomiming a sword swing, and abruptly poked her with it.
"Stop it!" she cried and climbed out of her hiding place. She was getting so tired of playing 'hunt the elf.' Not to mention annoyed at how he jabbed her.
"I have slain you! Now you have to act like you're dying," Assur demanded and when she didn't respond with her usual, reluctant, death theatrics, he poked her again.
She grabbed the end of the stick and tugged it out of his grasp. He frowned at her unwillingness to participate. She snapped the stick in half and his frown plummeted into a glower, "That was my best stick! I had to walk all the way to the mine to find it!"
"I told you to stop!"
"Jarls-to-be don't take orders from inn-girls!" he retorted snidely.
"Well, you aren't my future jarl. I'm going to go so far away from Winterhold when I grow up. You'll have to get someone else to play your stupid game!"
He looked struck at her proclamation, as if he never considered a future where she wouldn't be there.
"You want to leave Winterhold?" the boy asked with wide, concerned, eyes. He would never be able to understand because his blood and legacy was tied to the throne of the hold. He would never leave. Eirid however, she was free to come and go as soon as she was old enough. She had options.
She threw the pieces of the broken stick to the ground and took a deep breath of the icy cold air, releasing it as a puff of vapor. She met his eyes with certainty and said, "Yes, and I won't ever return."
"Eirid."
She blinked, not having realized that by focusing on that memory, her strumming on the lute had stopped all together. His grin had transformed into a wide smile. Of course, he would find a way to subtly gloat that she had come back after saying she would never do so. She had broken a lot of bold promises made by her younger self.
"I'm glad you've returned."
She didn't know how to respond but make a slight bow of her head that passed as respect, then turned her back on him, strung the lute over her shoulder and leaned into the counter. It was no use trying to entertain on an empty stomach.
"Pa! Can I take dinner?"
"Eat with us," the Jarl overheard and commanded. Eirid gave him an annoyed look from over her shoulder. She hadn't even been in Winterhold a whole day yet and he was already back to bossing her around. Assur was motioning toward a table where he and his travelling companion were being served.
When she didn't make any move to obey, her father looked between them and let out a nervous laugh and with a gentle prod said, "Go join the Jarl, my snow berry. I will bring you a bowl of your favorite."
She rolled her eyes and felt her lips tighten as she sat next to the mercenary—that's what he would have had to have been to willingly travel with Assur. She found it hard to believe Assur could retain any friends, no matter where he had lived. The bench was small and it was a tight fit for three people.
Assur nodded to himself, satisfied that she had deigned them with her presence. He turned to his companion and said, "Cruel-Sea, this is my friend, Eirid. Evidently, she is a bard now."
Eirid's face twisted into a frown at the slightly mocking tone in which he mentioned her occupation.
"Didn't think you had any friends," the man, Cruel-Sea, quipped in a mumble causing her face to unwind at the corners and lift slightly. She must not have been the only one to pass judgement on the Jarl's knack for lacking good relations. The mercenary spooned a bite of stew into his mouth and made some sounds indicating that he appreciated the taste. She'd always maintained the opinion her father made the best horker stew in Skyrim. The secret was marinating the meat in mead for a day and then drying it over the fire.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he lifted a hand to offer a shake in the tight space between them. She took it and he gave her hand a single, hard, jostle, before turning his attentions back to the delicious stew, followed up with gulps of their homemade mead out of a wooden goblet.
Assur was much more mannered in matters of dining. He would hold his opposite hand under the spoon and blow on it until the steam dissipated and only then would allow it in his mouth.
She felt a bit of leftover broth on her hand from Cruel-Sea's handshake and she made an inconvenienced face, wiping it clean on the edge of her scarf.
"Likewise," she replied in a dry tone.
Her father placed a bowl of the same stew in front of her and she realized she couldn't criticize Cruel-Sea for his enthusiastic eating. She wasted no time in grabbing a spoon and following suit.
"You two eat like you are half-starved," Assur commented, seeming to look down his nose at the way they eagerly consumed dinner.
Cruel-Sea didn't offer an explanation at all but Eirid afforded herself a breath between bites "I have been travelling the last two days—departed from Dawnstar this morning before sunrise, and forgot to eat breakfast."
"You traveled here alone? All the way from Solitude?" Assur seemed impressed yet she couldn't help to feel he thought her foolish for doing so.
"I don't need an entourage or escort. I can take care of myself," she hitched a brow upward and looked over to Assur. He obviously couldn't take care of himself if he needed protection. It was true that traveling could be dangerous, there was aggressive wildlife and bandits but they were few and far between if one stayed on the marked roads. She had actually taken a small boat to Dawnstar's port and then walked the rest of the way.
Cruel-Sea chuckled at her statement. The Jarl seemed slightly offended and blew on another spoonful of stew. Eirid was liking this new fellow more and more, he seemed to share a dislike of the Jarl, toeing the line of disrespect but not enough to warrant a wrathful retaliation. She wondered what his common name was, recognizing that Assur referred to him only by his Nordic clan. It wasn't one she had never heard of before, but knew by the styling that it was so.
"If this lass can walk the roads of Skyrim with no trouble, why in the blazes did I get sent along with you?" Cruel-Sea turned to the Jarl and inquired with a hint of inconvenience.
"I wouldn't expect members of the common citizenry to understand prospects of safety or travel etiquette of those with noble blood—but I am a Jarl now—" Assur started in with explaining in a patronizing tone and even though Eirid hated to waste any of her father's stew, she thought that it was more than an appropriate moment to load a piece of horker meat into her spoon in the same manner as ammunition to a catapult.
"Yeah, Jarl of boring explanations," she interrupted, and let it fly across the table.
Cruel-Sea barked out a genuine laugh and Eirid couldn't contain her giggle at seeing the look of absolute shock plastered onto the Jarl's face. A mark of broth dripped from his cheek where the morsel had landed and bounced onto the table top.
She expected offense, and anger—which she could see there was, simmering underneath his stare—but was in turn, equally as shocked when Assur snatched up his goblet and threw the remnants of his beverage at her. It sloshed onto her face and neck, the ale soaking into her scarf and many droplets found their way up into her hair.
"Don't involve me, I already had food thrown at me this week," Cruel-Sea abruptly grabbed his bowl and stood from the bench, backing away and leaving the Jarl and the Bard frowning at each other.
Her parents had stilled their movement and only stared in a different sort of shock—at her audacity, full of a renewed worry. She had certainly passed the line she had been toeing before.
Assur wiped at his cheek and looked at the stew remnants that transferred to his hand. His frown only deepened. Maybe now he understood that she loathed him. There was no more pleasantries nor nostalgia to be had regarding their past acquaintance. He straightened up, made eye contact with his mercenary and gave a slight jerk of his head toward the exit, signaling Cruel-Sea should leave with him.
With a slightly saddened look to his unfinished meal and drink, Cruel-Sea set the dish wear on the table and begrudgingly followed the Jarl out of the inn. There were no farewells spoken, just the hard slam of the inn's door on their way out.
"Eirid, by the eight, why did you do that?" her father hissed in question.
"He was being a bore, and arrogant, and—"
"That doesn't matter! He is allowed. You cannot be so familiar and cavalier with him anymore. He is the Jarl—"
Several people had reiterated that fact, but she still didn't understand the reason to why that had come to pass, "What has happened to Kraldar?"
"Jarl Kraldar is dead."
The fact was like a punch to her gut. Word of his passing must not have had reached the Bard's college before she had set out on her return journey. She found it very sad—Kraldar had been a much kinder, tolerant Jarl of the hold. Not much had changed economically for Winterhold, but the blatant hate and fear for the mages had lessened, and he had tried to better the hold in the years he had ruled. It made her wonder what ailment was so bad that even healing magic nor strong curative potions couldn't help him overcome it.
Eirid swept back a damp piece of hair from her face in contemplation, still curious as to why the Empire would choose Assur, of all people, to sit on the throne of Winterhold. Surely that was a bad idea because the young man shared his father's political views regarding the Empire, which was not in their favor.
She finished her dinner without another word. She figured keeping her mouth shut would lead her to less trouble. Of course, her parents were right to chide her—it was out of her place to have caused Assur discomfort in the way she did. Still, she relished the look of surprise on his face, even if the little amount of broth she flung at him couldn't make up for the years he had tortured her with playing 'hunt the elf.'
She sighed and started cleaning the table, clearing it of the dishes and piling them behind the counter in a crate where they stayed until morning's wash. Her scarf dragged behind her as she worked, the edges trailing and gathering dust along the floor. It was interesting and yet annoying to her, how easily she fell into her old chores and routine now that she was back at the Frozen Hearth.
At the college, they had servants to cook and clean. Her time was filled with classes—learning about bardic histories, music theory, studying old books for new inspiration. She enjoyed her time at the college immensely. The change of scenery was appreciated as well. Though Solitude was farther North, the cold didn't seem as bitter as it was in Winterhold. It wasn't snowing all the forsaken time, the city had a lot more to entertain, including people to converse with. A deep and buried urge to travel had been unleashed in her heart, ever since she had a taste of it. She now felt like a pine thrush with clipped wings.
There was a cloth in a bucket of water behind the counter meant for cleaning spills. It didn't happen often but sometimes a patron or two could get rowdy and start making a mess. She and Assur had made such a mess. She wrung the cloth of water and fell to her knees, wiping at the puddle of mead on the floorboards. They hadn't had a proper food fight in almost twelve years, when Assur thought it would be funny to throw a cooked carrot at her resulting in a sound lecture for both of them, and an epic mess of squashed carrots decorating the inn's walls.
When she was done with that task, she cleaned the table top of any stew spills and threw the cloth back into the bucket. A deep sadness and longing filled her—remembering how she had spent her evenings in Solitude. She and other students from the college would go to the local inn after classes and it was positively bustling. The din in the Winking Skeever was a delightful tapestry of sound composed of the innkeeper's jokes, Lisette's wonderful singing, the gossip of merchants, and it was ever changing. Now, all she heard was her parents' footsteps, the swish of bristles on a broom, and the wind still rushing against the high boards.
And suddenly, the sound of the door opening.
She looked up in hope that there were familiar faces or new ones to entertain but it was just two Winterhold guards.
They approached and flanked Eirid on both sides, one taking her arm in a firm grip, "By order of the Jarl, you are to come with us."
She was dismayed at the proclamation. Had Assur really felt the need to arrest her for her slight against him? He had no humbleness nor humor so, yes, that was likely.
"Please, don't take her away!" Haran flew toward her daughter but Dagur reached out and caught his wife, preventing her from sharing Eirid's fate. Her mother's tone didn't escape her notice—fearful that Eirid would be gone all over again.
Any resistance Eirid offered was easily ignored as they pulled her out of inn. Cold engulfed her and bit at her fingers and cheeks, making the places where the ale spilled on her skin even colder. They hadn't even given her time to grab her cloak. The sun was nearly a sliver of light and Winterhold was cast in the cold shadows of the mountains already. She dragged her feet through the snow, but thankfully, it was only a short walk as they led her to the Jarl's longhouse across the path.
She hadn't been inside the place for many years but it looked the same as she remembered. Fires crackled with faint echoes within circular hearths, the smoke carrying upward and out of the slits in the ceiling. Three ancient but enormous mammoth skulls—probably trophy kills of Assur's great-great-great grandfather—hung on the walls, overlooking the empty throne.
Now, where was he?
She expected him to be sitting there and gloating about his position. He now had the power to do whatever he wanted in Winterhold, including drag her before him and chastise her for being such a troublesome peasant.
The guard released her arm, but warned her to stay put until the Jarl was ready to see her. She had to contain rolling her eyes since he'd seen her not a half hour prior. Why the dramatics?
Then, they returned to their patrol, leaving out of the front door.
She didn't see any sign of Cruel-Sea, nor a steward, which she found odd. Stewards commonly were hired liaisons to handle hold business and advise the jarl—and by the Divines could Assur have used wise council.
Such as not getting bent out of shape at getting hit with a piece of stew.
A buildup of frustrated breath caught in her cheek and she huffed it out, sending the hair above her brow flying upward. As it fell back in place, she saw movement—in the form of the Jarl leave his quarters.
About time.
She couldn't help to tap her foot impatiently.
He gave her a wary look before stepping up and settling into the seat of his fore-fathers. He wasn't smiling in a gloating way as she imagined when she first entered. She noticed he had changed his shirt, probably to because she had sullied the other with droplets of the horker stew.
He leveled a scowl at her and said, "I demand an apology."
"And what if I refuse?" She shot back a challenge, thinking how he was equally as offensive for throwing ale on her.
"Why are you like this, Eirid?" he stood and approached her. She had the inclination to take a step back but caught herself and stood her ground, "When did you become so uncouth?"
"I'm not a docile little girl that you can boss around anymore, even if you are Jarl," she answered in a scathing tone as she looked up at him.
He sighed as if she was being difficult.
She knew she was a contrarian and she delighted in it; despite the repercussions it could have on her. It was delicious to torment him as he had always done to her.
"To answer your question," he lowered his voice to somewhat of a threatening inflection, "I could banish you from the hold."
She held her breath, wondering if she could push him to actually do it. If she could, she would have an excuse to not come back; her parents could hate Assur and not be disappointed in her for wanting to leave.
She pressed her fingers into her belt, and they both heard a crinkle of parchment.
"What's that?" Assur's brows raised in intrigue, deftly plucking the parchment from it's hold. She had tried to back away before he could put his hands on it but she had moved too slowly, not expecting him to get so close. It had been folded thrice over and torn a bit at the edges from her travels. He unfolded it and read the text aloud:
"Bard position open in Whiterun. For more information speak to Ysolda at the Bannered Mare. Free lodging, decent pay for a Bards' College-trained performer."
Eirid pursed her lips and grabbed at it. It was a piece of mail a courier had dropped off to the college on her last day there. She should not have taken it, and let another student have a hand at the opportunity. It wasn't like she could go—her mother and father's disappointment would only cause a crushing guilt in her. She had an obligation to Winterhold as much as she hated that fact.
Assur was taller and easily held it out of her reach, curiously looking at her reaction.
"You want to go, don't you?"
"Give it back, Assur!" she demanded, knowing she had no right to demand anything of a Jarl, especially now, but she was angry, and sad, and annoyed all at once.
He laughed out with the same, albeit delayed realization, "You wouldn't mind one bit if I banished you, would you?"
She clenched her jaw stubbornly and turned her back on him. The silent treatment had always been his weakness. In a place as small as Winterhold, people to converse with were few and far between, he had always needed her to keep himself from going mad.
She crossed her arms for good measure.
"Eirid, stop it," he nearly whined.
She had to suppress a smile, amused, he still resorted to such complaining. She had always thought Jarls, no matter their flaws, were at least mature adults who didn't whine when they didn't get their way—which proved Assur was in no condition to take the throne back.
"Anyway, you didn't answer my question," he reminded her. She heard him crumple up the missive from Whiterun, "Do you really want to try your hand as Whiterun's Bard?"
She couldn't' help but to let her shoulders slump. She knew it was a lofty goal—to be a bard there. It was the hub of Skyrim trade, the inn itself welcomed every walk of traveler, it would be an opportunity of a lifetime to audition.
"Yes," she whirled around and answered. "I want to go and I'd be delighted to be rid of you for good," she hissed with all the venom she could muster.
She almost felt bad for him the way his eyes widened. Silence settled upon them. Utter silence. Eirid had been scowling at him but he held her gaze and she broke it first by looking at her feet.
"Have you always hated me?" he finally asked, his voice held a small hint of devastation underneath the hard tone. It didn't help that he had the nerve to stare at her as he questioned her.
She clenched her jaw and didn't elaborate on how she despised him.
He swallowed and he handed the parchment back to her, not crumpled but re-folded thrice like he had found it, "You may not have always been my friend, but I was always yours."
She took the parchment, mulling over his words before a spark of rage hit her in the chest, threatening to unwind what little composure she could manage.
"You left!" she burst, "How could you even say that!? You went to a big city with lots of people and left me in the most desolate place in all of Skyrim! You always made me play the elf in your tiresome game and bossed me around. I was nothing but a convenient playmate for you to toss aside as soon as you outgrew me!"
He seemed taken aback at her outburst but then paused to think, "When you put it that way, it does sound rather awful."
She nodded vigorously to drive her point. He took a seat back in the throne, looking at her with concern. How dare he do that when he never done so before.
"However, you must know I had no choice but to leave—how can you blame me for that? I was just a little boy and I was forced to leave my home. Did you not think I wanted to stay?"
She frowned. Of course, she knew...but...this feeling of abandonment that had suddenly surfaced after hiding below all the layers and depths of her loathing was something she had never acknowledged to herself before, and it felt like it was something that had been festering all these years. She opened her mouth but no words came.
He closed his eyes, seeming very, very tired all of a sudden. He'd probably traveled the same amount as her in the last few days to get to their childhood home. "You're henceforth banished from Winterhold, Eirid."
She didn't think those words would send chills through her heart. He was doing it again.
Abandoning her.
She studied him to see if he was joking, but his face was solemn. He looked so much like Korir sitting there, leaning back with an elbow supporting his weight on the arm of the throne. Cruel and haughty.
"Forever?" she dared ask.
His back straightened before he leaned forward like he was sharing a secret, just as when they were eight years old and he'd told her he'd taken one of his mother's jewels to bury in the snow so they could pretend they were sea bandits, searching for treasure.
His solemn expression broke with a half-grin, "For as long as you want to be, my dearest friend."