Joric had no intention to return to Whiterun, where his life would end in the bonds of unholy matrimony. He had anticipated that once the Companion had seen the Sybil of Dibella with her own eyes and heard that his theory was confirmed as truth, she would surely want to help him save the world!

She didn't.

"I don't care if Talos himself descended to Nirn and told me you were the High King of Skyrim. I'd still take you back."

Joric was distressed with her comment, to say the least. Especially because he could already see the city in the distance. It had been a day filled with unpleasant trudging and bitter silence on his part and now Whiterun was too close for comfort.

He desperately blurted, "Can you not for one second pause and consider the implications if we ignore these words of the divine? Time is broken, and we are walking a chaotic path that could lead to our doom! What good is the gold they pay you if you die before spending it?"

She seemed too ruffled and proud to admit there was no point in it, so shot back, "Your words don't move me."

"Is that because you can't understand them?" Joric snapped out with frustration as he stumbled next to her. She pulled him steady; her hold on his arm was worse than any leather bonds they had been bound in. If his body were a map, he probably had an archipelago of bruises across his bicep.

She had halted abruptly and glared at him, her grip tensing, "Are you callin' me stupid?"

"The beautiful ones usually are," he sighed, genuinely disheartened. His captor was a fine woman, she was built like the shield-maidens sung about in the Poetic Edda, with the perfect marriage of muscles and curves. The scar across her eye was an elegant vertical line that narrowed at both ends like a double-edged sword and told a story of bravery and endurance. She looked like the kind of hero he could use on his quest, but alas, she had a temperament no more pleasant than a chaurus. He should know, he'd grown up around the creatures.

She had roughed him up many instances in their short time together so he wasn't surprised when he felt a sharp smack to the back of his head and heard her growl, "Stop saying I'm beautiful. "

He was surprised, however, at what she was angered about. It seemed the oddest of subjects to provoke her. Most women, he'd figured, would have found the description a flattering one. He blinked a few times, and rubbed the area with his free hand as she pulled him forward. "So, you want me to lie to you?"

"I already don't believe most things that come out of that hole in your face, so say what you will, Thane."

"You may call me Joric," he offered, what he thought an olive branch, hoping he could learn her name as well. She had told him that he'd said it during a vision but he couldn't remember. It was like trying to recall a dream, with a cloud of fog on the consciousness and only bits of clarity at its edges. Which is why he spent his days drinking copious amounts of alcohol so he'd always be in the fog instead of being tortured by not knowing.

"Or I can call you cowardly scum, because that's what men are who run away from their own wedding."

She had a tongue as sharp as a dagger as well. Every part of her was ready to fight. In all the moments he had interacted with her since their first meeting, she hadn't relaxed once—always tense and on edge. He wondered why.

Honestly, escaping his wedding was bravest thing he'd ever done. To stand his ground and refuse to accept the incorrect fate he was given, to risk everything by seeking out the truth behind his visions. Lady Dagnessa was probably drinking just as much as he had been and she wasn't even touched with divine sight. He knew she was more than happy to be rid of him, but he also knew her wrath would be great for the embarrassment he'd caused her if she found out he was alive—which was another reason he did not want be anywhere near Whiterun.

He ignored the Companion's insult and asked, "What may I call you?"

She seemed to hesitate and eyed him suspiciously, and for a moment he thought she would snap out an unpleasant retort. Instead, she said in one, curt syllable, "Braith."

"Braith of Little Faith," he mumbled the titled rhyme that had popped into his mind immediately, but it wasn't soft enough. He was rewarded with another swift, assaulting fist to his shoulder. He didn't find his words to be inaccurate so gave her an inconvenienced glare in response.

"Just because I don't believe your crazy words, doesn't mean I don't believe in anything ."

He had enough self-reflection to understand her doubts. He knew what he was saying sounded rather bizarre. The concept he was trying to explain was complex, and he'd always had trouble articulating his visions. Ever since he was a child, these uninvited scenes in his mind plagued him—so much so that those of the Highmoon Hall's court, small as it was, had thought he was sick in the head when he tried to tell them about it.

His family knew the truth, yet they sent him to Whiterun for healing many times to appease the speculations. He had been a melancholic boy—glum, and exhausted from nightmares—but no amount of healing could put a stop to the visions, so he ended up being drowned in potions that only worked half the time to put a damper on his mind. It left him feeling sluggish, and more than incoherent.

"What do you believe in then?" he broke pace and inquired.

She did as well, her grip not lessening on his arm which was a testament to how much she wanted to deliver him back to that wretched city. She seemed to think about it for a moment. Joric didn't think she looked particularly devout to the divines or Daedric Princes, for that matter. He supposed she would say 'honor' since she was a member of the Companions. So, it came as another surprise when she replied, "Gold."

"Yet you refuse my offer to pay you ten gold a day before we reach Whiterun."

"What it comes down to is this—I would rather not waste my time minding you for ten gold a day when I can be rid of you in exchange for the significant amount of gold the Jarl has offered for your return."

"How much would that be, exactly?"

"A thousand."

He blanched, not expecting the amount to be so high. Was keeping his betrothal really that important to Balgruuf the Greater? Yes, he grimaced while thinking, The Jarl wants to get rid of her that badly. It was set to be that when he and Dagny were married, Joric's sister would bequeath them a plot of land in the Hjaalmarch on which a manor was to be built and lived in. Dagny was to leave her father's court and join society in Morthal, which to her, he knew, was no society at all. It was a simple, small, quiet settlement and seemed void of all joy.

If his mother were still alive, she would have protected him from the ill-fated betrothal. She would have seen what he had—time itself as spiraling fragments as if they were pieces of a glass mirror that had been shattered and suspended in a state of flying through the air. Where would they land?

The difference between mother and son was that everyone took her seriously. Why was it so hard for people to believe him? Even Idgrod the Younger was dubious of his claims; his sister still treated him as if he were a fragile boy that couldn't make his own decisions. She did it out of love but failed to realized it caused him nothing but misery and ire.

Braith began to pull him forward again but he planted his boots in the uneven cobbles and resisted, causing pain to shoot up his arm because it was suddenly being stretched like a rope in a game of tug-o-war.

"Stop," he demanded and she gave him a look of utter impatience but complied, "What if I paid you more than what the Jarl is offering?"

"Do you have more than a thousand gold on you this very moment?" she frowned with doubt.

He ran his tongue across the front of his upper teeth and looked off to the side, not answering right away because he knew she wouldn't like what he was about to propose, but he had to try . He had to try anything and everything to stop her from forcing him back to Whiterun.

"No, not at this moment..."

"Then stop wasting your breath," she scolded and continued onward, jerking him along.

"B-b-but ...an Elder Scroll sells for far more than a Jarl would pay for me. Help me find it and it's yours to do with what you please after it's served its purpose. There was a reason I had that vision—of you, of the Elder Scroll. We were meant to find it together...ah!" he was interrupted by something, probably a muscle in his upper arm that was being parted from its bone.

Her silence on his proposition was telling of how ridiculous she thought his plan was. There was no guarantee they could find something so rare. She kept moving forward, not even giving his idea a fair consideration.

"I know you don't know me, and have no reason to trust me but I promise, and swear to you I won't betray you," he stumbled forward and caught his balance, resisting her pull yet again until she turned an angry glare on him. He widened his eyes and lowered his voice to a tone that told he was on his last string of hope— she held the reigns to his fate now— "Braith...please."

For the first time that day, his arm felt reprieve as her fingers loosened and she let go of him all together. She was still tense, probably figuring he would bolt as soon as she released him—and to be fair to her notion, he did run the last time she trusted him enough to let him on his own. Though he hadn't meant to cause her outrage by his action, he had only meant to get to the Sybil of Dibella since that was his whole reason for travelling to the Reach. He cradled his sore arm but otherwise didn't move another muscle, hoping upon hopes she would agree to his idea.

She seemed to look him over, discerning if he was truthful and he tried to look his most earnest, maybe even pathetic, which wasn't hard to do when he had the build of a whelp. He quivered his lower lip in a most dramatic fashion which caused her to frown to deepen—the opposite effect he'd hoped for.

She shook her head, "It's too complicated. Where would we even start if we were to seek an Elder Scroll? Do you know of any that happen to be lying around Skyrim and where they are? Maybe you should have asked Dibella's Sybil before we left her, since she was the one that told you to find one."

"I have an idea of where I could start..." he maintained the sliver of hope that she would reconsider, so quickly explained, "There's someone I know who—I'm pretty sure—attends the College of Winterhold. It is said that there is a vast library of information, dating back thousands of years. I think we could maybe get her to help us discover infor—"

Before he knew what was happening, Braith gave a warning shout and pushed him with enough force he fell to the side. A body encased in dark leather drifted past in near silence with brandished daggers, swiping at the space that Joric had just recently occupied. The Companion lifted her leg and met her boot with the attacker's gut, sending them flying backward.

"Get up!" she snarled to Joric and he wasted no time in obeying. He scrambled to his feet and ran the opposite direction, his mind in disarray, trying to process what was unfolding—a bandit attack? But there was only one...

He managed to swivel his head and see her drag out her enormous battle axe from where it hung between her shoulder blades. The attacker was struggling to stand, seeming winded at the hard kick to the ribs. In reality, time was quick, but to Joric it was painfully slow—enough of a pause for him to see Braith and the other ready themselves for a second bout to the death—daggers versus warhammer.

Joric lamented lack of places to hide in the tundra. Luckily for them, off the main path was a series of rocks. He shrank down behind one, thinking back to a few moments ago when Braith had referred to him as 'cowardly scum. '

She was right. He was a coward, but he was smart enough to know that going up toe-to-toe with a bandit without any weapons was a fool's death. He had an instinct for self-preservation at least, and if that meant him cowardly, so be it.

He heard the clashing of steel upon steel, the thump of leather being hit, the growls and snarls of the Companion as she fought his assailant. He dared not raise his head to witness the brutal exchange, that is, until he heard Braith cry out in pain.

He shot up, his movement drawing the attention of the bandit—which gave Braith the time she needed to swing her warhammer around—and behead them with the sharp end of it.

Words dried up in his throat at that sickening slice, as he watched the head rolled off its neck and fell to the ground—lost in the grass and likely leaving a trail of blood behind it. The body slumped over and followed suit. He wanted to curse, to make some exclamation but he really couldn't put into words just how gruesome or shocking the whole sight was. He was left with his jaw hanging open and making a high-pitched noise not entirely a scream but much more than whimper.

Braith gave a long, shaky exhale and winced, before turning her attention back to him and his incoherent noises, "What are you doing?"

"You killed them," Joric said, finally finding some words.

Rather obvious words.

"Yes," she replied simply and let her warhammer drop next to her on its head, then knelt down to the body, starting to rifle through its pockets and pouches, "Better them before they us."

"What are you doing?" he mirrored her question, bemused. Every inch of him was filled with dread and he wanted to run far away but knew doing so would draw her anger once again.

"First rule of winning combat is you get rights to the dead's belongings."

"Is that so?"

"The dead never raise complaint about it," Braith took a moment to look over her shoulder at him with a smirk for her quip.

It sent a chill up his spine.

She was dangerous.

Yes, he knew she was strong when she had wrestled him to the floor of the Silver-Blood Inn—she was a capable fighter, quick in a chase and apt in a brawl—he knew all this about her in the short time he had made her acquaintance...but until now, he had never truly feared her.

He noticed, for not having done any of the fighting, his heart was thrashing against his chest in terror and hadn't quite settled down yet.

Joric avoided her eyes and stood still as the light tundra winds brushed past them, gesturing in her general direction, "As I was saying...before all this happened—I think we can find information about the whereabouts of an Elder Scroll at the College of Winterhold."

"The stiff has nothing of value," Braith noted, not acknowledging his statement—still pawing around the corpse's armor, looking for anything of worth. She sounded exceedingly annoyed.

"It's no wonder they wanted to rob us," was all he could offer in reply. Truth be told, Joric didn't have experience in the ways of the world outside of civilized society. He could only imagine from books he'd read and tales from travelers that danger was around every corner in Skyrim. He'd been lucky enough to make it to Markarth without incident but now he was witnessing it firsthand.

Then, he reconsidered, "What about the daggers? Surely those must be worth something?"

She let out a scoff, "Only simple steel daggers. Will barely sell for a few pieces of Septims. Not worth carrying them until finding a buyer."

"Then let me carry them? I have no way to protect myself—they'd be of use to me."

"You are pretty useless," she admitted, and rather rudely. She unclasped the belt that the dagger sheaths were attached to, slid the weapons inside and threw it towards him. He bent forward and picked them up. They were heavier than he'd imagined. For a brief moment, he wondered why she would allow him this privilege if she didn't trust him but then he remembered...she had just killed someone. It was likely she'd end Joric before he could get a sharp edge anywhere near her if he tried. Which he wouldn't. He wouldn't have dared.

Braith made a noise hinting that she had found something and Joric glanced at her. She picked herself up, but her expression had returned to a frown as he saw she held a folded piece of parchment, probably plucked from out beneath the chest of the armor.

She opened and read over the note, and then quickly glanced at him with an expression, he daresay one of concern. That was new. She then grabbed up her weapon and swung it into its harness with one arm.

"What?"

"We need to move. Fast."

"What? Why?" Joric's brows knotted together at the urgency in her tone because she seemed to have been taking her sweet, lollygagging, time whilst looking for loot the last few minutes

She brushed off his concern as she approached and passed him, "Animals. They're going to be attracted by the blood. Best let nature take its course and not be here when that happens."

His stomach gave a turn at the thought and he nodded in agreement, following her pace. He hadn't noticed until she was close enough but her face had a few spatters of blood on it from the beheading. Her warhammer would need cleaned as well. Then he saw the reason that she had cried out in pain earlier.

Her arm.

There was a cut on exposed skin, just below her studded armor's spaulder. It bled freely, leaving its crimson trail on her skin until it dripped from the elbow. The bandit must have nicked her in the fight.

"Wait," he demanded and slowed his feet—he had to if he didn't want to end up bleeding from his arm too. He pulled out one of his new daggers and cut into the fabric of the sleeve of his shirt, slicing it cleanly at his shoulder. Interesting how the same dagger had been a fate's string away from killing him. In different fragment of time, it very may well have. It was also one that had wounded her and now was used as a means of aid. Time was...ironic.

Pulling the cloth off, he folded it for better padding and said, "Hold out your arm."

She didn't, and instead gave him a suspicious look.

"Hold out your arm," he repeated, sterner, and gestured to her cut.

She did, albeit slowly, and protested, "It's just a small cut."

"A small cut can lead to a big infection," Joric replied, slinging the fabric under her arm, wrapping it as many times as the length would allow, before knotting it. "There was a girl I once knew, Helgi, and she cut her knee after falling to the ground during a game of tag. She let it stay open and by the end of the week it was swollen and red. She had to stay in bed with a fever for a fortnight."

"What happened to Helgi?"

"She's dead now," he replied and noticed the way Braith's brows raised in alarm, so he clarified, "Though not from her wound."

"What then?"

"Burned to death."

He didn't elaborate because he didn't like remembering it. He'd had a vision of it happening, not even a week before it happened and everyone had thought he was having nightmares. It had broken his little heart to learn that his friend had perished and even more so that he could have prevented it if anyone would have taken his words seriously. It seemed that he lost friends instead of gaining them as he grew. And it wasn't for lack of trying. He couldn't hold out hope Braith wanted to be his friend either. It had been a downright painful twenty-four hours since she had entered his life.

She didn't thank him for his help, nor comment anymore on the death of Helgi—only sighed, "So, you said we need to travel to Winterhold for your Elder Scroll?"

He nodded, "Well, I don't know if it's there, but information might be. How long do you think it will take?"

He heard her make an incoherent grumble at the fact they were chasing phantoms of knowledge, before answering "It's far. About a day's journey from Whiterun. I had to go there once to put a drunkard in his place for refusing to pay his tab. It was the most miserable place I've ever been to."

"You haven't been to Morthal then I take it?"

She shook her head.

"Imagine what it would be like to always have damp socks and the constant sound of dartwings buzzing in your ears."

She grinned slightly, "That does sound miserable."

They had turned north, and Joric noticed they had left the road completely. The ground was rocky, uneven, and tall grass brushed against their legs every step. They saw a herd of elk grazing only to jump away quickly when the wind shifted and carried their scents forward.

"Was there a reason you are taking us into the wilderness?"

"Yes."

After a few more steps and no further explanation on her part, Joric made a noise of frustration and asked, "Which is...?"

"A reason we've already encountered. The road is a prime place to be attacked. Don't wanna tempt a second encounter."

It made sense. But he had to wonder if she knew where she was going without a path nor sign posts to guide them. He saw mountains ahead of them. They were in for a steep climb, and his boots weren't the best. He'd traded his good travel ones for something plainer that convinced discerning eyes he was of no importance. He'd done it with most of his wardrobe after leaving his entourage earlier in the week. He could live without wearing fine threads. He hadn't the heart to sell the rings though; they belonged to his mother. He had rather long, thin fingers and so they actually fit him.

He studied the sapphire and rubbed his thumb over it. He missed her so much. Idgrod was the voice of reason and calm—she did things her own way and didn't let the unkind words of people dissuade her from her decisions. She hadn't been a particularly doting mother; she didn't smother him with affection but he knew she cared for him deeply the way she spoke to him. She didn't treat him as if he were mad.

"Keep up!" Braithe called from ahead and he hadn't realized he had slowed enough that a distance was put between them. He hustled forward but an uncomfortable shift in his vision occurred. It caused a double sight—two Braithes were frowning at him from atop the two hills they were climbing.

He reached out toward her as dark spots filled his view, gradually blocking out the scenery—as if someone had blown out candles one by one in a room at night. The last thing he could consciously hear himself say was, "I should..."

Joric's visions were abstract, nothing like his mother ever had. She always had been so concise in her words after having coming out of one. His visions pulled him into another dimension, it seemed. Was he only in his head, was it a pocket realm of Oblivion, or was it something entirely different? No matter, it was dizzying, disorienting, seeming to exist two places at once. Time was another thing that wasn't resolute; he could spend days in a vision, or only a few seconds—to him, here, in this place. A crossroads the divines had created to show him the way.

But a lot of good seeing did when it was so pitch black around him!

A faint blue-white light appeared, accompanied by a subtle chime. Then another and another—as if they made a path through the darkness. He had no choice but to follow. The light source was from a Nirnroot, he realized as he neared the first.

When he was a boy, a Nirnroot grew right outside of Highmoon Hall. Lami chastised him for picking it after he brought it to her as a gift. She was Morthal's alchemist, so he'd thought she would have appreciated it. She didn't. She said it wasn't done growing and its alchemic properties weren't as potent. He never tried picking one again.

The dim light of the Nirnroots revealed a shoreline, riddled with ice sheets across the endless expanse of water. A young woman apparated, she bent down, and plucked the glowing plant from the soil—doing what he hadn't dared in nearly a decade.

Then a hundred eyes appeared, opening, all along the pitch-black sky. The sky was nothing but eyes. Unblinking. Also, they were not human ones; they were yellowish-green tinted where the whites should have been, with the same dark void as pupils—focused on the woman with the Nirnroot.

There was a large book at his feet, one he hadn't seen before. It was open and the pages were blowing in the wind—something he hadn't felt before. The wind stopped. The pages landed on a picture of a Dragon.

Then he felt pain.

"Come on, come out of it already!" he heard Braith's voice, drenched with desperation.

She must have slapped him again. His eyes rolled forward, the blackness melted, and he was face to face with the companion. She looked worried and annoyed—if that were even possible. He was no longer on the tundra.

He took in a sharp breath.

Served him right for not having had a drink since yesterday morning. A vision was bound to come along and haunt him. He wiped his hand over his face and made a groan as if he was coming out of a hangover and found to his relief, that his mother's rings were still on his fingers.

"What happened?" he asked as his sight took in the surroundings, determining they were in a hole in the ground; he could see the sky darkening above them. It was a large, circular, divot made of stone by ancient Nords, with a stone brazier at the middle and spiral stairs that led up and out of it. Then his gaze caught the vertical sarcophagi next to a set of doors and a cold dread crept over him—they were at the entry to a cairn.

"You collapsed, your eyes turned white, and then you started rhyming again."

He winced, hating that he never remembered his words, "Would it be too much to ask what I said?"

Braith frowned and squinted as if trying to recall, "Nirnroot, ice caves, lost lore and septims. You also mentioned golden hair, a gardener's lair and a quest unbound."

He thought about it for a moment—the brief memory of images from his vision, flashing in his head that vaguely fit the terms but...it was about as clear as the water in a swamp. He remembered a woman but not her features. He finally noted, "That hardly rhymed."

"It was the gist of it."

He pushed against the stone to stand, having most likely been deposited on his rear like a sack of cabbages if Braith had anything to do with it. His arm still stung from being tugged around all day. He'd have to ponder more on the vision later.

"It's getting dark, we should move on."

Braith shook her head, "We won't make it to the next inn before nightfall. Better to make camp here."

Joric's eyes widened in disbelief, "We are in a cairn! I don't know about you but I wouldn't want draugr to murder me in my sleep! If I can even sleep at all in such a wretched place!"

She shushed him fiercely, her eyes flashing in anger, "You won't have to worry about it if you lower your voice and don't disturb the dead. Besides, the most dangerous thing you have to worry about is me. I can handle draugr well enough."

Was there anything she wouldn't fight?

It was almost as if the dead could hear her taunt, for the covers of the sarcophagi blasted apart a moment after she proclaimed her fierceness and out stepped the corpses of ancient warriors—with exposed bones, tattered rags, and dull metal helmets and armor they had been laid to rest in. Joric's face paled and he backed against the wall, trying to form a thought through the sheer terror clutching his mind. It was harder to put into practice than stories of heroes made it seem. The draugr sounded like they were trying to speak but it was impossible to form words without a tongue—only coming out as disdainful moans. They lurched and hobbled forward, turning their attentions towards Joric. They probably could sense his fear. Their hollowed sockets stared at him, passing judgement that he would never be a brave warrior worthy of rest in Sovngarde.

Braith grabbed her warhammer her back, and swung it into the closest draugr to Joric. It's bones shattered and flew against the stones, causing it to completely collapse. The opportunity of a free, unobstructed space, propelled him to move again and he stumbled away, around the edge of the wall until he reached the door and pulled it open. He shouted over his shoulder, "Follow me!"

Braith managed to keep the draugr away as she backed through the entrance—once she was inside, Joric pushed the doors closed so the draugr were stuck outside.

And there were more sarcoughi inside.

Braith readied her weapon and swore under her breath.

Joric repeated it.