Loredas, 10th of Hearthfire, 4E202
The air was crisp as summer waned into autumn. In the back of the lumber wagon, Deirdre and Frodnar each sat atop a crate filled with Hod's vegetables, sharing a blanket they'd wrapped around their shoulders. The rest of the wagon was taken up by neat stacks of firewood covered with canvas tarp. The plains surrounding the city of Whiterun were coated in a sparkling morning frost.
Gerdur and Hod sat beside each other on the driver's bench, the former with a complacent Mona bundled on her lap, and the latter steering the reins of the lumber mill's recently acquired workhorse.
Frodnar hugged Deirdre's arm and snuggled close as she read from the book in her hands.
"Martin faced me with the gravest of looks upon his face, his eyes lit with an inner blaze as if the dragonfires themselves smoldered in their depths.
"'I do what I must do,' he said. 'I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel. That task falls to others.'
"And then he smiled, an expression so sad, but so calm, and so at odds with the sounds of destruction and the screaming of the citizenry outside, that I knew something was about to happen."
"What's gonna happen?" Frodnar asked, hushed. Deirdre grinned, because he already knew the answer, and kept reading.
"Before I could ask what he meant, Martin spoke again.
"'Farewell. You've been a good friend, in the short time that I've known you. But now I must go. The Dragon waits.'
"I had no idea what he could mean. We stood in the temple of Akatosh, feet from the place where the dragonfires should have burned; did he mean to say the Dragon God was waiting for him?
"I started to reply, but Martin turned and ran to the center of the temple, up the steps of the platform that had too long stood dark in the absence of Akatosh's flames. At that moment, the temple shook, and a great, echoing crack split the stone over our heads. Half of the temple crumbled inward, huge chunks of wall and ceiling crashing to the floor—"
"Martin's gonna get smushed!"
Deirdre removed a hand from the book to wrap her arm around Frodnar, reading on without pause.
"The red sky bled into the white room, the smoke poured in alongside the sound of screams, and with a single thunderous step that shook the very earth, Mehrunes Dagon's towering form entered the Temple of the One.
"But as the Daedric Prince let out a horrendous roar, I saw a light in Martin's hands, quickly expanding, shooting rays of gold like mislaid sunbeams. I could not believe my eyes, as Martin's feet left the floor and his body hovered, suspended, in the air. The golden light enveloped him, and a blast of power blew away the marble pillars surrounding the platform.
"Suddenly, springing forth from the light, there flew a huge, golden dragon, cloaked in dazzling crimson flames. It released a heavenly cry the likes of which I had never heard nor would ever hear again. I knew, instinctively, that this golden beast, this dragon, was Martin. Martin, with the royal blood blessed by the Dragon God, imbued with divine power, would fight Mehrunes Dagon. And fight they did."
"Dee?" Frodnar interrupted.
Deirdre let the book sag in her hold. "What?"
His little face was scrunched, and he was staring intently at the book. "Is Martin a good dragon?"
Deirdre considered how to answer. She glanced over and found Gerdur had turned in her seat to look at her son, worry on her face.
Carefully, Deirdre said, "Yes, Martin is a good dragon. He saved everyone from the Daedra armies. But he wasn't really a dragon. He was a human, but the Divines gave him power like a dragon so he could protect us."
"Will Martin come protect us from the bad dragons?"
Deirdre's heart sank. Much as Gerdur and Hod had tried not to frighten their son with talk of dragons in Skyrim, he'd heard enough about the situation that now he was having nightmares.
Gerdur spoke from the front of the wagon, tone soothing. "Martin has been gone for a very long time, love. He was the last Septim—the last person ever born with the dragon blood. But, the Jarl sent soldiers to Riverwood to protect us, so we'll be safe without him."
Frodnar thought this over. "I wish Martin was here instead."
Deirdre lifted the arm she had around him so she could ruffle his hair. "It would be pretty amazing to see someone turn into a dragon."
"Uh-huh, and breathe fire," Frodnar agreed.
Deirdre made a sound of agreement and ducked down to kiss his forehead with a noisy smack.
"Ew!"
He pulled away from her and rubbed vigorously at the spot her lips had touched.
"That just rubs the kiss in more," Gerdur warned, to which Frodnar let out a disgusted cry. Deirdre laughed.
"All right, I'm sorry. I won't kiss you anymore."
Frodnar huffed in a perfect imitation of an exasperated Gerdur. "That's why girls," he enunciated, "are gross."
Deirdre feigned offense and threatened not to read him any more stories, and pestered him until he grudgingly apologized. He then insisted she continue their book. By the time they finished the story of Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch, the road to Whiterun had filled with other travelers.
Hod heaved a groan. "I thought we'd've missed the traffic getting here early. It'll take us years to get into the gate, mark my words."
"It can't be helped," Gerdur said, bouncing Mona on her lap. "Everyone's coming for the tournament, or to trade because of the tournament. Not to mention …"
Not to mention all the people running away from the small villages, Deirdre thought, noticing just how many of the travelers were commoners, lugging small handcarts or packs on their backs. Fear of dragons was driving them to the comparative safety within Whiterun's walls. Would the city even have enough room?
As they continued along the road and were joined by still more people, the dark lump in the distance that had been Whiterun began to grow larger and more defined. The city was built upon a hill, and atop the peak of that hill towered an enormous structure, almost impossibly high—like a dark lord looming over the bowing, smaller buildings surrounding it.
"Is that Dragonsreach?" Frodnar demanded, pointing. "Can we go inside?"
"No, we can't," Hod said.
"Why?"
"Because the soldiers will arrest us if we try."
"Why?"
"Because Dragonsreach is just for the Jarl and the nobles."
"Wh—"
"Faendal said we can visit Jorrvaskr," Deirdre interrupted. "That's where the Companions live. The roof is made of an ancient boat's hull."
"What's a hull?"
Frodnar kept up an incessant barrage of questions the rest of the way to the city—some of which, admittedly, Deirdre was curious about herself. It still bothered her how little she knew about the country she had woken up in. She'd learned, in bits and pieces, about the Great War that had ended thirteen years ago, and about how the Empire's treaty with the elven Aldmeri Dominion had left many in Skyrim feeling betrayed. The Nords, especially, had taken issue with the part of the treaty that forbade worship of Talos, the ninth Divine who had once been a Nord man. Their resentment eventually led to the civil war started by Ulfric Stormcloak. But those were general things, big things—the sketch of Skyrim in her mind was still sorely lacking in detail.
It wasn't long before they found themselves at the foot of the city, where the roads all converged into a single path, and their wagon's pace was forced to slow. They passed under the first of three stone gatehouses before continuing up a curving, rampart-lined road to the second, beyond which a walled courtyard opened up in front of the third and final gatehouse into the city proper.
"They don't normally post guards up on those first two gates," Hod remarked, pointing to the uniformed men standing above the throngs.
"Are they watching for dragons?" Deirdre asked.
"Or Stormcloaks," Gerdur said, leaning in and lowering her voice. "Jarl Balgruuf wants to say he's neutral on the war, but Whiterun is still under Imperial control."
They were waiting their turn to speak to the guards at the final gate when a shrill, short whistle sounded from above. Deirdre's head flew up to search the rampart over the gate. She spotted a familiar face.
"Aela!"
The Huntress removed her fingers from her mouth and waved down at her. She turned to address the young guard at her side. The guard replied, gesticulating sharply, but Aela tossed a hand at him and leaned forward to call over the rampart.
"Look who had the balls to show up!"
Hod laughed, and Gerdur quirked her lips as if tempted to do the same. Deirdre cupped her hands around her mouth and called back, "Of course!"
Aela nodded in approval. She said something else to the guard next to her, and he insistently waved an arm toward the ground below. Aela rolled her eyes before leaning over the rampart to holler.
"They get mad at me when I come up here! Meet you inside the gate!"
Deirdre nodded up at her. Aela turned away and disappeared.
The gate guard let them in without fuss, only briefly glancing over the contents of their wagon before waving them on. Deirdre felt a rush of anticipation at finally passing through the portal into the city.
The buildings lining either side of the road were tightly packed and eclectic—some of them small and thatch-roofed, some of them tall and neatly bricked with pointed, shingled heads, some of them made of thick stone, blocky and old. Trails of smoke drifted up into the sky from hundreds of chimneys, the air smelling of cinders and spices and cooking meat and people.
There were countless milling people, unafraid of the occasional horse or wagon wheel threatening to run them over in the stream of traffic. As far as Deirdre could see through the crowds, the street ahead branched off on either side into frequent side avenues or up well-worn stone steps. She imagined those steps eventually lead all the way up to the Cloud District surrounding Dragonsreach.
A deliberate thump on the side of the wagon drew Deirdre's attention. She stopped gawking to find Aela loping alongside their slow-rolling wheels. She had her red hair tied back in an atrociously messy braid and had traded in her armor for a gray belted tunic over linen trousers. Her grin was just the same as it had been when they'd parted ways in Riverwood.
"Good thing you made it today," she said. "I still need to see you put your money where your mouth is and prove you can shoot."
"I'll prove it," Deirdre promised.
Frodnar sat up high on his knees atop his crate. "Dee is better than everyone. She's going to beat you, I bet!" A jolt in the wagon sent him teetering; Deirdre caught and steadied him.
Aela guffawed. "You bet, do ya?"
Frodnar stuck his tongue out at her. Deirdre covered his mouth with her hand. "He's just excited."
Aela didn't seem to mind Frodnar's impertinence, and she chuckled as she shook her head. She jogged a bit to catch up to the front of the wagon, addressing Gerdur. "Looks like you folks have some goods to get rid of. Headed to market?"
"Just some firewood and vegetables," Gerdur replied. "But Deirdre needs to sign up for the tournament, and I don't know where that happens."
"I can take her over there. It's just by the stands at the bottom of the western watchtower."
Gerdur made a grateful noise. "Perfect! The tournament starts in a few hours?"
"An hour past noon," Aela confirmed.
Gerdur twisted to look at Deirdre, ignoring Hod as he shouted at an unfortunate "idiot in the road with the cabbages!" who'd run his cart in front of them.
"You should hop out and head over now. We'll have help unloading this once we get to our regular buyer."
Deirdre glanced at the blue-eyed baby in Gerdur's arms, while the six-year-old beside her turned to stare at the upended cabbage cart. "What about Mona and Frodnar?"
The smile on Gerdur's face took on a subtle softness—the expression that appeared whenever Deirdre tried to do something for her. "We'll be fine. I'll be able to rest a bit and tend Mona myself. It's your job to tend yourself today."
Something about her inflection reminded Deirdre of Gerdur's regret in the aftermath of her disastrous "birthday." She realized what the woman was doing. A bubble of warmth burst in her chest.
"All right," she said, beaming. She ducked down into the bottom of the wagon to grab her bow—Faendal had helped her string it before they'd left Riverwood—and the plain leather quiver she'd commissioned from the blacksmith to go with it. She made to hoist herself over the side of the still-moving cart, hesitated, then quickly leaned over and planted another peck on Frodnar's unsuspecting cheek.
Frodnar yowled in disgust. Deirdre jumped over the side of the wagon. Aela steadied her when she stumbled, the two of them in the middle of the road as the wagon rolled on without them.
Gerdur called to her, "We'll meet you at the western watchtower!"
A passerby jostled Deirdre's shoulder as she waved and replied, "See you there!"
Aela grabbed her by the arm and steered her away to the side of the road, then off into another, smaller street.
"It's really crowded this year," Aela remarked. She didn't release Deirdre's arm until they were noticeably less likely to be bowled over. When she did, her eyes flitted to Deirdre and appraised her.
"Is this your idea of an archer's garb?" she asked.
Deirdre looked down at her dress. Gerdur had used every trick she could think of, and a few potions from the Trader at that, to try and save her white birthday dress. In the end, she'd sewn shut the puncture marks from the spider bite and dyed the dress a deep forest green to disguise the remaining stains. It was still the nicest thing Deirdre owned. Further, the usable remains of her blue half-apron had been dyed with a bit of red to make purple and stripped into ribbons. She wore a few of the ribbons now, one tied into a band over the top of her head, the longest threaded through her braid, and the last tying off the braid in a bow.
It only now occurred to her that Aela was garbed much more practically. Up against such a woman, her ribbons probably looked juvenile. Gerdur had been so happy to help with her hair that morning that Deirdre hadn't thought much of it. But surely most respectable archers didn't wear girlish ribbons to contests.
"I don't own any trousers," she defended. "And I wanted to look nice."
Aela clicked her tongue. "Guess the bracer is really what's important." She nodded down at the bit of leather strapped around Deirdre's right forearm, then gestured to the sheathed dagger hanging from the belt at her waist. "And I see you kept your word about wearing that. But I don't think it really matches."
Deirdre huffed, but didn't have a comeback.
Author's Note:
By the time of the events of Skyrim, it's canonically been more than 13 years since the Great War ended. But for the sake of my story, the timeline has been tweaked.
Big thanks to everyone joining me for this journey, and a huge, huge thanks to those who've left reviews. It's been so great to hear your thoughts!