Loredas, 10th of Hearthfire, 4E202

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching from behind him. His brother appeared at his side, joining him on the balcony overlooking the city of Whiterun. A pleasant breeze swept over the Jarl's face, a friendly gesture from a peaceful blue sky, as if the heavens themselves were oblivious to any troubles in the world.

After a moment of silent observation, Hrongar spoke. "Do you still think it was a good idea to hold the tournament this year?"

Balgruuf smiled grimly. "Bit late to change my mind if it wasn't."

Hrongar gave a gruff laugh. "True. Proventus is just sure a dragon is going to appear at the watchtower and kill us all."

"I pity any dragon foolish enough to strike where the Jarl's personal guard and the Companions are gathered together in the same place," Balgruuf said.

"It's not the guard or the Companions that we have to worry about."

Balgruuf shook his head. "The common folk are the ones who need this tournament the most. I didn't stop the Imperials from making my city into a military base just to turn around and ban all our festivities. My people need a reprieve from the war and the dragons."

Another set of approaching footsteps, less heavy and more harried than this brother's, interrupted whatever Hrongar was about to say. Balgruuf didn't turn as his steward stopped behind him.

"My Jarl, Legate Cipius has arrived."

"Speak of the devil," Balgruuf muttered. He let his gaze alight on the western watchtower outside the city wall, and the comparatively low shape of the tournament stands at its base, only visible due to his vantage atop Dragonsreach. Balgruuf realized he would now be obligated to invite the legate to sit with his family in their section, as an esteemed guest.

He deigned to step away from the view to face his steward. "You can tell him I'll be with him shortly, Proventus. And you can tell him that if he's going to start up again about garrisoning troops in my city, he can leave now and save us both some time."

Proventus nodded and placed his right fist against the opposite shoulder. "Of course, Jarl Balgruuf."

He spun and hurried away. Balgruuf heaved a sigh, now that it was just his brother to hear it. "Why bother to rebuild Helgen if they're still going to pester me about setting up in my city? They'll have their base back soon enough."

Hrongar gestured over Whiterun. "Because Whiterun is still the better location for blocking trade routes to the Old Holds. If we took the fight directly to the Stormcloaks and ended this war, the Legion would stop having a reason to intrude."

Balgruuf shot him a glare. "I'll not explain myself again. Whiterun is neutral until my hand is forced."

"Letting the war drag out like this isn't—"

"Hrongar."

His brother snapped his mouth shut and looked away, jaw clenched. Balgruuf sighed again. "Let's just hold the argument off for today, hmm?" He clapped his brother on the shoulder and steered him away from the balcony. "Let's take bets on the tournament winner."

Hrongar snorted, some of his irritation receding. "That will be the Huntress again."

True, Balgruuf agreed. "Then, let's take bets on second place."

There was a small line at the table to sign up for the tournament. Aela had already gotten her name in—actually, the way she phrased it sounded as if she hadn't even bothered to sign up, but expected her name to be on the roster as a matter of course—but she waited with Deirdre anyway.

The tournament field was visible from where they were standing, and Aela pointed out the different distances the targets were arranged at.

"The final round we'll be shooting all the way down at those ones," she said, ducking down to Deirdre's level and lining up a finger to direct her gaze.

Deirdre nodded, the first swells of nerves hitting her. She'd practiced at that distance with Faendal, and she hit the center of her target more often than she didn't, but there were more factors than just herself to consider. Like the wind, and the fact that the crowd would be distracting.

"And then see, up there," Aela continued, arm pointing behind where the archers would line up, "that bigger box up in the stands? That's where the Jarl sits with his children. They're all little monsters, let me tell you."

Deirdre started. "The Jarl comes to the tournament?"

"Of course. Who do you think pays for the whole thing? And hands out the prizes?"

Deirdre marveled. The Jarl would be watching them?

This would be the second Jarl she'd seen in person, though it would be dangerous to admit that aloud. Skyrim had nine Jarls in total, each a king or queen in his or her own right. They all came together in a Moot every time a new High King needed to be elected, and chose one among their number to lead Skyrim as a whole. Gerdur had explained to her that becoming High King was Ulfric's ultimate goal, so that he could officially secede from the Empire.

She hardly noticed two figures stopping behind her and Aela as she stood there imagining having to bow before a Jarl to accept a prize. A particularly loud snort drew her attention. She and Aela looked over their shoulders.

A male and a female stood waiting next in line, both of them sporting the pointed ears and catlike eyes of elves. The female was significantly taller than the male, with the amber eyes and greenish-golden skin of a High Elf, while the male was more warmly colored, a Wood Elf like Faendal. The male was wearing a gleaming set of elven armor with nary a scratch on it, and had a fine quiver polished to a sleek shine strapped to his hip.

He met Deirdre's gaze directly and pulled his lips into a shape that was not really a smile. His near-black eyes flicked up to the crown of her head.

"I didn't realize Skyrim was in the custom of allowing children into their sports competitions," he said in a smooth accent.

He was looking at her ribbon.

The High Elf obliged her companion with a matching not-smile. "Nords aren't known for their archery skills. They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel."

Aela froze. Deirdre stared. The elves looked back at them with identical expressions of anticipation.

Aela turned to face them, sizing them up and placing a hand on her hip. "Big talk coming from a walking twig and her little brother," she said.

The Wood Elf's eyes flashed. The High Elf sighed, holding a hand up to stop him from speaking. "Name-calling, how juvenile. Typical Nord."

Aela gave her a flinty grin. "A typical Nord might not stop at just words."

At this point Deirdre also turned fully around, not sure whether she wanted to grab Aela to hold her back, or make a show of unity to try and get the elves to back down. When she did so, the Wood Elf's eyes darted distractedly from Aela to her, landing south of her collarbone. His gaze ran pointedly over her bodice. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

He clicked his tongue, gaze lingering. "Well, now. Apologies. I see you're not a child after all."

It took a few seconds to sink in—the audacious ease with which he'd flipped from mocking to leering.

Deirdre stiffened. Her skin crawled under the elf's eyes, making her feel bizarrely exposed. But she wasn't exposed. Gerdur had purposefully made the dress flattering to her figure, it was true, and that had been the point. But it wasn't as if she were showing cleavage, or as if her bodice were scandalously thin. Her thoughts flew to the last time she'd worn this dress, and the man who'd ruined the experience that time.

Was she actually the fool, for daring to "look nice," as she'd said to Aela? Why bother when this was the result?

The pang of injustice made her blood surge hot. Her brain disconnected from her mouth.

"Too bad for you I'm not a child, or you might stand a chance against me in the tournament."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aela's head swivel.

The Wood Elf finally lifted his eyes. "Excuse me? You don't even know who you're talking to, and you have the gall to mouth off? As if an ill-bred Nord runt poses any threat to me."

I'm the one who's ill-bred?

Her head was hot. She looked scathingly, deliberately, up and down his stature, adding a sharp gesture. "Better a Nord runt than a dandy little Wood Elf in pretty armor!"

She thought Aela's jaw might have dropped. But she stayed focused on the elf, whose whole body had just gone rigid. He drew up to the full, unimpressive height the males of his race had to offer.

"Better any mer than a degenerate from the backwoods of Tamriel!"

"Degenerate?"

"Forgive me, was the word too big? What about 'barbarian?' Or 'swine?'"

"As if you Wood Elves," she spat the name, "didn't crawl out of a dirty swamp under the heel of the Thalmor!" She stabbed a finger in the direction of the High Elf, whose face immediately lit with rage. The elves stepped forward in unanimous aggression.

Aela grabbed Deirdre by the arm, a reversal in roles that yanked Deirdre back into herself. She realized she'd been shouting. Aela pulled Deirdre's arm down and put up her other hand toward the elves, stopping them in their tracks.

"Let's save the pissing contest for the tournament," she suggested.

The Wood Elf scraped out a harsh laugh, but he didn't move toward them again. "Fine. That's just fine. It will be my pleasure to humiliate you."

Aela's answering smile was savage. "The pleasure will be all ours, I'm sure. I can't wait to see the look on your face when you get crushed by a couple of 'degenerates from the backwoods of Tamriel.'"

"Bluster all you want," the High Elf cut in. "Every sensible being across Tamriel knows that Bosmer are inherently talented archers. The acuity of their vision and the superiority of elven reflexes puts them at an advantage over any race of man. It's a biological inevitability. Ulwaas will win this Nord contest with ease."

"Oi, you lot!" interrupted a cranky male voice. The four of them stopped short, shifting attention to the line for the sign-up table. Only to discover there was no such line, as it had disappeared during the course of their argument. The man sitting at the table, an older fellow with a faded Whiterun guard uniform and an eyepatch, was frowning at them.

"You gonna sign up or you gonna stand there screaming like a bunch of milk-drinkers?"

Deirdre's blood was still hot—mostly from fury, but partly from shame, kindled by the mental image of the Wood Elf ogling her.

"I can't believe them," she seethed. They were walking back to the western gate, having departed from the sign-up without another word between them and the elves. She wished she had shouted more at him. Wished she had a sharper tongue. "I've never met people so unpleasant. What a couple of—of—"

"Dickweeds," Aela supplied.

"Yes!"

Aela nodded, but she wasn't on the verge of exploding like Deirdre. They stopped briefly to let one of the guards at the gate check them and wave them in (he recognized Aela), and re-entered Whiterun.

Aela said, "That's half the trouble with this stupid war going on. Elves and Nords going at it, like we were back in the Great War or something."

"Of course we're going at it!" Deirdre snapped. "They think they're better than we are!"

Aela's lips pursed. She signaled for Deirdre to follow her as she turned right, taking a back street. "Some elves are assholes like that."

"Elves are rotten," Deirdre insisted. She just kept picturing it, the way he'd blatantly leered while simultaneously calling her scum. The nerve. She wanted to cover herself up and she wanted to hit him, like she hadn't hit Sven.

"I thought you had a friend who was an elf. The one who gave you your bow?" Aela reminded.

Her fury ebbed. Aela was right. Faendal was an elf, and he'd never done anything to her. Sven, the Nord, had been the one to hurt her.

She went silent. Aela clicked her tongue. "Listen, I'm not about to criticize Gerdur and Hod, or whoever might have raised you, if they had anything against elves. But just don't let one or two dickweeds make up your mind about every elf," she said. "Kodlak Whitemane is the truest, proudest Nord you'll ever find, but that doesn't stop him from letting elves into the Companions. Man or mer, you should get judged based on your honor, not your race."

Deirdre watched Aela continue to walk, noting how she sounded unusually thoughtful. Her anger died to the point that she felt a little badly. She would never have said to Faendal what she'd said to that Ulwaas person. She wrapped a hand around the bow hanging on her shoulder and ran a thumb over the chain of flowers Faendal had carved into the wood. Her anger hadn't even been triggered by the elves acting superior—rather, it was the objectification that had set her off.

And that wasn't because he's an elf, it was because he's a male, she thought bitterly.

After dwelling on Aela's words a bit more, she realized something. "Who's Kodlak Whitemane?"

Aela stopped dead. She spun around as Deirdre also stopped. She scrutinized Deirdre like she wasn't sure if she were serious. Deirdre just stared back.

"You're kidding. Kodlak Whitemane? Harbinger of the Companions?"

Deirdre gripped her bow with both hands. "Is that your leader?"

Aela's mouth fell open. "Yes! How do you grow up in Helgen without hearing the name 'Kodlak Whitemane?'"

A little piece of Deirdre tensed up inside. She studied the ground. "I was very sheltered," she mumbled.

Aela paused. She seemed to realize she'd just brought up Helgen. "Ah … sorry. Forget I said anything. Yes, Kodlak is our leader. He gets final say in who does and doesn't get to join us, and final say in who gets into the Circle."

"The Circle?"

Aela's eyes bugged a bit again. "The Circle is made up of only veteran Companions. You have to prove yourself to be worthy of the honor, and you have to become an example for the rest of the Companions. Me and Vilkas are both in the Circle."

Aela brought a palm to her chest to emphasize her point. Deirdre took one look at her serious face and broke into a slow, unbidden smile.

"You're an example to the rest of the Companions?"

Aela processed the question. She drew back, affronted. "Hey! I am a good example!"

Deirdre tried and failed to get rid of her smile, lifting a hand to cover it. "Of—Of course! I believe you!"

"You little brat," Aela chided. "And to think I was going to let you meet some of the other Companions. Is this how you thank your official Whiterun tour guide, huh?"

Deirdre capitulated, surging forward to grab Aela by the sleeve. "Really? At Jorrvaskr? Is it true the Gildergreen sits right outside in the same square? Can we see that too? I'm sorry!"

Aela shook her off with a huff. "You're right you're sorry. Cha! Asking me if I'm a good example. When I kick your ass in the tournament, you're going to hope some of that example rubs off on you."

Deirdre drew her fist to her shoulder in a mock salute. "Of course, great exemplar!"

Aela gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes and jabbed Deirdre's forehead with her finger. "Brown-noser. Come on."

Author's Note:

I know the game tries to tell us Kodlak isn't the "leader" of the Companions, but like. Let's be real, he totally is. So in this story, we just treat him as the leader and be done with it.