Loredas, 10th of Hearthfire, 4E202
The last time someone official had been standing in front of Deirdre reading names off a list, unable to find hers, Lokir of Rorikstead was lying in the dirt with a back full of arrows. Deirdre had to keep shoving that memory down as she pleaded her case.
"I promise you, I paid the fee," she repeated. "I wrote my name myself."
"Miss," intoned the uniformed woman, lips thinning. "I promise you, I have looked this over half a dozen times already, and 'Deirdre' is not there."
The man with the eyepatch that had taken Deirdre's fee and watched her sign up was nowhere to be found. Instead, Deirdre was faced with this skinny, severe woman with hair cropped close to her head and not a trace of warmth in her countenance.
Deirdre could feel her throat growing tight. She wasn't sure if it was out of frustration or because of the similarities to the Helgen memory. Whatever the case, she was silent a moment too long, because the woman turned away.
"Wait—"
"What's the hold up over here?"
Aela and Vilkas had approached the official's table, the former visibly irritated. The severe woman turned back and opened her mouth, but stopped short at the sight of them. Her unyielding demeanor wilted.
"Companions," she greeted.
"Is there a problem?" Vilkas said.
The severe woman's lips pursed again, thinner than before. "This young woman's name is not on the list. She has told me her name multiple times and I have checked the list multiple times, and she is not there."
"I watched her sign up with my own eyes," Aela said. She held out a demanding hand. "Let me see the list."
The woman's eyes darted between the three of them before she reluctantly held out the board with the list. Aela snatched it rudely and held it so Deirdre could see it, Vilkas reading over their shoulders.
"It's going to be on the second page," Deirdre said after a glance. Aela flipped the top sheet up over the twine that bound the papers in place. Deirdre put a finger to the paper to trace down the rows of names, recalling that the one before hers had been "Bjarte."
There. After "Bjarte" and before "Ulwaas." Her name had been blotted out with ink. Beside it, written in a hand matching that of "Ulwaas," were the words, "Ribbon Girl."
"'Ribbon Girl?'" Vilkas queried.
Deirdre clenched her jaw. She felt a hot prickling in her eyes that meant she was wordlessly angry.
It's not even clever, she thought.
"Are you shitting me," Aela said. She held the list up facing the severe woman and stabbed a finger at the offending moniker. "You didn't see this and wonder what it was?"
The woman took the board back and frowned at it. "We assumed it was a mistake or a pseudonym. If she wanted to go by this title then she should have given that to me instead of—"
"It's a mistake," Deirdre interrupted. "The man who signed up after me, Ulwaas, the Wood Elf—he must have changed it to annoy me."
The woman's tone changed immediately. "That pompous elf?" she clarified.
Deirdre nodded. The woman's eyes flashed. She stepped aside to retrieve the bundle of tournament standard arrows allotted to every participant and brought them back to Deirdre.
"Are you going to do better than him?" the woman asked.
Deirdre gaped at the arrows before taking them in hand. "I—Yes, I'm going to try."
"Don't try, do," the woman said. She picked up her board and flipped a few pages, slipping a pencil out of her belt and making some marks. She scanned over her marks and nodded. "You're number twenty-four. The way we split the numbers, that works out to you facing the elf in the semifinal round, if both of you make it that far." She glanced up at Aela. "The Huntress will face whichever of you wins."
A nervous thrill ran through Deirdre. As Aela drew her from the official's booth toward the field, she processed the fact that if she beat Ulwaas, she'd be good enough to compete against Aela the Huntress.
"What's this about a pompous elf?" Vilkas asked as they walked.
Aela snorted. "Just some asshole we met at the sign-up. I'm going to destroy him."
And it was at that moment, approaching the gathering of archers all waiting at the base of the tournament stands, that Deirdre spotted said elf, speaking imperiously to two big Nords with identical postures of hostility. She summoned all her determination.
Me too, she vowed. I'll destroy him too.
The Jarl's box was full. To his right sat his children, starting with his eldest son, then his daughter, then his youngest son. To his left sat his brother, Legate Cipius, and Proventus. Irileth, his housecarl, stood at attention just behind his right shoulder, alert for any signs of a threat to his person.
The weather had not changed since he'd stood on his balcony, the sky still clear and the sun sufficiently warm, with only an occasional, minimal waft of air floating over the tournament grounds. No doubt the archers were wishing there were no breeze at all, but if they were gifted enough they would be able to compensate.
"Father, look, there's a girl down there," Frothar said, pointing to the ground where the archers had assembled. "How come she gets to be in the tournament, but I'm too young?"
Balgruuf wearily lowered his chin to his knuckles, tired of this argument. "She must be at least sixteen, son. You'll get your chance in a few years."
"She doesn't look any bigger than I am!"
Balgruuf ignored him and signaled Proventus. "Go and tell them we're ready to get started."
Proventus stood and bowed before leaving to do as commanded. Dagny, sitting up ladylike in her seat, took the opportunity to provoke her elder brother.
"You're not even good with a bow," she tutted. "You wouldn't make it past the first round."
"Shut up! I'm a lot better than I used to be!"
"Children," Balgruuf intoned, "Can we please try to behave? We're in public."
They exchanged their noisy argument for a whispered one, which was the best Balgruuf could hope for. Down past Dagny, Nelkir was slouched low in his seat, simmering with silent resentment at being dragged from his dim library and his books. Balgruuf had a thought to bark at him to sit up, but decided not to waste his breath.
Finally a horn sounded from below. One of the court mage's assistants had ascended the steps of the platform at the base of the stands, and a skinny woman in a guard uniform stood beside him holding the horn to her lips. Once the stands had quieted enough, the woman lowered her horn and the mage summoned a halo of green light around his hand. He held this hand to his throat and spoke in a voice that boomed out over the tournament grounds.
"People of Whiterun Hold and beyond," the mage announced, "Jarl Balgruuf the Greater welcomes you to his city's annual archery tournament."
The mage paused to give the crowd a chance to cheer.
"We thank the Eight Divines for the Jarl's generosity, for the strength and skill of the participants, and for this fine day we have been blessed with for the event."
Balgruuf made sure to appear neutral as he listened to the cheers intermingled with boos at the mage's mention of "Eight Divines." He was keenly aware of the Legate on his left, observing his people's reaction to the dismissal of the ninth Divine. It chafed at him not to include Talos, and it seemed as if the sun for a moment narrowed its beams to land more directly on him, searing in its scrutiny.
"As is this tournament's custom, we have organized the participants to compete in one-on-one ends, with the winners of each end moving up to the next round. The first, second, and third place competitors will receive monetary prizes awarded in honor of Jarl Balgruuf himself."
More smattered cheers. Balgruuf surveyed the crop of archers the tournament had turned up. He spotted Aela the Huntress, her red hair standing out amongst the various brown and blond heads. There were a few participants who'd shown up in shining equipage, a few elves, even a Redguard. And he noticed a rather petite figure in a feminine dress, wearing a purple ribbon over the top of her head—the girl Frothar must have complained about. He hoped she was actually sixteen. If Frothar found out someone let a child into the tournament, he'd never hear the end of it.
"And so without further ado, our first competing archers will be Aela the Huntress and—"
The name of the second archer was drowned out as the crowd reacted with enthusiasm. The Huntress sauntered forth from the sidelines where the archers were waiting. She dipped into a mocking, extravagant bow, which elicited some laughter and still more cheers.
He heard Legate Cipius chuckle. "I take it we have a crowd favorite."
"Aye," Hrongar replied. "She's won the last four years in a row. One of the Companions."
"Ah," said the Legate, understanding.
The Huntress and her unfortunate opponent were sent up to their respective targets and fired their three arrows each. The Huntress's arrows, of course, all hit the center, and she turned and raised her arms to the stands to summon another outpouring of adoration. The other archer was less than perfect, and before the official had even gone out to evaluate and score the targets, he'd gone over to shake the Huntress's hand and accept his loss.
The first several ends proceeded in the same fashion. When it came time to announce the competitors for the twelfth end, the court mage's assistant again lifted his glowing hand to his throat and read from his list.
"Next, we have Bjarte of Whiterun and—" He paused and recovered. "And Ribbon Girl."
A Nord man stepped forward, followed by the girl Frothar had pointed out. Her posture was stiff compared to that of her much larger opponent, as if she were embarrassed, and a few guffaws sounded across the stands. Bjarte barely spared her a glance as they approached the line to fire.
When the official gave the signal to commence, they fired their first arrows. Both hit within the center field of their targets, and the audience awarded them modest applause.
They fired their second arrows. When it appeared they'd both hit the center again, a tangible surprise rippled over the grounds. One bullseye could be a fluke, but two suggested actual skill.
Bjarte and Ribbon Girl paused to exchange looks, Bjarte's face wrinkling in confusion.
After they released their third arrows, the official jogged out to the targets to evaluate them, jotting down the scores. Since it appeared that all three shots from both archers had made it to the center circles of their targets, she had to judge which archer had more consistently hit near the true center point. Finally, after going from one to the other and back again, the official raised an arm in front of the winning target. It was Ribbon Girl's.
The spectators fell into surprised cheers as Bjarte stood there, stunned, and Ribbon Girl whirled to beam at someone in the center of the stands.
"See, Father," Frothar piped up, pointing down at the girl. "If she can shoot, so can I. You should let me sign up next year."
"When you're sixteen."
"But that's not fair!"
Below, Bjarte was leaving the field and Ribbon Girl was heading back to the rest of the competitors. The court mage's assistant announced the next two archers. One of them, a Wood Elf in elven armor, passed the girl on his way to the shooting line, and held a hand next to his mouth to call something to her. She halted mid-step, pivoting to glare at his retreating back, but he kept walking as if to deprive her of a chance to respond.
No love lost there, Balgruuf surmised.
The tournament progressed to the second round, and then the third, and in both rounds Balgruuf saw the elf Ulwaas go out of his way to say something to the girl, and both times she soured, but didn't reply.
A rivalry was unfolding, and Balgruuf wasn't the only one to notice. Ulwaas's aim was excellent, but he was a sore winner the first round, a worse one the second, and by the third he received hardly any applause for his victory. Simultaneously, the fervor of Ribbon Girl's supporters grew with each round she won.
By the fourth round, the semifinals, the two had proven themselves equally skilled, but the audience had a clear favorite. Aela the Huntress was still expected to win, but the spectacle of Ribbon Girl taking down her bigger and more intimidating adversaries was exciting by virtue of being new.
The Huntress and her semifinal opponent took their three shots at the second farthest targets. The Huntress landed another perfect score; the other woman did not. She didn't deflate at the loss, however, and approached the Huntress for a handshake and what seemed to be a genial exchange.
"It's the elf and the girl next," Legate Cipius noted, as the mage called them forth. "This will be interesting."
Balgruuf fingered his beard as the girl and the elf took their positions at the shooting line.
He wasn't one for anti-elf sentiment—his own housecarl was a Dark Elf, for one thing—but he did have a distaste for egotists, and a weakness for underdogs.
Let's hope Ribbon Girl puts him in his place, he thought.
To the Legate, he simply said, "Indeed."
Deirdre's heart was racing. From nerves, from elation at making it to this point, from anger. Ulwaas had gone out of his way to make antagonizing comments throughout the entire tournament, always addressing her with his unoriginal pejorative. Each comment landed like a barb and brought her blood to a boil.
"I'm impressed with you, Ribbon Girl," he said now that they stood at the shooting line. "I would have expected you to fatigue yourself after so many rounds, as you are so oddly lacking for a Nord."
She put on a false air of calm, focusing on the target in the distance. "You don't need to worry about me fatiguing myself, Dandy Elf."
He huffed. "Of the two of us, I'm the one equipped for archery, and you're the one with little ribbons in your hair, Ribbon Girl. So who's the dandy?"
She deliberately did not clench her jaw. "You're very fixated on that. Do you secretly wish you had ribbons too?"
"You're going to feel very foolish for speaking to me that way," Ulwaas snapped.
Deirdre glared at him. "I'm sure I won't."
The official signaled for them to begin shooting, and Deirdre drew an arrow from the quiver on her back, dismissing him from her mind. She had to focus now so she could gloat later. Ulwaas was clearly no slouch when it came to archery, and this match was more important than the final round against Aela. Aela was untouchable. Ulwaas was a dickweed.
She focused on her breathing. Then her arms. Then her bow. She nocked her arrow, lifted her bow, drew back the string, aimed. She exhaled slowly and deliberately, paused, steady as a rock, waited for the slight breeze to pass, and let the arrow fly. Only after the arrow had cleared the bow did she let the remaining breath leave her body.
It was harder to tell since the targets kept getting further away, but she thought she'd hit the center circle. A glance at Ulwaas's target said he'd done the same. Her heart squeezed.
"Nervous, Ribbon Girl?"
She ignored him, projecting the coolest demeanor she had in her, and serenely drew her second arrow. She repeated the process of focusing on her breath, her body, her bow; she fired. She hit the center circle again. Another glance; Ulwaas had done the same. Yes, she was nervous. They were down to the final shot. If they both hit the center again, they'd have to wait for the official's judgment.
"If you apologize for your rudeness now, I'll let you shake my hand after I beat you," Ulwaas offered. She wondered if he was just as nervous as she was, and that was why he kept needling her.
She drew the last arrow from her quiver and was about to nock it when she noticed one part of the fletching was missing. She turned to locate the official; Ulwaas raised his bow and took aim. She waved the official over as Ulwaas released his final arrow.
Distractedly, she glanced from the official toward his target; all three arrows seemed to be in the center, but perhaps that last one was a little farther out, perhaps it had hit the edge, or even just outside the center—
"What is it?" the severe woman asked.
Deirdre held out her arrow and indicated the damaged fletching. "I can't shoot with this."
The official took the arrow and clicked her tongue. "Glad you noticed it. Here." She drew a spare from her own quiver, and Deirdre took it to inspect it, nodding.
"Thank you," she said.
"Good luck."
The woman held up a fisted hand in encouragement before retreating.
As Deirdre turned back to her target, an antsy Ulwaas barked at her. "What's with the delay? Lose your nerve?"
"Hold your horses," she barked back. "I'll beat you in a second."
This was it. She could hear a steady buzz coming from the stands, since the crowd doubtless wondered what was going on. Ulwaas made an impatient noise and left the shooting line, nose in the air as if to indicate he was so sure of his victory he didn't even need to watch her final shot. Her heart was knocking against her ribs as she nocked the arrow.
Breathe. Lift. Aim. Hold. She let her heart settle. All was still.
Release.
She knew it was a good shot the instant the arrow left the bowstring. Her heart soared up into her throat.
Without warning, a gust of wind blew. Deirdre's heart stopped. The arrow thudded into the target, and it wasn't as close to the center as her first two shots, and in fact—
The noise level from the stands rose, and Deirdre couldn't move, couldn't look away from the target as the gust died away and the rippling of her skirt settled. Ulwaas was crowing out in victory behind her as the official ran past to evaluate the targets.
Maybe it's closer than it looks, Deirdre prayed, denied, hoped.
The official looked at her target first, then went over to Ulwaas's. She did not take long to mark the scores. She raised a victory signal in front of Ulwaas's target.
Deirdre's heart plummeted into her stomach. The people in the stands lifted their voices in unanimous outrage, a wave of screaming protest and boos. Almost drowned in the cacophony, Ulwaas was bellowing back at them in a mocking tone.
The official removed the arrows from the targets and walked back toward Deirdre, who still hadn't moved, and still had her back to the stands and Ulwaas. The official's severe face softened with sympathy as she stopped in front of Deirdre, holding the six arrows that had eliminated her from the tournament.
"That was an unlucky thing," the official consoled. "You would have won."
Deirdre's sunken heart throbbed. She felt the phantom sting of possible tears, but the sensation only served to spark a wave of fury—at herself.
Unbidden, words came to her mind, spoken by a deep and otherworldly voice in a tone of disgust.
"Truly pitiful. A disgrace to your soul."
Behind her, Ulwaas's voice rang clear, as if he'd turned from the crowd to her.
"Why don't you face me, you little runt? Too cowardly to admit I destroyed you? Ribbon Girl?"
That stupid name. He sounded like a moron. And yet—
Deirdre reached up and tore at the knot of the ribbon behind her ear, ripping it from her head. She used the same hand to reach out and snatch an arrow from the official. Before the woman could react, she'd wound the ribbon around the arrow and made a hasty knot.
"What are you—"
Deirdre nocked the arrow and spun around. Ulwaas stood many feet away with a triumphant sneer curdling his face, his back to the platform atop which the announcing mage still stood. Deirdre drew a breath and raised her bow. Ulwaas froze.
"Stop—!"
She fired. The arrow whizzed past Ulwaas's face and slammed into the announcer's platform. The crowd went silent. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Ulwaas's long, elven ear.
His face had gone ashen. He reached up to touch his ear. He drew his hand away to find blood on his gloved fingers, and his mouth fell open.
Heady, hot triumph swam through Deirdre, boiling even as it mollified her fury.
Ulwaas looked up with murder in his eyes. He threw his bow to the ground and ran at her.
Deirdre stepped back on instinct, the official grabbing her by the arm, the spectators screaming again, pandemonium in the stands. Ulwaas was heading straight for her and he may have been a Wood Elf but he was still bigger than her, what had she done—
Aela intercepted Ulwaas, full on tackling him. Two guards ran onto the field immediately after, separating Aela from Ulwaas even as he struggled to break free. A third guard came for Deirdre, ordering the official not to let her go. But Deirdre wasn't struggling. The official handed her over to the guard, who promptly began leading her from the field.
Half the crowd seemed to be booing, the other half exclaiming unintelligibly. Deirdre looked to where Gerdur, Hod, and Frodnar had been sitting in the stands, and saw Hod bouncing a crying Mona and Gerdur on her feet shouting and gesticulating at the field.
As the heat of her anger began winding down, Deirdre came to realize she'd done something very, very foolish.
"I think that was more interesting than I bargained for," Legate Cipius said, a grin on his broad face.
"It's a first," Hrongar agreed, thoroughly amused and bordering on laughing.
Proventus burst into the box, slightly out of breath from having run all the way up the stands. "My Jarl," he puffed, "the officials would like you to judge how they should proceed."
"That was so good!" Frothar burst. "Didn't it look like she hit his ear?"
Dagny kicked her shoes against her seat in excitement. "She did, I saw it!"
"I saw it too!" Nelkir exclaimed, sullenness evaporated.
"Children, settle," Balgruuf chastised. "That was a dangerous stunt."
"My Jarl, the officials," Proventus pressed. "The guards have hold of the elf and the girl. What do we do about the tournament?"
"What do you mean, 'what do we do?'" Balgruuf replied. He propped a foot across the other knee and relaxed against the cushioned backrest of his chair. "Did she actually hit his ear?"
"Yes, my Jarl."
"Is the wound serious?"
"No, it only grazed him."
"Can he continue shooting?"
"I—I believe so, my Jarl."
"Then the tournament continues. The elf and the Huntress still have to face each other."
Proventus blinked rapidly at him. "But he tried to—And the girl fired a deadly weapon at another participant. Are we to punish her?"
"As far as I can tell, he'd been egging her on," Balgruuf said. "Her punishment is losing the round. As long as the elf is fine and the Ribbon Girl doesn't assault anyone else, the tournament should proceed as planned."
Proventus did another flurry of blinks. He looked from the Jarl to the Legate, to Hrongar, to Irileth, to the Jarl again, and finally to the children who'd started back up raving about the Ribbon Girl.
He bowed. "As you say, my Jarl. I'll let the officials know."