Chapter Three: "His Name Is Brand!"

Borgakh

"Why did you do it, elf?"

In front of me, he sighs. "I've told you a thousand times, it's Brand." He turns around and starts walking backward down the road so he can face me. "Do you orcs have something against first names? What do you do, run around the stronghold calling each other orc all day?"

"No." I raise an eyebrow. "Why would we do that?"

He throws his hands up. "Exactly! Why would you?"

"We don't."

He sighs and rolls his eyes. It's something he's done a lot since we left the stronghold two days ago. "So then why am I just 'elf' all the time?"

"Because that's what you are."

He spins abruptly and starts marching faster, muttering under his breath. I don't catch all of what he says, but I do hear the word 'obtuse.'

"You did not answer my question," I remind him. I keep my smile carefully hidden.

"What was the question again?" He sounds resigned.

"Why did you do it? Why did you pay my dowry?"

He's quiet for a while. Something that, even in my few short days of knowing him, I have come to realize is unusual for him.

"I didn't think it was fair, you know, to leave you there," he finally says.

"Fair?"

"Yeah. I mean, you wanted to travel. I had the means to let you and nothing better to do with all that gold." He shrugs. "The least I could do was get you out."

"The least you could do?" I am needling him. Maybe he knows it.

"You know what I mean." He sighs again.

"Are you rich?" I ask. If 1,000 septims is the least he could do, maybe I should have asked for a higher dowry. I already raised the price just to see if he'd pay it and my father played along. As did the elf, to my surprise. Perhaps I will tell him one day.

"Compared to some, maybe. I don't know. I don't really keep track of it. That's more Lydia's job."

"Lydia?" I ask. I'm surprised when my voice comes out a little gruffer than I intend. But if he notices, he doesn't react.

"My housecarl. In Whiterun."

"Housecarl?"

"Yeah. It's a Nordic term. It means…" he rolls a hand in the air beside him as if searching for the right word. "She's kind of like a steward and a bodyguard."

"The Dragonborn needs a bodyguard?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes. But mostly she just guards my stuff."

"Are you married?" I ask.

He stops and looks at me with a strange expression on his face then slowly holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers. There aren't any rings on any of them.

"I said housecarl, not wife." He smirks. "Lydia takes care of the house while I'm away, manages my affairs in town, and keeps opportunistic looters from having a heyday in my house. You know, all that important stuff the Dragonborn is supposed to be doing in between saving the world."

"Is that how you came to our stronghold, elf? Saving the world?"

"Brand," he says reflexively. "I suppose so. I was officially in the area to meet Jarl Elisif the Fair. I was on my way back to Whiterun when I came across that dragon I fought outside your stronghold. Turns out, he was an elder dragon and I may," he coughs, "have bitten off more than I could chew."

"Well," I say. "I'm glad you did."

He laughs. "At least one of us is."


Whiterun is both bigger and smaller than I expect. The Jarl's house is far larger than I think any man would need. The elf says I should see the Blue Palace if I think Dragonsreach is big. And then he tells me that it's not just a house. Dragonsreach also serves as a base of operations for the Jarl and his advisors, plus a home for other members of the court.

"It's sort of like your stronghold," he says as we look up at the towering roof of Dragonsreach. "The Jarl lives there with his family, all his advisors and staff, and the servants."

"Servants?"

"Well, sure. Somebody's got to clean Dragonsreach. Or did you think he did it himself?" There's a sparkle in his eye that I know means laughter, even if he isn't making a sound.

"Is Lydia your servant?" I ask.

"No!"

"But she is bound to you, is she not?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. But it's more of an honor thing. She gets paid for her work and gets to share all of my resources and stuff. She's still able to live her life as she pleases. Just...in my house." He falters a little on that last bit, as if he's not entirely confident about it. But then again, maybe he is not. After all, he is a bosmer living smack dab in the middle of Nordic tradition and legend. All of this was probably strange to him once too. And might still be. "But c'mon. Let me show you around," he says.

He leads me up to a modest house beside the blacksmith's shop. It is much smaller than what I imagine the Dragonborn should live in. I say so. He just shrugs and gives me a mysterious smile as he opens the door.

Inside, the house is charming. There's a fire pit in the center of the room and a long table in the back for eating or working. It is covered in a conglomeration of plates, papers, weapons, and half-eaten food. There are cabinets and bookshelves on just about every available part of the wall and they are all full of jars, trinkets, books, journals, and strange objects I have no name for. There are glittering sapphires and rubies sitting in a pile on one shelf and a dragon's claw that looks like it might be made of pure gold sitting on another. A staircase leads up to what I assume are the sleeping quarters.

"Lydia! I'm home!" he shouts.

A woman appears at the top of the stairs a moment later. She's a practical dark-haired Nord wearing (I'm pleased to note) a sturdy set of steel armor.

"It's good to see you again, my Thane."

I almost expect the sigh he gives her in return.

"It's Brand. Brand, Lydia."

"Of course," she says. "And who is this?"

I don't even give the elf a chance to introduce me. "I am Borgakh the Steel-Heart." I step forward.

"Well met, Borgakh," Lydia says. "Will you be visiting with us long?"

"She'll be staying for a while," the elf clarifies. "I figure she can stay in the room under the stairs. We'll have to acquire a bed."

"Consider it done, my Thane. I will speak to Adrienne and Belethor and see what they can come up with."

"Excellent. While you're at it, would you get us something nice from Anoriath's stall for dinner? We've got a new friend, I figure that merits us a little feast."

"Certainly." Lydia smiles. "Want me to take one of those gems for trade?" She points to the pile of sapphires and rubies. I can see what the elf meant when he said he might be considered rich.

"Sure. Why not?" he shrugs. "I've got a few more from the last tomb I was in anyway."

Lydia rolls her eyes, but she grabs a couple of gems off the shelf as she passes and heads out the door. The easy familiarity between the two of them is something that I can relate to. It is the friendly banter of clanmates. These two are good friends, even though Lydia does seem to owe him some deference.

"Tomb?" I ask, curious at his last remark.

"Oh, yeah." He empties a pouch from his belt, dumping a couple more gemstones - a ruby and an emerald this time - onto the shelf. "You'd be surprised how many Nords get buried with an absolute mountain of treasure."

"And you take it from them?"

He shrugs. "They can't use it. And it's not like anyone is taking inventory in the tombs."

While I am no Nord, and our orcish burial practices are different, I don't know how I feel about blindly robbing the dead. But I will not be hasty. It is no business of mine where the Dragonborn gets his septims.

He leads me under the staircase to a small room with an alchemy stand in one corner. A shelf overhead holds a trunk and several herbs hanging underneath it to dry.

"If you don't mind the herbs, you can stay here. Lydia will get you a bed. I think I've got an extra chest upstairs I can bring down for you to store your stuff in. Until you decide what you'd like to do, of course."

"This will be fine," I say. And it will. I don't need a lot of space. After all, I'm used to sharing everything I have with the clan.

"Great." He smiles. "You can leave your stuff here for now. We'll get you settled in later tonight. I'm going to drop off this eternally heavy backpack" he gestures to the pack on his own back, "and then I'll take you around the city." He winks and goes upstairs.

I leave behind my pack, but I keep my armor and weapons. An orc never leaves home without them. Since I am far from home, I prefer to keep my arms and armor close. The elf returns a few minutes later in civilian garb - a green tunic and vest over tan pants and a pair of soft leather boots. He's only armed with a short dagger that is more decorative than useful if the gilded hilt is any indication. He looks even smaller without his armor, but I can see the muscle beneath his shirt as he moves. He might not be the size of an orc, but there is no doubt that he is a warrior.

He catches me staring. I don't look away. I have never understood the human reaction of quickly looking away and pretending you weren't staring. If I am staring at something, I have good reason. The elf ends up looking away first.

"Shall we?" He gestures at the door.

I grunt. He takes that as a yes and pulls me outside.

People stare at us as we walk up Whiterun's main street. The elf greets almost all of them, even the ones who scowl at him, like a fellow he calls Nazeem. Overall, it seems he's well-liked in Whiterun though. The city is so different from our stronghold. There are all sorts of people here - elves, Redguards, Nords, and Bretons. I even glimpsed a Khajitti trading caravan on the way in. People here are lively. There's shouting and bargaining. Kids run through the streets playing a game of tag. They even try to get the Dragonborn to join in, but he politely declines (with the promise that he'll make it up to them later.) The market is a busy place, even at the close of the day. The elf stops at a well in the center of the market and gestures grandly around himself.

"Well? What do you think?" he asks, that dazzling grin on his face again.

Before I can answer, a voice interrupts, "I think you should stop bringing foreigners into the city."

The elf sighs and turns to face a blond Nord in Imperial armor who walked up behind us. "No one asked your opinion, Idolaf."

"In my own city? No one has to." Idolaf leers. "Mongrel."

I feel my blood boil.

"That's Dragonborn to you, Nord," the elf says. He keeps his expression neutral, but his tone is icy.

"So what did you bring back this time? An Orc? What is she, your new bodyguard? Didn't think Lydia was enough?" Idolaf jeers, getting right down in the elf's face. "Thought you had to replace your Nord housecarl with one of their kind? Boorish, dirty fighters, if you ask me."

"Lydia's fine. Borgakh isn't replacing her. She's just traveling with me."

Idolaf looks over at me. "Can't even have the decency to have a pronounceable name." He shakes his head. "So, what do you do?" he snarls. "Carry the mongrel's sword or something?"

"His name is Brand," I growl.

Idolaf stands up, frowning slightly, as if he didn't hear me. "Come again?"

Even Brand looks surprised.

"His name. Is. Brand. Not mongrel."

Idolaf is silent for a long moment, then he laughs.

"So she's your defender, then, eh, mongrel?"

I am on him so fast, he doesn't even have a chance to react. I grab him up by the collar and hoist him over the well, so that he is bent backward over the metal grating, an angry orc leaning over him, my sword inches from his nose. He gulps. This close I can see sweat bead on his brow.

"Look here, Nord, I could care less what you call me. But you'll show some respect to my friend. You can address him as Dragonborn or as Brand. I hear you call him anything else, I'll break your bones into so many pieces that even a Dwemer tinkerer couldn't put you back together. You understand?"

I see the flash of defiance in Idolaf's eyes. I shake him and bend him further over the well. I hear something crack.

"Understand?" I ask again.

Idolaf has a funny expression on his face, something between a smile and a grimace. "Y-yes. Of course. I meant no disrespect."

"The hell you didn't."

"Alright, Borgakh, I think you've scared the little milk-drinker enough," Brand says from behind me.

I scowl, but I yank Idolaf up and shove him back. He stumbles a few steps before steadying himself against the well. I sheath my sword as curious eyes stare at us from all sides of the market.

I growl.

Idolaf backs off quickly, but not before throwing one last threat over his shoulder. "Don't think this is the end, Dragonborn!"

"Come back anytime, Idolaf!" Brand shouts and spreads his arms in a universal symbol of challenge. Idolaf disappears up the stairs to the Inn.

I hear laughter behind us and turn to see another blond Nord in shoddy iron armor trying unsuccessfully to stifle his guffawing. "You know how long I've been waiting for someone to give him his comeuppance?"

"Too long?" Brand guesses.

The Nord nods. "I like your new friend, Brand."

"Me, too, Jon," Brand says, looking over at me with a sly grin. "After all, she finally learned my name."

I cross my arms and stare down at him, but my usual intimidation tactics don't bother Brand in the slightest. "Don't push your luck, or you're back to being elf."

Brand laughs. "Yes, ma'am. Now, how about I take you to see the rest of Whiterun, and then we'll find out what Lydia dragged in for supper, eh?"