Chapter Four

"You'll have quite the scar, little one."

The pain had found me at last. I awoke in a warm room, full of golden light bouncing off of the walls, a candle on every surface. There were no windows, only low mahogany walls and glossy wooden furniture. It was a Nord's home, no doubt. The scent of it was oaky and rich; somewhere meat was roasting, and the aroma awakened something primal and unfamiliar in me. I began to writhe, a fluttering panic flooding my body as I realized that I was anywhere but in my own bed, but a papery, wrinkled hand pressed firmly against my chest where there was no bandage, and I sank back into the pillows behind me. The woman seated next to me was white-haired and fair-skinned, and had to have been eighty years old. She was no healer, and yet beneath the blankets my chest was neatly bandaged, and while the pain was unpleasant it was a distant twinge, no doubt the result of a restorative swimming in my blood. I ran a frightened gaze up and down her body. On her lap was a pile of bloody linen, which I assumed was my old bandaging. She had been changing my bandages before I woke up. I could have been thankful but instead I was afraid. For all I knew, I was awake finally in Sovngarde. Would it be logical that I had even ended up in Sovngarde? Wouldn't my Breton blood have kept me from those misty hills and violet skies?

"Where am I?" My voice was hoarse and weak after my slumber, which must have been long.

The old woman pushed a tendril of hair behind my ear, a faint smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Jorrvaskr, Hall of the Companions. You have been asleep a day and a half. When Vilkas hauled you in we were sure you wouldn't make it through the night. I suppose we underestimated what those healers at the Temple of Kynareth can do with their old plants and glowing hands."

She rose to her feet and pulled open a dresser drawer, retrieving a faded blue kirtle and setting it on the foot of the bed. "Here, for if you feel well enough to get up. If not, I'll bring you your supper, dear."

I was alive. This was no afterlife. I'd heard very little of Jorrvaskr and the Companions, but I knew that it was in Whiterun. The man who had rescued me that night, this Vilkas the woman spoke of, must have been one of these renowned Companions, warriors I'd only ever heard tales of and had never seen the faces of. Once, my father told me and my brother the story of a girl he'd once known who'd been a Companion. One drunken night she grew loud and wrathful and sent a dagger through the back of his right hand. Awfully lucky that I'm a lefty, eh? he'd exclaimed, raising his hand to reveal the white, lumpy line of a scar.

"Am I going to be alright?" I sat up as well as I could without rousing my pain any more. I drew my eyes along the wound that snaked out of the bandage and stretched up along my gullet, ran my fingers over the firm stitches that held the torn skin together. She wasn't wrong about the scar it would leave. It would be an ugly thing, lumpy and jagged, wide as my thumb. Suddenly I felt a heavy darkness in my gut, and wished I had remained comatose after all. Morthal and Lami was even farther away than it had been that fateful night. I wanted to pull my head beneath the blankets and furs and sob like a little girl. I cursed myself - I should have been grateful that I was alive at all, but there I was moping about a big scar and a long walk.

"Oh, yes, dear. You'll certainly be sore, but Danica practically worked a miracle on you. You have a bed in Jorrvaskr as long as you need one, as well," She cleared her throat and dropped her chin to her chest. "My name is Tilma. I'm just a servant here."

"Thank you, Tilma."

"Oh, don't thank me. Thank the boy that dragged you back here!" She chuckled. "And that healer, of course. A miracle that was, I tell you. I'll take my leave, now." With that she shuffled out of the room, gently closing the door behind her. I wanted to call out to her, beg her to come back. I had dozens of questions, and hauling my aching body out of that bed and limping about the mead hall asking where I could take a piss was the last thing I wanted to do.

Footsteps thumped over my head, and I realized that I was on the lowest floor. A chorus of guffaws rang out, followed by gleeful shouting and another cluster of loud footsteps. Dancing, cheering, a mug slammed on a table. There was no doubt that Jorrvaskr was a home to many Nords, with their heavy stomping and throaty laughter. The thought of going upstairs and subjecting myself to their eyes and words sent my heart thumping heavily, like a stone rattling about my chest. The thought of having to face this Vilkas man was even more daunting. I'd never been particularly good at displaying my gratitude, and the fact that the matter involved my own life certainly didn't make the situation any easier.

Above all the other questions I had for these people, the one that stirred me the most was how strange it was that I was there, healing in a bed in some mead hall belonging to an esteemed clan of warriors, rather than the Temple, where other ailing people would be resting, surrounded by acolytes who would change their bandages, not an elderly maid with shaking hands. I tried to convince myself that the Temple was most likely out of beds, with the war and all, but it still puzzled me. I sighed to myself. I should have been worrying about other, more important things, like my next meal, or where on Nirn my satchel was. Everything I had left was in there. Without it I was penniless.

Beneath the furs I was in only my smallclothes, apart from the thick white linen that wrapped a majority of my torso. I eyed the blue dress at the foot of the bed, remembering the one of my mother's that was somewhere in the world, wherever my things were. I slid my legs off of the bed, my bare feet colliding with the cold hardwood slowly and tenderly. When I sat up completely a sharp pain shot through my abdomen, and I reeled backward, a fist tightening at my breast. Black eyes, glossy like water in the night - the rough skin of a palm at my throat, though not a man's, not a man's at all. It was unfortunate that I remembered it as well as I did, although there were bits and pieces that floated between the blood and pain like dreams. Soft brown curls, the lips of my first at my throat where a scar now made its home, my mother placing her cold palm on my sweaty forehead when I was nine, the warm Last Seed weather that hung around me and my father the first and only day he tried to teach me how to swing a sword. With Ingun on a frigid winter night a flame sputtered from my fingertips, and I shrieked in horror, in astonishment. I was seventeen, softer even in the face than I was now, with a quicker tongue, but still terrified of the depths of myself I was not yet aware of.

I pulled on the thin white slip first, and then slipped the dull blue kirtle over my head and let it fall past my shoulders and around my body. It was stiff and had a stale scent, and I could only assume it had been in that dresser for a long while. It was roomy in the hips and the length of it left the fabric bunched at my feet. Once, it had been worn by tall and voluptuous Nord woman, and had never been meant for a little half breed who would no doubt stain the front of it with blood. As I tried to raise and tighten the belt around my waist in an effort to make it fit me more comfortably, I imagined that Tilma woman in her youth, wearing the once-bright cerulean dress as she walked the halls of Jorrvaskr. Perhaps a young strapping Companion from fifty years earlier had caught her by the waist and planted a sneaky kiss on her cheek once they were out of view, leaving her blushing and giddy. I shook my head. It was unrealistic. I refused to believe that poor woman had swept and dusted the place and scrubbed those warriors' sweaty undergarments for fifty years.

On the dresser there was a hand mirror with a bronze frame. Pensively I grabbed it by the handle, fearful of what I might see when I looked at my reflection after everything that had happened. Would my face be disfigured in some way I'd been entirely unaware of when the beast first assailed me? I'd never thought of myself as vain, but the thought still made me ache. I worked up the courage to look into the mirror and saw the same girl I'd always been, only paler, my eyes now shadowy craters in my skull, my lips shriveled and dry. My hair hung around my face in oily strings, and at the base of my left ear the stitches began. They were thick, done with what I assumed was sinew, but fairly neat, crossing carefully back and forth across the terrible black gash that hung down my throat and past my left breast, where my heart beat steadily, strongly. It was a blackish brown like soil where the blood had caked into a firm crust, but down every inch or so a bead of crimson blood sprouted, waiting patiently for its time to drip hastily into my bodice, where the cotton would suck it dry from my skin. My pulse quickened as I examined it more closely, trying to imagine how a person might look at me, and whether or not the lesion would be any more obvious than a mole or a birthmark. I was kidding myself to even consider the occasion where a stranger would see me and not immediately notice the huge, ugly gash slicing across my gullet. In a tunic or gown with a high neck it would be practically invisible. I knew that was what my mother would tell me. She would try to hide it, before anyone even knew it was there. But then that would leave the question of why I was wearing a dress with such a high neck, and whatever it was that I was trying to hide.

I tied my hair back with the strip of leather that was matted into it from days before. My bladder was so heavy and full, it was practically throbbing within me. If I waited any longer I was certain I'd piss myself and leave a puddle on the hardwood, creating yet another difficult conversation with the Nords. Tentatively, with my skirt bunched at my side in my fist to keep myself from tripping over it, I pushed the door open and stepped into the hall. It was entirely empty, with not a soul to be found. A fine burgundy and gold rug stretched the length of the hall, eventually leading to a flight of stairs. Dark wooden tables adorned with cutlery, plates, and bowls of fruit and bread lined the walls of the room. At the farthest end there was a set of bookshelves, and to my right several closed doors and another hall, which I imagined led to more bedrooms. The walls were arrayed with dozens of weapon plaques, full of everything from steel battleaxes to glass daggers to massive ebony maces, still speckled with the forgotten blood of decades passed. I could hardly admire all of it from where I stood at the far end of the room. I found myself prowling along each wall, eyes glued to what hung before me, the intricate, personal carvings in the hilt of each weapon. A set of initials on nearly every one, the name of a girl with a heart carved around it. It was the carving on a particular steel axe that caught my eye, and left me frozen where I stood. It was the open maw of a wolf, caught in what appeared to be a treacherous grin, perhaps a laugh. For a moment my blood ran cold, and I did not understand why.

"Where are your shoes, girl?"

With a gasp I spun around, my wound suddenly burning with pain. The man standing before me was massive, with the wide shoulders and set, square jaw of a Nord, no different than my own father. His white hair hung to his shoulders, and at each temple a lock was braided and knotted at the end. The man's face was weathered and old, though not as much as the maid I'd met previously, and faded war paint crossed his right cheek in a design that was anything but familiar to me. His eyes were piercing and silver, narrowed down at me, but there was a warmth in them that I noticed immediately, the kindness of a father or a brother.

"I wasn't given any. I thought I'd dig about and steal a pair." I remained expressionless, still stunned that I hadn't known he was present when I first left the room I'd been resting in. The entire floor had been perfectly silent, even the air hanging with a finger held to its lips.

The man threw his head back with a roar of a laugh. "I won't be the one to stop you. I doubt any of these fools would even notice."

I felt my cheeks warm. "I don't mean to prowl. I've never been anywhere like this before."

He stepped to my side and turned to the wall of weapons, arms folded across his broad chest. I followed, eyes returning to the plaque before me. He chuckled softly. "I wouldn't fault you for it. I'm just happy to see you alive. In my years I've seen more than enough nasty scrapes and bruises, whether on the battlefield or during some innocent hunt, the kind that make a man sick to his stomach. But those were men, armed to the teeth, clad in full steel. You were nearly ripped in half, not a scrap of armor on you, and came back from it in a day or two. On both feet, nonetheless. I admire your resilience, pup."

"I certainly feel like I've been ripped in half," He said nothing, and I worried that I'd been cold. "Your people have been too kind to me. I hope I haven't been a burden."

He shook his head, half a smile on his lips. "You've been nothing of the sort. It's rather easy to house a patient who spends all of their time sleeping like the dead. If anything, it was a burden simply wondering if you would wake up at all."

"I suppose that's not a concern any longer, hm?" I forced a smile, though it tugged every muscle in my face taut like stone.

"Well, we've spent these past two days wondering what we should call you," He looked down at me over his shoulder. "Call me Kodlak. Who are you, girl?"

I cleared my throat. "Emmaline...Emmaline Redwing."

"You're no Nord, are you? I thought Breton when - "

"I took my father's name. You're not wrong...my mother is a Breton, but my father a Nord. Most folk don't expect the second name of one when they meet me."

He nodded in understanding, his face still a bit dumbfounded. It was never a simple conversation to have with a person. I found myself hating any discussion of my race more and more as I grew older, for the response I received upon a person's discovery of my being a half breed was always rather diminishing. I had no tie to either side of my heritage, no particular culture or resonance apart from the way I looked. There was a sinking sensation in my stomach as I stood quietly and prayed that the Nord did not think less of me. The Nords' opinions of Manmeri like my mother and her half of my blood seemed to vary widely. It was men like this Kodlak that were often the most discerning when it came down to it, but he didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest. The fact didn't seem to do anything more than raise his eyebrow. The stirring in my gut settled.

"Emmaline, your tale so far is one that will undoubtedly be repeated around here for a long while. I will tell you that much. As for shoes, you're welcome to anything you can find in the welps' quarters. And if you're hungry, there's a beef roast waiting just upstairs. I suggest you join us. We've been waiting to meet you." With that he drifted from my side and ascended the stairs, the door closing behind him with a hearty thud.

I dug a pair of boots that laced up to the knee in the bottom of someone's dresser and slipped them on. They were too big for me and slid back and forth across my feet when I walked, but they were the smallest shoe I could find in a room full of the footwear of grown men. Kodlak's words lingered in my mind. I never would have thought I'd be a person with a tale tied to them at such a young age, and such a gruesome one, nonetheless.

I scaled the stairs slowly, my hand rested on the tender part of my chest, and pushed the door open. I was greeted with a wave of warm air, and then friendly, towering strangers, their cheeks rosy from the fire or the mead or both. At the far side of the hall, a Dunmer man brawled a young Nord, each hit ringing out like the slap of a drum. Kodlak watched them alongside a tall, dark haired man who bore a striking resemblance to the very man that had saved my life. However, he was thicker and taller, and his black hair nearly hung past his shoulders. I suspected they were brothers, perhaps even twins with how similar their faces were. As I closed the door behind me a tall, slender woman with red hair and dark war paint streaked up and down her face raised a bottle of mead in my direction. Before she'd noticed me, I had seen the bald, armored man at her side running a hand along her waist, one of her hands in his own. I felt dirty, having witnessed the small act of affection, like it was something I had no business seeing.

"This is her, Skjor. Isn't she everything you expected?" I could not tell if the remark was sarcastic or genuine. There was something in the curl of her lip and the flash of teeth the threw at the man that made me more confident in the former, however.

This Skjor said nothing, only folded his arms over his chest. I nodded at the woman as she approached me. "Hello."

"Emmaline, Kodlak says. I'm Aela, and this is Skjor." She flung a hand in the man's direction. She was tipsy, her words slurring together into a single clumsy sentence. She was an attractive woman, with a sharp, wide jaw and full titian lips, her eyes two pale blue pools beneath dark, fine eyebrows.

Before I could respond, Tilma emerged from the shadows like a ghost, her old hands clasped in front of her. "Sit the girl down, Aela. I'll make her a plate. Poor thing looks like she's about to tip over."

With her right hand on my shoulder, Aela nudged me into a seat at the longest side of the table, and Tilma set a plate of food down in front of me. It was unlike anything my mother had ever cooked, and yet there was a familiarity to it, the beef charred on the outside and pink in the tender middle, the golden gravy spilled over the potatoes. The slice of bread perched against the meat had a thick brown crust, with a soft, spongy white inside. Tucked beneath the bread was a stalk of grilled leek, the color nearly roasted out of it. I began eating, and it was the most relief I had felt in the longest time, aside from when I awakened that morning to find that I was alive. With every bite my blood seemed to rush more quickly through my veins, and I could feel the warmth creeping back to my skin. I found myself eating quickly and sloppily, but when I felt an embarrassed flush come to my face and thought the men and women in the mead hall would be grimacing at me, I saw only that they were eating with the same vigor and impatience.

Aela took a seat beside me. She had a scent like sweat and the deep heart of the woods, and I could feel the warmth of her through two feet of distance. She finished her mead and slammed the empty bottle on the table before fetching another. She popped the cork with what could have been mistaken for anger. It was clear to me, however, that it was simply clumsy, aggressive drunkenness. She turned and looked at me through the curtain of her hair. "Do you remember any of it?"

"Any of what?"

"You know what I speak of."

I felt myself go cold. For a moment I could feel my wound humming, as if it wanted to speak up, answer the woman in its own words. "All of it is rather vivid, but dreamlike, until the moment that Vilkas carried me off. I would prefer not to remember it, if you'd like to know the truth."

She nodded, her face darkening. Her eyes flitted away for a moment, as if she was recalling some unfortunate thought. "The things happening in these plains have been horrific. The people expect us to solve such issues, but we are only humans ourselves. I fear it will take an entire city to put an end to it."

I wasn't sure what she spoke of. Her words were ominous, foreboding. Suddenly I could not look her in the eye, for it made my stomach churn. "What are these things you mention, Aela?"

"It may take an entire city, but these are things no one should even believe in. It would be kinder if they never truly knew," She rose and took another long swig from her bottle of mead. "The scar will be beautiful, you know. I pray you are never ashamed of it." With that she strode off, falling into the small crowd that watched the brawl across the hall.

Her words sank into the depths of myself like stones in water. There was such an incredible weight in my chest after our conversation, I felt I should have gone and returned to my bed, where I could sleep and try to forget the things of which she spoke. Instead, I finished my supper and found Tilma, sweeping the hardwood near a pair of weapon racks. I was realizing that you could not look anywhere in the building without seeing a sword or an axe. I nodded to the old woman and asked her where I might find this Vilkas fellow, the man who was the reason I still stood.

"He has kept to himself these past few days. You may find him in the courtyard."

"Thank you," I started in that direction, then stopped myself. "Ma'am, do you happen to know if...when I was brought here...if I had a satchel with me?"

Tilma lowered her eyes in thought, then shook her head. I thanked her and began to walk toward the rear doors of the hall, but she stopped me to speak once more. "Dear, I suggest you tread lightly. He has been rather broody lately. I would not wish for you to be offended if he acts unlike himself."

I furrowed my brow before nodding and leaving the old woman be. I was unsure of what she meant, exactly, but chose not to linger on it. My heart had sank the moment she shook her head at my question about my satchel. I truly had nothing anymore, but a nasty scar and head full of regrets. I proceeded through the doors into the courtyard to find a wide cobblestone area adorned with lines of straw dummies, faceless and battered with slices and holes from many swords and arrows. Beneath a hanging roof before the door there was a pair of long tables, strewn with empty bottles of ale. I gazed across the courtyard and noticed a single gentleman standing twenty feet or so before a target, wielding a bow crafted of some reddish wood. He wore a simple tunic which tied at the waist with a dark cord, and black leather boots that reached past the knees of his dark pants. A half-empty leather quiver hung over his back. I had expected man in full armor, perhaps practicing with a battleaxe or great sword. I would not have guessed the man was even the Vilkas I was searching for, had he not bared the same dark hair cropped to his jaw, and chiseled, wolfish profile. He pulled an arrow back to his cheek and hesitated for a moment once his aim was placed. With a breath and flick of his fingers the arrow went flying, hitting the target at the very edge. Had his aim been any more poor it would have missed it entirely. He shook his head and drew another arrow.

I watched him for a short while before making my approach. Dark had not yet settled, and the air was still warm. He had not yet seen me, and I stopped once I was three or four paces or so away from him. "Vilkas?" His name left my mouth hastily, rising sharply at the end. My fear was all too clear in my voice already.

He drew an arrow back to his cheek once more, unspeaking. His eyes narrowed at the target, and I noticed a muscle in his jaw jumping about as he focused. He released, and it sailed right over the target, bouncing quietly off of the stone wall behind it. He sighed and lowered his bow. "I have never been much of an archer."

"Neither have I. My brother tried to teach me, once. I nearly shot his hand off."

At last he turned and faced me. "If that was the case, perhaps you aren't as bad as you think you are."

A nervous smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and I clasped my hands at my waist. "It was accidental, of course."

He swiveled once again to take aim. This time the arrow lodged itself a hand or so above the center. He raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you're feeling better."

"Quite."

He said nothing, only nodded.

I cleared my throat, eyes trained on the target as he drew an arrow once more and stretched it back, missing yet again. "I owe you my deepest thanks, Vilkas. I have been waiting to tell you since I first woke. What you did was very honorable."

Vilkas continued shooting, though the arrows left in his quiver were dwindling. "I would not have left you there to die."

"You could have. It was a rotten ordeal."

"That it was."

The silence that hung between us was heavy, doleful. I considered turning and leaving him, finding that I had nothing left to say to the man. However, something kept me there. Whatever it was clung to my hand in a cold, firm grasp. I shifted on each foot, gnawing on my lip, until he lowered his bow. He hung it over his shoulder and faced me. I saw that the sockets of his narrow silver eyes were darkened with hasty strokes of paint, and he was in need of a shave, the length of his jaw and slender chin shadowed with stubble. He couldn't have been older than thirty, if that. He cleared his throat.

"Where were you going? Out there in the night, alone."

I folded my arms across my chest. There was a hazy violet glow over the hills to the west, as the sun finally fell beneath them. "Morthal."

He furrowed his brow, scoffing. "Whatever for?"

"Work."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I had no choice."

With a disapproving grunt, he nodded. I knew that he found me foolish. "I'll be seeing you." With that, he shouldered past me, disappearing through the heavy doors into the mead hall. He had the soft, careful footsteps of a lion eyeing a doe. A sharp, heavy breath fell from between my teeth. The conversation had turned every muscle in my body stiff and cold. I shuddered, as if I could have shaken it off somehow, and started toward the doors to the hall. I still had to piss.

a/n: I reread Chapter 1, and I just want to apologize for that mess. Definitely not my best job of editing lmao. I'm probably going to have to say that again at some point, maybe about this chapter. But anyway, thank you so much for the sweet reviews!