Turdas, 25th of Hearthfire, 4E 201
From the moment Yngve left his bedroom, he could tell that something was… off. He even took a few minutes to walk up and down the empty corridor, trying to put his finger on what it was. Suddenly, it hit him: the empty corridor. There would normally be two guards upstairs in his family's living quarters – one patrolling the hallway, and one stationary. Today, he suddenly realized, there were none. There was no one at all, in fact, except for Yngve himself and his dog, Hilde, who had been his constant companion ever since she started following him in Whiterun.
Odd… Yngve thought. If anything serious involving his own family had happened, Yngve was sure he would know about it by now. So it wasn't as if he felt threatened, exactly. Still, the whole thing left him with a feeling of intense unease. Never in his life had he seen this corridor empty of other people. He shuddered. It was creepy.
Lacking anyone upstairs to give him answers, Yngve trudged down the stairs at the end of the corridor and through the door at the bottom that lead into the war room – which he also found empty. What in Oblivion is going on? Yngve wondered. Straining, he could hear hushed voices echoing off the walls and wafting in from the main hall. But, bouncing from one surface to another, the voices muddled together by the time they reached his ears. He knew he could hear his father's voice – he'd know that voice absolutely anywhere – but nothing about that was unusual or surprising. Other than that, he had no real idea who was speaking, what was being said, or even how many people were taking part in the conversation. The Palace of the Kings had never been good for this sort of group eavesdropping, Yngve lamented.
Slowly, Yngve slinked into the doorway, standing between the main hall and the war room. For a moment he just stood there. He had expected to be told to leave, but to his mild surprise, no one noticed or acknowledged him. Usually, when matters were serious, his father didn't allow him to listen in or be present. As it sank in that everyone involved was currently too preoccupied to chase him out, Yngve gazed across the room to try to appraise the situation. Standing at the foot of his father's throne, he saw Jorleif; the head of the city guard, accompanied by two more guardspeople; Galmar; and a woman Yngve didn't recognize, who he supposed must be some citizen he simply hadn't met. All were talking rapidly as his father – also standing at the foot of the throne, rather than sitting atop it as was customary – primarily listened, for the moment only interjecting periodically. Because the echoing off the walls jumbled the words so severely, Yngve couldn't tell what any of them were saying, though the woman seemed to be getting more and more irate.
"Mess of a meeting, isn't it?" Tymver's voice suddenly asked, making Yngve almost jump out of his skin. He had been so focused on trying to decipher the scene across the room that he hadn't seen or heard Tymver's approach.
"Tymver, you scared the crap out of me!" Yngve snapped.
"My apologies," Tymver said, stifling a chuckle.
"What's going on?" Yngve asked, gesturing toward the spectacle.
"My guess isn't any better than yours," Tymver admitted. "Seems serious, though."
"Yeah," Yngve agreed. "So let's get going, before my father realizes I'm here and makes me stay inside all day while the guards deal with whatever this is about."
"I don't know…" Tymver said, as a look of uncertainty shadowed his face.
"Well, that's fine," Yngve answered in a deadpan tone, "because I do know."
"Oh, do you?" Tymver asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Yngve went on. "I know that I'm sick of being inside all day, every day, and I'm bored and we can at least go check out the market stalls. I need someone to talk to, other than… uh, you," he said, finishing a little sheepishly.
"I'm hurt," Tymver joked flatly.
"…hurt enough that you'd rather talk to someone other than just me today?" Yngve asked hopefully.
"But your father…" Tymver began, before Yngve cut him off.
"…my father probably didn't say exactly that I couldn't leave the palace. Right?" Yngve finished.
"Fine," Tymver sighed. "You can go to the market for one hour. Then we come back to the palace and you behave yourself."
"Ugh, one hour?" Yngve complained. "Can't I at least have two?"
"Okay," Tymver rolled his eyes, but conceded. "But no more. And if your father's angry about it when we return, you take the full blame."
"Got it," Yngve said with a laugh. "I'll tell him that I physically dragged you to the market. By force." They both knew this was an absurd notion, as Tymver was older, greater in stature, and much more muscular than Yngve.
With Tymver on his heels, Yngve left the palace through its main entrance and turned down the narrow alley that connected the palace entrance with the historical district of Valunstrad. This area consisted of the residences of Windhelm's oldest families. As such, it wasn't necessarily unusual for it to be a relatively quiet and inactive place during the daytime, but again – just like in his own home that morning – Yngve was faced with a silence and an emptiness that he found eerie.
"Watch your step," Tymver cautioned, as they approached the steps leading down farther into the residential quarter. "It may be a little slick."
In response, Yngve slowed his gait and cast his eyes downward toward the ground in front of his feet. Although it was still only Hearthfire, a distinctly wintery freeze had already begun to grip the city. It began, Yngve was sure despite not having been around this year to bear witness to it in the last few weeks, the same way it always did, with the first sleets and snows coming to signal the end of autumn. They would fall over the city at night, and then melt under the still hot sun by day, then refreeze at night. As more snow, sleet, hail, and freezing rain fell over the city, the layer of ice that refroze each night would gradually grow thicker. Most outdoor surfaces were already encased in a layer of ice, Yngve could see, and would remain that way until the beginning of Rain's Hand in the coming year – if not longer. As he absentmindedly passed the houses of Valunstrad, looking at the ground, Yngve nearly walked headlong into a city guard, who stood blocking the way through.
"What the..?" Yngve started to say, but the guard began talking before he could finish.
"Whoa, little lord," the guard said, trying to block Yngve's view as he craned his neck to see what she was guarding. "Keep your distance, please."
By the time she got the words out, though, Yngve had managed to get a glimpse at the scene laid out behind her, in the cemetery. The look of shock that fell across his face made it apparent. Past the spot where the guard was posted, Yngve saw a great crimson line dragging across the ice, down the steps, and through the graves, finally coming to a stop where something appeared to be sprawled out over a burial site.
"Is that… blood?" Yngve asked. "What happened here?" Tymver instinctively extended one arm protectively and gestured for him to keep back.
"Another girl killed," the guard said with a heavy-hearted sigh. "Susanna, from Candlehearth Hall."
"Oh," Yngve said quietly, as this information slowly sank in. He didn't know Susanna personally, but he had been to Candlehearth Hall many times, and remembered her. It felt strange to think she had been killed.
"Wait," Yngve suddenly found himself saying. "Another? This has happened before?"
"Susanna's the third," the guard said, nodding grimly. "It's always the same: young girl, killed at night, body torn up…"
As the guard spoke, Yngve stole another glance at the scene behind her shoulder. He cringed. Tymver again gestured for him to back up a step, this time placing himself between Yngve and the scene behind the guard, trying to block his line of sight.
"Aren't these murders being investigated?" Yngve asked somewhat hesitantly. He hated to think that the city guard wasn't able to catch a murderer. But three victims?
"We're stretched thin as it is, with the war," the guard answered pointedly. "Nobody has time to spend on this."
"I realize that, but…" Yngve started to answer, but she cut him off.
"It's not pleasant," she agreed, her tone softening. "But it's the truth."
Yngve was wearing an expression that looked like she had just kicked his puppy. And, like nearly anyone in the city, she knew what had happened to his mother when he was a child. She couldn't blame him if he felt strongly about justice for murdered women.
"…Listen," she finally said. "If you want to help, you could ask some of those gawkers if they saw anything useful," she told him, gesturing toward a small group of people crowding around the body.
Yngve nodded, craning his neck in an attempt to look back to the scene, with an uncertain grimace on his face. He did want to help, although the thought of seeing Susanna's body up close didn't appeal to him.
"Some more guards will be along to move her body any moment now," the guard said, noticing Yngve's unease. "Why don't you wait until after?"
Yngve nodded, and decided to circle through the market, which took him around to the other side of the cemetery. From here, he wouldn't be able to see Susanna, but he would still be able to see any guards entering the area from this side. After a short while, two guards entered and exited the cemetery, and Yngve supposed that Susanna must be moved.
Approaching the scene of the murder, Yngve recognized the three people who were gathered near the spot where the body had been found. Helgird was a priestess of Arkay, who tended to the dead. Yngve hadn't seen her in several years, but he recognized her all the same. Silda, on the other hand, he saw frequently. A beggar, Silda was often seen near the entrance of the Palace of the Kings. Though the guards would shoo her away whenever they saw her near the palace, Yngve liked her. He often stopped to talk with her around the city, and always spared her a few coins. The third person watching over the crime scene, Yngve knew to be Calixto Corrium, a Cyrodiil living across town who ran a museum out of his home. As a boy, Yngve had visited his House of Curiosities numerous times to gawk at his eclectic collection of treasures, artifacts, and junk. He had enjoyed listening to Calixto's tales of their rarity and significance – which, of course, grew a little more amazing with each subsequent retelling.
"Always a shame when someone has to die," Yngve could hear Calixto saying, as he approached the scene.
"What happened here..?" Yngve asked, hoping Calixto had an answer.
"I don't know," Calixto replied. "I thought I saw a fellow running away, but I didn't get a good look at him."
"What about you?" Yngve said, looking toward Silda hopefully. "Did you see anything that could help identify who did this?"
"Sadly, no," Silda said, shaking her head. "I heard a scream and came running, but she was already… like this… when I got here."
Yngve felt his shoulders slump a little. If this was only a small taste of what it was like trying to investigate these murders, he could see why the guard he had talked to earlier had seemed so weary with the whole thing. How could no one have seen anything? He turned to Helgird with a pleading look, but she, too, could only shake her head.
"Sorry," she said. "I don't know who did this, either. But I did notice that her coin purse was still intact. So, whoever did this wasn't after gold."
Yngve's head tilted slightly to the right, an unconscious tell that he was thinking hard about something. Until this point, he hadn't even thought about Susanna's money. Whoever would mutilate a body like this was already clearly not in it for the money. Still, he had to wonder why they wouldn't still take her money. Helgird wasn't waiting for Yngve to work it out.
"I'm going to go prepare the body," she said bluntly, "if you'll excuse me."
Feeling defeated as the onlookers dispersed, Yngve trudged back over to the guard he had spoken with. She was still standing watch over the area, and probably would be for some time. The disappointed look on Yngve's face as he walked back over to where she stood told her all she needed to know about his conversations with the onlookers.
"Just like always, I take it," she said. "Nobody's seen anything useful. The bastard's escaped again."
"But there's something more to this," Yngve insisted. "There has to be. I mean, why didn't the murderer take her money? It doesn't really make sense…"
"Why does a depraved murderer do anything?" she countered. "And what good does it do us to know a thing like that? Personally, I don't think I want to know."
"I don't… that's not what I'm getting at," Yngve stammered, starting to feel a little flustered. "I mean, maybe that means you're looking for a certain type of person…"
He continued to engage the guard in discussion for a few more minutes, before ultimately giving up on convincing her. Either she didn't want to understand what he was getting at, or she wasn't able to see it the same way he did, or perhaps he just wasn't very good at explaining himself. In any case, it was getting them both nowhere, so Yngve headed back to the palace. He wanted to speak to his father's steward. If anyone would have more information about the goings-on in the city and be willing to talk to Yngve, it would be Jorleif.
When Yngve came back to the palace, his father was not on the throne. He could hear a faint echo of voices – his father's included – wafting out of the war room, and was thankful. His father might not have even realized he had gone out – not that he had been planning to hide it, necessarily. But in any case, he wouldn't have to answer for it right now. Jorleif stood near the throne, poised to handle any pressing matters brought up while the Jarl was unavailable.
"Oh, Yngve," Jorleif said, sounding pleasantly surprised as Yngve approached. "I didn't realize you were out and about. Is everything alright?" he asked, noting as Yngve drew nearer the grim expression that the young man was wearing.
"I've been hearing a lot about all these murders…" Yngve started to say, though he trailed off, unsure of how to continue.
"These are difficult times," Jorleif admitted wearily. "But the men are stretched thin as it is."
"Well…" Yngve said carefully, "what if I helped with the investigation..?"
"You… want to help investigate the murders?" Jorleif asked, a bit skeptically. "I'm not sure this would be a suitable task for you… I can't, in good conscience, let you take an active role in these murder investigations without your father's approval."
"My father?" Yngve repeated sullenly. This was the condition he had dreaded Jorleif might give him, and he was sure he already knew what the answer would be.
"Yes," Jorleif confirmed. "If your father approves of it, I'll share with you everything we know about the murders at this point. But only if your father approves."
"Fine," Yngve said flatly. Although he had been trying to keep his focus, he could feel the expression dropping from his face, as he was suddenly faced with a rising urge to throw something, or break something. It felt like any time he tried to do anything, he was told no; it seemed like everything he wanted, his father always kept from him. Yngve didn't know how to handle these feelings, except to completely disengage from his surroundings. He could only stare ahead, angrily, off into space somewhere behind Jorleif.
He didn't want to be here anymore, but felt strangely rooted to the spot where he was standing, and now the utter awkwardness of the situation was also giving way to a rising anxiety in Yngve. He could faintly hear Jorleif continuing to talk, trying to reassure him, in a voice that sounded far away. And hearing Jorleif telling him things he didn't want to hear only made it more difficult for Yngve to resist the urge to lash out. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palms, as his hands, seemingly of their own accord, balled into fists, while he tried to keep control of himself.
Then, as if the situation couldn't help but get worse, Yngve was torn immediately back to reality by the sound of his father's voice, returning to the hall from whatever meeting or discussion he had been having in the war room when Yngve came in. If there was anything in the world that could make Yngve feel powerless, or like a child, it was his father.
"What's all this about?" the Jarl asked, looking over his son carefully as he approached the situation. Yngve said nothing, so Jorleif answered.
"Yngve was interested in our investigation of the recent murders," Jorleif said.
"Was he..?" Ulfric asked, raising one eyebrow in mild interest.
"It… seems he'd like to help with the investigation," Jorleif said carefully, after a brief hesitation, in what he hoped was a neutral tone. Jorleif really had no desire to favor anyone in this exchange. Ulfric, of course, was an old friend, and Jorleif placed great value on his trust and esteem. But, like everyone in the palace and many of Windhelm's citizens, he had watched Yngve grow up, and participated in the boy's upbringing; thus, Jorleif naturally felt a measure of sympathy and affection for him. And, like most who worked in the palace and knew a bit about everyday life there, Jorleif agreed that Ulfric could often be excessively sheltering in his desire to protect his son from coming to harm. That was why, though the palace staff had been surprised to learn that Yngve had run away with the militia, they hadn't been at all surprised to learn that he had run away.
"Absolutely not," Ulfric had answered. As expected, his decision had been immediate.
"Why not?" Yngve asked.
"Many reasons," his father answered. They had gone through this conversation many times, over many things, in Yngve's fourteen years – so many times that it made Ulfric weary just to think about it.
"Like what?" Yngve asked indignantly. If he was presently aware that this conversation was another repeat performance, he wasn't acting like it.
"You have other things to be doing, for a start," Ulfric began. "You still haven't had lessons with any of your tutors in well over a month."
"Yes, but…" Yngve tried to argue, but before he could finish his protest, his father continued.
"It's also not your job," Ulfric pointed out matter-of-factly.
"Yeah, well the guards clearly need more help," Yngve grumbled.
"And, without any of their training or experience, I suppose you'll do a better job?" Ulfric asked.
Yngve said nothing. He hadn't meant it that way. He was at the same time embarrassed that he had said it that way, and annoyed that his father, who he was confident had known what he really meant, had chosen to interpret it that way.
"Yngve, I'm not trying to be…" Ulfric paused to search for the right word. "…mean to you. But this is something you need to learn if you're going to take my place one day: you cannot be the best at everything. And you won't be. Some things, you'll have to let go of, and trust someone else to handle them in the best way possible. You and I are not guards, and neither of us knows better than they do how to solve a series of crimes like the one they're faced with right now."
"But I want to help," Yngve said. His voice had grown very small. "Those women shouldn't have to die that way."
"I know," his father agreed. "But sometimes, the best way you can help someone is by simply allowing them to do their job."
Yngve simply nodded, his eyes cast down. He left the hall quickly, going up the stairs to his own bedroom, where he closed and locked the door behind him, blocking Tymver out. Yngve had never done well with death anyway, but this was beginning to feel different. Though he hadn't realized it earlier, the sight of Susanna's body and the thought of all these women reminded him of losing his own mother. The city guards had never found the person responsible for her death, either, despite a painfully extensive and exhaustingly lengthy investigation. And, although Yngve had not seen her body with his own eyes, the things he had overheard about it from eavesdropping on the palace guards had at one point made him physically sick.
While he often thought of his late mother, Yngve rarely, if ever at all, thought about his mother's death. Even so many years later, it continued to be a difficult topic for him, and he struggled with it now. The emotions it brought welling up in him were overwhelming and he didn't know what to do with them or the anxious energy they brought. He paced frantically once around the room, and stopped abruptly. He tried taking deep, controlled breaths, something his father had taught him to do to calm himself as a child, but it didn't calm him. His eyes began to burn, and he felt tears begin to fill them. As hard as he could, he punched the stone wall nearest to him, and the instantaneous regret he felt about doing so only piled on to everything else he was feeling. He could no longer hold back the tears in his eyes and slumped onto the wall, sliding down against it onto the floor.
Hilde, who had stayed here in Yngve's room when he and Tymver had ventured out that morning, whined and placed her paw on Yngve's shoulder. He pushed her away and drew his knees up to his chest, leaning the side of his head against the wall. He felt desperately alone, but at the same time didn't want to be comforted. He stayed as he was for hours, staring at nothing in particular, with no notice of the passage of time. He noticed things absently: Hilde was lying down at his feet looking up at him; his hand hurt; someone's footsteps could be heard in the corridor; he was thirsty. Thoughts came and went, with Yngve finding no resolve to act in any way on any of them. Eventually, he fell asleep.
Yngve's dream was strange and upsetting. He was in Candlehearth Hall with Silda, Helgird, and Calixto, sitting before a portrait of his mother. Susanna, who had worked at Candlehearth Hall during her life, came and served them some odd, thick, red drinks. Although the five of them were the only people in the hall, their words were all drowned out by the din of a thick crowd. Suddenly, there was a heavy pounding on the door to the inn, and all the firelight went out inside. A figure stood, barely visible, behind the portrait of Yngve's mother, and sliced through the portrait's neck with a dagger. Silda, Helgird, Calixto, and Susanna all dropped limply to the floor, and Yngve couldn't do anything but watch in horror as the shadowed figure destroyed and mutilated the portrait. The guard's words from the murder scene replayed in his mind as the figure cackled maniacally. Nobody has the time to spend on this.
Yngve woke with a start, to the sound of Hilde whining and scratching at the door. He stood from the floor and tried to stretch the stiffness out of his limbs and joints as he made his way across the room to the door, opening it to allow Hilde to exit into the palace. Stepping into the corridor, he found it dark and nearly empty. Tymver sat slumped on a bench near the stairs, snoring softly. As Yngve's mind gradually woke, he became increasingly aware of a throbbing pain in his right hand, and he vaguely remembered punching the wall. It probably needed to be looked at, he supposed, walking over to where Tymver slept.
"Hey, Tymver," Yngve said quietly, gently shaking the larger man's shoulder with his good hand.
"Oh, you're back," Tymver said groggily, only half-opening his eyes. "Thought you were mad at me," he mumbled, falling back asleep. Yngve rolled his eyes and left Tymver there. Although he couldn't imagine sleeping on the bench was very comfortable, he also didn't seem able to wake Tymver up.
Everything was still and silent as Yngve slowly walked down the steps and into the war room. How long have I been asleep? Yngve wondered, finding no one present in the main hall and no candles or torches lit. No light shone through the narrow windows behind the Jarl's throne, so Yngve supposed he must have slept through the rest of the day. That would also mean that the shops would be closed, and temple priests would be asleep, he noted with disappointment. His hand really hurt, and was quite swollen.
But there was still one person who could help him, Yngve realized, so he went through the door nearest to the front of the main hall and up a set of stairs. At the end of a narrow corridor, very similar to the one his own room was in, stood the door that separated the rest of the people in the palace from Wuunferth the Unliving, his father's court wizard. Yngve had always found the court wizard intimidating – probably, he supposed, because Wuunferth was never shy about his desire to be left alone to his work. Yngve was pretty sure he had never seen Wuunferth outside of his room, in fact, except for when Yngve's mother had died.
After working up the nerve to approach, Yngve knocked cautiously on Wuunferth's door. He heard some rustling of papers, and what he thought sounded distinctly like a book being slammed shut, before Wuunferth came to the door.
"Yes, yes, what do you want?" the wizard demanded, before pulling the door open. When he found Yngve on the other side, he was surprised. "Oh, it's you."
"I… think I need help," Yngve said a little hesitantly, holding up his swollen, throbbing hand for Wuunferth to see.
"I'd say you do," Wuunferth agreed gruffly, turning around and walking toward a table to one side of his room. "Come in, then, boy. And close the door behind you, it's drafty in the corridor."
Yngve did as instructed, as Wuunferth pulled a chair over to the table and told him to sit down and lay his hand on the tabletop. As Wuunferth gathered various items and supplies, Yngve looked in morbid fascination at what he could see on the table and around the room. The table housed a number of bottles and vials, full of who knew what, along with an animal skull and several tools, the uses of which Yngve could only guess.
"This probably won't be comfortable," Wuunferth warned, bringing over a number of ingredients, two mortars and two pestles, several long, flat pieces of metal and wood, and some rolls of linen bandages.
Setting all the supplies down at the end of the table, Wuunferth began to examine Yngve's hand, wrist, and forearm. He asked Yngve to move, or try to move, his hand and wrist in various ways, as well as touched, bent, or pressed on various points, all the while making notes on what did and didn't hurt and which movements Yngve could and couldn't perform. Then, he ground several ingredients up together to make a slimy paste. This, he spread over Yngve's hand and wrist, and told him to wait.
"That salve is going to help reduce the swelling of your hand," Wuunferth explained.
The paste on Yngve's hand felt cold and tingly, and smelled a way that he could only think to describe as medicinal. Finally, after Yngve waited for some time, Wuunferth rejoined him at the table. This time, Wuunferth tested several of the thin lengths of wood and metal by holding them up against Yngve's hand and forearm, to find the one that fit how he wanted it to. When he found the right piece, Wuunferth wrapped Yngve's hand and forearm in a single layer of a linen bandage, then placed the splint and continued wrapping. Once it was completely, tightly wrapped, Wuunferth used the clean mortar and pestle to grind a second set of ingredients into a thick, sticky paste. He used a brush to spread several layers of this paste generously on the top layer of Yngve's bandages, and as it dried the treated bandages became stiff.
"This will help keep everything in place, but you still have to just wait for it to heal," Wuunferth said. "Don't try to move it. Keep the bandage dry so your arm doesn't rot off inside it. Come back in two weeks and I'll reexamine it. It probably still hurts a good deal?"
"Yes…" Yngve admitted.
"I'm short some ingredients at the moment," Wuunferth said, "so I can't make you the potion you need for that. But I'll write you a note to take to the White Phial tomorrow, and Nurelion will get you set up with what you need. Until then, consider the pain a lesson, to avoid whatever fool thing you were doing that caused your hand to break."
Yngve nodded as Wuunferth quickly scribbled out a note and handed it to him.
"Thank you," he said as he headed for the door. "I'm sorry I interrupted your work tonight."
"You're a good kid, Yngve," Wuunferth called to him as he was leaving. "Try to get some sleep."