A/N: Here's the first "official" chapter. Like I said, this will jump back in time about a month before the opening scene, and will proceed normally from here on out. We have several more chapters and a lot of action until we reach Helgen again, but when we do, I'll try to keep it as brief and interesting as possible. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: The Spring Snows Have Melted
When serving under nobles, there was one important rule to remember: keep them happy. And when keeping them happy meant spending an afternoon outside the walls under a beautiful summer sky, Monica was more than willing to oblige. Even if the excursion was doomed to be entirely unproductive.
The golden grass crunched under her feet as she wandered forward, heading toward a brightly-colored clump of wildflowers. Quickly plucking a few stalks, she scraped at them with a fingernail, only for them to merely crumble away. She sighed, but tossed them into her basket just the same. She'd known her search would yield no results, but her mother had still insisted on it. "Just make an effort," she'd hissed as they parted ways that morning. And Monica had done just that, too excited by the prospect of a day spent out in the sun to protest.
It had all started back in the winter, when her aunt's New Life gift had arrived: a silk ribbon, imported from Alinor. She hadn't given it a second thought when she'd tied it in her hair before rushing off to the feast—but the moment she'd walked into the dining hall, Lady Adlen had descended on her.
After she'd spent a good ten minutes fawning over the color of the ribbon, she had wheeled on Monica's mother and demanded a dress of the same material. And after being informed that importing enough of the fabric for a dress into Cyrodiil would be nigh on impossible, she had instead demanded that a dye of the same color be created.
And so for the past six months, Monica had lain awake at night, kept up by the sounds of her mother cursing from her laboratory as she struggled to brew the perfect formula. But none of her results had even come close, and Lady Adlen was only growing more impatient. When the lady had pointed out the window and shouted that surely there was some mystery plant growing out there that could yield the shade she wanted, her head seamstress had simply sighed, pushed a basket into her daughter's hands, and with a pointed look, silently reminded her of the cardinal rule of working under nobles. And Monica had gleefully fled, scarcely able to believe her luck.
But that had been hours ago. The afternoon sun was blazing, and her dress was soaked with sweat under the arms and down the back. Setting the basket down with a weary sigh, she stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine pop as she did so. Glancing down, she considered the contents of the basket. Along with the dead wildflowers, she'd also picked up a few flax plants. She was fairly certain her mother had already been unsuccessful with using flax in a dye, but these were a similar shade to what Lady Adlen was looking for, so she'd picked them up anyway. Maybe her mother could figure out some way to make them work. Hoisting up the basket again, she turned and began trudging toward the road. She'd poke around on the east side for a bit and then call it a day.
"Excuse me!" The unexpected voice jolted her from her thoughts, sending her head snapping toward the road. The sweaty man was breathing heavily, hunched over with his hands planted on his knees—an unthreatening posture, but her hackles still rose. Nobody ever came this far up the road. Not like this, alone and on foot. She gripped the handle of the basket a little tighter, suddenly wishing she'd thought to bring along a spear or something. "You wouldn't happen to know the way to Battlehorn, would you?"
She approached cautiously, prepared to flee if he made any sudden moves. "Depends," she answered, slowly pronouncing the word. "What's your business there?"
"Got something I'm supposed to deliver." He indicated toward the satchel at his side, and she immediately recognized the courier's insignia. "That fellow back in Chorrol said I'd hit it if I just kept taking the road west, but…" He shrugged. "Is this still that road? I haven't passed it or anything, have I?"
Her initial wariness forgotten, she found herself breaking into a smile. "You're on the right track, but you're not there yet." She pointed up the road behind her. "Just keep going." Her smile widened when his face twisted into a grimace. "You're closer than you think," she reassured. "No more than twenty minutes out."
The courier groaned, but he straightened up, mopping at his forehead. "I'd best be going, then," he sighed. "Thank you." She nodded in acknowledgement, and drifted to the other side of the road as he continued his trek up the hill.
A couple of hours later, she was following in the courier's footsteps, having absolutely determined that there was nothing on the east side of the road that would be of any use to Lady Adlen. Her feet ached, she could feel the beginnings of a sunburn spreading across her cheeks, and she was dead tired, but she still managed to return the guard's wave as she passed through the gates.
Entering the courtyard, she caught sight of a figure at the forge. Her breath catching in her throat, she immediately altered her course, heading for the stairs up to the battlements. She could enter her family's quarters through the north tower easily enough; it'd be going the long way, but it'd be worth it to avoid certain people. Before her foot even touched the first stair, though, she heard the sound of her name.
"Monica! Hey Monica!" He'd seen her, then. Groaning under her breath, she slowly turned and made her way over to the forge and the young man who was waving eagerly, dragging her feet with every step.
"Heidmir," she greeted. He'd discarded his heavy gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms rippling as he pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead.
"How've you been?" His grey eyes sparked with interest as he caught sight of her basket. "Been in the fields today?"
She sighed. "Not exactly," she admitted, rolling her eyes. "Do remember when my aunt sent me that ribbon for New Life?"
"The purple one?" He raised his eyebrows, and she stifled a sigh. Leave it to Heidmir to always remember the most mundane details.
"Yes, well, Lady Adlen has decided she needs a dress the same color," she began, shifting her basket from one arm to the other. The second unspoken rule of serving nobility, of course, was to show them respect at all times, but Heidmir was the one person she could always feel free to break that rule with. "My mother's been working day and night to create a dye for her, but none of them—"
"—Are ever good enough. Of course." He grinned, and her stomach turned over on itself.
"Right, so today I got sent out to hunt for ingredients. Only there's nothing out there." She held up a mass of the wildflowers, and he chuckled at her grimace.
"Poor Lady Adlen. I wonder what she'll do when she finds out what a lost cause this is," he remarked, picking up one of the wildflowers from her basket and twirling it between his fingers.
"Not sure, but I don't want to be around to find out," she said wryly. He smiled, dropping his gaze down to the wildflower he still held, and an awkward silence fell.
"How's your father?" she asked quickly. "I haven't seen him in a while; does he still come up for dinner?"
Heidmir's gaze flickered back up to hers. "Eh, well, his heart's been giving him trouble. You know how that goes." He rolled his eyes, and she smiled ruefully. "Orbul says he needs to rest, so he mainly stays inside. I can tend the forge myself easily enough, and he does more of the finer work. Finishing touches, that sort of thing." He leaned in closer as his tone dropped lower. "He's been pretty down about it, but we've got some news we're telling him tonight that should cheer him up."
"Oh?" She frowned slightly as Heidmir nodded, glancing over his shoulder before leaning forward to whisper in her ear.
"Kirsten's with child," he murmured. Her heart dropped into her stomach as he drew away with a smile, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.
"Oh," she managed faintly. "I see; that's…" She swallowed hard. "That's big news, Heidmir."
"I know." He gave a broad grin. "It was unexpected, but we're thrilled. Kirsten's already picking out names. She thinks it'll be a girl, but I think she's got at least twice as many boy's names on her list," he chuckled.
She was surprised by the spurt of venom that shot through her veins at the mention of his wife. But Heidmir was staring at her, waiting for a response, so she forced aside her resentment. None of this was Kirsten's fault, she reminded herself.
"Congratulations." She smiled. "You'll make a wonderful father."
"I hope so." He laughed, rolling his eyes, but then the merriment faded, and a tiny furrow appeared between his eyes. "You'll keep this to yourself, won't you? It's just that we agreed to keep it quiet, and our parents don't even know yet…" He smiled apologetically, and she felt a faint prickle of annoyance. Then why did you tell me?
"Of course," she said, hoisting the basket up higher on her arm. "But I need to get these inside and hung up…"
"Right, of course, I won't keep you." His smile returned. "See you around, Monica. It was nice talking with you."
"You too." As he turned back to the forge, she exhaled the breath she'd been holding and slowly turned in the direction of the keep door. At this point, she reasoned sourly, there was no point in going out of her way.
Back in her family's quarters, she made her way to her mother's lab. The cool semi-darkness was a relief after the unrelenting inferno of the sun, and she paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust before she began rifling through her mother's desk. She found the string easily enough, deftly wrapping it around the stalks of the specimens and stringing them up along the drying wall. Now to tag them—her mother was meticulous about tagging.
The pre-cut squares of parchment were in their slot in the desk, as were the quills, but she had to hunt for the inkpot before finally finding it in the bergamot stores. Despite her bad humor, she found herself smiling as she returned to the desk. If there were an award for practicing organized chaos, her mother would most certainly be the winner. She began to carefully write out the descriptions of the plants and where they had been found, but in between the scratches of the quill, her ears picked up on another sound.
Frowning, she set aside the quill and stood, making her way over to the doorway. "Hello?" she called cautiously. There was no sign of anyone when she popped her head into the bedroom, but the sound persisted, something similar to a faint sniffling. "Mama?" She tiptoed toward the curtain that portioned off their eating area and, grasping hold of the faded cloth, slowly slid it aside—only to let out a gasp.
There sat her mother, tears streaming from her eyes, a piece of crumpled parchment clutched in her hand. "Mama!" She immediately rushed to her mother's side, fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. "What is it? What's happened?" She eyed the parchment, but couldn't manage to make out any of the words.
"It's Naalia." Guinevere Aretino took the handkerchief and dabbed at reddened eyes. "She's dead." For a moment, Monica stared at her, unable to comprehend. Then, she felt the blood drain from her face.
"Aunt Naalia?" She sank into the chair across from her mother as she gasped the words out, and Guinevere shakily nodded. "What happened?" she asked quietly.
Guinevere straightened in her chair, glancing down at the parchment in hand. "Typhoid fever. It says she fell ill during the winter and never…" She began to sob again, and Monica sat in silence, her face propped in her hand. She'd only ever met her Aunt Naalia once, but she remembered a gentle, pleasant woman with a smile that could make the entire room glow. Naalia always sent gifts for every New Life and birthday, and she and Guinevere had stayed in contact over the years through letters. Although, now that she thought about, the last contact from Naalia had been around New Life; in fact, she had been the one to send the ribbon that had started Lady Adlen's fixation.
"How did we not know about this until now?" Monica finally asked. Guinevere held up the parchment.
"The courier said it was a harsh winter, and the spring snows blocking the pass only melted about a month back," she answered bleakly. "Besides, there's apparently trouble in the province, and he said all of their deliveries have been terribly backed up…" She trailed off as a new wave of tears appeared, and as she dabbed them away, a cold chill ran down Monica's spine as she realized that she had passed the grim messenger himself on the road.
"But the problem now," Guinevere sniffed into the handkerchief, "the problem is Aventus." Monica frowned as her mother continued. "We're the only family he has now, so that makes us his guardians. Only since we weren't there to take him in…" Monica's eyes widened as she realized the implications, and her hand shot across the table to pick up the letter.
"This is dated First Seed," she said urgently, jabbing a finger at the line bearing the date. "That was four months ago; he's not…he hasn't been…?"
"He's not on the streets, thank the Divines." Guinevere shook her head, pointing to the letter. "He's been sent to an orphanage in the next hold." She sighed. "Poor thing, though. I hate to think of him waiting there, thinking we've abandoned him…"
Monica gave a mummer of sympathy. She'd never met her young cousin, but he had written them several letters over the years, telling stories about his friends, his school, and his pet dog in a direct, childish handwriting. "So what do we do?" she asked. "Hire someone to bring him here?"
Guinevere shook her head. "Mercenaries are expensive, Monica." She stood and crossed over to the cupboard, opening it up and feeling around the inner top of it before pulling something loose. "I have some coin saved, but it's not much." She tossed the coinpurse to her daughter, who grimaced at its meager weight as she hefted it in her hand. "We'll have to go get him ourselves and bring him back here, only…"
"Only?" Monica's eyebrows arched, and her mother carefully sat back down across from her.
"I've been thinking it over all afternoon," she said as she rearranged her skirts, not making eye contact with her daughter. "Lady Adlen…well, she hasn't been exactly pleased with me as of late." Monica grimaced, knowing far too well the extent of the situation. "And on top of it, it's a long journey; there's travel costs and lodging and food…" She threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. "And you see what we have there—that's all of our savings, Monica. It's not just the cost of the trip that worries me. If I'm not working, I'm not making money."
"So what does that mean for Aventus?" Monica frowned, eyes clouding over with worry, and Guinevere finally met her daughter's gaze.
"I need you to go and get him." For a moment, Monica simply sat in silence.
"What? Mama, you can't be serious." She stared across the table at her mother, aghast. "I can't go to Skyrim, I've barely ever left Battlehorn, and I've only been to Chorrol, what, twice? And I can't—"
"Monica." Her mother's voice cut her off, and she immediately fell silent. Guinevere was using her serious tone—something Monica hadn't heard since she was in her teens. "I know it's asking a lot, but I need you to do this for me." Monica bit the inside of her lip at Guinevere's earnest expression. Her tone was bordering on pleading, and that made her feel distinctly nervous. "I need you to do it for Aventus."
Monica sighed. Despite the overwhelming notion of travelling across Tamriel on her own, the thought of her little cousin trapped among strangers was unbearable. And besides, she was already feeling haunted by her mother's desperate expression and by the light coinpurse. So even though there was an uncomfortable tightness in her chest, she began to nod.
"All right," she relented. "I'll do it." The look of pure relief that filled Guinevere's puffy eyes nearly made up for the newly-developed anxiety boiling inside her.
"Thank you." Her mother reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "I really do appreciate this."
"How am I going to get there?" she asked, her mind already spinning. If she was doing this—really doing this—she at least needed to know exactly what it would entail. Questions were piling up against each other in her head, and she was already beginning to feel suffocated by them.
"The Pale Pass route would probably be best this time of year," Guinevere answered, propping her elbows on the tabletop. "You can get a carriage from Chorrol to Bruma easily enough, and then I'm sure it will be no trouble to find passage across the border." At Monica's doubtful look, Guinevere smiled faintly. "We'll figure it out. I think Avik was up that way a few years ago; I'm sure he knows what the travel's like. I'll ask around."
Her words were meant to be reassuring, but Monica only felt her apprehension multiply. She'd left County Chorrol only once in her life, and that had been when she was no older than Aventus, safe under the watch of her parents. Setting out on her own was entirely different—not to mention downright terrifying. But she'd pull through it. She had to—for Aventus. They'd figure out the arrangements, she'd follow the plan, and she'd bring Aventus back safe and sound. Everything would work itself out. She would have nothing to worry about.
