A/N: Hello everyone; I am so sorry about skipping last week's update. My work schedule has been switched around a lot lately, and I completely lost track of the days as a result. And then I forgot about updating altogether (whoops, haha).

This chapter is largely a transitional one, so bear with me if it gets a bit boring. Aventus will soon be making his appearance, and from there on out, things are going to get a lot more interesting. Enjoy!


Chapter 6: The Silence

"Monica?"

Monica's eyes blinked open at the sound of her name, staring blankly at the bare wood of the wall as the sound of footsteps padded closer. "Monica, Hadvar's ready for you." Sigrid's voice was gentle as she approached, her words as soft as her footsteps.

Monica pushed aside the blankets as she slowly sat up, wincing at the stabbing ache of her bruised ribs. Swinging her legs over the side, she stiffly rose to her feet and shuffled across the room.

It'd been a little over a week since she and Hadvar had arrived in Riverwood—although she'd only become aware of it recently. As Hadvar had noted back in Helgen, some of her burns had grown infected, and the subsequent fever that had wracked her body left her delirious for days. She was still feeling the lingering effects of it, but even in her dazed state, she knew how close it had come to claiming her. But as Alvor had put it when he'd walked through the door to see her awake and upright drinking soup in Dorthe's bed, she was a "fighter." As if that meant anything. She was still plagued by constant pain, and she still cowered at the slightest sound in anticipation of a dragon's scream.

She reached the fire, where Hadvar sat on a cot, his wrapped ankle propped up on it. Without a word, she stooped so he could grip her shoulder, his other hand clutching the makeshift crutch Alvor had carved for him. With a grunt of effort, he heaved himself upright, clinging to both her and the crutch for support as he staggered over to the table on his good foot. When he'd finally pulled his boot off that first night, he'd told her, his ankle had been black and swollen twice its size. According to Sigrid, it wasn't broken, but it was a nasty sprain, and he was looking at a good several weeks before he'd be back on his feet again.

He lowered himself into the nearest chair, and she sat down at the end of the table, gingerly laying her arms on the corner between them. He'd taken to changing her bandages himself, and even though it'd only been a few days, it had already become a ritual.

As he began to lay aside the wrappings, she lifted her eyes up to the ceiling. She couldn't bear to watch; without a visual, it was much easier to dissociate from the process. The pain, however, was a sharp reminder, and she gritted her teeth together, determined not to pass out.

"They're looking better today," Hadvar remarked, lightly lifting her hands and turning them over. "With the infection gone they should start healing faster." He paused. "How do they feel? Any better?" She shrugged, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and he sighed. "Well, give it some time," he reasoned, and she heard the scrape of a jar lid as the aroma of the salve filled the room.

Although she made it through while remaining conscious, her head was swimming by the time it was over. Blinking away the last flares of pain, she rose to her feet and shakily made her way back to the bed. But within minutes, she heard Sigrid's voice again, rousing her from her almost-slumber.

"Monica?" Her footsteps approached again, somehow sounding more tentative than usual. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

That got her attention, and she slowly sat up to see Sigrid standing at the foot of the bed, wearing an earnest, careful expression. "Dorthe wanted to go outside to work on her lessons. I was wondering if you could sit with her? Just to keep an eye on things." She smiled, and Monica frowned. What little she had seen of Riverwood seemed quiet, and besides, Dorthe was hardly the age to need a babysitter.

But then she saw the girl standing behind her, wearing the same cautious expression as her mother, and Monica felt her face color as she realized this was all a ruse. Nodding, she slipped from the bed and followed Dorthe to the door, thinly returning the girl's cheerful smile.

In the doorway, however, she froze. Stepping into the open air for the first time since she'd arrived in Riverwood was a startling feeling, and for a moment, the breeze seemed to carry the sound of dragon's wings. But Dorthe turned to her with that tentative smile once again, and she woodenly followed the younger girl out onto the porch.

There was a bench beside the door, and she sank down onto it as Dorthe sat on the steps, humming cheerfully to herself as she spread out her books beside her. It was too bright out here, Monica thought nervously, pressing her spine against the wall of the house. Too loud, too many strangers, too many distractions. A passerby turned at the corner by the house, staring curiously at her as he passed, and she shrank back, wishing she could sink into the ground itself.

But as time wore on, she began to breathe a little easier. It was cooler here than it was in Cyrodiil this time of year, and the air was clean and filled with birds' songs. She finally relaxed enough to tilt her head back and close her eyes, but she was startled out of her peaceful state by the sound of a voice.

"Hey, Dorthe." Her eyes flew open to see a boy about Dorthe's age approaching, a shaggy grey dog at his side.

"Frodnar!" Dorthe shot to her feet, knocking her book to the ground in her haste. "I thought you were helping your ma at the mill today."

"Just in the morning." His eyes then drifted to the side, peering through the shadows of the porch at Monica. "Who's that?" he asked, his voice little more than a whisper, his stare never wavering.

"Ma's sister from Falkreath." The boldfaced lie rolled off the girl's tongue so easily, Monica blinked in surprise. The name Frodnar was familiar, she realized; Dorthe had mentioned him the night they'd arrived in Riverwood—and Alvor and Sigrid had reacted quite strangely.

The boy continued to stare. "What's wrong with her hands?" he whispered, and Monica instinctively drew her arms in closer, tugging down her sleeves to cover the bandages.

"House fire," Dorthe replied matter-of-factly. "Terrible tragedy. Everything's gone. So she's staying with us for a while." She glanced down at the dog at the boy's side, and abruptly changed the subject. "What did you do to your dog?" she asked.

The boy's attention finally shifted from Monica, and he too turned to the panting animal. "Oh yeah—I painted an old fur white and tied it onto him," he said with a snicker. "I've been painting some branches, too. I just have to wait for them to dry before I can tie those on, and then—instant frostbite spider!"

Dorthe scoffed. "A costume?" she demanded. "You can't be serious. Nobody's going to believe that your dog is a frostbite spider! And if they do, they'll kill him." Her tone had turned disdainful. "That's not much of a prank."

"Oh, yeah?" His eyes narrowed. "Well, what would you rather do?" he challenged.

"Well, we could play…tag! You're it!"

"Hey, no fair!" he protested, spinning to follow her as she bounded off the porch and charged across the street. "Get her, Stump!" he shouted as they disappeared around the side of a building.

Monica watched them go, vaguely wondering if she should be concerned. That had been a well-crafted diversion—something she wouldn't have thought the girl capable of. But more importantly, she wondered why it had been executed in the first place. The boy seemed harmless, and not too overly bright.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the house. This was the first time she'd been alone since that morning in the mountains—the morning the Stormcloaks had picked her up. And while the solitude was a blessed relief, the accompanying silence allowed the memories to creep back, forcing themselves front and center. The heat, the fear…the taste of ash, the shrieks of the dragon as it swooped overhead…

She nearly leapt out of her skin as the front door clattered open, skittering sideways as her heart beat frantically against her ribs. "How's it going out here?" Hadvar asked cheerfully as he clumsily stumbled out onto the porch, gripping onto his crutch for dear life. His smile switched to a frown as he took in her wide-eyed expression, and he glanced around warily. "Where's Dorthe?"

In response, she lifted a finger and shakily pointed across the street, where they were hopping over a fence, still engaged in their game of tag. Hadvar's frown deepened, and she noticed him cringing back further into the shadows. "We'd better go inside," he said darkly, swiveling around and hobbling back through the door. He didn't have to tell her twice.


She began to spend more and more time outside in the coming weeks. Autumn was underway, and it was rapidly taking hold. It was cool in the mornings, but the chill gradually burned off into balmy afternoons, and although they were surrounded by an evergreen forest, the few deciduous plants in the area were slowly brightening with color. There was one week when it rained for three days straight, and during that time she hardly left the porch, breathing in the smell of the rain-soaked earth and listening to the steady sound of clanging from Alvor's forge. And when the rain finally cleared, Dorthe and Frodnar gathered out in the streets, splashing each other and leaping into puddles.

But at night, the flames of Helgen would rise up around her again, and she would awaken in a sweat, clapping her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. When the thundering of her heart eased, she would slip out of bed, tiptoeing across the room and out the door. There, in the darkness of the porch, she could weep freely, with only the cold harsh light of the moon to witness her shame.

Some nights she would curl up on the bench by the door only to dart inside the moment her tears ceased, certain that the night breeze bore the sound of a dragon's roar alongside the chill. Others, she would sit silently for hours after her eyes had gone dry, with only a single thought running through her mind.

Ulfric. In the split second in between waking and opening her eyes, she would see his face flash before her vision. Every detail had been burned into her memory with searing clarity, and she would sit frozen for a moment, blankets clutched to her chest, until she convinced herself that it was only her memory he haunted.

She didn't know if he had survived Helgen. There'd been few who had, that much was clear. No other survivors had come limping through Riverwood. But there was another route out of Helgen—the one leading to Ivarstead. And some quiet voice inside her head solemnly informed her that the Jarl was still out there.

Her various cuts and scrapes healed, her black eye faded, and her bruised ribs were slowly reaching the point where she could move about—albeit carefully—without pain. According to Hadvar, her arms were getting better as well—slowly, but with constant improvement. But as the pain dissipated, it was replaced by constant itching.

Hadvar urged her not to scratch at it, lest she tear the fragile new tissue, but in a way, it was even more agonizing than the blistering pain had been. And in attempt to keep her mind off of it, she found herself helping Alvor in the forge.

She had no training as a smith, and with her arms still healing there was little she could do in the way of heavy labor, but she still found ways to make herself useful. She prepared molds and swept the floors while listening to Alvor uncomfortably fill the silence by explaining the conventions of his trade. She learned about the properties and uses of different alloys, about proper temperatures and techniques, and, after a local store owner was robbed, about the structures and mechanisms of locks. Being a tailor's daughter also had its advantages—although it was nothing like the delicate embroidery that had covered Lady Adlen's gowns, she found she was quite adept at stitching together the seams of leather. But the roar of the forge and the hiss of molten metal still made her stomach twist with fear, and as the raised scars began to form across her arms, her thoughts slowly returned to her original purpose.


It was in the wake of a nightmare one night when her usual thoughts racing on a loop through her head took a sharp turn in a new direction. As she huddled out on the porch, shivering against brisk night air, she suddenly thought of her papers. Taken from her in the Stormcloak camp, she had no idea what would become of them; whether they'd been destroyed by the Stormcloaks, abandoned during the Imperial raid, or confiscated by the Imperials and subsequently lost in Helgen's fires. But without them, she slowly realized, there'd be no making it back across the border. As a new kind of dread took hold of her, she abruptly bounded forward off the porch.

She had no clear direction in mind as she set out—only that if she didn't keep moving, she would dissolve into a quivering mess of panic. But as she trudged along and her head began to clear, she slowly realized that her feet were carrying her out of Riverwood, up along the road into the mountains—back toward Helgen.

Her pace briefly slowed as she considered the direction she was headed in. It wasn't as if she were actually going back. It was too far, and besides, she'd find nothing there. Helgen was a scorched ruin; it'd been demolished by…

She shuddered as she thought of the dragon, and her panic once more began to rise. How did any of it matter? What point could there possibly be when a creature like that existed? When at any moment it could appear on the horizon and crack open the sky before doing what it did best: destroy. Devour. She shivered again, anxiously looking up at the night sky. But there were no black wings, and as she trekked on, her thoughts slowly began to align, falling into some semblance of order.

Her papers were gone, yes. So was her coin: all of it, and she felt something twist in her chest at the notion that she'd lost all of Guinevere's savings. All she had to her name were the clothes on her back, and even those weren't really hers: an old dress of Sigrid's and the Legion-issued boots she'd fled Helgen in, refitted by Alvor. But none of this changed the fact that Aventus was still in that orphanage.

It was now in the final days of Hearthfire: well over a month since she'd left Battlehorn, and nearly seven since Naalia's death. By now, Guinevere had to have realized something had gone wrong, and Monica's heart gave a twinge at the image of her mother bravely getting up in the morning and dealing with Lady Adlen's demands, all the while sobbing herself to sleep at night thinking her daughter was dead—or even worse, that she'd betrayed her, taking the money and running off with it. And as for Aventus…well, if she were Aventus, she'd have given up all hope by now.

The darkness around her had been turning to grey as she walked along lost in her thoughts, and now, she lifted her head to see three monolithic shapes rising out of the pre-dawn gloom. She slowed her gait as she approached, drifting to a stop as she stood before them. The Guardian Stones. Hadvar had pointed them out on that long ago evening as they'd staggered past them on their way to Riverwood, but she'd barely registered the sight of them at the time.

Now, she slowly made her way into their midst, stepping over roots and fallen leaves and sinking down on the frosty stone, hugging her knees to her chest. With trembling hands, she slowly pushed up her sleeve, fingers tracing the fresh scars. It was so horrifying to look at them, to carry that reminder of what had happened permanently etched into her flesh. In a way, it seemed almost a cruel joke that she should be forced to go on, to constantly relive every single agonizing moment instead of falling away in death's release. But every breath she drew was a gift, and she knew that. By all odds, she should not have survived. And as she watched the first streaks of orange slowly paint the eastern horizon, the knowledge of what lay before her was as cold as the ground she sat upon.

She had to go on. Helpless and terrified as she was, she couldn't abandon Aventus. She tilted her head back, catching sight of the last of the stars fading into the brightening sky. Her doom no longer seemed as imminent as it once had, but it was still certain. She closed her eyes, wincing at the prospect of dying alone out on the road—starving or freezing or being torn apart by animals or bandits—or being swallowed alive by black wings and fire as they rained from the sky. But as fate pushed her toward her end, she would push back. And if she was going to die, she would do so fighting for Aventus.

She slowly rose to her feet, brushing the frost from her skirt as she gazed desperately at the stones surrounding her, as though searching for some sort of sign. She was clearly no warrior; her body was weak and broken. She was no mage, either; her magicka was feeble and unstable, hardly something she could rely upon But the Thief…

She stepped forward, raising her hand to brush her fingers over the outline carved into its surface. The Thief prevailed in the most dire of circumstances, forging through insurmountable barriers while remaining unseen. Luck was the Thief's gift, and luck was what she needed most right now. "Please," she whispered, "guide my steps on this path I take." She drew in a breath, scrunching her eyes shut. "Help me get home."


She stumbled back into Riverwood around mid-morning, chilled to the bone and completely soaked from the storm that had unexpectedly rolled in as she languidly made her way down the mountain. Hadvar glanced up at the sound of the door, his expression turning to one of simultaneous relief and concern as he caught sight of her. "You're back," he said, rising to his feet. "You had us worried, you know. Disappearing in the middle of the night like that?" He crossed over to the chest at the foot of Alvor and Sigrid's bed, withdrawing a heavy woolen blanket and draping it over her shoulders. "Sit down," he said, returning to the fire. "I'm making some stew, I'll get you a bowl in a few minutes."

These were all familiar gestures, little acts of kindness he'd been performing since the beginning. At first, it'd been a little unnerving, but it hadn't taken long for her to decipher the motivation behind it. Hadvar was a benevolent, even-tempered soul—a fact she quickly discovered as she watched him joke with Dorthe and help Sigrid around the house and remain cheerful even when the mere act of crossing the room unaided was a monumental achievement for him. But despite all of this, the memory of the wild glint in his eye as he'd held his dagger to the torturer's throat still sent shivers down her spine. And the contrast between his typical behavior and that glaringly out of character act told her everything she needed to know. She'd been raised by a Legionnaire, after all—and she knew if Giovanni were to encounter the horrors they'd discovered in the torture room, his guilt would at least match—if not exceed—Hadvar's.

So she said nothing as he tiptoed around and fussed over every little detail of her recovery. She owed him her life, and his shame practically radiated from him every time he looked at her. If it helped him to assuage his guilt, it would be a small step toward repaying her debt.

But now, as she sat a safe distance away from the flames, watching him bustle about, there was something different about him. He'd finally been able to discard the crutch, and although his movements were slow and unsteady, he was—for all intents and purposes—officially back on his feet. He'd stopped stealing those guilty glances out of the corners of his eye, though; instead, his gaze was focused straight forward, staring through space, and he wore a small, pensive frown.

Sure enough, as he placed a steaming bowl in her hands and sat down beside her, he finally turned to her, clearing his throat. "There was something I wanted to tell you," he said. She paused, lifting her eyebrows slightly as she detected a hint of nervousness in his tone. He fidgeted briefly before speaking again.

"In a couple days, I'm going to be heading back to Solitude," he announced slowly. "I'm up and moving around again, as you can see," he gestured toward his ankle, "and, well…" He shrugged. "It's been a month," he said simply. "I've most likely been listed as dead at this point, and the longer I wait, the more likely I am to be accused of desertion." He smiled ruefully.

"But by no means are you obligated to leave," he clarified quickly. "Sigrid and Dorthe love having you around, and I know Alvor appreciates your help in the forge." He hesitated. "You know, I talked to him," he said suddenly, his words spilling out in a rush, "And he'd be willing to take you on as an apprentice."

She looked up in surprise at that one; a month ago, she might have laughed at such a ludicrous notion: her, a smith? Instead, she glanced back to the fireplace, gazing at the hypnotic dance of the flames. "You'd receive room and board in exchange for your labor, of course, as well as a percentage of the coin made from your work—not to mention the chance to work alongside a fine smith like Alvor." There was a pause. "It's a good offer."

It was a good offer. And to her surprise, some small part of her almost wanted to accept. But instead, she drew in a breath and wetted her lips. "I can't."

There was a clatter as Hadvar dropped his spoon. She didn't blame him for his shock; since their arrival, she'd barely spoken three words. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze as he stared at her, astonishment written across his features. "I can't," she repeated, this time shaking her head for emphasis. "I have to get to Riften."

Hadvar appeared to be perplexed, his brow furrowed as he stared her down. "Riften," he repeated slowly. "Mind if I ask what's in Riften?" His demeanor had shifted, she realized; before, he'd spoken to her casually, with familiarity—almost as an afterthought. Now, his words were deliberate and guarded.

"My cousin," she replied shortly, cringing at the thought of having to recount the entire ugly story. But Hadvar's expression was still careful—concerned, even—without any traces of morbid curiosity creeping in, so she spoke anyway, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He's ten," she said, her voice barely a murmur. "His father disappeared not long after he was born, and his mother died this past winter. He was sent to an orphanage in Riften, so my mother sent me to go get him and bring him home."

"Home to Battlehorn?" Hadvar remarked, and she frowned, both at the fact that he'd remembered such a small, insignificant detail and at the reminder of that day in Helgen.

"Yes." She nodded her head, wondering if she should include another part of the story—the one involving her current predicament. She hesitated, but then the words came rushing out of their own accord. "But there's a problem," she blurted out. "My papers are gone."

Hadvar appeared mildly confused. "Papers?" he asked, and she felt her heart flutter as she danced closer to the other part of the story—the part she was unwilling to delve into.

"My travel papers," she replied calmly. "Documentation of my identity…my citizenship…" She shrugged, and Hadvar's perplexed expression smoothed out slightly.

"Ah," he said. "I know what you mean." But his frown returned. "What happened to them?"

His tone was surprisingly gentle, and she allowed the truth to slip out a little further.

"I don't know." For a moment, tears threatened to spill from her eyes as the memories pressed closer. "They're a pile of ash lying in Helgen now, I suppose." Her voice broke on the accursed town's name, and Hadvar instinctively shifted closer, only to freeze when she flinched at the motion.

"I see," he said. There was a hint of that stoic Legionnaire she'd first met creeping back into his voice, and he leaned away, drumming his thumbs on the arms of his chair. "Well," he said briskly, and she realized he was in full-blown Legionnaire mode now. "That shouldn't be too much of a problem—for now, at least. You can travel the province freely—go to Riften, get your cousin—whatever you need to do. However, you will run into trouble when you decide to return home." His eyes narrowed at that last bit, and she forced herself to remain calm, blinking the tears back more fiercely. He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know, she miserably reminded herself.

"They're much stricter about entering Cyrodiil," he muttered. "Leaving's easy enough; it's getting back that's the hard part." His brow wrinkled in concentration as he stared into the flames, and she nervously shifted in her seat, wondering if she should mention the means by which she'd entered Skyrim in the first place.

Finally, he broke his stare, swiveling back toward her. "There's no easy solution," he sighed. "In addition to the papers, there's the issue of coin, and it's late in the year. Travel will be difficult." He shook his head.

"Come to Whiterun with me," he suddenly offered. "I'm going to be taking a carriage to Solitude from there, and you can find one to Riften. Once you get the boy, head back to Whiterun. I'm sure you can find work there, and I'll see what I can do about your papers from Solitude. Come spring, I'm sure everything will be in order, and you and the boy can make your way back to Cyrodiil."

Spring? She stared at him in disbelief. "Spring?" she repeated, the blood pounding through her ears. "That's…" She broke off with a nervous laugh. "I can't wait that long." She could hear the panic rising in her own voice, but Hadvar smiled sadly and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But it'll take time to sort out, and besides, winter's on its way. Once it hits, you won't have many travel options. The only thing you can do is sit tight and be ready to go when the time comes." He sighed.

"I know fate hasn't been kind to you," he said suddenly, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance at her arms. Although covered by her sleeves, she instinctively drew them closer to her body as he continued. "But you're a tough one, Monica Aretino. You'll do just fine."

She silently groaned, knowing that despite it all, his solution was the only one that made sense. She couldn't go anywhere without her papers—and in the time being, she'd have to do something to keep her and Aventus fed and under a roof. However, despite Hadvar's reassuring smile, she felt a knot forming in her stomach. Although the reasoning behind it was solid, she had a bad feeling about this plan—although perhaps that was the reason for her misgivings. The last time she'd had a foolproof plan in place, she thought darkly, had been when she left Battlehorn.

But this was different, she assured herself, trying to ignore the lingering prickle of worry. Last time, she'd been too foolhardy, making last minute changes and acting rashly in the face of unforeseen situations. This time, she knew better. This time, she would stay the course. And she could only pray that this time, fate wouldn't have other plans in store for her.