A/N: Hello! Sorry for the long absence; the holidays were absolute hell at work, and besides,I've been thoroughly distracted by Dragon Age -_- I also ended up going in a different direction with this chapter than I'd originally planned, and I think it worked out rather nicely. Thanks for your patience, and hope you enjoy!


Chapter 7: Back on Track

Monica and Hadvar left Riverwood on a damp, bleak morning early in Frostfall. It was still black outside when they rose, but Alvor and Sigrid got up alongside them, and even Dorthe, who'd said her goodbyes the night before, came clattering up the ladder, pushing her sleep-ruffled hair out of her face.

"You need to eat," Sigrid kept saying as she hurried around the kitchen preparing food for them to take with them, all the while keeping an eye on the porridge bubbling on the fire. Alvor, on the other hand, sat at the table practically interrogating Hadvar about his travel plans, while Dorthe sat beside the hearth, chattering away in her usual fashion and bickering with her mother as Sigrid snapped that she was in the way.

But despite the chaos, they managed to get their belongings together and out the door, waving to Sigrid and Alvor as they stepped off the porch and onto the road. The lantern Hadvar held cast wavering patterns over the frost as their boots crunched across it, and as they stepped outside the town limits, the darkness—and the chill—immediately seemed to magnify.

Monica shivered, drawing her fur cloak around herself more tightly. It had been a gift from Alvor, and she had never been more grateful for anything else in her life. "There's nothing like a Skyrim winter," he'd said when she'd tried to protest that it was too much, that she could never accept it. "You'll need it." Hadvar had chuckled when she draped it over her shoulders the moment they'd opened the door, but she didn't care. Even in the pre-dawn chill, she realized, she wasn't cold—whereas Hadvar was constantly rubbing his arms through the thin sleeves of his shirt—when he thought she wasn't looking, of course.

She shifted beneath the folds of her cloak, allowing her fingertips to trail over the hilt of Alvor's other gift. She'd nearly teared up when he'd presented it to her—even with her limited training, she could recognize the quality of the craftsmanship and amount of work put into it. The steel dagger was perfectly balanced with a razor-thin edge, its hilt uniquely forged to fit her grip.

"Don't be afraid to defend yourself, you hear?" Alvor had said anxiously as she'd tentatively drawn it for the first time, admiring how natural it felt in her grip, as though it were an extension of her hand itself. "Imperial law tends to be a little looser outside of Cyrodiil. Almost always better to strike first and ask questions later." She'd promised that she would, but even so, the thought of plunging the blade into another living, breathing, bleeding creature made her ill. She was desperately praying that nothing she encountered in her travels would come to that, but just the same, having it by her side made her feel the tiniest bit safer.

She found herself breathing easier once the sun came up, but her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, warily watching for the flash of dragon's wings. She experienced a horrible fright on several occasions when a simple bird happed to lazily pass overhead, but other than that, the skies remained clear, and she and Hadvar pressed on. They were near the foot of the mountain, and as the trees began to thin, the great tundra of Whiterun spread out before them. Their pace was slow—despite his protests, she could tell he was still favoring his injured ankle—but even so, she could see the distant outline of the city drawing nearer and nearer.

In the afternoon, they finally reached the Whiterun stables. While Hadvar went inside to finalize their arrangements, Monica hung back, leaning on the rails of the fence to watch the horses. None of them were particularly well-bred, but they all appeared strong and healthy—their muscles rippled and their coats glistened in the sun. Watching them graze, she suddenly felt a burst of nostalgia, and found herself longing for home. Battlehorn's horses were famous; large, powerful, and aggressive, they were sought by nobles—and by the Legion for use as warhorses.

She heard the clatter of the door, and looked up to see Hadvar approaching, his stride quick and deliberate. Somehow, it made his limp seem more pronounced, she noted sadly as he drew closer.

"There's a carriage to Solitude leaving in just a few minutes," he said cheerfully as he approached. "And the next one to Riften is at eight tomorrow morning." He paused, and a scowl creased his brow. "Will you be all right here by yourself?" he asked worriedly. "There'll be another one tomorrow if you want me to stay."

She smiled in spite of herself, shaking her head. "Go," she said. "I'll be fine. Really, I will."

Hadvar's frown eased slightly, but she could read the concern hidden in his features. "Are you sure?" he asked warily. "It's no trouble."

"Of course." She nodded over her shoulder toward the throng of passengers lining up in preparation to climb aboard. "I'm going to be living here anyway, aren't I? I don't see the difference one night will make."

That seemed to get through to him. His face relaxed, and his smile returned. "Of course," he sighed. "I just worry." For a moment, his smile faltered, and she caught a glimpse of the guilty expression he'd been staring at her with for the past month, but then he was speaking again.

"When you have a permanent address, write to me immediately," he said. "Send it to Castle Dour, and wherever I am, they'll get it to me." He offered a hand to shake, and she took it.

"I will," she promised. "Thank you, Hadvar. For…" She hesitated, unsure of how to put it into words. For bringing her to Sigrid and Alvor, for allowing her to stay—and for her very life. "For everything," she quickly finished. She uncomfortably glanced away, but not before she saw his face darken.

"No," he said quietly. "I should be the one to thank you."

She frowned, puzzled, but when she met his gaze again, the question on her lips, he was slipping back into the crisp, official Legionnaire she'd met in Helgen, and she lost her nerve. "Good luck, Aretino," he said. "Take care of yourself, and don't forget to write."

And then he was gone, turning around only once to wave as he climbed into the carriage. She stood in front of the stable for a while longer, watching until it was merely a blur on the horizon.


Whiterun was a charming city, with its high peaked roofs and intricate carvings ever-present in the architecture. But while the hustle and bustle should have been exciting, Monica found it entirely overwhelming. As she was jostled along the streets by other pedestrians, her panic rose, her blood pumping quicker through her veins, and she found herself darting through the door of the first inn she saw. She paid the publican with shaking hands and fled to the room she'd rented, slamming the door behind her and sinking to the ground with her back planted firmly against it, waiting until her breathing returned to normal again.

As it turned out, though, it was even harder to sleep here than it had been in Bruma. The guests here were considerably louder, and after the quiet solitude of Riverwood, the racket from out in the street was comparable to that of a mob. She finally drifted off into a wary sleep as the noise began to die off, only to be ripped out by a nightmare a few mere hours later.

She was sullen and groggy as she rose and dressed, and to her dismay, she discovered that her arms were covered with ragged gashes—she'd been scratching at the scars in her sleep. Although it wasn't raining yet, the dark skies outside matched the hollows under her eyes, and she had a feeling it was only a matter of time—just one more factor to make this day truly terrible. Downstairs, she paid the publican way too much for a bowl of porridge before bracing herself and once again heading out into the frantic streets.

She reached the stables in record time—far too early, but she preferred it that way; anything would be better than a repeat of Bruma. She spent nearly an hour hunched against the wind as she waited, but despite her apprehension, she felt a jolt of excitement as the carriage began to roll west down the road. Finally—finally—she was back on track, and in a matter of days, Aventus would be free—although the good feeling faded slightly as she remembered everything that lay between them and home.

They stopped for the night in a shabby little town, and while the driver saw to the horses, she and the other passengers filed into the town's only inn under the watchful gaze of its shifty-eyed publican. Although the room she spent the night was clean, it was little more than a cramped, windowless alcove with a cot wedged in it, and she passed the night fitfully, too afraid to fall asleep lest she fail to awaken with the sun.

It was a blessing in disguise, then, that the couple in the room next to her was bickering fiercely, and as soon as she would drift off, she would be woken by a particularly vocal outburst. And when she heard the door slam and the noise fade down the hallway, she knew it was time to get up.

The main room of the inn was strangely empty as she passed through, and she sighed to herself, realizing she wouldn't be able to buy breakfast. Thanks to Sigrid and her overzealous preparations, she still had food left over, but she'd been hoping for something warm. No matter, she reminded herself as she pushed open the door and headed toward the carriage. They'd reach Riften that night, and she was sure to find a hot meal there.

But the second day of travel passed even more slowly than the first, and when they finally rolled to a stop at the Riften stables deep in the night, food was the last thing on her mind. After two days without sleep, a dense haze clouded her senses, and she could feel her nerves wearing thin. All she wanted was to close her eyes—even just for a few moments—but as she passed through the gates of Riften, the sight that met her was enough to draw her from the fog.

The buildings were weathered and in various states of disrepair, but it wasn't the humble surroundings that bothered her. It was the people—although few were out this late at night, they all had a certain look that made her distinctly nervous. Ragged clothing, hoods drawn up, hollow eyes and blank expressions—all this contributed to an overall sense of unease, saturated in the stench rising from the canals that cut through the city. And by the way the way the man lurking in the shadows of a nearby building was eyeing her, she was about to get her purse cut—or her throat slit.

Her stride quickened, although it took all her willpower to keep it brisk rather than panicked. The swaying sign of an inn was just up ahead—as long as no faceless attacker leapt out at her in the next thirty strides, she'd be safe.

She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as her hand closed on the door's handle, the tension draining from her muscles as she darted through the doorway. It was hardly better in here, though—if anything, it was worse. It was dimly lit with flickering, evil-looking shadows, but the worst was the noise—music, shouting, and a very frantic-looking priest excitedly waving his arms. For a moment, she was tempted to turn around and head right back out, but in here, she reminded herself, there were witnesses—and the guards would no doubt descend in a second if anyone were seen trying to drag her body out the front door. And at that thought, she couldn't help but let out a silent huff of laughter.

"Running a little light in the pockets, lass?"

She shuddered away from the voice that had suddenly appeared beside her ear, her heart giving a lurch as adrenaline surged through her veins. The voice's owner merely watched her, eyebrows raised as she choked on her fear, and she managed to croak out, "What?"

"Your pockets." To her horror, he edged closer, and she immediately shrank away. And to his credit, he didn't push any further. "They're a little low on coin." The corners of his mouth curled up in a smirk. "I can tell."

She stood frozen in place, staring up at him as her heart slowly settled back into its normal rhythm. And as she managed to fill her lungs with air, she felt a scowl form across her face. "Leave me alone."

She made a move to sweep past him, but suddenly he was in front of her, blocking her path. Her heart began to accelerate again, and her thoughts flew to Alvor's dagger, dangling just inches from her fingertips. "Please move," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, but he shook his head.

"Hear me out first," he said, and as he lifted his hand, something jingled, and her breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her side, and her eyes widened in horror—empty.

"Give it back." Her voice was rising with the tide of pure panic, her gaze locked onto the coinpurse—her coinpurse—clutched in his grasp.

"I will." He met her gaze levelly. "But not yet."

How had he gotten hold of it? She hadn't felt a thing, and he hadn't been nearly close enough—had he? She glanced desperately around her—surely somebody was seeing this. Surely someone would do something. But no one appeared to be paying any attention, their gazes fastened coolly on their drinks or on their companions. She could feel the tears starting, and she was barely managing to cling onto the fringes of her composure. Without the money, all was lost. She'd never get Aventus back home. Her hand shaking, she slowly curled her fingers around the hilt of the dagger.

The motion didn't go unnoticed by the stranger, his eyes flickering to her side and then back again. "You're going to stab me, then?" He chuckled. "Here, in the middle of a full tavern?" The intensity of his stare increased, and she gripped the dagger a little tighter. "Money won't do you much good if you land yourself in prison." He smirked, and she took a deep shuddering breath.

"If I don't get that back," she said, drawing the dagger half an inch from its sheath, "it won't matter either way." She hated the way her voice wobbled, hated the way her eyes were now stinging with tears. He could probably see that she was crying, she realized, and her grip grew white knuckles.

Without warning, his hands lunged out toward her. She recoiled, feeling her shoulders collide with the wall as she heaved herself backward, a thousand horrible memories flashing across her vision—flames fear fire pain heat fear. But when she sucked in a breath and reality came flooding back, his hand was curled around hers, and when he withdrew it, she recognized the familiar weight of her coinpurse in her hand once again.

Shooting him the mightiest glare she could muster, she returned the coinpurse to its proper place at her side. As her trembling fingers struggled with the fastenings, she noticed him still watching with a look of strange fascination. "You should have two," he said suddenly, and she looked up. "Only put what you can afford to lose in the one you carry openly. Everything else goes in the other—and that one, you keep hidden." He paused, and his expression softened then, slightly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she snapped. The edge was returning to her voice, she noted with relief, and as she drew in another breath, she felt the courage flowing back through her veins. Lifting her chin defiantly, she crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"

He smirked, and she stubbornly stared him down, finally able to get a good look at him. He was well-dressed, both in the quality and craftsmanship of his clothing—whoever his tailor was, they clearly knew their trade. But there was something off about the way he wore them, and his face was worn and weather-roughened. He may have been dressed like one, but clearly this man was no noble, and as he spoke, he confirmed her suspicions.

"I've got a bit of an errand to perform," he said nonchalantly, as though he hadn't just lifted her coinpurse and frightened her out of her wits. "But I need an extra pair of hands." He shifted closer, and she tensed slightly. "And in my line of work," he quirked an eyebrow, "extra hands are well-paid."

It took her a moment to understand what he meant, and when the realization hit her, she stiffened, taking half a step back. "But you're a thief," she blurted out, emphasizing the last word. His sly grin faltered for a moment, and her brow creased into a deep frown. "I don't think I can help you," she said, as forcefully as she could manage, praying desperately that he would take the hint.

And miraculously, he did. He straightened up, his expression going blank, and shifted a step away. "Sorry," he said. He made a hmph sound. "I usually have nose for this kind of thing." He began to back away, then paused. "But if you ever change your mind," he added, "you can find me in the market." And then he was gone, melting into the crowd, as though he hadn't even been there in the first place.

She exhaled, and as the tension drained from her limbs, she began to tremble. Quickly realizing she was on the verge of turning into a weeping puddle on the floor, she instead hurried forward, pressing through the crowd toward the bar. What a horrible man, she thought desperately. What a horrible place this diseased little city was. Her solace came, however, in the knowledge that in a matter of hours, she would have Aventus in tow and be on the way back to Whiterun. And from there, it would only be a matter of getting in touch with Hadvar—and waiting.

But upstairs in her rented room, her agitation refused to fade, even after she had wedged a chair beneath the door handle and was tucked safe in bed. Her encounter with the thief had shaken her to the core, and furthermore, it had just occurred to her that she was actually about to come face to face with Aventus. This long, painful quest had taken so much from her, and somewhere along the way, she had forgotten just how daunting her primary objective was.

But sleep finally found her, and when she shot bolt upright in bed, the cold glint of the black dragon's eyes fading from her vision, the room was flooded with the golden sunlight of late morning. And as she slowly rose and dressed, she noted that she felt better. Not a lot better, but she'd actually gotten a decent chunk of sleep: six or seven hours, at least—the longest since…

Well, since before she'd left Battlehorn, but she wasn't about to dwell on that now. She finished tying back her hair, nervously smoothing a few remaining knotted strands before tugging on her boots, and with a final deep breath for courage, she was off.


Riften, as it turned out, was much less threatening in the daylight. It was a clear autumn day, bright and sunny with just the faintest chill in the breeze, and although she was constantly glancing over her shoulder, she didn't feel the same blind panic as she had last night. Thanks to the publican's directions, she found the orphanage easily enough, only taking one or two wrong turns, which she quickly corrected. But her heart nervously fluttered as she approached Honorhall Orphanage's front door, her palms going slick with sweat.

She wasn't sure what she expected to find inside—perhaps orphans running everywhere, or the sounds of children at play. Instead, however, it was quiet, not a soul in sight. The front room was suspiciously bare, she noted warily, but from somewhere in the building, she heard the sound of a raised voice. Frowning, she crept closer to listen.

"Oh!" There was a gasp of surprise and a sudden clatter, and Monica jumped, just as startled as the other person who'd entered the room.

"I'm sorry!" She immediately knelt beside the dark-haired woman, helping her pick up the stack of wooden plates she'd dropped. But the woman hardly seemed to notice.

"You really shouldn't be here," she said nervously, glancing toward the nearby closed door, the sounds of an apparent one-sided argument still echoing from behind it. "I'm sorry, but the children aren't up for adoption right now, and I…" She hesitated. "You should go," she finished firmly. She stood, and Monica rose with her, handing her the rest of the plates.

"Oh, I'm not here to adopt," she said quickly. "My name is Monica Aretino. I'm here to collect my cousin."

To her shock, the woman's eyes went wide with horror, and she slowly backed away. "A-Aret-tino?" she stammered out. Monica simply stared at her, not understanding. The woman set down the plates and drew in a breath. "I…I really don't… I shouldn't…" She shook her head. "Wait here, please." And she vanished through the door, the noise intensifying for a moment as she passed through.

Monica once again stood alone in the empty room, her heart beginning to pound with low and ominous throbbing. Something was wrong, she realized. The woman's reaction to her last name had been inexplicable, and there was something off about this place itself: the grim atmosphere, the woman's fear, the outburst happening in the other room.

Without warning, the door bounced off its hinges, and she started again, her heart sputtering even more frantically. A grey-haired woman stalked through the doorway, her strides deliberate and menacing as she stormed across the room. Stopping just inches from Monica's face, she barked out a single word. "What?"

Taken aback, she could only blink for a moment, suddenly forgetting how to speak. "Are…are you Grelod?" she managed to stammer out, and the woman's scowl deepened.

"Yes," she snapped. "Now is that all you came in here for?"

"No." Monica felt a quick spark of irritation, and she took a deep breath, focusing her words more clearly. "I'm Aventus Aretino's cousin. I've come to bring him home."

If the other woman's reaction had been alarming, Grelod's was even worse. She simply stared blankly, no spark of recognition or acknowledgement.

"Who?" she asked flatly, and Monica felt her heart spike.

"Aventus Aretino," she repeated, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "He was brought here from Windhelm in First Seed. My mother is Guinevere Aretino—his legal guardian. It should all be in the letter the jarl sent…"

But the woman gave a huff, rolling her eyes. "Listen here, young lady," she said sharply. "There's no child here by that name, and there never has been. You've wasted my time, and now you're going to leave."

Somehow, all the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. "That's not possible," she said desperately. "It was all in the letter, I have it right here…" Only, she realized as she spoke, that letter was lost somewhere in the Jerall mountains. Not that it mattered, though—she could see the finality in Grelod's eyes.

"I said, leave," she growled. "Or I'm calling the guards."

She could hear her own breathing growing ragged, even as the cold horror spread through her. She barely even felt the hand on her arm as the nervous woman she'd initially met gently tugged her away from Grelod. "He has to be here!" she shouted, even as the other woman shut the door in her face. "Where is he?" She stumbled back, gasping, unable to even begin to comprehend the situation. A spike of rage abruptly blasted through the numbness, and she yanked at the door handle. Finding it locked, she lashed out, slamming her fist into it and grinding her teeth in satisfaction as it quivered beneath the force.

"Hey!"

Her head whipped to the side at the shout, her fury ebbing slightly in favor of confusion as she saw that there was no one there.

"Hey." It was softer this time, an insistent hiss. "Over here!"

Frowning slightly to herself, she stepped over to the stone wall surrounding the perimeter of the orphanage. "Hello?" she called uncertainly.

There was a scuffling, followed by whispers of "ow," "be careful," and "quiet!" Then, the voice came again.

"Are you that lady from inside?" It was a child's voice, soft, yet full of urgency. "The one who was arguing with Grelod?" Monica's eyebrows rose.

"Yes?" she replied hesitantly. She stared at the blank surface of the wall before her, waiting for the response. There was a pause, but the voice finally spoke again.

"Is it true?" The voice was still careful, but now it bore a note of excitement. "Are you really looking for Aventus Aretino?"

Monica inadvertently let out a gasp, eagerly leaning in closer. "Yes!" she hissed back. "Do you know him? Where is he?" Her heart was still pounding, but now from triumph rather than fear as the whole ugly situation began to make just the tiniest bit of sense. Aventus had been here. She hadn't gone mad, or been misinformed. He'd been here. This girl knew him.

The silence stretched out just a little too long before the girl spoke again. "Well…" She hesitated, and Monica felt the frenzied grin that had spread across her face falter.

"He's gone." Another voice spoke up, and she felt the grip of fear. "He left about a month ago."

"He left?" She recognized the edge in her tone, but didn't bother attempting to soften it. "How could he just leave? Where would he go?" A new fear crept forward, and she heard her voice threatening to break as she asked, "Did someone take him?" Another silence fell, and this time she could hear the whispers—hushed, frantic deliberating.

"It's not fair." A third voice, muffled and cracking with poorly-disguised tears, and she wondered if this had been the target of Grelod's wrath. "The way she treats us…it's just not fair." There was a sniffle. "Aventus was the only one who did anything about it."

There were more questions than answers here. Monica shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pounding behind them. "What did he do?" she asked quietly, dreading what the answer would be. Again, there was a series of whispers before she got her reply, but finally, the third child spoke.

"He said he was going to do the Black Sacrament," The boy's voice was stronger now, the tears fading. "You know, to call the Dark Brotherhood. So they'd come and kill old Grelod!"

Nothing could have prepared her for that response.

She leaned back against the stone wall, all the breath pulled from her lungs, her jaw slack and eyes wide. The Dark Brotherhood. Professional killers-for-hire, said to worship Daedra. Aventus was only a child; if he actually managed to contact them…

"Listen," she began carefully, willing her voice to remain steady. "I need to find him. I need to take him home. If you know where he is, please, tell me."

She was once again met by silence, but she could hear the whispers as they conferred amongst each other. Finally, the first voice—the girl's—spoke up. "He said he was going home," she said slowly. "Back to Windhelm."

"Word on the street is that people have heard strange chanting coming from his house." The third voice had taken on a note of dark awe. "He's really doing it!"

Her breath came in a gasp as relief washed over her, the cold numbness fading. At least now she had something—she had a lead. "Thank you," she blurted out, stumbling over her words. "Thank you, I—thank you." And she darted away from the wall, moving through the traffic of the city as swiftly as she dared, all the way to the city gates and beyond.

The stablemaster was sitting outside, oiling a piece of leather as she approached, and her heart clenched as she marched toward him. "Please," she said breathlessly. "Tell me there's a carriage to Windhelm."