Writer's note: It usually doesn't take me this long between updates, and I am sorry D: I am bad, and I should feel bad (ugly crying). I'm the loser who decided to start writing this story during finals.

Other than that, it took me this long because I've had to edit my previous chapters. I didn't make any big changes, only the following:

A) I made the prologue shorter (by like, a lot, mostly to take out my purple prose, orz I am sorry)

B) I made Erik younger. Now he's 17, making his naivety seem more plausible (and also he's now the same age as Willas and Lanre).

C) I changed the hunting scene. Thanks to some very sound advice, I now know that when hunting an animal, you aim for the heart. It kills them much faster and more humanely without spoiling the meat, rather than aiming for the neck. Even if a deer is pierced through the neck with an arrow, it can still run away, trailing blood behind it ... it's a bloody business, so aim for the heart.

Those are the only big changes I've made. It's also worth noting that I will deviate from the in-game storyline quite a bit, to make the story more surprising and entertaining :)

Happy reading, everyone! Here's the longest chapter to date.

Hahnu Do Keizal

by Toasted Panic

Chapter Three

Vahriin Ahmik

(Sworn Service)

A soldier at the head of the column blasted a horn three times as the thane's entourage approached Rorikstead at sunrise. Hooves kicked up the dirt, thunder rolling on the earth, stirring a low cloud of dust along the road. At the head of the procession, Lanre Solveig and her housecarl came to a stop by the edge of the village, the warrior holding up a clenched fist high in the air. The rest of the column gathered to a slow halt behind them.

The people of Rorikstead ceased their fieldwork to stare openly at the line of mounted soldiers. Their wary eyes lingered on the thane garbed with thick wolf's fur and the imposing warrior at her side. More people began to trickle out of the houses, watching the proceedings at the sides of the road.

Lydia nodded to the soldier with the horn. He sounded three long blasts that swept out over the western plains. Lydia's firm voice followed, carrying through the village.

"Announcing the arrival of her ladyship, Lanre Solveig, Thane of Whiterun, Right Hand and Servant of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater."

Urging her black destrier a few steps forward, Lanre swept her eyes over the timid faces of the villagers. "Good people of Rorikstead," she called out, "I come bearing news and gifts of good will in the name of our honourable jarl. As your newly appointed thane, it is my duty and great privilege to come here in his name and present his people with the bounty of Whiterun's harvest." Lanre raised an open palm, motioning forward to a pair of her riders.

The column behind them parted to make way for two horse-drawn wagons covered with fine netting. The first was loaded with bushels upon bushels of wheat, wicker baskets piled with potatoes, and clay jars of honey, fermented milk, and spices. The second was filled with baskets of scarlet apples and golden pears among caskets of wine and mead. The wagons rolled to a halt a few paces ahead of Lanre, stopping just in front of Frostfruit Inn.

Lanre extended a shallow bow of her head towards the people. With a sense of finality, she called out once more, "May these gifts see you in the coming winter months." She turned to a pair of soldiers, gesturing them forward. "See to the distribution and help unload the waggons. The rest of you—we set up camp on the western side of Rorikstead."

"By your orders, my thane."

Lydia raised her hand high and motioned ahead.

The soldiers urged their steeds onward, with the thane and her black destrier leading them.

When Erik finally reached the village, the sun had risen low above the horizon.

He felt as though his lungs would burst. He ran as fast as he could, unmindful of Willas and Jormund shouting after him. But something powerful had urged him on, spurring his legs forward with the wind at his heels, determined to catch sight of those silvery banners. And now that he was at the village, he didn't know why he'd been so desperate to catch up with the procession of soldiers.

"What in gods' names has gotten into me ..." he panted, resisting the urge to cast up his breakfast.

"Erik!"

Willas came up behind him, huffing angrily, his face blotchy and red. "For the love of Talos—have you lost your mind? Why did you run off like that?"

Swivelling around, Erik stuttered, at a loss. "I-I just ... the banners ... and the thane ... Willas, what's the matter?" Wondering what Willas was gawking at, Erik turned around to look down the road.

Rorikstead had never bustled with so much activity before.

He saw two large wagons in front of the inn, loaded with an impossible amount of food—more than enough to see them through two winters without a worry. More Whiterun soldiers were wandering through the village than usual, and two of them were helping unload the wagons. Ennis, Reldith, and Mralki were carrying baskets into the inn.

Erik gasped as he caught sight of the billowing flags in the distance, the golden stallion of Whiterun soaring in the morning breeze. Down the road, a small camp had been raised. Brown tents were beginning to litter the field, soldiers tending to them, driving strong wooden poles into the ground, raising tarps, gathering wood, sharpening swords, stoking fires. In the middle of the cluster was a larger tent, silvery with gold stripes, standing as tall as the inn. The gold stallion high fluttered above it, impossibly bright in the morning sun. At its entrance, it bore the same banners with two soldiers standing guard on either side.

"What is happening ..." Erik muttered underneath his breath.

"ERIK."

Mralki's shout jerked Erik out of his stunned reverie. He was suddenly aware of the wolf blood crusting up in his clothes and hair.

"Father—" Erik winced, "—I can explain."

"Dear gods." Mralki's face was pale as he rushed to his son, grasping Erik firmly by the shoulders. He turned Erik this way and that, looking him over with alarm. Turning on Willas, Mralki's eyes were filled with fire "What happened?"

Scowling, Willas looked ready to spit back a scathing retort.

"A hunt gone awry," Jormund called out upon finally arriving in the nick of time.

Mralki gestured angrily at his son. "Endangering him like this—this ... this is unacceptable."

"I'm unhurt," Erik blurted out stiffly. "It's alright, father. I'm fine. See? No wounds, no scratches—I'm unharmed."

Mralki shot Erik a stern gaze.

"Your boy's unharmed, Mralki," Jormund intervened, his tone calm. "He startled when cutting a deer's neck—the animal wasn't quite dead yet and it put up a struggle. The killing got messy."

Turning to Erik, Mralki narrowed his eyes. "Is this true, Erik?"

"Yes, father."

Erik clenched his fists. He could feel Jormund's stare piercing through him. Forcing the words from between his teeth, he added, "I hesitated and mucked it up—the meat was spoiled and I managed to mangle the pelt, too, so we couldn't bring it back ..."

"Mralki!" Ennis bellowed from the inn porch. "We'll need your help carrying in the rest of these jars—you lads as well."

Mralki frowned at Erik. "We'll speak more later." He headed off to help unload the last wagon, his shoulders rigid.

Erik paled. Before he could follow, he felt Jormund's firm grip on his arm. Turning around, he met the old hunter's gaze. There was a sadness in his wrinkled brown eyes.

"That's the last time I'll lie to your father like that, Erik," he said softly. "Speak to him more frankly from now on—maybe then he won't treat you like a child."

Erik's nod felt wooden. "I-I understand, Jormund. I'm sorry ..."

"Kind as you are, lad, your apology is misplaced."

Jormund walked past him to head to the wagons. Willas followed, casting a hesitant glance at Erik over his shoulder.

Erik cursed himself as he stood alone. Stupid, he thought shamefully. Think before you act, you foolish boy. He followed his friends, his shoulder slumped.

They helped gather and organize the winter rations in the inn cellar. Mralki took inventory while the last of the jars of spices were brought down by the soldiers. When the men in armour left the cellar to help set up camp, Willas cast a baleful look around the packed room.

"You're telling me that some noble from Whiterun rode all the way out here to deliver these goods?" He scoffed. "An extravagant courier, if I've ever heard of one. What kind of favours does she think to curry in this part of the world? And what about the entourage she brought with her? What of that?"

Ennis shrugged, gazing at their stock of food with wonder. "One of the soldiers told me that Thane Solveig did the same in Riverwood before they made the journey here. She presented the villagers with the jarl's gifts and saw to strengthening their garrison with more soldiers—her entourage is meant to stay here in Rorikstead. The jarl wants to fortify the Whiterun settlements." The Redguard's expression turned dour. "A dragon attacked the capital."

His news was met with astonished, cold silence.

"Hush," Mralki muttered, shaking his head. "Before we let worry take us, let's first have some bread and stew. No one should have to listen to bad news before a meal."

They all nodded solemnly and ventured upstairs.

While Mralki and Reldith busied themselves over a cooking pot of beef stew, the others gathered around a table, soon joined by Jouane and Rorik. They all whispered to themselves about the sudden arrival of the thane's party and news of Whiterun.

"You said Whiterun was attacked ..." Erik murmured to Ennis. "What happened? Was anyone hurt?"

To Erik's surprise, Ennis's expression brightened.

"No, thank the gods. Everyone was unharmed. Because—well, I wouldn't have believed it myself, except all the soldiers seem to agree." He looked up at everyone, eyes shining. "They say the Dragonborn appeared—in the flesh, the great hero himself."

Erik felt his heart leap. "It's all true," he gasped, unable to stop a smile from blooming on his face. "He's real."

Ennis nodded avidly. "When the dragon attacked the western watch tower, all the guards say he appeared out of nowhere—leaping onto the field in clear sight of the dragon, wielding nothing more than a steel blade. The proud beast thought it could have beaten him on the ground—what a mistake for it to land! The Dragonborn cut up its wings and stabbed the creature in the heart—all eyes who saw the battle swore he moved faster than a whip.

"The curious part," Ennis dropped his tone, low and almost imperceptible, "was when the dragon died. All the soldiers swear up and down, on the graves of their ancestors, and on the halls of Sovngarde—when dragon was stabbed in the heart, the beast's flesh burned right off its bone, leaving nothing but a terrifying skeleton. The bright flames from the fire seemed to engulf the Dragonborn—it looked like the dragon's dying light was being absorbed."

Lemkil snorted. "They're all mad."

"It's true!" Erik cried fiercely, slamming his fists on the table. "He's real, I tell you. As real as you and I! Ennis—did the guards tell you—what did he look like? Is he a Nord? Oh, what am I saying—of course he is! Isn't he?"

"You're an utter fool for believing anything you hear," Lemkil mocked.

Ennis shook his head with a disappointed frown. "That's the funny thing. Nobody knows what he looks like."

Erik deflated visibly, his bright smile wavering.

"Throughout the entire battle, the Dragonborn had his face covered. The only thing the soldiers said for sure was that he was tall. He ran off towards Whiterun before anyone could even shout 'Dragonborn!'"

Jouane hummed curiously to himself. "Whoever this Dragonborn is, he sounds like he wants to keep his identity to himself. Odd fellow."

Erik let out a frustrated cry. "But I need to know who he is."

Before anyone could ask what that meant, the inn door swivelled open. They all turned to see the arrival of the thane's housecarl. The woman shut the door behind her, striding towards them. Her face was void of expression when she said, "I am looking for the man in charge of the village. Rorik."

Rorik stood from his seat, his fine clothes fluttering with his movement. "I would be Rorik."

Nodding, the woman continued in her soldierly tone, "My lady extends an invitation that you dine with her in the camp for breakfast."

Rorik hesitated. "I don't mean to be rude ... but if you've got some business in Rorikstead, you should start by speaking to Jouane. I'm afraid I lost my charm years ago—simple commoner's talk is unfit company for nobility."

Jouane stood from his seat obligingly. He smiled at the dark haired woman. "I would be happy to go in Rorik's place."

"Thane Solveig requested for Rorik specifically." The warrior left no room for argument. "But if you wish to accompany him, you are free to do so. She expects your presence within the hour." Without another word, she turned on her heel and stepped outside the inn.

Rorik sighed, glancing wearily at Jouane. "By invitation, I should have guessed she meant 'summons.'"

"Come now, old friend," Jouane chided gently, leading the way out. "What's a game of politics now and then? I'm sure my lady only wishes to be thanked for her graciousness in personally bringing Balgruuf's gifts."

Lanre glanced up from her reading as Lydia returned to the tent. Closing the book, she rose from her seat and stood in front of a tall mirror.

"Tell me, Lydia," Lanre spoke as her housecarl came up behind her to undo the straps and belts of her ebony armour. "What do you know of the Dark Brotherhood?"

Lanre caught Lydia's frown in the reflection. "Only that they've dwindled into nothing but vile whispers. Their history is riddled with all sorts of unsavoury deeds—it makes the flesh crawl to think about such things."

Glancing surreptitiously at the faded black tome on her table, Lanre nodded as Lydia unfastened her gauntlets, leaving her in a wool tunic and trousers. "What man has ever feared vile whispers," she murmured, striding to where her furs were draped over a chair.

Lydia frowned. "Any man with power, my thane."

Lanre could feel Lydia watching her as she donned her wolf coat, fastening the steel chain clasp across her chest. She savoured the warmth as she approached the long wooden table by two roaring braziers. It was laden with silver plates of apples coated in honey and spices, pears turned red for bathing in wine, golden rolls of soft baked bread, steaming potato soup, rich and creamy, glimmering tankards of spiced wine, and slices of crisp smoked ham and bacon. Taking her seat at the head of the table, she watched the opening of the tent.

"You've extended my invitation?" she asked Lydia.

The warrior nodded. "Yes, my thane. Rorik's answer was indecisive. He seemed far from eager to attend. I believe his old friend Jouane Manette will convince him. If that's the case, both of them will likely dine with you, my lady."

Nodding thoughtfully, Lanre leaned back in her seat, resisting the urge to rub at her tired eyes. The journey from Riverwood, although graciously uneventful, had been long and harrowing. "If only our messenger hadn't gotten 'lost' on his way here—maybe our arrival wouldn't have come as such a surprise. That's the last time I send one man to do the job." When they found their young messenger intoxicated five miles out of Rorikstead, his clothes stinking of Moon Sugar as he babbled about the beauty of Secundas, Lanre had been far from pleased. The lad had been demoted to peeling potatoes for two weeks while the rest of his brothers and sisters at arms were doing their soldierly duties.

"I haven't quite decided if the war veterans of this village will make my mission harder or more rewarding," Lanre pondered aloud as she poured herself a cup of wine. "Jarl Balgruuf has expended much on these two journeys. Riverwood was a success. But Rorikstead remains the true prize this close to the Reach."

"If I may speak frankly, my lady?"

Glancing up at her companion, Lanre nodded.

Lydia hesitated before continuing, "I am your sworn shield and sword—your confidence is my honour to keep. My life is yours in service. However, my lady ... I mean no disrespect ..."

"My dear friend," Lanre spoke softly. "Say what you wish. I've promised time and again to heed your counsel."

Lydia's brown eyes were solemn as she spoke. "My lady, it's rash to attempt things of this nature during such troubling times. Jarl Balgruuf has made great pains to keep his part out of the civil war. The caution of the people of Rorikstead is not misplaced. If the other jarls hear of your military party so close to the Reach—and they will—it would be natural for suspicion to arise."

Lanre listened carefully. For a while, she let Lydia's words hang in the air, ringing high with ominous truth.

"I know this," she spoke gravely. "Believe me, my friend. It occurred to me. Balgruuf voiced the very same objections. But Ulfric Stormcloak isn't the only opportunist schemer in the realm." Her eyes were cold as she sipped from a silver wine cup. "How unkind would it be of the other jarls—to assume ill of Balgruuf for wanting to protect his people." Lanre smiled easily at Lydia. "Food for the coming winter. Soldiers to guard against the dragon threat. Neither of those things appear so unreasonable. Even a man like Ulfric wouldn't have the gall to spin that into a baldfaced lie."

Lydia frowned doubtfully. "My lady says this of a man who murdered the High King."

Lanre's laugh was humourless.

One of the guards stepped inside the tent, extending a salute—his right fist over his left breast. "My thane, Rorik has arrived with his friend Jouane Manette."

"Good. Send them in."

Lanre stood as the Nord and his Breton companion stepped inside, both garbed in sets of fine clothes, their faces careful masks of courteous smiles. She smiled back, extending a hand to the table setting.

"Well met, friends. Please, have a seat. It's a pleasure to have you here with us."

Lanre took her seat at the head of the table, with Lydia standing at her side. Rorik nodded with murmured thanks, taking the seat at Lanre's right. Jouane sat across from him at her left, visibly more at ease as he made conversation.

"The pleasure is all ours, my thane," he said brightly. "It's not often that our humble village is graced by the nobility. The people of Rorikstead wish to extend their thanks to the jarl. I would ask that their gratitude be passed along. But your arrival came as a surprise to us—an enjoyable one, of course."

Laughing, Lanre told herself to pay close attention to the Breton. "I do apologize for our sudden intrusion. I intended for a messenger to travel ahead of us, but the boy was waylaid on the road."

"By the gods—is he alright?"

"Yes, he's well. Praise the gods." Lanre poured Jouane and Rorik some wine. She poured herself more from the same tankard and drank first. The two men then sipped from their own cups. "I'm afraid we weren't willing to spare another man to ride forward to tell you of our arrival. The roads are treacherous these days. I apologize again for the lack of warning. I hope we haven't inconvenienced you."

"Not at all, my thane," Jouane said cheerfully. "With the disturbing news of dragons in Whiterun, your soldiers are a welcome sight in our village."

Lanre gave him a gracious nod. "Rorikstead will be a place of sanctuary in the winter, that I can trust."

"With all due respect, my thane, dallying small talk has never agreed with me," Rorik abruptly spoke. "I hope my bluntness will not be mistaken for discourtesy. But the nobility of Whiterun haven't seen fit to trouble themselves over the smallfolk in these past few years. It makes me question your intentions behind paying us a visit."

Astonished, Jouane glanced at Rorik and then turned to Lanre, "My thane—what he means is—"

Lanre shook her head, silencing him. She kept her eyes on Rorik, her formal smile vanishing. "It's not at all unreasonable to wonder why a thane of Whiterun would be out here in the country," she said quietly. "I take no offence. My reasons for coming here are not strictly hold business—I have personal causes."

Lanre reached into her coat.

Rorik and Jouane tensed.

She withdrew something and placed it on the table with a wooden clack.

Rorik's eyes widened. His expression fixed in utter disbelief, he picked up the familiar amulet of Akatosh.

"By the Nine ... this is ..."

Lanre's gaze was solemn as she watched the amulet dangling in the air. "I understand that Lokir was from this village. He was one of those who perished in Helgen when the dragon attacked. I couldn't manage to bring his remains back here—this amulet is all that was left of him."

Jouane stared at the amulet, his hand over his mouth.

Rorik's fist tightened over the wooden beads. "Lokir disappeared from the village a few months ago. He ran off quite often ... but he always came back." Looking up at Lanre, Rorik narrowed his eyes. She could see sorrow. "Why would you do this? How did you know Lokir?"

Lanre's amber eyes met Rorik's gaze, solemnly determined. "A man once told me that a Nord's last thoughts should be of home. While my acquaintance with him was brief, I believe Lokir desired nothing more than to come back here to Rorikstead. If I have brought any ill will with this act, I apologize. But I would not deny Lokir a marked grave in his own land. Ultimately, however, the decision is in your hands."

Rorik looked away, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the amulet in his fist.

Lanre contemplated leaving him and Jouane to mourn. She chose to wait a few moments, quietly observing the two men. Rorik was unnervingly still. It seemed like his very breath had ceased, had it not been for the slight trembling of his hands. Jouane watched his old friend, worry and grief creasing the worn lines of his brown face.

After a few more heartbeats, Lanre stood from her seat.

"I'm afraid I've been too forward ..." she whispered. "Pardon me. I will leave you to grieve."

Lanre took no more than two paces away from the table before Rorik uttered words so quiet, she had to strain to hear him.

"Was it a quick death?"

Turning around, Lanre watched the back of Rorik's head with piercing eyes. "Swift and painless."

She watched his shoulders heave, relieved of a leaden sigh.

"Praise Talos. May he rest in Sovngarde."

His whisper was raspy and watery.

Erik watched the thane's soldiers assemble the pyre from wood they gathered in the forest. It was small, heaped on a makeshift platform no taller than he was. The ground around it was filled in a circular mound with earth, surrounded by stones to keep the fire from spreading.

When the rest of the villagers received the news of Lokir's death from Jouane, everyone was stunned. For the past few weeks, they all expected him to wander back into the village with a tall tale or two. Now, in the place of that was the humble funeral pyre before them.

On the outskirts of Rorikstead by the camp, the villagers gathered in a circle around the pile of wood, joined by a number of soldiers and the thane's guard, with none other than Lanre Solveig herself. Erik caught glimpses of her from time to time in the dim torch light. It wasn't often that he saw women of his age in Rorikstead.

She was tall for a woman, easily of a height with Erik. Her white wolf cloak was draped around her. Erik couldn't see the armour she wore, nor did he know if there was a sword strapped at her hip.

Rorik and Jouane had been gone longer than expected when the thane summoned them to her quarters for breakfast. They stayed until midday, but when the two men emerged from the tent, Lanre wasn't with them. She kept to herself, only emerging when it was time to send Lokir's spirit to Sovngarde. It was the second time Erik saw her that day.

In the absence of a priest, Rorik had been appointed to recite the funeral rites.

In his right hand, he held a glowing torch. Approaching the pyre, he began.

"I call on the blessings of the Nine Divines. Akatosh. Kynareth. Mara. Dibella. Julianos. Stendarr. Zenithar. Arkay. Talos. Shine your guiding lights upon the realm of men. We beseech you in this hour to usher the spirit of Lokir into your hallowed halls. Bless him that he may find you in eternal rest."

Rorik pulled out a wooden amulet from his coat pocket. He placed it gently on top of the funeral pyre.

"May we meet him in the halls of Sovngarde."

The rest of them recited the words back

Jouane handed a jar of oil to Rorik. He poured the golden liquid over the wood, letting it trickle down the logs and sticks. Erik could smell its musky fragrance, earthy and powerful. Rorik raised the torch, then dipped it down. The flames touched the pyre and lit the night with a glow as red and bright as sunset.

Erik looked through the tongues of fire and saw Lanre's face illuminated. His heart thrummed in his chest. He watched her as she gazed into the flames, her amber eyes distant. He could feel a rush of warmth as the flames grew larger.

Look away, he berated himself. It's not polite to stare. The thane wouldn't take well to it.

His eyes swept over her jet black hair, her skin orange in the light. Her eyes seemed far away. She looked just like he pictured a Nord noble would look. Her smooth skin showed no sign of age or hard labour, her well kept hair glossy and brushed clean. He wondered if her hands would be as rough as his, if the soles of her feet would be calloused, if she knew how the sun felt behind your neck after a day in the field.

Probably not.

She looked up straight through the flames to catch him staring.

Erik turned red and whipped around as Willas handed him a bottle of mead.

As drink flowed freely from the Frostfruit Inn cellar, soldiers and villagers alike began making slurred toasts around the roaring pyre in the middle of the camp.

"Gods bless Lacquer's departed soul—"

"It's Lokir," Ennis groaned, leaning against the soldier.

She shrugged. "Gods bless Lokir's departed soul—Brother! May we find you in the afterlife!"

The rest of them shouted "Brother!" and toasted for the umpteenth time that night.

Erik was sitting on a makeshift bench with Willlas, the two of them watching the festivities. They passed a bottle of mead between them. Erik felt warm. Willas was drinking faster, slipping further into intoxication, more prone to saying odd things in his drunken haze.

"Aye, gods, do you think every night in Rorikstead is gonna be like this? Looks like Jormund and I made the right choice to stay after all."

Erik frowned, holding onto the bottle of mead a little longer. "Well, eventually they'll have to go about and, you know, guard."

"Look at that, Erik. You're not as dumb as a sack of potatoes after all."

Erik scowled and was about to call Willas a crude word he heard one of the soldiers shouting earlier. A glimpse of pale wolf fur caught his eye in the dark distance. He turned his gaze to see the thane wandering out of the firelight into the village proper.

Clumsily, he pushed the mead bottle into Willas's hands and scrambled to his feet.

"Erik, I meant that endearingly. Don't go running off to cry, now!"

Erik weaved his way through the crowd of people, their merry song and banter a blur of cheer in the cool night air. The further he wandered down the road, the quieter and colder it seemed to get. When he reached the wheat fields, the camp became nothing but a distant murmur in the west. Facing east, Erik scanned the fields, searching for the wandering thane.

He spotted her by the edge of the wheat field fence, standing by herself, looking up at the starry sky. A part of him thought this was madness, but he continued onward, deaf to his own reason. For as much as his own mind seemed to argue with him, a much larger part of himself urged him onward.

Lanre Solveig, he whispered in his thoughts. Her eyes at dawn had not left him at all that day. His belly felt warm—kindled with drink, Erik told himself. His unwavering gaze on her back told him it was all reckless foolishness.

She'll think me a stupid boy. She'll see how I'm weak.

He was close now, close enough so that the crunching of the ground beneath his feet was loud in the air.

She turned around, imperious amber gaze locked on him.

Erik froze, blue eyes wide as plates.

He waited for her to berate him, to ask him why he was there. He was almost sure that the thane would send him away with a scoff—anyone of noble blood wouldn't stoop to speak to a common farmer like him.

"You're not one of my soldiers, are you?"

She sounded confused instead.

Erik stammered, "N-No, m'lady. I'm not one of your soldiers."

Nodding in understanding, Lanre turned away from him to gaze up at the sky. "Then I suppose you can wander wherever you wish. Only my select few are keeping their watch tonight. The rest are making merry."

"I see," Erik muttered, trying not to stutter. How foolish he must look in front of her. "Aren't you worried at all that they're not ... guarding the roads? M'lady?" Erik clumsily tacked on the title as an afterthought.

The thane, unperturbed by his bumbling, shook her head. "My housecarl and I made sure to send scouts around the fields before the funeral. We can throw caution to the wind, but only for tonight. There's no harm in their merriment."

"But what about dragons?" Erik blurted out.

Her silence lingered after his question. The longer it hung in the air, the more Erik cursed himself for an oaf.

"M-My thane—m'lady, my apologies. I shouldn't question you—it's not my place. Such a common farmer like me, of course I wouldn't know—"

Erik paused when he heard her tinkling laughter. It was soft, but loud enough for him to hear and have his ears turn red.

"I wish you wouldn't mock me."

Lanre's laughter ceased. She turned around to stare at him, amber eyes wide, and Erik felt the colour drain from his face.

"W-What I meant was," he swallowed past a lump in his throat, "although I'm lowborn, m'lady, I take offense same as anybody else."

Lanre surprised him when her voice came out soft and kind, "Forgive me. I hadn't meant to sound mocking. I was caught off guard." Erik felt the smile in her words. "No one dares to speak so boldly to me."

"It's not boldness, m'lady," Erik muttered, feeling heat creeping up his neck. "I just don't think so well before I speak. Lemkil says I'm dumb as a sack of potatoes."

Lanre laughed again, and this time Erik felt his heart leap into his throat. She said nothing in reply, letting her laughter fade as she strode forward. Erik was afraid that she thought him too simple and dull to continue speaking with him.

She sat on the grass ahead, casting a backwards glance to Erik over her shoulder. "Will you be joining the others now?" she asked him.

Was she sending him away? Erik wasn't sure.

"N-No, m'lady."

"Would you have a seat next to me, then?"

Erik felt a wide smile run away with his lips before he could think twice. His nod felt jerky as he moved his legs forward, each step perilously close to faltering. Upon feeling the soft cool grass underneath his seat, he felt more steady. The thane had yet to dismiss him for all his clumsiness and ill spoken words—how odd. Erik leaned forward, his shoulders lax.

"Did you grow up here in the village?" Lanre asked him. Her gaze remained up in the stars.

Erik nodded. "Been here all my life, m'lady. My father owns the inn. I help him keep the place and farm as well. I've tended these fields since I was a young lad. B-but, I don't suppose you find all this terribly interesting, m'lady. You look like you've had your fair share of adventure—I envy you that."

Lanre tore her gaze away from the night sky. She sounded surprised as she looked at Erik. "You mean you've never set foot outside your village?"

"I've been as far as the eastern plains where you saw me this morning—" Stopping himself, Erik felt a sinking in his gut. His mind filled with the image of a wolf's eye, sharp and gold, brimming with mad hunger. Then his ears rang with the memory of a wet stab, a black arrowhead jutting through the wolf's skull. "My thane—what you did for me today ... if you hadn't come along when you did ..."

Erik felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Lanre was looking at him with solemn eyes.

When she spoke, her voice was hushed and low, loud enough that only their ears could hear.

"Think nothing of it. I need no thanks or gracious words, if that's the reason why you've sought me out this night. Your conversation has been ample repayment. It is all I truly need."

Erik felt her weight on his shoulder as Lanre stood.

"If you'll excuse me, I've been away for a little longer than I'd planned. My housecarl shall worry." She seemed to hesitate, standing still with her eyes still on him. "Pardon me, but ... I don't believe I know your name."

"Erik. Erik of Rorikstead, m'lady."

"Erik," Lanre tried his name on her tongue. "It has been my pleasure. Please, enjoy the night." With a final nod, she turned on her heel to walk back, her cloak leaving whispered rustles on the grass.

Erik scrambled to his feet. His heart was thumping blows against his ribs as he pushed his palms against the earth to force himself upright. Water seemed to slosh between his ears when he felt his fingers sinking into the hairs of Lanre's soft coat.

Erik, you've gone mad. Do you want an arrow in your back?

Lanre spun around. He glimpsed the alarm on her pale face before he felt earth beneath his knee. Bowing forward, he knelt, aware of his back rising and sinking with deep rapid breaths. Erik stared at Lanre's fine leather boots, dyed jet black, trimmed with soft silver fur. His words came pouring out in a rush of madness. That, and hope.

"My thane, I owe you my life. I'm nothing but a simple farmer—I have no riches, no fine possessions, nothing to my name except these meek fields before you. Nothing I could ever give would be enough to repay you for what you've done. Unless—"

Swallowing past a lump in his throat, Erik dared to raise his eyes. He met Lanre's wide, bewildered stare.

"My thane, I pledge my life and loyalty to you. I solemnly swear that I am yours until the end of my days."