Chapter Eight
Blessed shall you be

I'd never really seen it as a possibility. Never had it occurred to me that my mother would conceive another child. I once imagined my life with Hroar, growing up together, sharing toys like we would share memories. I imagined us aging and learning, never being too far from each other. Once, I thought it would always be me, running into my father's embrace, and him, running for my mother's. I always figured that he was my brother, my kin and the only one I would come to know.

Even after Hroar and Father's deaths, I never imagined Mother would have another child. It made me feel strange and sick to think another part of me was quickening in her womb. A different part of me wondered if the child was born from Hroar's soul, from his great willingness and stubbornness and curiosity for our mother. A small inkling of a feeling creeping on my insides that told me that he had come back to save her-to save me. Most of that was ignorant hope, because I missed my brother and I wanted him to live amongst the living, to breathe the same air, to see the same sun.

I was afraid too. As the days and years passed, the more I began to forget, the more I learned to ignore. The details were always there; I could remember his face perfectly, I could remember the rhythm of his laugh and the heat of his small palm. But it was becoming harder and harder to feel him beside me; the instinct to look for him, to grab his hand disappearing. Knowing he did not see what I did, knowing he had no more to say, no more questions to ask was easy. He was becoming lost and gone once more and it frightened me.

A part of me believed mother was scared as well, that she too was struggling to keep hold of Hroar, her boy, her son. But the bigger more imposing part of me knew that she could never forget his face, his warmth, his laugh. He still clung onto her skin like he had always before, and maybe that was why she was scared. Maybe that was why she was sad.

I wondered if it would be easier for her to forget. To forget Hroar and Onmund and even me. Would it lift a million burdens if she could just wash away all those memories, the good and the bad, all the ones that made her sad? But she would never forget Hroar or me or all her mistakes, and neither would I. I prayed the child would not suffer for it.

I couldn't decide if this was joyous news. It was hard for me to wrap my mind around this concept, this child. I tried to imagine myself living in a house with a nursery across the hall, a wrinkly baby wailing for his mother's teat. I tried to think of all the horrible, tiresome things a child brought to the world. I tried to imagine the good things: watching him or her take their first steps, growing up, learning. I thought of all the boring, mediocre things that would happen, like eating at the dinner table, another unfamiliar face at the table. I tried thinking of my mother slowly rocking the child to sleep, the baby's soft little breathing. I tried so hard to force its life into the imaginings of mine, but I couldn't. In these imaginations, this child was not a part of me. This baby was not my blood, my bones, my sibling. It was just a baby and I watched through misted, uncaring, resentful eyes as it grew and loved and learned.

Belrand, on the other hand, was bouncing with joy. He hugged mother and me so tightly when he heard of the news, I swore he would break our bones. He kissed my mother's belly and leaped with such happiness, that the whole inn turned to look. They were applauded and blessed and mother cried and I was left to wonder why.

Belrand took to planning at once, something Mother and I could only laugh about.

"A new house, we need a new house!" he pronounced. "I'll build it with my own two hands," he promised, taking my mother's hands to kiss them. He turned to me with that young, hopeful grin that had somehow, somewhere become so beautiful. I smiled back at him, letting him know it was okay, but when he turned back to his wife and the child inside her, I was left to envy the assurance I had given him.

In the first few days of Heart-Fire, he chopped wood, creating a large pile just ready for construction. He sanded and he carved and the crib was built by the end of the first week. It was a small little wooden bassinet with carvings of horses and bears and hearts. The wood was smooth and cherry-coloured, it was strong and steady. It made me hopeful. It made mother cry. When I took her into my arms and told her, "This child will be so loved," she only cried even harder, wetting my shoulder with her tears, bruising my skin with her hold on my arms.

Sometimes I caught my mother in the kitchen, sipping on some syrup, or on the upstairs landing, resting her head on her hand. She would stare off into the distance, her green eyes gleaming like a tree in the spring, and slowly she would rub her hand across her belly, sighing softly at the moment. They were not special moments, but they were moments I was not meant to be a part of. I and even the gods were intrusions.

Though it was no place of mine to ponder these secret moments, I wondered anyway. I wondered if she thought of Onmund or only Belrand. Sometimes I even dared to wonder if she thought of me.

Through the weeks, Mother still found herself sickly now and again, every few days, near the end of Heart-Fire. Belrand and I would do the best we could to manage the household without her, and Lydia did her part as she always had. She'd grown older over the past two years, I noticed. Her hair was streaked with grey and her eyes lined with age.

One day, when Mother was too sick to even eat or puke or cry, Lydia stayed in bed with her. From the crack in the open door, I watched as Lydia stroked Mother's hair. After a moment of nothing, she leaned over to whisper so silently I could barely hear. "He will be a Spring child." I didn't think it helped at all.

"You know what I heard?" she asked, her face ugly and smug.

"What did you hear, Braith?" I asked, wanting to banish her into Oblivion. I damned restoration in that moment; it was useless in situations like these, for people like her.

"That the foul creature in your slag Mother's body isn't that ugly old man's."

"And who do you suppose was its sire?" I answered dryly. I tried to let her words mean nothing as thoughts of red and false elixir filled my head.

"A daedra," Braith slurred, venom in her voice.

"Are you sure it wasn't you then?" a voice retorted. I hadn't even noticed Lars come up to us. Her face contorting, Braith spat at my feet before sending him a glare. She was quick to retreat when it came to Lars, I noticed. I thought to smile at him in thanks, but I didn't. Instead I looked to the ground and stayed rooted to my spot. Through the corner of my vision, I could see him hesitate and shift, extending his arm as if to touch me or embrace me. He did neither as he backed away, leaving wordlessly.

"Mother," I began cautiously, approaching her. She sat upright in her bed, placing a book to the side as I hovered near the bed. "Can I ask you something?" She sighed dramatically, giving me a strange, wide-eyed look.

"Don't you dare ask me where babies come from," she replied, serious. I giggled lightly at this, deciding to take a seat on the edge of her bed.

"No, mother, you needn't worry about that. I was just-"

"Well, out with it then!"

"Are you happy?" She frowned, evaluating.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, child."

"About this pregnancy," I clarified. There was a long dreadful moment where neither of us spoke, and I was afraid she wouldn't answer. She breathed deeply before awkwardly reached for my hand. I let her have it, examining her face for signs. Any at all.

"I am thirty-nine years old, married to a man much older than I. I have lived a long life, a sad life and a happy one. I raised one child, in hopes of raising two. I've taken three husbands now, and I have houses all over Skyrim. I defeated Alduin, I saved the world. I've taken all I can already from this world, and I've given it everything. It took me a while to accept this—this conclusion, but I have. I have welcomed it. All I wanted now was to finish raising you, to watch you live your life from the sidelines. I was ready to grow old with Belrand, not my only, but my last love.

"I was happy disappearing into nothingness. I was happy to have made my legacy, and to have moved on from it. The lives I lived were many but they were over, and I was ready to be done.

"But now… I have a life inside of me, and it feels as though the gods were not yet ready to let me be and let me die. There is a child that grows within me, feeding on my blood, my food, my breath. And I know it means I am that much farther from completion. I know I am that much farther from—from Hroar." She stopped and swallowed, dropping her gaze. Her downcast eyes shifted widely, before she let out a breathy, frantic laugh. "Gods, it's been so long since I've said his name." I held my breath and squeezed her hand. She leaned into me, resting her head on my shoulder. Her body was heavy against mine, but I learned to support it as my hand grew sweaty against hers. She did not cry like I thought she would. She only closed her eyes tightly as she whispered his name over and over and over until she could say it no more.

I did cry when I reached my room. I closed the door behind me and fell onto my bed, trying to muffle my sobs into the pillow. I tried not to resent the baby, but I couldn't help it; not when I had been given a chance by the graces of the gods or the graces of Mother herself. She had been ready to stay and go at the same time. She had been ready to hold her breath to let others breathe, to let me breathe. The winds that had been learning to soften into a breeze were picking up again and I couldn't blame the gods and I couldn't blame my mother; I could only blame the life within her womb that refused to let the dust settle.

Crying into my pillow, I begged the gods to give me mercy, I begged them for forgiveness for whatever crimes I had committed, I begged them to absolve the sins of my mother. I asked Hroar's soul to understand that we didn't need him; not now, not here. We didn't need his face or his laugh or his presence. Not anymore. It had been too long and too painful and perhaps it had been too long and too painful for him too, but no, no, no, he couldn't come back, not like this.

I asked even Father, who I never asked a thing. I begged him to let the world be as it should and I apologized for being so selfish in my request.

I sobbed and I prayed until my eyes and words were dry and I fell asleep.

That night I dreamed of the Gildergreen, and its mother, who was always so far away.

Frostfall came as gracefully as it always had, only the chills of the night to remind us of the coming snows. Mother was still somewhat sickly, but she had proclaimed herself well enough to get back to work. I came back to the temple the same day she returned to the inn.

It was calm that morning, the sun brightly lighting the room through the skylights. The sick beds were empty, and I smiled at that, hoping it was a good sign rather than the very likely calm before the storm. To my surprise, the rest of the temple was empty too, with beds freshly made and no tea in the pot. The clicks of my shoes echoed, the emptiness bouncing off its very walls.

After wandering some more in search for the attendants, I found myself back in the main hall, kneeling for Kynareth. I had done this so many times before, stealing and breathing life into the Amulet hung around my neck. I had given a million thoughts, a million prayers, a million promises. Except, now I could not pray; my mind was blank. I searched for something to thank Her for, something to ask Her for. I searched for things to tell Her, for memories to share with Her. But I found nothing and I wondered why.

It was a long time before my knees started to hurt, aching against the hardness of the floor. There was only a moment of pain before I stood up, holding my Amulet of Kynareth. I looked all around the room, to the ceiling, to the skylights, to the floors to the cracks in the walls. I looked for Her, but she was only lost to me.

I wondered for a very long time if lost meant gone.

"Lydia," I called softly. We lounged lazily in her bedroom, eating snacks and chatting. Mother and Belrand were at the Inn, celebrating the Emperor's birthday with the rest of the town.

"Yes, Loralei?" she answered, looking up at me curiously.

"Do you think this is a dream?" She looked at me, tired grey eyes, pondering.

"It's been too many years to be a dream," she answered finally.

"Maybe we just won't ever wake up." She smiled at me and laughed and I wondered why it was funny as I joined her.

16th of Frostfall, 4E 209

Runa,

You are fifteen! Congratulations!

Anyhow, you must start planning your name day celebration! Are you going to have it this year or later? In Riften or somewhere else (Whiterun perhaps)? I know most have it at seventeen, but since you've been released from the orphanage, I figure you'll want it sooner?

I suppose for now it's unimportant. Happy birthday, my greatest friend, and Gods bless you.

Love,
Loralei

P.S. Tell Constance that you can leave whenever; your lodgings at the inn are ready!

It was the twentieth of Frostfall on a sunny day when Dagny and I strolled through the market square, baskets in hand. We wore our cloaks tied tightly around us, and soft woolen hats covered our ears. I wondered how we must look in our rich attire, strolling around with baskets with nothing better to do. Perhaps the poor rolled their eyes and the middle class just envied us.

The ground was damp from the nighttime showers and the sky was grey and much like Riften's. The leaves still falling to the ground were wet and red and the air smelled like humidity and seasons changing.

"Being Jarl had been difficult for Frothar," Dagny told me, looking tall with her neck outstretched. I looked at my feet as we took small, foolish steps, circling the market stalls over and over. "And the citizens are getting fed up with him, though I don't really know what they expect," she sighed. She was speaking about the leaks. All across the town, houses were damp from perspiration and roofs were beginning to rust and mold and cave in from all the rainwater. The citizens of Whiterun lined up one after another to see Jarl Frothar, complaining about everything that he could not pay to fix.

"Everyone has just grown dependant and lazy," I supplied, taking a bite from the warm bread in my basket. "They could easily find ways to fix their own roofs,"

"Yes, it's quite ridiculous. The Jarl isn't a landlord; people need to take care of their own property. He can't just call in some favours to fix everyone's roofs! The war demands supplies and time and money, and now that we are participating, we can't replace everyone's sweetrolls, cut their firewood and pay for their house repairs!"

"Well, Belrand has fixed as least half a dozen roofs," I told her. He had spent the last two weeks working day and night to fix the houses around us. He probably cut their firewood too, I reckoned. It was just like him, to try and please everyone. It annoyed Mother, however. She was seemingly concerned for him because he was growing old and at night he would complain his back was sore or his fingers cramping. I was also concerned, but I knew Belrand was not just going to sit around while rain collapsed the roofs around us.

"He's a good man, though I don't see why he does it. Each is his own, I guess," Dagny said, approaching the vegetable stand.

"Good morning," Mila said, smiling to us. "What can I get you?"

"Hello Mila," Dagny said, inspecting some red apples. "Pray, what is the cost for the apples?"

"Three gold apiece," Mila said, leaning on the counter, bored.

"By the Eight, that's costly," Dagny said, searching her coin purse anyway. Handing the change to Mila, she asked, "Are the fields so dry this time of year?"

"Sadly," Mila answered, putting the gold into the lockbox below. "Times are tough… we've just had to do our roof,"

"Well, if you need anything, I'm sure Frothar would arrange something," Dagny offered. I sent her a questioning look, though it went ignored. "You and your mother deserve the comfort."

"Thanks Dagny," Mila smiled, and I felt suddenly like I might walk away, leaving the friends.

"You should have just called on Belrand," I said, buying an apple for myself as well. Mila blinked before taking my coin. "He would help any friend without hesitation." Mila chuckled softly, shaking her head.

"He offered, but Mother has her pride. How's yours, by the way? Anything new?"

"No, not particularly. Though, Belrand is still mad with excitement. We'll probably be moving before the child is born, though I'm not sure where."

"Well, hopefully it's close, Whiterun is a wonderful place for children," declared Dagny, taking a small bite from her apple. "Anyhow, Mila, come to Dragonsreach for tea this afternoon, I have something I'd like to discuss with the both of you,"

"Farewell," I said as Dagny and I turned away.

"Stay out of trouble," Mila called, turning her attention to some man with a white beard.

Tea was sweet and milky, unlike the kind Belrand made for me. Dagny's spoon clicked against the porcelain as she stirred in her cream. We sat at the table in Dagny's room, light shining fashionably through the windows. Whatever Dagny had been planning on telling us was yet to be said, and only light, polite chatter circled between us. As well as Mila's somewhat crude remarks that I knew Dagny secretly adored.

We were speaking calmly about the temple when Mila finally grew impatient.

"So, dearie," Mila interrupted, turning to Dagny with a sly smile. "You obviously didn't bring us here to speak about healing dead soldiers. What was it you wanted to tell us?" Dagny paused and sighed before carefully putting down her tea cup and folding her hands into her lap.

"Well, ladies, I have come to inform you that tomorrow, there will be an announcement… for my betrothal,"

"Pardon?" I exclaimed, nearly choking on my tea. I barely noticed Mila, who gaped in shock, her smile slowly faltering.

"Yes, you heard right. I'm to be married," she said, meeting neither of our eyes. "After Tobias is crowned emperor this winter, we will be married. I'm heading to the Imperial city in a month so we may meet."

"Dagny, this is wondrous news! You will be Empress!" I exclaimed excitedly, nearly spilling my tea in my lap. She painted a smile onto her face and I should have noticed that she avoided Mila's eyes. I suppose I should have noticed Mila, and how she looked at Dagny, with confusion and sadness. And I suppose I should have remembered that confusion and sadness was the formula for heartbreak.

28th of Frostfall, 4E 209

Loralei,

Just letting you know that I'll be taking the carriage to Whiterun on the first of Sun's Dusk. I love you, and I'll see you soon!

Runa

P.S. I'm going to wait, it seems too soon to have a name.

Runa arrived the morning of the second and I greeted her at the stables. She looked beautiful, more beautiful than I had left her two years ago. Her blonde hair was plaited tightly, probably Constance's handiwork, and her face was flushed in excitement. She was taller, at least six inches taller than me. Her face seemed slimmer, and I was surprised at how much she had grown up, but I reminded myself that it had been years since we'd last seen each other, and I could only imagine how I had grown and changed into someone I wasn't sure she would recognise.

"I missed you so much," she whispered as she held me tightly, swaying us from side to side as if nothing had really changed at all. She was warm, and her embrace was comfortable and I realised how much I'd missed her. We stood there, swinging from side to side for a very long time, though it felt like not nearly enough when we let go. I helped her with her bags as we walked up to the gates of Whiterun.

Her room was in the attic of the inn. It was decently spacious, with a comfortable bed and simple furnishings. It wasn't beautiful or mysterious. I wasn't ancient or brand new. I was only bland, a room in the attic of an inn that had long gone unused. But Runa cried when I showed it to her, her bags smacking to the ground as she covered her face. From the doorway I watched and somehow I found myself smiling.

"It's all yours," I told her. She turned around and beamed at me, her face blotchy and red. She was ugly when she cried, but in some ways she looked so beautiful then. She stepped towards me and circled her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she muttered over and over again into my shoulder.

"When do I get to meet your friends?" Runa asked, fiddling with her bootlaces. They were worn and scuffed and I reminded myself to get her new ones. We sat in her attic room, all alone in the inn, except those who paid to sleep here and that bard who seemed to live here. I had helped Runa unpack, and settle in, though mostly the work went unfinished, as we only talked and played.

"Why would you ever want that?" I teased, placing another one of her garments in the dresser. "Now that you're here I don't even need friends."

"How flattery!" Runa said, smirking. "When did you become so appeasing?" I laughed and tossed a tunic at her.

"Anyway, you'll probably meet Lars and Dagny tomorrow at the feast… and then I'm sure you'll run into Mila; she makes herself known."

"I didn't know there would be a feast! When is it?"

"The day after tomorrow, I think. Mother says the dress maker is coming tomorrow, so prepared to be pricked at." Runa smiled thoughtfully, and I was glad. I was glad she was here, and I was glad that I could make her smile, even if it was because of a dress.

Taarie was the name of the dress maker. She came from a dress shop in Solitude called the Radiant Raiment. Mother said that she had made dresses for the Jarl and herself for years now, ever since the death of Torygg. Taarie was a tall woman with golden skin and pointed ears. She was an Altmer, a High Elf, as we called them in Skyrim. She was proud and haughty, though not unkind as she critiqued our garb.

"Very plainly, you all dress," she noted, looking Runa and I up and down. She turned to Mother, who wore only a simple dress. "Elaira, how the times have changed!"

Mother clucked her tongue and crossed her arms. "I'm an inn keeper more than a Thane now, Taarie. What I wear matters not, while I'm here. Just concern yourself with the dresses." Taarie sighed and brought out her fabrics.

"You," she called, gesturing to Runa and I. I started to step forward before she held out her hand. "No, the pretty one," she corrected, and I flushed and retreated.

Taarie made Runa a beautiful dinner gown made of red satin and lace. She made mine in blue.

"Lars, Mila, this is Runa," I introduced, gesturing to my friend. She looked beautiful in her dress, and I couldn't help but look at her enviously. Dagny smiled thinly, looking Runa up and down before saying,

"Good e'en, Runa. That dress is most beautiful." Runa smiled widely and responded,

"Thank you, though it's nothing compared to yours."

"Don't be silly, this is old!" Dagny smiled actually now, never faltering to fall for charm and compliments. "Here, come walk with me before supper." Runa nodded to Lars and I before taking Dagny's arm and walking off.

I turned to Lars. His hair was messy and his shirt a little wrinkled. His eyes were bright, however, and his grin unfaltering.

"Why do you look so disheveled?"

"No reason," he said, running his hand through his hair as he looked around Dragonsreach. "Your friend and Dagny seem to be getting along," he noted. I sighed, and slipped my arm through his. He stiffened only for a second, before relaxing and walking with me to the table.

"I suppose. Runa's always liked all that glamour," I pondered, watching the two pretty girls retreat.

"And you don't?" Lars questioned, looking at me quizzically.

"I just never thought it mattered," I added thoughtlessly as I turned back to look at him.

"That makes you the first," he smiled at me. I thought I would blush or recoil, but I didn't. Instead I let out a soft laugh, and squeezed his arm.

"When are you planning to have your naming ceremony?" Frothar asked calmly as he ate his dessert. He had been invited to join the adults for a drink, but he decided instead to stay, preferring our company. Nelkir had retreated to his room come time ago, and it seemed I was alone in wondering why. Did he not enjoy Runa's company? Was he sick? When had I begun to care?

"I don't really want one," Runa answered, fiddling with her lava cake. "I don't believe it should be up to someone else to tell me who I am."

"It's tradition," Frothar argued, cocking his head. He looked very young then. "I had mine at fifteen."

"Well, we don't always need to abide by tradition… What's your name?"

"Frothar the Worthy," Dagny answered for him, smiling like the proud sibling I assumed she was.

"That's a fine name," Lars complimented. Frothar smiled boyishly at his friend.

"What do you think you'll be named?" Runa asked the curly-haired boy.

"Lars the Handsome, Lars the Wealthy, perhaps," he answered slyly. I rolled my eyes and suggested,

"Lars the Bigheaded, or Lars the Milk-Drinker perhaps." My audience laughed and I blushed as Lars kicked my foot from under the table.

"Dagny, are you not supposed to be named before you marry?" I asked when the table grew silent. She looked solemn for a moment, before she wiped the gloom off with another thin smile.

"That is Nord tradition, Loralei. I don't believe they have naming ceremonies in Cyrodiil."

"But you're a Nord," Runa offered, furrowing her brows.

"Not for long." Dagny drank from her cup as we all returned to our cakes in silence.

I never really thought about the future. When I was younger, I suppose I thought I would just get married, tend a farm, and have a few children. Then I had dreamed of princes and warriors, but they were a girls' dream. My dreams now were distorted and flawed, and ambitions and passions and desires never came to me. There was a moment where I thought I'd be a bard, but it had been many years since I'd let that dream go. It never really seemed like I would have to grow up anyhow.

But in the Autumn of 4E 209, I took a fatal look around me and saw that I was wrong. People were growing up all around me, and I was scared.

I saw Dagny say goodbye to her brothers, even the bastard. I watched as she left to make her way to the Imperial city to be wed and to be crowned. I looked at Mila beg her to stay, and in wonder, I saw as Dagny said nothing but an insignificant, insouciant parting word. I watched with m own broken and apathetic heart as Mother, holding hands with her husband, spoke of names for their unborn child. I watched Runa play with that bard for coin, and I saw her flirt with the Jarl of Whiterun, and how she blushed when I said his name. I saw Jon Battle-Born steal a kiss from Olfina in the shadows of the town the night before he went to war, never going to see that man at school for bards.

I looked around me and I saw future become present, and I wondered when mine would meet as well. I tried to picture myself married; I tried to see my husband's face. I tried to think of names I thought were pretty for the children I might someday have. I tried to think of the words I would say to my lover before I went off to war, to give up the dreams that I might have had. I searched for possibilities of a career, a future built by myself. It didn't work; none of it. I was forced to sit in this little, boring, domestic town and watch people grow and learn and say goodbye, while I stayed in my little room in Breezehome, reading the same books over again, the pages smelling more like me than pages left untouched.

By the beginning of Evening Star, there was a bump beneath Elaira's dress. I had not really noticed it until then. It had been a slow, natural progression into this, and it was a wonder how I had not seen it before. I looked in wonder as Danica's hands traversed the small slope, checking for vitality. It must be strange, carrying life within one's body. To have something, someone nest inside, feeding off your blood, your air, your life.

I cocked my head to the side when Danica said, "A girl."

Belrand smiled, squeezing mother's hand. Elaira only looked at me, as if she was trying to understand something.

The snow storm came on the twelfth of Evening Star, forcing the town to harbour together in the Bannered Mare, using the fire, the mead, and one another for warmth. It was crowded, many people just lounging lazily on the floor as they huddled closely together. The harsh winds could be heard from the inside, and the door was blocked with snow.

Mother, Olfina and I did our best to serve as quickly as possible, giving out ale and mead and warm tea to as many people as we could manage. As I shivered in my cloak, and did my best to support the heavy tray on my shoulder, I envied Ysolda, and wondered at all the warm places she might be right then.

Belrand was busy in the kitchen, making a large vat of hot stew for the townspeople. It was made from scraps and whatever pheasant and rabbit we had left, but it would warm our bodies and sate our hunger. Runa and that bard whose name I finally learned (Mikael) played songs and lead chants in attempts to cheer the people. Even in the cold and crowded inn, she managed to smile as she played kind songs and told old tales and laughed with all the people of Whiterun.

When the two finished some old folk tale about a lass and her sabre cat, some Nord with a yellow beard yelled, "Another song!" Raising their tankards, the people cheered in agreement, and I snuck to the table near the door, where Lars sat. He handed me a sweetroll and I smiled to him in thanks as I leaned back into my chair.

"Okay, okay, settle down," Runa said. I couldn't see her through the crowd, but I could imagine that proud, satisfied smile on her face. "This next song goes out to the Dragonborn, Saviour of Skyrim, Thane and Inn Keeper!" The crowd erupted in cheers and I looked over to the bar where Mother bowed her head in laughter, her curly hair clinging to her forehead with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed, and her smile wide and pleased.

Runa sang the Tale of the Tongues, and a storm raged on outside, all while my mother was brought to tears in nostalgia and gratitude. My arms were tired from carrying around heavy bottles and tankards and bringing sweets to hungry men, but I still blushed as Lars watched me sing along with all those men and women and guards and farmers and children.

While everything and everyone around me seemed to be all together, squished into this small space, either too hot or too cold, either too sad or too happy, I stole a long moment to be lost in this song, these people. I was stuck in this loud storm, this long war, this strange life, and somehow it all seemed to be alright anyway. My hair was at an awkward length, my clothes clung to my sweaty body, and I was still cold, but I raised my tankard in my own kind of defiance, cheering and chanting with everyone else because here I was, with everyone and everything and I everything seemed okay. The gods and the winds and my brain told me that it was all a lie, but instead, I chose to believe this song and these people and my heart, who all told me otherwise.

"Have you decided on a name yet?" I asked, leaning against the counter. It was late in the night of the twentieth of Evening Star, and Mikael played for just a small crowd, most of the citizens having gone to sleep. Runa chatted softly with Frothar by the fire. Frothar's visits to the inn were rare, but as of late, he seemed to be making more frequent appearances.

"No, not yet," Belrand sighed, handing Mother his apron to hang up. She turned to me, absently rubbing her growing bump. "Something Nordic would be good."

"What do you suggest, Loralei?" Mother asked, tucking her hair behind her ear. I thought for a moment as Mikael played softly behind me. I smiled, his familiar song feeling like a million memories.

"Matilda," I offered. I saw as sad and happy and good and bad memories flashed through my mother's own memories. She smiled after a moment though, putting her hand on my own. It was rough now, callused. Her green eyes sparkled with goodness and I wondered if mine reflected her own.

"Matilda," she repeated softly, and I felt like crying and breaking and I wondered if it was good.

Perhaps it was, I'll never know: because what came after was not.

With the year 4E 210, came the Brain Rot. Whiterun stunk of death, and that wooden crib lay forgotten by the spring.

The Hagravens had attacked in the early year, and left many dead from battle. But even when they were gone, the Companions returning to Jorrvaskr with their heads, those dreadful half beings left the Brain Rot disease.

Belrand had not been the first to contract the disease, but to me and to my mother, the rest seemed not to matter. I wish I could say that he died well, with warmth in his body and a song in his ears, but he didn't. He died on a stone slab in a Temple for the Divines I was not sure he still worshipped. He died frail, incomprehensible, coughing blood and spitting foam. Mother stood by and prayed for him but he died with only me in the room. I couldn't blame her for leaving us. How many times would she have to watch someone die? I hoped never again as I watched him cough to death and I envied her absence as he spit blood on my dress.

Mother had not been sick from this disease of Hagravens, but it was shock or heartbreak or unbearable memories that brought her to illness. In her sickness she gave birth to that dead baby Matilda on the 1st of Sun's Dawn, only three days after the man with that hopeful grin died.

I supposed I should have felt sadder. But it was times like these that I seemed to only observe from far away, like this was not happening to me at all.

I stood in the Temple of the Dead, wondering how it was possible to bury a child with its father for a second time. The Blue Petals were not enough to make those dead bodies beautiful. Death never could be.

I clutched onto my Amulet, listening to some sermon of words I would never remember and I thought once more of all the gods had stolen from me. It was the first time I wondered if I had been the one to ask for it.

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Published on 19/09/2014

Edited on 24/06/2015