Chapter Two

Rough Awakening

Darkness, it swamped everything, suffocated entirety. For a long moment there was nothing, just stillness in the dark that seemed all too heavy. "Am I dead?" thought Thagor to himself numbly, not bothering to open his eyes in fear of the dark pouring into his skull and collapsing behind his eyes. A hum, from the furthest distance, seemed like miles away, over mountains and through trees, it rippled through the black lake that swallowed Thagor's everything. Again the ripple, that small vibration but this time a little more clear, it wasn't a hum, it was words, quietly spoken in the distance and so very far away, Thagor couldn't quite make out what they were saying so he strained his ears and furrowed his brow. "What? What say you?" It hurt him to speak, his throat seemed swollen and tender, he tried to swallow but it was like live Chorral infants were fighting their way down. The voice again, closer now, so very close that he could make out the tone, almost the words. "..Up" said the quiet voice, it was a man's voice, deep and curt. "Up?" repeated Thagor. "Aye man, up with ye!" the voice so loud suddenly that Thagors senses were invaded all at once by this new sensation of sound, knocking the darkness forward and hurtling towards a light, like the opening mouth of a caves entrance. "Up! Damn you man, been sleeping long enough so by the nine open yer damned eyes!" The light crashed into Thagors vision and open his eyes he did.

…

Thagor was in a house, simple but comfortable and warm, lying on a bed of bear skin and feathered pillow, the rich smell of stew found its way to his nose making his mouth salivate despite the pain in his throat. His eyes were itchy and his nose hurt, he went to sit up and his head swam, slowing him as he took a sitting position, leaning back against the comfortable pillow. He felt a bandage on his back and looked at his chest, noticing not only had his shirt been removed but the bandage had been well wrapped to hold the wound on his back safely. Beside him lay a clay mug of water and a half loaf of bread, despite his stomach objecting he tore a chunk of the bread and chewed slowly, grimacing as it went down with all the ease of gravel, then he took a large swig of water, wishing heavily that it was mead. He looked forward into the room and nodded at the figure who has spoken to him, who was currently sitting tending to the stew. "Lod" Thagor grunted, his voice husky and coarse "was that you barking at me in the dark?" Lod looked up, a man in his late 40's, strong and resilient, the Blacksmith of Falkreath for many years now, his dark hair cut short and as always wearing his red cotton shirt with blacksmiths apron. "Aye" he answered with a nod, "I felt you'd slept long enough in my bed." Though his voice was a strong one, calm and collected, there was a softness in it there, a tone only one could have with a friend sharing a joke. "You were out for a whole night, the poison that inflicted you was nasty but relatively non-fatal", he stood up and placed the wooden stirrer down and went to the cupboard, he brought out Thagors shirt, cleaned and dried and threw it at him, Thagor caught it with a small wince of irritable pain in his back. "Harrada Root and Stinkhorn Cap." Lod explained with a grin, "Nasty little bastard, aims right for the muscles and bones, semi paralysing and all unpleasant" he finished the last word with a laugh. "You're getting old Thagor, to let Pervian get the better of you like that so easily" his grin spread into a smile on that haggard face of his. Thagor grunted a rather foul comeback at the Blacksmith but grinned back, pulling on his shirt he stood slowly but steadily "The poison was made to ail me, not to end me, was he taken when I was out?" Thagor inquired with a frown, it was heavy on his already numbed mind, why had Pervian not aimed to kill Thagor, should that poison have been a stronger one, perhaps a nightshade mix, he would most certainly have died. "Aye" said Lod, "half way to Markarth by now I reckon, back to Cidhna mines where he belongs, little bastard." Thagor nodded to the pot of stew, "that all of for you Blacksmith?" Lod gestured to a seat and collected two stone bowls, pouring stew into each, he sat them down on the wooden table at the corner of the room, then reached in to the cupboard and pulled out two bottles of mead. "Don't reckon I have to force ye, do I Thagor?" Lod chuckled and placed the bottles down, sitting as he did. The stew was delicious, flavoursome and hearty, with each swallow Thagor felt his strength return to him a little more, as they ate so too did they speak of the days in general, of business and family. The afternoon sun rose high and the snow tops at the Throat of the World glistened in the distance, giving it an oddly sinister look, beautiful, but sinister. Thagor was getting washed at the stone basin when he heard a rap at the door, looking at Lod through wet hair, an inquisitive look in his eyes, Lod merely shrugged and went to open it. Standing at the door way, tall and draped in a grey cloak, old as stone with a gaze sharp as a dagger stood Borri of the Grey Beards. "Master Borri," Lod nodded in surprise, "a fine surprise this is to see you here indeed! Come in, won't you?" Lod stood clear as Borri entered with a wry and pained smile on his face. "Thank you, Lod of Falkreath" answered the old man politely, "I am sorry that my visit is not one of better circumstance" he looked at Thagor who had been drying himself off. "Borri" Thagor murmured, "long way down from the Throat, what has brought you here?" Thagor knew the answer would be a heavy one when he saw the look of weariness in Borri's eyes, but the word that Borri uttered next Thagor did not expect. "War, Thagor"…War is coming, tell me, what you know...of the battle of the Red Mountain?"