A Prelude to Festive Revelries
"Dragonsreach is closed until further notice," the guard said again.
With a hint of sarcastic, vitriolic anger in his voice, Fjolnir laughed. "Clearly you don't understand. You see, I just killed a dragon. For the Jarl of Whiterun. I need to enter so that I can collect the dragon's bounty,"
"Jarl Balgruuf has been called to Solitude. In the meantime, his steward is holding court."
"Good," Fjolnir replied, seconds away from pushing his way through. "Then I suppose that I can meet with him instead, yes?"
"No," the guard replied flatly.
"For what reason? I am a Thane of Whiterun, am I not? By all rights, I am practically part of this court you speak of."
"Inside, they are discussing the reconstruction of the city. The walls are practically falling apart, there is rubble strewn about everywhere, and the gatehouse still reeks of Stormcloaks. I apologize, Dragonborn, but this matter has to be settled first."
"My Thane, we can come again tomorrow," Lydia urged from behind.
In this one case, Fjolnir was inclined to comply. Though still offended at the slight that he had just been dealt, he decided that there were more pressing matters for him to attend to at the moment. His coffers were still plentiful, after all, and it stood to reason that there must be some place for him to seek a night of debauched, exorbitant pleasures. When one escapes from the very maw of death for yet another time, celebration must take precedence, as any sellsword would tell you.
"Very well. I shall relent for today. Thank you for informing me of this turn of events, dear guardsman, and I pray that- come tomorrow- we will have no reason to quarrel once more."
You've won this round, you guileless fiend. I will have my compensation tomorrow, I promise you. You shall not stand in the way of me and my drinking money for yet another time!
Fjolnir bit his tongue before he could project his innermost thoughts, and simply turned towards the market, Lydia trailing behind. The besieged guardsman would never know how lucky he was for this bit of mercy; a sober, stressed Fjolnir was a vehement one.
Whiterun proved far too quiet for Fjolnir's tastes, more so than usual on this particular day. Normally, there would be children scampering underfoot, a beggar or two huddled in the corner begging for alms, and the routine banter accompanying any respectable market. A menagerie of fine ladies might be seen buying produce, Jon Battle-Born would likely make an appearance with the intention of starting a conversation, and one of the guards were certain to gossip about the recent happenings outside of the city, or recount their most recent escapade (oftentimes, it turned out to be a most one-sided slaughter of a thief who, quite foolishly, attempted to take on half of the guards in the Plains District).
The war, it seemed, had quickly stamped out the flames of liveliness and replaced it with the cold ashes of monotonous hollowness. Even Heimskr could not chant above the deafening silence that filled the hold. Like some dreaded stasis, the city seemed to be trapped within a mournful miasma, with no potential end in sight. Every second spent in Whiterun seemed to sap the vim out of even the most willful of men nowadays. The war might have been won, yet the cost for it might have been a far worse curse. With that lingering thought in mind, a brief respite from the city life was a welcome improvement, and an escape from the hold's troubles almost necessary.
"So, Lydia, I have been contemplating where we might be heading for our little celebration."
"We're not going to the Bannered Mare?"
Fjolnir feigned offense at the question. "This is our first dead dragon in more than a month! We need a large celebration, in accordance with a big victory, wouldn't you agree? But no, we shall not taste watered-down drinks tonight. We will be rubbing shoulders with the upper echelons of society."
"Where, exactly?" Lydia asked.
"Well, perhaps a bit of elaboration is necessary. While you were retrieving foodstuffs just yesterday, I received a letter- an invitation to a masquerade ball of sorts, hosted by 'the honorable Ebrius Nasum.' Quite helpfully, dear Ebrius was kind enough to list directions to his manse in this letter."
"A manse? Where does he live? Solitude? Windhelm?"
"No," Fjolnir answered. "Rather, it sounded like he lived in the middle of nowhere, specifically between Dawnstar and Winterhold. If we can get hire a carriage, we could likely be there in time for the feasting and drinking. Which, come to think of it, is actually all that they seem to have planned."
"To the stables, then?"
"My dear Lydia, one does not rub shoulders with the rich and powerful without adopting the raiment to match! So, I suppose that all of that clothing that we have 'procured' over time will finally be useful. Thus, it is back to Breezehome for us, at the moment. And quickly, I must add, before we find ourselves without a carriage driver, and unfashionably late to the party on top of that. Quickly now!"
In a great rush, Fjolnir and Lydia traversed the sea of crestfallen people, the Thane's home now dominating their view. The passage of time seemed to warp itself, their once calm stroll turning into an almost giddy race to dress in whatever finery they might have on hand. Once inside Breezehome, both Thane and Housecarl entered their respective rooms, and set about preparing their garments. Fjolnir, for his part, had simply thrown off his armor once safely behind the door to his room, his own outfit already in mind.
Thus, with the most fluid of movements, the Nord fished out his best attire- a doublet as red as the finest of wines, accompanied by breeches of a charcoal hue. Both for style and for practicality, a pair of black boots came next, followed by a pair of supple leather gloves that effectively balanced adroit maneuverability with a great deal of warmth and comfort. With his opulent guise not yet complete, Fjolnir snatched a jaunty hat from its nearby rack, its ridiculousness made only somewhat appropriate by the occasion. While he might have looked somewhat ridiculous in his getup, it was of the utmost importance that he and Lydia make it to this party at least somewhat on time. Black-Briar Reserve tended to be one of the first refreshments to wane at such festivities, and the lesser-known brands oft went untouched save but by those who proved desperate for a drink, and cared little as to whether or not that it stayed down.
Thus, his livery now adorning his person, Fjolnir was now ready for whatever revelries might follow this evening. He soon realized, however, that both he and Lydia were running scarce on time, and stopping to dwell on anything for but a moment would cause them to be most unfashionably late. Men such as Ebrius tended to be quite powerful in accordance with their prodigious wealth, and many of them would already harbor some sort of negative perception of Fjolnir- being the upstart that he was. Being unpunctual was an excellent way to strengthen that particular…outlook.
"Lydia! Make haste! We must look the part, dear Housecarl, but we mustn't become one of these noblemen and women!"
"I should say the same of you, my Thane," she replied from outside with a short laugh, in what was a rare moment of "off-the-job" banter for her.
"What is that to mean?"
"I've been waiting outside for you for several minutes now."
"Sure," Fjolnir said with an overtly sarcastic laugh, "the Dragonborn has been beaten by his Housecarl in an unspoken race to dress one's self? The man who can manipulate time with a Shout has been beaten? The Dragonborn has difficulties putting on his breeches, is that it?"
"Whatever you say, my Thane," Lydia answered with a sort of mock-obedience.
Fjolnir silently cursed and grumbled as he made his way towards the door, his sword belt once again strapped around his waist, and his armor now lying on the floor in the sloppiest manner possible. Intent on departing this very moment, he opened the door and stepped out. Lydia, as she had japed, had indeed been waiting for him, dressed in the grandiose regalia befitting a noble lady; much of the dress that she wore was a soft blue the color of a morning sky, with a creamy-white trim around the seams. The fabric looked quite expensive, though neither tried to consider who had once worn it, before they had purchased or looted it. Which, come to think of it, was exactly where they received all their clothing. Damn it, stop thinking about it! That bloodstain on my suit is my blood, gods be damned! Those other stains, as well. Fjolnir Sword-Quill does not wear previously-sullied suits; he is a working man who sullies the things himself…
Innocuously pointing at Lydia's waist, Fjolnir remarked, "You're not bringing a blade with you? You seem to be missing your sword belt, in any case."
"We're going to a party, my Thane," Lydia pointed out. "And I am fairly doubtful that Ebrius will allow you to bring your sword into his home. Not with his friends around, at least."
Fjolnir laughed as he slid part of the sword out of its sheath, revealing just enough of the blade to cast a light off of the shiny surface of the steel as it met the light of the nearby sconce. "Who would pass up a chance to see the blade I killed Alduin with? Who knows, I might even sell it to him if he can get me an estate of my own!"
"Shall we go and ask him, then?"
"But of course, m'lady!" Fjolnir said with a extravagant bow.
The rest of their journey out of Whiterun was, for all purposes, short and swift. Once they had reentered the sea of people outside, they were attended by an indolently forlorn guardsman, who signaled to another sentry to open the gates for them. Of the people affected by the war, the guards seemed to suffer the most. While everyone else huddled inside of their homes and barred their doors, they had been forced into killing their kinsmen, tripping over corpses atop dilapidated palisades and watching their brothers-in-arms butchered by fellow Nords. Afterwards? They were given the duty of packing the dead into carts, clearing away the rubble, and eventually returning to their patrols upon what had previously been the site of their terrible battle. Thankfully, the inn was still in business, else most of the guardsmen would likely had been wont to end their lives and rejoin their fallen comrades.
Trade, it seemed, had recently increased, judging by the Khajiit caravan situated outside the outer walls. Fjolnir did not exactly recognize any of these merchants, which seemed to imply that more traders were pouring in from the borders, now. At least some good had come from the end of the rebellion, even if it was just the clinking of coin. Such thoughts, however, would be wasted on all but the most optimistic of people in Whiterun, of which there seemed to be none. Therefore, Fjolnir could only shake his head at his own romanticism of the situation, and simply trudge on with their commute.
When at last they came to the carriage, Fjolnir had a coin purse at the ready. Tossing it up towards the driver, he dictated, "As close as you can get us to the border between Dawnstar and Winterhold, please. Just look for the big manse supposedly out there."
"Right," the old Nord replied, his lax face struck with a rather bad case of windburn. "Climb in back and we'll be off."
Lydia, for one, was already clambering aboard, followed shortly after by her Thane, who groaned as he pulled himself up. When at last they were both seated and moderately comfortable, the driver nudged on the reins, and set the horse fastened to the cart to motion. With a slight jerk, the carriage was moving, the sound of the wooden wheels turning about having an almost hypnotic effect on Fjolnir, who stretched his legs out to fill his side of the wagon.
"I shall be nodding off to sleep for now, Lydia. I suggest that you do the same; this damnable cold doesn't exactly do wonders for those who idly sit about."
Fjol was about to say something else, until his somnolent mind allowed the thought to drift back into the furthest chasms of memory. The more he tried to recall the notion, the further it escaped from his conscious mind. The effort did naught but thrust him further into his state of lethargy and lassitude, until even moving about seemed a daunting chore. Soon, his eyes closed, and he fell into a very deep slumber.
(A Friendly Note From the Author: In case anyone is wondering, I deleted this chapter minutes after uploading it upon discovering a most annoying typo that ruined my enjoyment of the paragraph. With the error now fixed, I encourage everyone reading to go about reminding me of other errors that I have yet to fix, that they may be dealt with in a similar fashion...)