Author's Note: This chapter's giving me fits so I decided to chop it in two. This story has action, I promise! But I keep getting diverted by dialog...I like dialog. These people won't stop talking! Comments are welcome, of course.
3: Awkward Gifts
Thorald ran up the steps to the Skyforge, set high above the city. The jarl's palace perched higher yet, and loomed over Whiterun like a stern sentinel. From the Skyforge he could look down on the roof of Jorrvaskr, the oldest building in Whiterun. As kids, he and Avulstein would lean over the crumbling wall and toss pebbles at the heads of the warriors in the practice yard. (This blithe pleasure ended the day Uncle Vignar trudged up the stairs, with his terrifying scowl. And his cane.) The mead hall had been built with the remnants of one of Ysgramor's ships, far, far from the sea. It lay as if it had been beached here by some unimaginably huge wave.
Thorald figured the original Companions had a strange sense of humor.
But the Skyforge predated the ancient mead hall. No one knew who had built it. When asked, his da just shrugged and grunted. Perhaps it had been a gift of the gods.
Grelka stood at the work bench, her pale brow furrowed as she worked on a set of scaled armor. That must be Avulstein's new armor, he thought, with a tinge of jealousy. His brother was going to Windhelm to enlist with the Stormcloaks right after the wedding. How he wished he was going with him, but of course, it wouldn't be right to leave his bride so soon.
Grelka hummed as she worked. Thorald was relieved to see she was in good spirits. Her step-ma's arrival in Whiterun had put her out of sorts and Grelka's temper was never exactly smooth or easy-going even without provocation. Particularly when she was working. His da told him once that her frustration would ease when she finally became one with the Skyforge.
Whatever that meant. His da could be unexpectedly poetic. Thorald thought it was simpler. Grelka, like many Nords, found anger homier and more comfortable than the grief that had been set upon them. Skyrim still reeled from the Great War. Defeat was unacceptable and yet defeat was undeniable. The war had ended before his birth-if you could call this anxious deadlock an end- and yet the pain was still fresh not just in his parents' generation but in his own. It shadowed everything.
They had lost. To elves. And the Thalmor, backed by Imperial troops, now roamed Skyrim freely and did what they could to rub Nords' noses in their shame.
"What was Jon doing up here?" he asked. She blinked at him and put her hand in the front pocket of her work apron.
"What?"
"Jon Battle-Born. I saw him coming down the stairs."
"Oh. He came to felicitate us on the wedding. And, I guess, to apologize for his da. Said he was drunk last night when he had that run in with your ma."
"Drunk. I guess a poor excuse is better than no excuse at all. That old fool couldn't apologize for himself?"
"Olfrid Battle-Born? Apologize? For anything? Maybe when there are three moons in the sky."
"So Jon apologized for him? Gah. We need neither his felicitations nor his apologies," Thorald said stiffly. Why was she so jumpy?
"Thorald. Really. We were all friends, you know. Let Vignar and Olfrid have their dagger looks and their spiteful words, if they must. Why should the rest of us get dragged into it? You and Jon were going to go to Solitude together, to the Bards College."
"We were boys then. Times have changed. Do you really see me striking a pose with a lute and reciting the Poetic Edda?"
"I don't care about the Bards College," she said. "I'm talking about Jon. You were friends all your life and now you're enemies? Can't you two just talk?"
"No, Grelka, we can't." She frowned. Maybe she hadn't realized that marrying into the clan meant taking sides. "Listen, sweetheart, this isn't just my choice. What do you think his own da would do if he caught Jon being friendly with a Gray-Mane? You think Uncle Vignar's fanatical? Olfrid Battle-Born makes him look like the soul of compromise."
"Yes, but-" And she sighed. "I finished the rings last night," she said. "Want to try them on?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Are they in your pocket?"
She slapped his hand away before he could explore. "No."
He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. She raised her face to be kissed. "Let's put them on and run far, far away."
"The offer to elope still stands?" she asked.
"Always. Is that a wistful note I hear?"
"I should have let you talk me into eloping weeks ago. Why didn't you?"
"I tried."
"Thorald! You didn't try very hard. You could convince a horker it could fly. You could convince a slaughterfish to take a stroll on dry land. Why didn't you persuade me to run off with you?"
"Because like all Gray-Mane men, I live in terror of my ma. She has her heart set on this wedding. Woman, how am I supposed to kiss you properly when your pockets bristle with tools?"
"Keep your hands out of my pockets."
The rings, stored for safety on a chain around Grelka's neck, fit perfectly.
"What are these made out of?" Thorald asked. They were simple bands but beautiful in their simplicity. "It almost looks like mammoth ivory but brighter and finer. Surely this isn't-did you actually do it?"
"Dragonbone," she said with something suspiciously close to a grin. "I actually did it."
"Truly? Tell me. You didn't snitch the bone for this off Numinex's skull, did you?"
"Like you tried to?" As children, they'd all been fascinated by the dragon skull mounted behind the throne in the jarl's palace. Back in the First era, the dragon Numinex had been captured by the hero Olaf One-Eye. She, Thorald, Avulstein, and Jon-the child gang that terrorized Whiterun in their day-had studied it endlessly. The boys honed their wooden play swords and planned how they'd slay a dragon. Grelka, already good with a sling and learning the bow, said it was obvious one must pump a dragon full of arrows.
"Remember when Irileth caught me perched on the back of the jarl's throne, trying to pry out a tooth?" he asked.
"I remember her yelling! Right before I ran away," she said. "With Jon and your brother pelting behind me, I might add."
"Some lookout you were, by the way."
"I was trying to keep the throne from tipping over."
"Unsucessfully."
"You were heavy! So what happened, after the big crash? You never said."
"Too ashamed."
"You're not going to keep secrets from me now, I hope."
"Nope. I hate secrets," he said. She gave him an uneasy look he couldn't quite decipher. "Irileth grabbed my ear and hauled me down to my Uncle Vignar at Jorrvaskr. Told him to give me a whipping."
"Did he?"
"Would he do anything an elf told him? He got haughty. Told her we were Gray-Manes and our family was the backbone of Whiterun. He said we owed no obedience to the jarl's foreign Dunmer housecarl. If the jarl was upset he could speak for himself. Told her that when you get down to it, the jarl was just a man and the throne was just a chair. Nothing to make a hysterical flap about."
"Hysterical. He called Irileth hysterical? To her face?"
"I prayed for Oblivion to swallow me up."
"And he survived?"
"No one has ever accused my uncle of cowardice. Nor of having common sense," he added. "I was utterly, horribly humiliated. Later she caught up with me."
"Did she give you a whipping?"
"She gave me a searing lecture on duty and respect that I remember to this day. Even now when she gives me the eye, I feel like I'm ten years old. I'd have rather had the whipping."
"Gods. Me too. Irileth in a snit is terrifying. Strangely enough, I had a dream about that dragon skull awhile back. And when I woke, it occurred to me that the rest of Numinex might be around somewhere."
"The rest of Numinex?"
"The bones and the scales. There's a book in the jarl's library about the old Akaviri dragon hunters. They used dragon bone and scales to make weapons and armor. Can you imagine?"
"Nope. How could you forge bone?"
"I don't know. Yet. I do know the Dunmer have some secret method of making armor out of bone. I asked Irileth about it but she's no smith. She doesn't know how bone armor is made. She's seen it though, back in Morrowind. Said it's impressive. Do you remember that armor I made out of chaurus chitin?"
Thorald grimaced. "I remember dismembering countless giant stinking bugs. I remember dragging a huge sack of bug parts out of that filthy Falmer cave. I definitely remember the smell. Gah. The things I do for love."
"You make a wonderful pack horse, darling," she said. She pecked his cheek and he caught a glimpse of dimple. Ha. He would get a smile out of her yet. She hadn't smiled since her da and step-ma came to Whiterun for the wedding.
"The chitin looked nice," she said. "All black and glossy. And it handles better than mudcrab chitin. Doesn't really stand up to a hammer blow though. Too brittle. But dragon scale! I'm itching to get my hands on some. So I asked the steward if the jarl had any more of Numinex's remains stored away. They would have been valuable back then, when dragons still roamed the earth. Now that dragons are gone-gosh! It took a few days but sure enough, we found some bits of bone hidden away in one of the lower storerooms. No scale, alas. I haven't given up hope, though. Proventus talked to the jarl and he gave me the bone as a wedding gift!"
"A bit of moldy old bone? Nice. I hope he wrapped it up with a ribbon."
"Dragon bone is tremendously rare and practically priceless!" Grelka said. "Did you know they stabled Numinex right out on the Great Porch? Proventus told me. I saw the anchor bolts for the chains. They still have the chains, you know. Seems like they never throw anything away, up at the palace. I wonder how long it took to forge." She spread her hands. "The links are this big. Can you imagine what it must have been like? A dragon! Here in Whiterun. But I can't figure out how they got him up there. From the edge of the porch, it's a straight drop-off down a cliff."
"He had to have flown in."
"He flew in and let himself be chained?" Grelka asked. "Why? Why didn't he just fly away?"
"No one knows anymore. They say Olaf One-Eye fought the beast for a day on top of Mount Anthor and when he couldn't defeat him by arms, he Shouted him into submission."
"Shouted?"
"Olaf had the Voice. He and the dragon Shouted at each other another day and finally the dragon surrendered."
"And he flew to Whiterun at Olaf's command?" She tried to picture it. "So dragons must have had some honor then. It's not like Olaf could have flown after him, if Numinex broke his word."
"I don't know," Thorald said. "But I do know they made Olaf One-Eye jarl of Whiterun for that deed. And later he was High King of all Skyrim. I guess people sit up and notice when you have a pet dragon."
"Eorlund said there were Gray-Manes in Whiterun even in Jarl Olaf's day. One of your ancestors made him a suit of armor. I wonder what it was like. Speaking of armor, I got a commission from one of the sell-swords in the Drunken Huntsman. Full set of leather and she wants it dyed red. To match her eyes. She's a Dunmer."
Thorald shook his head. "Red armor. Da would have a fit."
"I'm not so proud. Gold is gold. She paid half in advance. Now we have some housekeeping money!"
"Keep this up, woman, and you'll be the first Gray-Mane to make a profit since the First Era." She raised her brows at that. But it was true that the Gray-Manes never had two septims to rub together. Eorlund was, no doubt in her mind, the greatest smith in Skyrim. His work ought to be fetching a jarl's ransom. Yet he seemed content to make arms and armor for the Companions, who paid a stipend about sufficient to keep him in materials. If Fralia didn't barter arrowheads to the hunters and make a bit of coin from her little stand in the marketplace, Grelka didn't know how the Gray-Manes would even keep food on the table. Olfina worked nights at the inn so she could put aside some gold for her own and Avulstein mooched around town doing odd jobs for pocket change. Thorald's Companion pay was erratic, to put it mildly.
For that matter, the Companions ought to be knee-deep in gold. They were certainly busy enough. They lived well in their ancient mead hall but gold flowed through their collective fingers like water through a mill. Kodlak Whitemane, the Companions' Harbinger, put honor over gold. Like the Gray-Manes. This was all well and good, it was laudable in fact-no one wanted the Companions to raid tombs or shake down the common people they protected. But Thorald had been a Companion for several years, yet his pay was not really enough to set up a household and start a family.
Poverty was practically a family tradition. They all laughed about it. But Grelka couldn't understand why. The Battle-Borns were as old a family as the Gray-Manes and they were rich. Proud of it, too. Not that gold was everything. Honor was more important, of course. Of course. But having to scrimp and save for the rest of her life-she didn't want that. Not for herself and not for any children she might have.
She was a good smith. A good one. In time she would be better. And one day she would be a famous smith. This she knew. The Skyforge generated fame. When that day came, she would charge what her work was worth. She would not give it away like Eorlund did.
But meanwhile, she would scrimp and save like the rest of her new clan. If a paying customer wanted her armor dyed red, by Talos, she'd make it as bright and beautiful as a ripe apple.
The Gray-Manes assumed she and Thorald would move into the clan home after their marriage. It was so crowded! Vignar and his manservant had already moved to Jorrvaskr to make room for them. She loved the Gray-Manes, she truly did. Eorlund was like the father she had wished for all her life (instead of the one the gods gave her). Thorald's sister Olfina was a good friend. But to eat every meal at Fralia's table, under her sharp-eyed scrutiny-no. A thousand times no!
She wanted her own home. She dropped a few hints but Thorald said there was no point in househunting when there was no gold for house buying.
But there was. There was her dowry.
From the time she was a very little girl, the last of her mother's wealth from her adventuring days had been set aside for her. Over six thousand septims, a handsome fortune, her father always said. When her mother died the gold was put in a chest to be given her on her wedding day. Her father promised.
That gold had always given her a quiet sense of confidence, knowing that she need never be dependent on anyone. When he came to Whiterun, her father blithely informed her the gold was gone. For not only had That Woman persuaded her da into this mad scheme to move to Bruma, she had taken her ma's gold to pay for it.
He was in a bind, he said. He couldn't find a buyer for the farm in Riverwood. Couldn't even find a tenant farmer to rent the place. Times are unsettled, he said airily, and it's not like you need the gold now that you're moving up in the world. House Gray-Mane, by Mara, you will want for nothing, girl.
Her da planned to walk away from the family farm and let it revert to the jarl. He'd bought a place near Bruma, sight unseen, all arranged by That Woman's kin. And although it might serve him right if they'd tricked him into buying barren wasteland unfit for raising skeevers, let alone racehorses, the point was that her dowry was gone.
And her da 'made it up to her'. He gave her Frost.
That Woman's idea, no doubt.
"But da!" she'd protested. "What am I to do with a racehorse? I can't afford his keep."
"Frost will make you a fortune," he'd said. "Even if you don't race him-"
"Race him? I don't know anything about horse racing."
"Your aunt can advise you."
"She's got the Whiterun stable to run. You think Aunt Lilith wants to go traipsing around the province with that crazy horse, at her age? Racing? As if there were any races to go to. There's a war on, da, if you haven't noticed."
"The war won't last forever," he said.
"Then why are you moving to Bruma?"
He ignored her. "Even if you don't race him, the stud fees alone make him your personal gold mine."
"No one's breeding racehorses, da. Not when there are no races. They're breeding warhorses."
"Nonsense," he said. "Frost is famous all over Skyrim, girl."
And that was true. Frost was famous for winning impossible races out of sheer stubbornness. He liked to win and no one could convince him he wasn't the fastest horse in Skyrim. On good days, he was. He was also famous for losing easy races if he decided it would be more fun to savage his jockey. He kicked like a mammoth, bit like a sabre cat and would maul any stable hand who displeased him. Her aunt, as outraged as Grelka over the loss of her dowry, had agreed to stable Frost. For now, she added ominously.
Thorald had been philosophical about it. Of course, it helped that Frost, who could be charming when he chose, had taken a liking to him. Yesterday, Frost had graciously accepted an apple from his hand and then allowed Thorald to scratch behind his ears.
"I should sell him," Grelka fumed. "Da says he's worth loads more than six thousand septims. But when I asked why he didn't sell him, he mumbled and changed the subject. Because it's obvious that no one is buying racehorses in the middle of a war."
"You know you can't sell him," Thorald said. "He's a gift. And a noble one," he added. Frost rubbed his head against Thorald's chest and dribbled apple bits on his shirt. "He's a typical Gray-Mane asset, you know. A drain on our house, and can't in honor be sold or exploited." He gave Frost a friendly slap on the back. "Welcome to the clan, boy. You'll fit right in."
Frost whickered his agreement.