Chapter 23: The Sleeping Danger

Dark clouds were hovering over the city of Whiterun and the plains visible from the Great Porch of Dragonsreach were shrouded in semi-darkness, never mind it was high noon and when else should the skies be bright and clear than now. Jon Battle-Born was leaning to the parapet at the edge of the Porch, scanning the land below, deep in thought. The grey and murky weather reflected his mood perfectly, and he contemplated it as a bad omen of things to come.

Jarl Balgruuf had done everything he could have to protect the city while he was gone. Sometimes, a mysterious Khajiit, always a different one, came to the city with a location marked on their map. Every time men were sent there, supplies waited there to be retrieved. It was not much and the current Steward, Vignar Gray-Mane, spent most of his time managing the system to divide the supplies fairly amongst the citizens and other people occupying Whiterun. The refugees had been sent to work at the farms outside of the city and, being the proud Nords they mostly were, they had accepted the job with surprising eagerness. Nevertheless, complaints about the lack of comfort rose from time to time and it was never easy to suppress them. There had been a few rebellions and some of the houses hosting the refugees had been all but devastated by the harsh treatment of the unsettled war victims. Coin was something that the city possessed in rather great numbers but it was meaningless at a time like this when the trades withered and people were fighting to survive. Bartering became the popular way during the time of war and every piece of clothing, food, arms or armor counted.

Jon had no idea where the Khajiit caravans always got their supplies and there was a chunk of curiosity settling in his heart every time one of their members arrived with information on a new location. He was quite sure that Vignar felt the same, but he always contained himself, putting trust in what Jarl Balgruuf had told him without questioning the Khajiit's resources for, as they say, curiosity killed the cat. Or, in this case, curiosity made the cat kill the man.

Despite his allegiance, Jon had developed a great deal of respect for the Steward who ran the city with the same diligence as his Jarl had. Not even once did he stand against the Jarl's orders, understanding the needs of the city better than most of its ever expostulating citizens and the newcomers who, much to his displeasure, often refused to even try to grasp the basics about how things worked in Balgruuf's city. It was possible that Vignar was just waiting for his opportunity to take over the city, and in that case, the Battle-Borns would stand for the Jarl, but his current ways were undeniable.

"You know what's wrong with Skyrim these days?" Jon had asked the Dragonborn once. "Everyone is obsessed with death."

Even now he would put his stamp under the statement, especially while having witnessed the situation of the last month. He was curious as to why Balgruuf the Greater had chosen him to watch over Vignar and his management, but slowly, he was starting to understand. Jon prided himself to see the hearts of the people around him. People were always striving for happiness, and yet, the ways they chose so often lead them astray that they just kept fighting each other. Even his own family, with the sole exception of his beloved nephew Lars who was too young to be involved in any kind of political or military struggle, kept turning the blind eye on the world around, constantly blaming others, the Gray-Manes first and foremost, for the desperate state of their land. But did it matter? Everyone had their share in this war, everyone was responsible. The first good thing had been done by the Dragonborn who so insightfully tried to unite the scattered factions and protect Skyrim from the present threat, despite it not even being her homeland. If there was someone who did not fear death like the others did, it was her, and with the determination that she so proudly possessed, she even inspired his own Jarl to take action and follow her footsteps. The word had it that she had been captured by the Thalmor, but that would make no difference anymore. She had set things into motion and were it to be Jon's way, he would gladly name her the new Talos for what she had done.

Then again, this war was not over and if people were not ready to stand their ground, it would end drastically for them. There was no help coming from the Imperial City or anywhere in Cyrodiil, and it was solely up to the citizens of Skyrim if they protected their country from the Dominion. And, in spite of being sturdy warriors eager to fight if they had to, their common sense sometimes failed them greatly, setting them against each other over and over again. If the war didn't end quickly, history would surely repeat itself. Even now, there was treachery in the air. He could sense that things were not quite all right in Whiterun, the city that he thought to be the most stable in all Skyrim, and surprisingly, it did not come from the side of Gray-Manes. Jon trusted Vignar and his leadership. But there was something else, something that even his eyes could not penetrate. Was it one of the refugees? No, he doubted that, for it would be too obvious and despite his fairly benevolent rule, the Steward had made sure that they were supervised with utmost caution. And if there was someone who would sacrifice anything and everything to never let the Thalmor have their way, it was Vignar Gray-Mane.

No, that was not it. It had to be someone who was granted the liberty to move and act freely in the city. One of their own. But who was there? His family, of course, the Companions, the few merchants and innkeepers... yes, they would probably be the ones most affected by the war. There was no coin flowing through the city, and they would not be able to feed themselves with coin either. They were mostly not so good with weapons or magic and so any kind of power or influence could be appealing to them. But could he be sure that the treachery struck root in their ranks? No, he could not.

"You won't believe this," a voice issued behind him and he turned to face his muscly proud-looking brother, Idolaf, with a mixture of amusement and cunning excitement in his face. Jon raised a brow in question and he continued. "Belethor..." he emphasized the word by drawing out every syllable, "that Belethor, came to Vignar with the idea of building an outer wall around the farms outside the city. And he's got support. A lot of it."

"You support him too," Jon assumed dryly, tugging at his long blonde beard which he wore tied under his chin with a copper ring.

"You don't? Vignar has collected resources to build a shrine to Talos. Surely he could spend them now to protect the city which is now basically his."

"The city belongs to Jarl Balgruuf," Jon protested. "And by resources, do you mean the piles of gold which presumably linger in his cellar? Most of the time, people want to turn ore to pure gold, but right now, we would need the exact opposite and unless you know a damn good spell for it, it's not gonna happen. Besides, we don't have enough men to send to the construction."

"Our father stands on Belethor's side, just so you know," Idolaf said, ignoring his brother's arguments. "You make sure you don't pick the wrong one."

Without a word of response, Jon darted towards the keep, his brows knit together in tense anticipation. Upon entering the main hall, he strode through the freshly gathered crowd and made his way to the Steward's side.

"You sure took your time," Vignar pointed sternly as he approached. "Just look at the lot of them. They say they want a wall." A grim smirk crossed his face. "Do you think we can afford a wall?"

"With all due respect," Jon said a little timidly, "I find it very unlikely."

"These people can't work without any protection," Belethor objected as he stepped up and faced the Steward, pointing at the front door. Jon assumed that a number of refugees who were, naturally, not permitted to enter Dragonsreach, were gathered there, demonstrating their protests against the hard work and lack of protection. He could understand their fears on one side, but agreed with Vignar that the city should not strain its citizens to host them. It was enough that they were allowed to feed themselves off the local farms and use the city walls to seek protection when a threat rose at the horizon. But there was something in this particular case which did not sit well with him and he could not figure out what it was.

"What's in it for you, Belethor?" he addressed the Breton and the rather slender black-haired man's eyes met Jon's.

"Why is everyone always assuming that I'm scheming something?" he asked and threw the two figures in the head of the room an offended look.

"I wouldn't say scheming," Jon replied dispassionately, "but you barely do anything if you don't see any profit in it. Don't take it the wrong way, we all need profit. But still, why do you stick up to them? Are they of any concern to you?"

Vignar shot Jon a warning look to remind him who was in charge, and he answered with a semi-apologetic shrug. In the end, he was doing this for him, not for himself, and he believed to know the townsfolk better than the ever revered Gray-Mane who had spent most of his time dealing with aristocracy or fighting alongside the Companions. Jon, on the contrary, was the people person, always observing and communicating. He wanted to become a bard, after all, and a bard would be nothing without understanding the hearts of the people around. The black sheep of the proud family of Battle-Borns.

"Now now," a tall man with a tanned skin, dark well-kept hair and a pair of bright blue eyes spoke, an undeniable undertone of authority issuing from his voice. "Let us calm down and think this through. I do believe that a call for better protection is rather justified and that we should do whatever we can to provide the citizens of Skyrim with better environment. The lack of resources, though, is a fact that we cannot deny. Isn't there any way to actually extend our reach? There is plenty of ore in the mountains south to the city, we just need to send men there."

"Olfrid Battle-Born," Vignar sighed as he looked at the man. "This is so much like you. But we are not the Empire and we are not required to change every citizen's diaper for them. I am trying to protect Whiterun. We can either try to contain all Skyrim in the city walls and lose it consequently, or limit ourselves to what we can actually do and maybe survive this war."

"Jon," Olfrid turned to his son expectantly. Jon did not like this look of his. It always meant that he would be forced to agree with his father's opinion, no matter what he himself thought about it. "Surely you won't share this rather short-sighted perspective with our... substitute here, will you?"

Vignar rose and Jon quickly stepped in his way. The situation was now getting out of control and he would have to do something to placate both parties so a fight would not break out.

Jarl Balgruuf, he thought to himself bitterly, if only you were here. Here I thought I would have to watch out for Vignar Gray-Mane trying to usurp the Jarl's seat, but to watch out for my own family and deal with the petty dispute from the old times... how feckless is that.

"My Lord," he addressed the Steward politely, but only an angered grimace came in response from the grey-haired wrinkled elder who put a hand on the hilt of his sword immediately.

"Do not stop me, Jon Battle-Born," he hissed dangerously, angry sparks shooting from his eyes. "I do not wish to fight you but your allegiance does not put you in a good spot here."

Ignoring the threat, Jon turned around to face his father. Then he took a deep breath, his fingers tapping his thighs unconsciously in anxious anticipation of an unpleasant experience.

"There is only so much we can do, father," he spoke calmly, trying to conceal the tremble of his voice. "Even if miracles do happen, they cannot be counted on. We do not have enough men who would work on the wall, much less to send in the mountains to mine. We do not even have any equipment that would serve for that purpose."

On the outside, Olfrid's face remained composed, but Jon knew the nuances of his father's behavior. It was not when this man roared and thundered when he was the most dangerous. It was when he seemed completely calm and indifferent. Jon closed his eyes and waited.

"The city is full of people who do nothing but feed on the food from an unknown source," the Battle-Born elder said quietly. "Where do those supplies come from anyway? Why should the citizens of Whiterun have the comfort of eating plenty without earning it by honest day's work while the refugees who came all the way from their homes still have to work so hard to earn their share?"

"Are you pure blind?" Vignar snarled. "We give them our homes, we clean up their mess, we make their beds and wash their clothes. What else can the locals do for them? And besides, the supplies we get are shared equally. You would know if you actually cared. You do have access to the Distribution sessions."

"You do know where they come from, do you not?" Olfrid turned back to Jon, his voice low and demanding.

"No," Jon lied promptly, but it was Vignar's unconcealed reaction which gave him away. Olfrid knit his brows and his eyes narrowed with fury.

"You dare lie to me, son? You dare side with the Gray-Manes now?"

"I side with no-one," he answered wearily, having decided to give up the desperate attempt to calm his father. "I am only trying to help here."

"And so am I," his father whispered, eying him attentively. Then he turned to Vignar. "I think it's time that our Council gets reassembled," he added.

"I think," Belethor interjected when a tense silence was about to break out, "I have a solution to the said lack of equipment. I do own a general goods store, after all, and since I am a merchant, I also happen to know several benefactors who would be happy to help. And I believe there are quite a few willing people who would offer their hands for the job. People are getting tired of the confinement inside the walls too."

Jon narrowed his eyes and studied the Breton's face carefully. This was not like him, he had to be up to something. He was known to be a sly bastard for a good reason and the young would-be bard would not trust him to do such a thing selflessly. To plead for the refugees that he had no connection to? No way. And his father… his good father, willing to fight for just about anyone and everyone in Skyrim, had swallowed it hook, line and sinker to the point when he would antagonize his own son for their cause. Even though Jon had never had a good position in the family anyway.

"Yes," Vignar nodded. "The Council will be reassembled and there will be a meeting tomorrow morning. Although we do not usually permit outsiders to join the meetings of the Whiterun Council of Elders, there will be two exceptions tomorrow. Belethor, you will come as the representative of the local refugees and the one who speaks for their cause. Jon, you will come as my aide."

Belethor nodded slowly in approval and Jon turned to the Gray-Mane in surprise. Could it be that this man actually trusted him? Or did he want to make sure that he would not plot anything behind his back during the council? Or maybe he wanted to demonstrate his power in front of him to make him lose all hope of siding with the Battle-Borns in the end? He was not sure. A cold shiver made him set the thought aside, however, and he turned back to his father who was piercing him with eyes like two sharp ice shards. Of course. He was no Idolaf, the brave soldier who would join the legion eagerly the moment he could lift a sword, the oh-so-precious daddy's boy who would put the family name and pride before everything else. But he had not expected Olfrid to hate him. Surprisingly, it hurt more than Olfina Gray-Mane turning her angry face at him and calling him a useless good-for-nothing, for unlike Olfina, he had taken his family for granted.

Why, my Jarl, he lamented in his thoughts as he felt a stab in his heart, why of all people did you have to choose me?

The night was deep and dark when silhouettes of three people formed near the village of Dragon Bridge. There was a short conversation until the smallest of them, a girl in a seemingly ragged dress with a thick mop of hair waving around her head freely took cover in the bushes nearby. Were it not for the bright crimson light that the ever watchful eyes of her companion emitted, no-one would have guessed that a dark black horse was keeping her company there. She watched as the two other figures made their way to the village, sneakily hiding in the shadows, using any kind of obstacles in their way to their advantage. Her fingers slid down to a dagger she had been given, tightening around it in a firm grip as she waited breathlessly. She wished that she could at least close her eyes to make the waiting more endurable but that would mean opening up to any possible danger, and so she kept gazing at her two guardians and praying for their safety as they reached the closest house and leaned to its wall. There were sentries with torches in their hands roaming the village and they would have to time their progress carefully if they were to avoid them. She clenched her fists and held her breath as time passed slowly.

An arm in a daedric attire rose to the level of Aislinn's waist and she pointed her finger at the house which stood opposite the one they were leaning to at the moment. Brynjolf at her side nodded and they shifted a little forward. A group of young pine trees, rather reminiscent of smaller bushes, covered them as they watched several torchlights pass them in a steady pace. Then there was a moment of darkness and the two of them used it promptly to lurk to the other side of the road. Brynjolf pulled out a lockpick and dealt with the entrance door swiftly and they soon found themselves crouching in a small room filled with various furniture.

It was a small house and the family living there apparently tried to put every inch of the space inside to use. The two of them circled the table in the center cautiously, silently peeking at the pair of people sleeping on the cheap looking bed on their right. They froze when the bed emitted a loud creak as the supposed mother of the family turned over to the other side with a silent moan. After a split second, the sneaky pair started moving again, creeping to the stairs on their left. Upon having climbed down in nigh absolute silence, Aislinn pointed to two chests located near the beds on the other side of the small cellar. Both of them took a pair of lockpicks and headed to one of them, Aislinn left, Brynjolf right. Aislinn studied the lock with one quick glance and then skillfully inserted the lockpick when a pot swung her way. She backed away promptly, looking up in surprise.

"Got, you, you sneaky…" a female voice bellowed before Aislinn regained her composure, jumped on her feet and covered the mouth of a young short-haired Breton woman who stared at her with wide eyes. But it was too late, the young boy on the other bed sat up in an instant and footsteps behind the two burglars alerted them that more people were coming. Brynjolf readied himself at Aislinn's side, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"What's all this ruckus about?!" a melodic male voice echoed through the room and Aislinn caught a glimpse of a slender Redguard with a bright look in his eyes. His brows furrowed but then he paused as she slowly turned her head.

"This…" he stuttered, obviously taken aback. "Are my eyes deceiving me? Lady Aislinn, is it really you?"

Aislinn took a deep breath and finally let go of the girl in front of her who had stilled herself a while before, turning fully to face the man of the house.

"I am sorry to intrude like this, Mr. Lylvieve" she said with an apologetic look and the rest of the family relaxed as they heard the name, just as did Brynjolf, though keeping his hand on the sword nevertheless. "We got a little desperate…"

"But… no, this is such a great news!" the man exhaled in excitement and a pair of merry sparks danced in his eyes. "This is the second time everyone thought you were gone for good… and here you are, right before my eyes! Just what kind of game are the Thalmor playing with us? Or… what kind of game are you playing with them?"

"Listen," Aislinn whispered beseechingly, "it makes me really happy to see you pleased by the fact that I'm still alive, but no-one must know about this. Can we count on you?"

"Just what happened?" he asked curiously. Then, a blonde Breton woman with a stern look in her face walked down the stairs and patted his shoulders.

"Let's not be rude to our guests, Azzada," she scolded him softly. "How about we all sit down and have a talk?"

"I'm afraid I must decline," Aislinn said to the pair. "We are in a hurry and we must cross the river before the first sunrays light the horizon. I doubt I'd be able to reappear again if they catch me this time."

The man nodded. "What do you need?" he asked then, careful not to make it sound like a threat.

"Anything and everything," Aislinn sighed. "A backpack or two, blankets or bedrolls, a bow, as many arrows as possible, food that would last a while… just about anything a travelling fighter who's meant to save the world would need."

"Of course," Azzada's wife nodded as though Aislinn had just said the most normal thing in the world, and gave her husband a meaningful look. "I'll prepare the food. You take care of the rest." Aislinn threw her a grateful look.

"Unfortunately, there are no weapons in our house," the Redguard sighed and shook his head. "Even if we tried to store some, the cursed elves, Oblivion take them, would confiscate them all. There are some at the house of the late Commander Maro. I know that the elves have some pretty good stuff there, enchanted weapons and such, but you'd have to be crazy to go there. Unless…" he paused and gave Aislinn an uncertain look. She stared at him curiously, silently encouraging him to go on, and so he did. "I stored away a few invisibility potions for my Clinton," he waved to the young boy who sat on the bed beside Brynjolf and kept studying the talking lot curiously, "since he was so interested in becoming invisible, but I think you will need them more than he does. If you manage to sneak in when the patrols change, you might be able to get there. The effect doesn't last long, though, and you'd probably have to cause some kind of distraction to be able to get out of there."

"Hmm, there's that one Shout…" Aislinn mused and a slight smile formed on her lips. Brynjolf slapped his own forehead helplessly and shook his head in resignation.

"Fine," he said hoarsely, "but I'm going to be the one walking inside."

"And who might you be?" Azzada turned to the red-haired thief, fully noticing him for the first time, measuring him with his eyes attentively.

"Oh, I'm sorry for not introducing him earlier," Aislinn bowed her head slightly in apology. "This is Brynjolf. He's… a friend of mine."

Her companion watched her with an unreadable expression and their Redguard host raised his brows in question. It was left unanswered, however, and he let it go as the two intruders-guests started discussing their new plan.

There was nothing but a dagger in his shoe that would protect Brynjolf on his way. In spite of that, he felt unusually secure, having been rid of the heavy burdens such as his backpack, his ebony blade which was now tied to the backpack and carried by Lucia and Shadowmere, and even his bow, since the lass had taken it with her. His pockets, however, were literally stuffed with various potions. There were some health potions, stamina potions, several invisibility potions and even fortifying potions of sorts. He had left Aislinn hidden in shade between two buildings and waited on the other side of the road for the right time. He knew she was watching the sky just as he did, and the moment the midpoints of Secunda and Masser formed one line with the Morning Star and the Aurora on the northern horizon turned from light blue to light green, their eyes turned to the door of the former headquarters of Penitus Oculatus. The wooden wing opened immediately and four silhouettes contrasted with the bright light coming from inside, two going in while the other two headed out.

Brynjolf swallowed one of the invisibility potions in three gulps and quickly made his way to the door, making sure that his footsteps made no noise whatsoever. He barely avoided being squished against the doorframe by one of the passing elves and entered the house. Four beds were scattered inside and a table with a bench was pressed against the wall opposite the door. Including the two newcomers, four elves occupied the room, two minding their own business on their beds, one heading to the table and one glancing outside with his hand ready on the door handle. There was no talking, no communication whatsoever, but that quickly changed as a noise came from outside.

"Hey, ugly!" a voice echoed and then there were footsteps hurrying uphill.

"I'm here, cheesebrain!" it sounded again and the footsteps stopped. Brynjolf imagined the confused Thalmor thickheads looking frantically for the source since this time it had come from the opposite direction. And then there was another one. And again.

The elf by the door opened it wide again and ran outside as his comrades called him. Two of the ones inside the room followed and now there was just one who kept Brynjolf company. He watched the door attentively, scanning it for any sign of movement and curiously listening to the ruckus outside. So concentrated was he on what he was doing that he completely ignored the silent rustle as the invisible thief, taking a sip from another invisibility potion occasionally, unlocked one of the chests.

Brynjolf scanned its contents and took a few rings and necklaces from inside. The otherwise cheap looking trinkets were buzzing with strange magic and somehow he became excited to find out what effect they would have on their bearer.

The second chest contained nothing but some food and coin which he left intact, but the last one made the thief's eyes sparkle. It was exactly what he wanted. A dark dagger sparkling in the color of blood as the life-draining magic pulsed through it quickly made its way right into Brynjolf's left shoe. Then he put his hands on a beautiful bow made of fair wood which glowed in light blue. It was cold on touch and he raised it carefully with a great deal of reverence. It felt as if the bow did not weigh anything and he smiled slightly. The lass would do wonders with this one, and it would definitely come in handy while fighting the three dragons guarding the Elder Scroll Shout. He shivered at the thought.

There were several more weapons but he decided that grabbing more would be too risky. Then he heard a swish as the elf in the room drew his weapon.

Brynjolf turned to him in a split second, discovering with a surprise that the Altmer in an ornate gilded armor was looking right through him. His heart stopped. He knew the thief was there. A single movement would give him away so he stood there frozen, but the elf was no fool. Faster than a dragon swooping down on its prey, he grabbed a blanket from the nearby bed and threw it at Brynjolf. The thief ran for it but the well-aimed cloth flew right in his way and his foot slipped as he stepped on it. He measured his length on the ground and a cold blade pressed against his neck as he looked up.

I apologize for the delay. I went to my mom's house where I have my laptop but it died on me and I spent quite some time reviving it. In the end, my laptop lives but it took me a great deal of effort to achieve it, so… fu. :D

So… the Whiterun Arc finally started and you could probably tell that I really like Jon Battle-Born for his sober-minded perspective and therefore I decided to give him a place in the story. He was given far too little credit in the game so I'm going to correct that. :D

To the Guest no.2 who so kindly reviewed the story: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your review made me unbelievably happy and it's the first time I got a hint of a real constructive criticism. As for Aislinn, well, she's not a child anymore, she could be between 22 and 25 years old, but I don't really state that in the story since she doesn't know who she really is herself. But I'm really glad you mentioned her personality. Obviously, I have not described it quite clearly so far and I'll have to work on it. To sum it up – Aislinn is primarily reckless and Brynjolf should see her as such. She is a little naïve in a way (of course, she would not fall for so many traps and lies if she wasn't, but then she would just be a dull and invincible Mary Sue and I wouldn't have a reason to write this story :D) but she is sensible enough to be on her guard constantly (I think that goes with being the Dragonborn… you know). About her being scared – obviously. If a dragon in a rotten catman's body just tried to rape you, I think you'd be scared as well. :D Brynjolf can see that, of course, but as for his general opinion of her, I think that "fragile" is not equivalent to "scared". It's just that apart from her strong side, he can see the vulnerable side of her as well – how she wants to be protected too, how she's scared of being depended on too much, even though there is a side of her that enjoys the spotlight… something like that. She is a little controversial but the important part is that she doesn't understand her own feelings and personality that well yet and Brynjolf might actually understand her better than she does. Anyway, thank you for pointing that out, I will try to clarify that further in the story. :)

Thanks a lot to everyone who reviewed, liked or favorited the story. Keep them coming, please, you're making me happy. :)

Stay tuned and see you around.

Mirwen