Rain had been falling for two days without interruption, the steady patter of drops as they struck the shingled roof of the bath house a ubiquitous background companion for anyone who chose to indulge in the luxury of the structure which held a circular wood and stone bath and two long benches. In the antechamber that doubled as an entrance resided another set of benches and an assortment of pegs, hooks and cubbies, all of which were meant for storing clothes or weapons.
The tub, the majority of which was below floor level (and in the same approximate location as the hole that remained after the resident stump was removed), was just large enough for two occupants. That dimension had not been left to chance; Hellina herself had ensured that she and Soran would fit comfortably within it, though not so comfortably that they could sit inside together without a modicum of physical contact.
"I understand you completely, madam," the builder had replied, his face turning only slightly red as he smiled at Hellina and Soran as she employed her husband and demonstrated just how much space she had in mind. The portion of the pool that was below ground was lined with smooth stone and sealed with mortar and an enchantment that made it water tight and prevented decay. The uppermost portion was capped with aromatic cedar and merged beautifully and perfectly with the planks that made up the surrounding floor.
A small grating of heated rocks stood in the corner along with a bucket filled with water and a ladle. The Silver Hand seemed to be evenly divided between those who preferred a steam bath followed by a plunge into cold water and those that chose to just luxuriate in a hot bathtub. For the former the solution had been simple thanks to Anja, whose Father and Mother owned a small forge, and had instructed the young woman on the use of Fire Salts. The rocks in the grating required almost no attention whatsoever past an occasional breath from a bellows and a pinch of the rare salt which Anja kept locked in a small chest in her room. Those in the latter group required Eofel's assistance, both in the heating of the water in the tub and its cleaning afterwards.
"The Archmage instructs all women in the college on the subject of self defense," she had explained to Anja as she checked the contents of a jar on a shelf in the cool outer room before returning it to its location, "it is a simple spell one casts upon oneself. While the spell endures anyone that touches any part of my body will be burned; anyone or anything."
The explanation was immediately followed by a demonstration as Eofel rolled up her sleeves, cast the spell, and submerged both of her bare arms into the pool. The water heated quickly, the steam rising from its surface to mingle with the steam from the grating.
"What an excellent spell," Anja replied as she looked at her reflection in the surface of the water before placing her own hand into the now hot bath that smelled slightly of lavender, "what are the crystals that you use to keep the water clean and pure?"
"They are called kló crystals. The common variety requires a spell be cast once they are dropped into the water before they will collect all the detritus into a solid clump. These crystals are the uncommon kind, and they begin to work as soon as they enter the water. Anyone can use them."
"That is a very good idea. Otherwise you would never have a moment's peace."
"I do not mind, not really," Eofel answered as she stood up and began to remove her robes, "cleanliness is a most powerful ingredient in any healing, and clean water a vital requirement."
It became clear to Anja that Eofel intended to make use of the now rather hot bath.
"I will leave you to enjoy your bath in private," said the Nord woman who was only a year or two older than the Healer to the Silver Hand.
Eofel, sensing a mutual a connection with the young warrior in front of her, took a giant leap of faith in that moment, her legs dangling over the edge as she sat on the floor that doubled as the lip of the pool before slipping into the water.
"You do not need to leave on my account, the tub is big enough for two," she said in a friendly manner as her face and eyes radiated encouragement.
Anja's heart had begun to race at the sight of the woman shedding her clothing, and it continued to do so as the nature of the invitation became clear.
"I will not burn if you touch me?" she asked as she quickly began to shed her own garments.
"Not in that manner," Eofel replied, her smile growing as she cast a spell that prevented the inner door of the bathhouse from being opened by anyone outside.
"Hogithum approaches, and we wish to celebrate it at the Shrine to Azura in Winterhold," Salama said as she spoke to Hellina, "we will travel to Heljarchen and collect two members of our group and to stay overnight, and then proceed to the Shrine. We will be away for no more than a week."
It was a request being repeated in different locations in The Pale. Cruith was making the same request of Carcette, as was Nora of Samuel. It was common for any observant Dunmer residing in Skyrim to celebrate the holiday on which the Princess of Moonshadow was summoned, and her guidance requested. It was also a holiday that brought a fair amount of coin for the wandering Dark Elven priests and priestesses as they traveled to the cities and villages to host those festivities for those that could not afford to travel to the shrine in Winterhold. Indeed, it was that particular holiday that allowed those priests and priestesses, courtesy of the coin they collected from the faithful, to survive in a land that in many parts continued to openly display hostility to anyone with dark skin and dark eyes. But for those who could afford to make the journey it was...well, obligation was too strong a word while privilege was a too vapid one owing to the frigid, blustery location of the shrine. If Salama were to speak her preference out loud she would speak of the years that she celebrated the Holiday deep within the Rift, under a sea of green foliage, bathed in golden light and temperate breezes. She would not have been alone if she had spoken so; The Rift had a host of deficiencies, many of them the result of the Thieves Guild making their home there, but it could not have been more different from Eastmarch when it came to prejudice. It seemed that The Rift, like the Thieves Guild itself, welcomed everyone in the same manner; any member of any race was free to succeed or die equally, regardless of origins; and if there was coin in it for the Guild they would happily assist with the one or the other. Salama herself had been approached with an invitation to join the Thieves Guild in the early years of her misspent youth, though that description was not entirely accurate; she had spent those years simply trying to survive, and thievery was how she had succeeded. She had stayed fed, and clothed, and warm, without having to resort to selling herself, either to Brynjolf, who had recognized the quickness of her fingers and the lightness of her touch, or to the steady stream of men who had been attracted to other parts of Salama's anatomy. It had been a Breton monk named Peryn that had recognized the future warrior in the form of the young thief that had unsuccessfully attempted to pick his pocket. It was he that Salama had to thank for the change in direction her life took in that moment, though the decision had ultimately been hers.
"I can hand you over to the city guard, and you may spend the next year of your life in a jail cell, or you may spend that year with me, and we will train those talented hands of yours to serve the Gods more honestly. The choice is yours," he had said plainly after she had consumed her entire bowl of stew and half of his.
In the years that followed she had learned many things; physical, mental, and spiritual. His skill in unarmed combat was something that she could never hope to approach, let alone equal. It still amazed her after all these years when she thought back on it, but that sense of wonder was surpassed by his demonstration of pure, chaste love. She had never experienced the like, neither before nor since. Peryn loved her, if not quite like a daughter then certainly like a younger sister, never expecting anything in return. Her love for him, once it had grown, and her with it, had been less chaste. He had noticed, of course; she was convinced that he had a third eye that could see what the other two did not, but he never took advantage of her (though she would occasionally dream that he would). A warm smile and a kiss upon the crown of her head as his hands rested gently on her shoulders was the most affection he would show her, at least in the physical sense. Salama could almost remember her mother kissing her in just that manner when she had been very young. She only had a vague memory of her mother's face, or how it felt to be carried in her arms, but those memories came back strongest when Peryn kissed the top of her head.
"I believe in my heart that the Gods brought us together," he said to her after one such kiss, "there can be no other explanation for why my heart is so full."
Salama was not prone to tears, but they flowed freely down her face at that moment.
"I do not deserve to love you as I do, or for you to love me so deeply; not when there are so many who have never known love."
"Everyone deserves to be loved, and to love in return. It is one reason that we have both Mara and Dibella. Two Gods, two different aspects of love, but both of them the same love. Love is a gift from the Gods, iníon. Love yourself. Love others. To do otherwise displeases the Gods."
She had tried to keep his advice in her heart, even when she could not put it into practice. Skyrim was a hard land, particularly when one looked like she did. But she had felt her heart open in a familiar way soon after meeting the man that was at that moment standing behind her. He looked nothing like Peryn, who was a decade and a half older than either of them, but he reminded Salama of the Breton monk in other ways; the more important ways that were hidden from the baser senses. Terek was kind, thoughtful, and considerate (sometimes overly so) of her sensibilities, never wishing to presume too much and, like Peryn, gave his love freely, expecting nothing in return. His reaction upon learning that she felt as he did was akin to a man discovering buried treasure. It still embarrassed him, and amused her, when she reminded him of that day.
"When will you depart?" Hellina asked as the two woman, and Terek, who had escorted Salama into the house as if he thought she needed support, or protection while making her request, spoke while Hellina dried a series of earthen pots that were to hold oats, or barley, or other dry ingredients. The pantry could not be described as large, and the Imperial warrior stood outside the entrance as Salama and Hellina took up most of the room that was not occupied by shelves and cabinets.
"The day after tomorrow. Nora will ride north, I will ride south. We will join Cruith at the Vigilant's Hall and proceed east to Heljarchen. We will add a warrior and her husband to our group and travel finally to the temple."
Hellina considered the route that Salama had described while her hands continued to dry pottery.
"A day to reach the Vigilant's hall, two days to Heljarchen, two days to the shrine, if I recall its general location. You will certainly require more than a week. Especially if the weather does not improve."
Terek's face adopted a look as he seemed to find something of interest on his boots, or the floor beneath them.
"I do not wish to be away for too long, or to avoid my duties," Salama said simply, "my return journey will require only two days."
"Your horse will be lame, and you will be permanently attached to your saddle if you attempt to return from Winterhold in only two days," Hellina replied plainly before she smiled and changed tactics and addressed Terek, "can you not survive without her for a fortnight?"
Hellina had seen enough Dunmer blush to recognize it in the dark skinned woman in front of her. It was no challenge at all for her to see it in that portion of Terek's face that was not directed at the floor.
"I am sorry, friends," Hellina said when her attempt to keep herself from laughing failed miserably, "I do not laugh at you. Well, I do, but..."
Hellina gave up the struggle, her explanation abandoned, as she used the damp dish cloth to hide her face so she could give her laughter free rein.
"Does that mean that I have your permission to go?" Salama asked.
Frik was not comfortable riding across Whiterun Hold with his collected treasure double wrapped and stored in the leather satchel that he wore on his back. For one thing it prevented him from wearing a quiver properly, though he was no accomplished archer, particularly from the saddle. But the main reason was that he did not like to place all of his earthly wealth at risk in this fashion; and it was a risk he knew well, though from the other side of the coin. Frik, in company with Krev or one of his faceless, nameless rabble, had accosted more than one traveler in just such a fashion, though never close enough to home to be recognized. In any case, the victim was rarely left in any state to make a complaint or report the attack to any authority.
But he had never ventured as far as Riverwood without keeping to the windy side of the law, which was why he felt safe now. Safe, at least, from the Whiterun Hold guards that patrolled the village and its surrounds. He would not stay long; he was bound for Helgen and the relative anonymity of a village that had long since recovered from a dragon attack and was now bursting at the seams with expansion. Helgen had attracted men and women from across Skyrim, all of them looking for opportunities that did not exist in the well established towns and villages. One more face, wherever it came from, would not be any more noticeable than another, especially when that face was hidden behind the helm of a city guard. He owned enough wealth that he could purchase a commission if he wished, but that would require him to appear before Balgruuf himself, and Frik had no intention of tempting his luck to such a degree. He would present himself to the local commander at Helgen and ask for employment as a simple guard. They would either accept him or not. If they did, all well and good. If they did not he would continue through the mountain pass to The Rift. He was no thief, not compared to the members of the Guild, but there was still work for a man such as Frik in the Rift, and he had no qualms about buying himself a commission into the Riften guard now that Maven Blackbriar was Jarl. It could be a comfortable life for him, at least for a time, until something better presented itself. Until then he was, at least, free of Krev, his band of misfits, and the rest of the Silver Hand. The most daunting task before Frik now was choosing a new name to live under, a new name, a new history; something not too involved, something easy to remember.
Life is filled with possibilities for those that paid attention, and were desperate enough to consider even legal, legitimate work.