Preface
Each of us resides in our own Skyrim universe.
We are all Dragonborn; that much we have in common. But we are men or women, Nord or Imperial or Elf or a member of any number of custom races. We are fighters or thieves or mages, or a combination of the three.
Those of us who choose to write about our universe must begin somewhere, either in a cart on our way to the executioner's block, or many years after that noteworthy day.
The Skyrim inhabited by Heimdall Aric Belrud Aamutähti, Dragon Born, Archmage, Companion, Thane of Haafingar, Eastmarch, the Pale, Whiterun and the Reach, is introduced to you in the two-hundred-thirteenth year of the Forth Era. Alduin is defeated, as is Harkon and Miraak. The Civil War rages on. Aric has long since scoffed at any attempt to limit him to adopting only two children. Now, at the not-so-ripe-old-age of forty-four, many of his adopted children are adults themselves, and actively assist him in bringing and maintaining peace to Skyrim, while still finding time for their own adventures. Some familiar faces have aged alongside Aric, others seem to be frozen in time. You may ask yourself "merciful Gods, how long have those two Redguard warriors been standing at the Whiterun gate asking about that woman?" It is a fair question.
As with all parallel universes, this one will diverge from your own in certain aspects. Please allow it to do so. It has a life of its own, as I discovered as I was documenting it.
We all ultimately have an appointment with the executioner's block. It is what we do with the time we have while we inhabit this universe that matters. Use the time well.
Acknowledgements
Cover image by Daniel Löwens used with permission - Thank you Daniel!
The Elder Scrolls® or Skyrim® names, logos, branding elements, artwork, etc. are the intellectual property of Bethesda Softworks.
This is a work of non-commercial fan fiction and not intended for, or to be used for, commercial purposes.
Chapter 1
"You are certain?" Soran asked her, even though he knew in his heart that the report was true.
"Yes," Hellina replied before setting her gauntlets, helm and sword on the table and sitting in the chair opposite her friend and commander, "none survived. All bore wounds consistent with a Beast Blood attack."
"And the fragment?" he asked.
"It was not located. It was most certainly taken. We only needed to follow the bodies of dismembered Draugr to the location where it should have been. Whoever took it had their work cut out for them, though only our men showed Beast Blood wounds."
They were occasional lovers, Soran and Hellina. She was one of the few people who knew him to his core. She knew the burden he carried as the leader of the Silver Hand; the true leader, whatever title Krev chose to call himself. Krev was a fanatic, and flawed. Soran was the true Harbinger, and Hellina knew how painful this loss of men and women was for him, and her heart ached in sympathy.
"So, they have also begun to search for the fragments," Soran said as Hellina's calloused hand found his where it rested on the table.
"It would appear so," Hellina replied as her hand applied a small pressure against his, and his hand answered in kind, "though why they show a sudden interest I do not know."
Soran found it difficult to pry his mind away from the men and women who he had sent to Dustman's Cairn, and to their inadvertent deaths, and it took him a moment to answer.
"They may have their own source of information on the locations of the fragments," he said, "and it may be that their source is also our source."
"You believe that the scholar who approached us also approached them?" she asked him.
"Why sell information only once when you can sell it twice, and double your profit?" he asked, as his face attempted a weak smile.
"Then we must scatter the remaining fragments we have to different locations and guard them closely," she said, "and then we must keep watch on the Circle should they make another attempt."
"They will certainly make another attempt," Soran said, "They value Wuuthrad as much as we do, however false their beliefs may be. They may have strayed far from the true path set down by Ysgramor, but not that far. They will not stop looking."
"Gods damn Terrfyg, and those witches, in equal proportions," Hellina said, "but for them, the schism would never have occured."
It was a topic that they would occasionally discuss, once the fire of passion had burned out of them both and they lay as a commingled tangle of damp limbs, their voices lowered to a whisper, their hearts beating in unison: what would their lives be like if Terrfyg had refused the offer of power made by the Witches of Glenmoril Coven? What if the curse of Beast Blood had never been visited upon the Companions? What if those members of the Companions that had been opposed to Terrfyg's choice had never left the group in protest, eventually forming The Silver Hand?
"It is too late to litigate that case," Soran replied, his early training as a Magistrate momentarily coming to the fore, "and it is not the first schism to rend the Companions. Who can say what else would have torn us apart if not for that? Much can happen in a few hundred years."
"Much has happened in the several hundred years since our predecessors left Jorrvaskr," Hellina said, "much of it bad."
The two members of the Silver Hand were quiet for a moment. The small room in the small cave southwest of Morthal in which they sat was as quiet as a tomb. The last rays of sunlight reaching the pair of warriors gave up the struggle to penetrate the darkness of the cave, and it was now only candle light that illuminated their two faces.
Soran took in a deep breath before releasing it as a slow sigh. His gaze, that had been directed at the candles on the table, moved up to the beautiful face across from him.
"Aren't you growing warm wearing all of that?" he asked the woman who had not removed the rest of her armor.
A slow smile began to form on her face.
"Yes," she answered, "would you help me in taking it off?"
His own smile was all the answer she needed.
"Guard them with your lives," Hellina said to the three faces that looked at her, all of whom wore a satchel containing fragments of Wuuthrad, "and make certain that you are not followed. No one can know where these fragments are to reside."
"We understand," said Urul, who was tall, and broad, even for an Orc. His face, which was always hard to read, was a mask.
"It's not just Companions we have to worry about," Manis said, the lilt in his voice betraying his origins in High Rock, "the land seems more disturbed than usual."
"Hard to tell the difference," Vala said as she massaged the top of her head and her close cropped hair, "Skyrim is always in upheaval."
It was the first of a pair of conversations that Hellina was to have this morning. The second was on a topic that required a different set of skills.
"Find out anything you can about what transpired in Dustman's Cairn," she said to the tall Khajiit, "who was it that killed our men, and where did they take the fragment."
"Naar hears his charge and will obey," he answered, "Hellina will have answers soon enough."
"Be careful," she said, "Do not arouse suspicion."
"Simply by being Khajiit, Naar will arouse suspicion," he answered as he flashed Hellina a toothy smile, "it will be good camouflage."
Those were not the only conversations between members of the Silver Hand. Another discussion was underway that was much more tense, an more likely to come to blows.
"You do not command here, Krev, whatever small following you may have," Soran said to the man who was about his height, but leaner, and who possessed a face that radiated ill will.
"You have no more claim to the title of Harbinger than I do," Krev said, ending the statement by raising his chin, his lips parted in almost a sneer.
"My claim to the title comes from the lips of Jarran himself, as he passed the title to me on his deathbed," Soran said as his anger rose, "do not try my patience, Krev. I have been looking for an outlet for my grief and pain after Dustman's Cairn, and I will gladly use you for that outlet if you persist. If you doubt me you have only to sneer at me again and I will alter your face past any mending."
Krev knew Soran well enough to know that a hasty retreat was well advised, but not without a final prod.
"There will come a day when you will regret that threat," Krev said, managing to keep his face as neutral as possible.
"Perhaps," Soran replied calmly, "but today is not that day."
"He will end badly, and his ending will cause us grief," Hellina said later that day, "I still do not understand why Jarran allowed him to stay."
"Krev was never a harbinger of joy," Soran answered, "but he became more morose and ill tempered after he was passed over for Harbinger of the Silver Hand. His pride was deeply wounded and has never recovered. He will always consider that slight to be a grave injustice."
"You should rid yourself of him, and any who would follow him," Hellina said.
"I would gladly do so, but insolence is not sufficient cause," Soran said.
"We have survived one schism," Hellina said with a smile, "I could easily manufacture another that would have him leave of his own accord."
"It would not be honorable," Soran said as placed him hand on her arm and returned her smile, "Ysgramor would not approve."
"Perhaps a bear will eat him and solve our problem for us," she said, "though I do not envy that bear the stomach ache that would result from such a meal."
Soran's laughter lightened her heart.