Chapter 24
The battle at the Western Watchtower is the talk of every man, woman, and child in Whiterun for a long, long time. Wherever he goes, Mull hears townspeople singing the praises of the Jarl's housecarl and her brave warriors who brought low the mighty beast. There's no mention of himself in their awed recountings, though he isn't disappointed by that in the slightest. His exclusion from the official record of events was of his own volition.
The city descended into a state of fervent celebration after Proventus Avenicci publicly announced what happened at the watchtower the morning after the battle. The merrymaking wound down after several days, but now it's already beginning anew with the timely arrival of the Autumn Equinox, a holiday among the Nords which they call Elfblót. It looks like the people of Whiterun are still in the mood to party, and what better reason than the defeat of a dragon?
Mull learns that Elfblót is an autumn ritual related to the Snow Elves, though in what way exactly has been lost to time. He initially thought it was the same thing as Harvest's End, but apparently it isn't – that holiday doesn't coincide with the Equinox and often differs by locality.
Elfblót usually isn't a big public event. It's a tradition more associated with the Hearth Goddesses and is performed by important women and witches privately inside the home as a celebration of the harvest, fertility, and family.
But this year it takes on an entirely different tone. The festival spills out into the streets with an overabundance of feasting, drinking, music, and – in truly Nordic fashion – impromptu contests of strength. It's utter chaos. The city is completely shut down for days, and walking any significant distance is a never-ending battle against the crowds.
Mull makes a conscious effort to keep his head down during this time. He usually doesn't have anything against a good party, especially where mead is involved – and there's a lot of Honningbrew circulating at the moment – but it doesn't seem like a good idea to make himself too visible right now.
Despite his best efforts, some of the Jarl's court have already begun to suspect he's more than just your average newly-minted Thane, possibly due to Balgruuf's favorability towards him. And that isn't even mentioning the fact that a dragon was slain and the Greybeards called to the Dovahkiin right before he was elevated to Thaneship. It wouldn't take much for somebody to puzzle out that connection, so other than his occasional presence at certain sessions of court – which he naps through whenever possible – he does everything in his power to stay out of those people's way.
Lydia asked once why he doesn't take the Jarl's court sessions seriously, to which he responded "If I have to sit through all that bowing and scraping for hours on end, I really think I might slit my own throat and be done with it." She stopped bothering him about it after that.
In pursuit of his desire for obscurity, most of his time has been spent in and around his new residence, roaming throughout the lower levels of the city, or dawdling in low-end alehouses. In almost every single tavern he visits during Elfblót, the bards insist on playing 'The Dragonborn Comes' over and over, repeating the ancient ballad endlessly. The Greybeards' call has awoken an unparalleled fervor in the hearts of the Nords.
He can't stand it. The boundless optimism expressed in that tune's cheery lyrics borders on nauseating.
Luckily for him, the proprietor of the White Whale doesn't care much for the musical arts, so there's no need for him to worry about that when giving the establishment his patronage. The White Whale is more of the rowdy side, but he prefers it that way. It's easier to blend in and slip away unnoticed.
Torgen disappears for days on end, which isn't necessarily unexpected. On the rare occasion that he does return to the barracks, he's covered in a tapestry of cuts, scrapes, bruises of indeterminable origin, and multicolored marks that look suspiciously like smeared makeup.
However, this period of merriment finally comes to an end as it's overtaken by the solemnity befitting a mass funeral. As Aela previously mentioned, the last of the men and women slain by Mirmulnir have finally been recovered from the Western Watchtower and returned to Whiterun for burial. Mull never heard an exact number of the dead, but he's pretty sure it was well over fifty.
Thousands of people attend the funeral ceremonies held in the courtyard of the Temple of Kyne. Functionaries from Dragonsreach and other important people stand atop the steps to the temple's front doors and address the crowd from above.
And it's quite a crowd. Nearly the entire Temple District is filled to the brim with people, every single one of them grave and subdued in stark contrast to the laughter and dancing in the streets that characterized Elfblót.
Aela's earlier suggestions about Mull occupying a front-and-center role in the funeral are thankfully unfounded. He hasn't been asked to officially participate, which suits him just fine. His answer would've been no.
Still, he does decide to grace the event with his Thanely presence, albeit with all possible discretion. Not because he especially wants to attend – he's never been much for sentimentality – but because he recognizes that he could've very easily been one of those dead men if the cards had fallen just a little differently. This wasn't some far-removed tragedy. He was there, fighting for his survival right alongside them. It would feel wrong for him not to attend – aye, even to him. That's what it boils down to.
So here he is, loitering as far back in the crowd as he can manage while still staying within earshot of the speakers atop the temple stairs, surrounded on all sides by lethargic masses of people clad in the black and grey raiment of mourning. Lydia stands to his immediate left where she can draw her sword to defend him without unnecessary obstruction. She remains so close in the press of the crowd that her bony shoulder presses uncomfortably into his arm, a continuous reminder of her presence.
To the right and a little behind, Torgen looms over them both with arms crossed and an extremely bored expression. The crowd is giving him a wide berth despite the cramped conditions. He isn't the kind of man who dresses up well. And neither is Mull, to be fair, though Lydia did her best to rectify that shortcoming before they departed from the barracks.
He still has no idea where the girl acquired the embroidered black wool tunic he's currently wearing. It just… appeared, like she spawned it from thin air. If there's one thing he's already learned about her, it's that she is never unprepared for anything.
The ceremony isn't grandiose or stately. It's straightforward in the manner that the Nords seem to prefer for such things. After a few opening statements by aristocrats and priests who Mull doesn't recognize, Hrongar ascends to the summit of the temple steps, accepts a sheaf of inked vellum from Avenicci – in doing so emphasizing his lack of an arm – and recites in his booming baritone the names of each of the slain, listing them off one by one. The vast majority are Nords and Cyrods, but there are also some distinctly Dunmeri and Orcish names, as well as a few others Mull can't identify. The last of the names is Commander Caius Largennius, for whom Jarl Balgruuf himself takes the stage to offer praise.
Balgruuf speaks for a long time about Caius and the bravery of all involved. It's a good speech, but Mull inevitably begins to lose interest. He came out today to show his support, such as it is, but that doesn't change the fact that these ceremonies aren't really his cup of tea.
His gaze wanders to the brunette girl standing guard beside him. A question forms on his tongue, a way to stave off boredom if nothing else. "Did you know him?"
His housecarl gives him a questioning look, though she only meets his eyes for a split second before sliding hers away. She still acts uncomfortable whenever directly addressed like this.
"Caius, I mean," he clarifies.
She purses her lips and shakes her head. "Not well, no," she softly replies. "I only ever interacted with him in passing or occasionally at official functions. I do know of him however, and by all accounts he was an exceptional man. During his tenure, Commander Caius successfully suppressed the Whiterun Thieves Guild and eradicated their operations within the city walls. He also performed commendably in his efforts to combat brigandry in the Hold countryside, which has been made significantly worse by the Civil War."
She lowers her head with a frown.
"But with him now gone, things may very well revert to how they once were. The Thieves Guild could regain their former influence or the Dark Brotherhood could make new inroads. Brigands and clan raiders might press against the very walls of the city itself as they have done in the past. It depends primarily on the competence of his successor."
"And who do you think that'll be?"
"A warrior named Sinmir, most likely. He's capable enough, though he had an unfortunate habit of expressing very strong and universally negative opinions about Caius' policies as commander prior to his death. That might not be an issue if he were a match for Caius in his ability to lead, but he is not. The reasons why my uncle is considering him for the position are primarily political, as many things tend to be in this city. Aristocrats who support the Stormcloaks wish for Sinmir to become commander of the city, and since Caius was a Cyrod, they feel it is 'their turn,' so to speak."
He resists the urge to scoff. For being a weighty political matter, that explanation makes it sound so childish to him. "Seems like a complicated situation," he manages to say with only a hint of sarcasm.
"It always is," she drily replies.
Was that a joke? He stares at her, trying to puzzle out whether that was intended to be ironic or not. The girl flushes scarlet under his scrutiny and looks away.
He still isn't entirely sure how to interact with her, and he gets the feeling that won't change for a while. With a mental shrug, he focuses on Balgruuf as he delivers the closing lines of his oration. He petitions the citizens and leaders of Whiterun to stand together in the face of an uncertain future and other generic platitudes.
The Jarl then cedes the pulpit to a priestess of Kyne – Danica Pure-Spring, Mull belatedly realizes – who wraps up the ceremony with a dignified rapidity that he internally applauds.
Once the master healer has thanked the crowds for their attendance and bidden them to return to their homes, the mass of humanity around Mull gradually begins to shift. They shuffle in the direction of the gates that lead down to the lower market squares, moving with the sluggishness of a dollop of honey. He tries to make things go a little more quickly by wedging between people and shoving those who step in his path, but when Lydia starts giving him increasingly distressed looks after the second or third time, he reluctantly gives up and settles in to wait.
It takes over an hour for the thousands of mourners to finally thin out. By the time they make it back to the barracks, it's already well past midday. Mull is restless. He needs to find a way to occupy himself after all thatstanding around and doing nothing. I should find a way to blow off some steam.
Also, Lydia's reticence is starting to bother him. Something needs to be done about that if they're going to be stuck together for the duration of his Thaneship. He doesn't want his housecarl to stay meek forever. That would get old fast.
If there's one way I know to break the ice with someone, it's either to fight alongside them or to get in a fight with them, whether that be bare-fisted or in a training ring. He mentally rubs his hands with anticipation. It's decided then. I need to see how good she is with her sword anyways, so this'll kill two birds with one stone. Let's see how this goes.
-x-
The ring of clashing steel resounds from behind the formerly derelict carpenter's house, accompanied by the occasional cry of exertionor whump of hardened leather absorbing a blow. Few people walk this street due to its predominantly residential nature and lack of commercial activity, but those who do sometimes stop to wonder at the structure's new lease on life as well as its unfamiliar inhabitants. Supposedly the Jarl himself hired men to carry out the renovation, though most dismiss that as hearsay and rumor. What interest would he have in this part of the city? Shrugging, they continue about their business.
Gods dammit, she's good! Mull feints, parries, deflects, ducks, sidesteps, kicks up dirt, grabs for her hair, and even spits at her face, pulling every trick he can think of and improvising a few more on the spot for good measure, all in an attempt to slow the inexorable advance of his housecarl across their little training ground.
He growls in annoyance as he bats aside another swipe of her blunted practice sword. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Lydia's shield technique is almost flawless, and without using a shield himself, he's left at a severe disadvantage. He does his best to compensate by making full use of his superior reach, courtesy of his slightly greater height and longer arms, but the stone-cold truth is that he's simply outclassed on a technical level. The girl's reflexes, sword-skill, and agility are superior to his own.
She turtles behind her shield to avoid his retaliatory blow, then flicks out her sword in a lighting-fast thrust for his abdomen. He dodges backwards and swings at her outstretched arm, but she withdraws too quickly. His practice blade wooshes through empty air.
He follows up with an exploratory stab at her knees, but she easily repositions her shield to protect herself. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and backpedals to create breathing room. That shield is what's dragging out this fight. He needs to find a way past it. His options are limited, but he might have a workable idea.
He's never been particularly good with a blade even though he's been using one for his entire adult life. To be perfectly honest, he's only survived to the present day by using his wits to the fullest and an unabashed willingness to fight dirty. Without any other options, that's something he puts to the test now.
He advances for another attack and purposefully stumbles, baiting his housecarl into delivering a swift overhanded slash. Once she's committed, he uses his forward momentum to dart beneath her guard, allowing her sword to pass harmlessly above his head. He's now in a perfect position to disarm her.
Lydia instantly recognizes this, a testament to her sharp mind, and tries to bash him with her shield to regain space.
Perfect. He suppresses a lupine grin as the younger woman concentrates most of her weight on her forward foot for the upcoming shield bash. The same foot that he sweeps out from under her while her own shield is restricting her field of vision.
As she crashes to the ground, he stomps on her shield to prevent her from rolling sideways and brings his dulled blade up to her throat.
"Yield," he breathes, winded from the effort of surviving the girl's onslaught for better part of a full minute. His final ploy had been a gamble more than anything else, and probably only worked because Lydia was growing tired as well. Her relentless assault was impressive but unsustainable in the long run.
"I… yield," she forces out between coughs. She yanks her arm away from the shield's leather strap and unsteadily clambers to her feet. She prods the side of her head and winces. Uncontrolled falls like that are never fun.
He lowers his weapon and watches as she dusts herself off. He's impressed, though he avoids giving any outward sign of it. The girl is really very good.
He only has one criticism. She fights with a hesitancy that tells him she's either never been in a real battle or has only done so once or twice. But despite that, her fundamentals are without fault. She's been taught well. Good ole' Hrongar sure knows a thing or two. But I already knew that.
Aloud, he announces "That's enough for today."
The afternoon sun beats down on them mercilessly. Sweat and grime cover their bodies. Lydia goes to wipe the caked dirt from her face only to realize her arms are in even worse shape. "Uh, as you say, my Thane."
She pauses for a moment before subjecting him to a severe glare.
"You may have forced me to yield, but your gambit was deceitful. You did not attain that victory with honor."
Ooh. Now she isn't acting so meek. I was right – this is exactly the sort of thing she needed to get out of her shell. "Aye, it was," he agrees with a canted eyebrow. "And…?"
"That… well, I would not presume to tell you how you should fight, my Thane, but surely there are other methods by which you could win a duel? You seem a decent enough warrior for someone who isn't a professional. Underhanded duplicity should be beneath you."
"If it's bothers you that much, then let me ask you something. What's your best weapon in a fight?"
Lydia is taken aback by the question and idles as she thinks it over. "Um… your mind?"
Hmm. I don't disagree with that, but it isn't what I'm going for. "Good answer, though not quite. I think it's will. You've got to have the will to do whatever it takes to win, or at least to survive. Ambush, trickery, taking advantage of any weakness, even running away like a coward – anything is permissible so long as the end result is the same. The ends justify the means. I won and you didn't."
The young housecarl crosses her arms and scowls. "That isn't how a Nord should fight."
He scoffs derisively. "Then how exactly should a Nord fight? Shirtless with a target painted on their chest? That's something I'd like to see, by the way."
"With courage and honor, and with joy," she answers, ignoring his quip. "In doing so, we make ourselves worthy of gaining entry to Shor's hall – for a Nord is judged not by the manner in which they lived, but by the manner in which they died. Those who seek to find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life in pursuit of something greater than themselves will find it in the hereafter."
The fact that it sounds like she's quoting liturgy makes him irate. "Unlike you, I don't fight to die. I fight to survive. That's it. Nothing else matters when it's all over and done with."
"That isn't true."
He exasperatedly sighs. "Tell me girl, have you ever killed someone?"
"I have," she gravely answers.
He isn't expecting that response. She fought well in the ring, but she lacked the callous viciousness of someone intending to main or kill. A practice bout is a pointless waste of time if you don't fight like you mean it. She didn't, and whether that's because he's her Thane or because she simply lacks that requisite ferocity, he isn't sure yet. But regardless, he forges ahead anyway and improvises as he goes. "Then you know what it means to fight for your life. In that moment, it's either them or you. It'll end with your opponent bleeding out on the ground or with you breathing your last. And you're really going to stand there and insist you're thinking about Sovngarde while in the middle of that situation?"
She shuffles uneasily.
"No, of course you won't. You're lying to yourself if you believe that. When you're fighting for your life, the only thing you're worrying about is your immediate survival. That's a fact whether you like it or not."
"You should not claim to know the thoughts and beliefs of others, my Thane. Their minds are their own, as is mine."
Hot anger seethes beneath his skin. He was trying to goad her into showing some spine, but she's somehow already turned the tables on him without him realizing. "You're fooling yourself then."
"I am not."
"Oh, excuse me," he sneers. "I forgot you're a savage Nord princess. That means you know everything there is to know about battle, don't you?"
She twitches but otherwise remains impassive.
He raises his hands in mock surrender. "You'll have to forgive me for overstepping. After all, I'm just a washed-up bandit with a handful of septims to his name. Not someone who's spent fifteen years killing for a living or who helped fight a dragon and lived to talk about it. What could I possibly know about these things?"
She meets his gaze with azure eyes full of anger, and this time she doesn't shy away.
A fierce grin tugs at his lips, though it doesn't last long. Satisfaction and resentment swirl together inside him. He's accomplished what he wanted to, but he also allowed himself to be pointlessly goaded to this level of irritation.
He isn't sure where this vehemency is coming from, but something about the young woman's naïve and flippant attitude is rankling him badly. It's oddly familiar, somehow.
He had a similar exchange with Ralof not long after Helgen. That already seems so long ago. The Stormcloak had tried to justify how Gunjar and Rana died, and it irked him to no end. It was a pointless waste, especially since they survived the catastrophe at Helgen.
And then more recently in Bleak Falls Barrow, Torgen had mentioned Sovngarde after his two clanmates were killed. He was still distraught by their deaths to his credit, but he used that same excuse. It seems to Mull that all Nords think this way for some reason.
There was Lokir and how he was killed so dishonorably with his back shot full of Imperial arrows. Did he die well enough? Did his suffering earn him access to Shor's Hall? Those questions are rhetorical and sarcastic in his mind, but a part of him does truly wonder.
Then there were Morven's last words. He remembers with agonizing clarity what she looked like as she bled out beneath the snow-laden trees in that alpine ravine. Skin as pale as ice. Blue eyes glazed over. Flaxen hair matted and tangled with clotted blood. Lips moving sluggishly, her words as soft as the wind.
"I'll see you… again… in Sovngarde."
Aye. There it is. That's why it makes him so angry.
Morven had this exact same mindset. She was a bandit just like him, that much is true. But in spite of that, she still held herself to a higher standard. She wanted to be steadfast and valiant in the face of adversity, and to live and die in a manner she believed would have lasting significance. She wanted to be a hero, at least by the Nord definition.
And then she died, and nothing changed. The world stayed the same as it had always been.
He hates the idea of Sovngarde. If the Nords are right, that would mean an honorable death erases all past misdeeds. He can't accept that.
He's done a lot of bad things in his life by his own admission. He recognizes that despite not regretting most of those deeds. But if an honorable death is all that matters in the end, then will he really not face judgement for the things he's done? Would he just… get let off the hook entirely?
That isn't right. If that were the case, then his actions would have no significance. His failures would carry no weight.
That's not how it should be.
He grits his teeth, not daring to speak until he gets himself back under some semblance of control. It takes intense effort to keep his voice from trembling as he finally answers his housecarl. "Living is more important than anything else. I don't care about what comes after. I care about keeping my head attached to my shoulders. If you lose a fight, a real fight, then congratulations – you're dead. Honor won't do anything for you then, will it?"
Lydia obviously doesn't agree, but rather than arguing further she clenches her jaw and turns away.
He releases a harsh breath. One way or the other, I swear this girl is going to be the death of me. To think she was acting like such a sweetheart a few hours ago. What the hell happened?
She walks over to the weapons rack leaning up against the back wall of the barracks. Mull follows silently and joins her in putting away their gear. He assembled the plane-smoothed ashwood rack just this morning and was proud of his work at the time. Right now, it brings him no joy.
He still hasn't grown accustomed to his housecarl's constant presence. Having a second shadow is an odd feeling, and it rankles him to know that the young woman is watching him like a hawk day in and day out. Whether it's in pursuit of her duty as his housecarl or something deeper than that, he isn't sure yet. Hrongar has already made it clear he doesn't entirely trust him.
Sullenly lost in thought, he opens the back door to the barrack's main room and goes to step inside.
"My Thane, please remove your boots. You'll track dirt inside."
He stops and stares incredulously. "Really?"
She stares right back with far greater seriousness than the situation calls for.
"I didn't realize you're a maid."
The housecarl's eyes take on a stormy hue, roiling like waves on the open ocean. Or so Mull imagines. He's actually never seen the ocean.
"My Thane…" she grouses, her tone laced with warning.
His metaphorical hackles rise again and he bites back an unmerited retort. "Ysmir Talos, fine. If it's that important to you." He does as she asks and pulls off the damn boots. She's already pissed and so am I. Might as well avoid making it worse. My devious scheme really backfired this time.
She nods once, satisfied, before heading towards a small veranda adjacent to the far end of the barracks where they keep the washtub. It was her idea, of course. She doesn't like being dirty for any longer than strictly necessary – something that's never bothered Mull much for whatever reason. As she walks away, he uses the opportunity to inspect her in detail.
Her braided chestnut-brown hair reaches the middle of her back, long enough to be a liability in battle – though she makes it work somehow. It currently hangs in lank ropes twisting back and forth, soaked in sweat. Her arms are left bare by her sleeveless tunic and padded leather vest. They aren't unfemininely large, but layers of lean muscle are clearly visible beneath her skin, the kind that can only be built though years of unceasing effort. Her gait is confident and purposeful despite her fatigue, just as he's noted before.
He allows a wan, humorless smile to make itself known as he reaches the same conclusion he had at their first meeting. This girl's a tough one. And as it turns out, a damned fool too. We're just peas in a pod, aren't we?
He gets the distinct impression that the duration of their partnership is going to be very… memorable.
-x-
A few hours later, Mull sets out the final platter of food on one of their trestle tables and takes his seat. It's time for dinner.
Without preamble, Lydia and Torgen start piling their plates with as much sustenance as physically possible and then some. The housecarl must've worked up an appetite during their sparring session. He's learned that Torgen is always a big eater regardless of the circumstances.
Mull starts with a mouthful of the cabbage and potato soup.
Whew, that's bland. If he were blindfolded, he'd think this is a bowl of hot water with indeterminable chunks of… something… floating within.
He puts aside his spoon with a repressed grimace and reaches for a loaf of bread. Biting into it is like trying to eat a sponge.
Too doughy.
He washes that down with a draught of mead before sinking his teeth into a slab of cooked beef. Emphasis on cooked.
…By the gods, this is terrible.
In theory, Mull now has full access to the kitchen staff of Dragonsreach due to his elevation to Thane. The problem is that Dragonsreach is on the other side of the city and up countless flights of stairs. If he walked up there for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, his knees would give out within a week.
And so this meal is something he whipped up with what ingredients he could acquire from vendors in this area of the city. He'll admit that he's never been much of a chef. His talents are mostly limited to turning whatever inedible things he found in the wilderness into something at least theoretically edible.
In a big place like Whiterun, he has a decent number of options to choose from. However, even though he made liberal use of expensive condiments like wasabi remoulade, elderberry jam, and ground anise seeds imported from Cyrodiil, they still weren't enough to salvage this travesty of a meal. He learned a valuable lesson today. Throwing money at ingredients doesn't compensate for culinary incompetence.
He scans the table. Lydia doesn't seem pleased with the fare either, but has already consumed a prodigious amount nonetheless. He wonders if she's forcing herself to eat out of a sense of duty.
Torgen doesn't appear to care about such extraneous things as taste.
He shrugs and continues eating.
He's often had to survive on whatever was readily available in the wilderness, whether it be skeever meat, boiled pine bark, or even Namira's Rot mushrooms – which although edible, also carry moderate hallucinogenic properties, and not the good kind – so he isn't too prone to complaining. He surmises that Torgen has had much the same experiences. Between the two of them, they've probably just about seen it all.
Lydia, however, is undoubtedly accustomed to a better spread than this. Maybe this'll convince her to start cooking for us. That'd be convenient. I could drop a few hints about her honor as a housecarl being at stake to help speed things along.
That trail of thought makes him curious. "If you're a princess, why weren't you taught to cook? Or sew, or sing, or anything like that? Isn't that… normal?"
Lydia looks up from her cut of leathery beef with slim eyebrows scrunched together, peeved by the question. "My father trained me to be a warrior from childhood. I had no time to pursue such frivolities. He was rather single-minded in that regard."
Mull acknowledges her with a neutral hum. That isn't unexpected given what he's seen of Hrongar. "So you're telling me a Nord warrior princess who was trained to fight from birth is now my sworn servant and personal asskicker for the rest of eternity."
She sets down her utensils. "That isn't quite how I would put it, but… yes, essentially."
"And your uncle thought it would be a good idea to entrust you to me?"
"If anything," she sniffs, "it is you who has been entrusted to me."
"…Right. And that doesn't seem strange to you at all."
"Should it?"
"Well, sure. Isn't the biggest responsibility of you noblewomen to be popping out as many noble brats as physically possible? With due respect and all that."
Rather than grace him with a response, she instead firmly grasps her utensils and begins to eat once more, though this time with the mechanical precision of someone who is distinctly displeased and no longer interested in conversation.
A stillness settles over the table as they resume their meal, not at all comfortable but not outright unpleasant either. Torgen is still chowing down with no sign of slowing.
Mull glares unhappily at his flavorless soup and resigns himself to not finishing. With the food no longer occupying his attention and his companions tending to their own affairs, his mind decides to roam.
He's made every effort over the past several days to keep himself as consistently occupied as possible. It never mattered what he was occupied with as long as it was something. The expedition back to the watchtower, arranging for new equipment, learning what there is to know about Whiterun's politics, meeting his housecarl, dealing with Torgen, working on the barracks, talking to Aela, attending the funeral – all of these things have been, in effect, a means to keep himself from dwelling on everything that's come to light in recent weeks. Paradoxically, Mirmulnir's mental harassment had actually helped keep him distracted, but now the incorporeal dragon is nowhere to be found.
He's already committed to traveling to High Hrothgar. Learning more about what it means to be Dragonborn will probably be beneficial, and he feels a pressing need to get some answers and uncover more about his newfound self. Even if he isn't Dragonborn – and no, he still isn't fully convinced – he did somehow use the Voice at the watchtower. He needs to understand why and how that happened.
But beyond a pilgrimage to the Throat of the World, he doesn't know what this absurd future will bring. Should he stay in Whiterun long-term as Jarl Balgruuf would definitely prefer? He's already made arrangements to do so for the foreseeable future, although bending to the Jarl's whims is a distasteful prospect no matter how helpful he's been recently. Especially since he forced Mull against his will to participate in a battle that by all rights should've ended with his death.
Should he return to a life of wandering as he'd been doing prior to Helgen? It's certainly an option, one he thinks should be seriously considered, but he elects to wait before making any final decisions. If he went with that, then what about Torgen and Lydia? Would he leave them behind so soon after getting them on-board with this mercenary idea? Is that what he wants?
…He isn't sure. They haven't been with him very long at all, and under normal circumstances he could part ways with them easily. They're still practically strangers.
The overarching issue is that he isn't a nobody any longer. Being just another nameless brigand-turned-wanderer made for a simple life. Now his anonymity is rapidly withering away. It might seem ridiculous from the outside looking in, but he would vastly prefer for none of this to have ever happened for that reason alone.
Torgen suddenly speaks up, much too loudly as usual. The bandit is still preoccupied with stuffing his face and his statement comes out garbled. Lydia glowers at him with disdain.
"You know, if this is supposed to be a mercenary gig, then we should come up with a name for ourselves. Something that'll send our foes fleeing before us. Something like… 'The Mighty Mudcrabs!'" Bits of bread spew from his mouth as he belts out a thunderous laugh.
It's infectious, and Mull finds himself chuckling right alongside the man. He even thinks Lydia might be discretely snickering into her soup, though he writes it off as his imagination.
He nearly misses the contemplative look that Torgen shoots his way once their laughter has subsided. "…I thought so back at the White Whale, but now I'm sure about it. You seem different, kid."
He straightens in his chair and leans his elbows on the table, his focus sharpening. "How's that?"
Lydia looks curious as well, her probing gaze jumping between the two men.
Torgen scratches his good ear as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "It's hard to explain. You almost have this aura about you, for one thing. It reminds me of a couple old clan chieftains I've met once before, up in the Pale. They were tough bastards who'd seen more winters than you and me combined. You could practically smell the strength and raw experience just rolling off them in waves. You have that same sort of feel now – except you're still a runt, so that doesn't make much sense. You definitely didn't have that back in the barrow, but now you do. It makes me wonder what changed. And your eyes are different too. They're the eyes of a snake who's spotted something tasty. Whenever we're walking through the city streets, people get out of your way as fast as their little legs can carry them, like you're a sabrecat in a pen full of pigs. I'm not sure if you've noticed it yet, but I have. That isn't normal."
The clansman takes a long draft of his ale, smacks his lips for dramatic effect, and fixes a shrewd stare on Mull. He notices the older man doesn't quite meet his eyes.
"Is there something you want to fill me in on? Shit like that doesn't just happen overnight. If we'll be doing this mercenary thing together, I need to know who I'm working with."
Mull tries to remain outwardly impassive, but inside he's getting alarmed. Torgen's a sharp man even if he acts like an idiot sometimes. I knew that, so why didn't I see this coming? He's been planning to fill in Torgen on the events of the past couple of weeks whenever an opportunity presents itself, but he assumed getting everything settled first would be the best thing to do.
Just as he goes to speak, he's cut off by his housecarl. "My Thane, are you certain this is wise?" she asks in an undertone. "You wish to maintain confidentiality, and for good reason. Can you guarantee that this man will abide by that desire?"
…She makes a good point. He doesn't know whether or not Torgen can keep a secret. Telling him anything will be a risk.
He shakes his head and answers truthfully. "I don't know."
Lydia purses her lips. "My uncle has exercised discretion in this matter to the best of his ability. You must determine how best to do so as well."
"So you're saying I should keep my mouth shut."
"I am saying no such thing, my Thane," she hastily amends. "I didn't intend for my words to come across that way."
"They didn't. I'm just being difficult," he snorts. He continues to think over the issue, trying to figure out the best course of action.
But before he can, Torgen brings the matter to a head by slamming his mug on the table. Mull whips his head around and Lydia jumps several inches in the air at the sudden noise.
Any hint of levity is gone from his features. "It's starting to feel like you're dodging the issue, kid. I want to know what's going on. Give. Me. An answer. Now." His sharp tone belies his waning patience.
Mull releases a protracted sigh. Well, he asked for it. Might as well rip off the bandage and get this over with. If worst comes to worst, I can just threaten to turn him over to the Jarl.
"Alright, alright. Keep your pants on. I only found this out a few days back, but… I'm Dragonborn. Probably."
Torgen chokes on his ale and starts coughing violently. He pounds a fist against his chest, spraying droplets across the table.
Mull sits and watches with something approaching amusement.
Once Torgen has recovered from a good half-minute of gagging, he graces Mull with a blistering glare. "You're joking. You've got to be. I asked for an answer, not a piss-poor attempt to get a cheap laugh."
His only response is a shake of his head.
Torgen looks to Lydia for support, but she merely shrugs.
"Oh, and I helped killed that dragon at the watchtower too," he throws out nonchalantly once he feels an appropriate amount of time has passed. "Stabbed it in the neck. Ate its soul and everything. Allegedly," he adds as an afterthought.
The fair-haired man groans and leans against the table on one arm, massaging his temple like he's trying to stave off a headache. "Of course you did. Everybody kills and eats dragons from time to time. It's perfectly normal. I swear, if you're yanking on my beard…"
Mull gestures toward Lydia. "Also, she's the Jarl's niece."
Torgen's forehead drops to the table with a soft thump. "Tsun's hairy balls, kid. Your sense of humor could really use some work."
"Everything I just said is the truth," he replies. His words turn solemn. "Trust me. I wish I was lying about all of this."
The man twists his head against the surface of the table to regard him with a baleful eye. "And you really aren't making this up? You'd swear that before the gods?"
"Aye."
"…Shit. You're serious, aren't you?" Torgen grabs his head and runs his fingers through his tousled hair. "Gods above, I'm working for a madman. I should've seen the signs. Why'd you drag me into this mess?"
"You're the one who said I'd lead you to good opportunities." He spreads his arms. "You're welcome."
"This isn't exactly what I had in mind."
Not bothering to decipher the indistinct mumbling that follows, Mull habitually grabs another slice of bread and bites into it without thinking.
He immediately regrets it. Yeah. Still too doughy.
