Interlude 8 – Winter in Whiterun
-x-
AN: There's been a lot of (entirely justified) discussion lately about the pacing of this story being too slow. Soooo… here's another unreasonably long interlude in which the main plot is advanced in no conceivable way!
I am a generous god.
- tetrapod
-x-
"It's nice to be back, ain't it?"
"Kyne's breath, yes."
For the first time in several weeks, Lydia and Torgen are enveloped by the inviting sounds and smells of Whiterun – everything from the chopping of wood and the hammering of iron to the inviting scent of grilled meat. It's all so refreshingly familiar. The air is crisp, the sky is blue, and the hubbub of a thousand voices is hovering around them like a comforting cloud. They're finally home.
Torgen grins tiredly and stretches his arms above his head to pop his sore joints while Lydia munches happily on a skewer of rosemary-roasted lamb. After subsisting on trail food for most of the last two weeks, it's been positively divine to indulge in the delicacies offered by the hawkish merchants of Whiterun's market squares.
Both of the travelers are looking rough. Their clothing is stained with just about every color of mud and grime imaginable, their equipment is dirty, and their hair is matted and messy. This morning Lydia continued her recent habit of leaving her hair loose and unadorned instead of arranging it in the usual braids with beads, having been too eager to reach the city to waste time attending to cosmetics. They probably won't present a good image to the aristocrats at Dragonsreach when they arrive, but she can't bring herself to care. She's much too happy to be back.
And tired. That's been my default state of being for the duration of this journey. But it's finally over, thank the gods.
They retrieved their horses in Riverwood and rode them back to Whiterun for the final leg of their trek, which was a welcome change of pace from slogging across sheer mountains and broad valleys on the route from Ivarstead. They returned the faithful mounts to the city stables earlier today before entering Whiterun proper, but that unfortunately means they're carrying all of their belongings on their backs again instead of having the luxury of stowing them in saddlebags.
The two thoroughly worn-out wayfarers tediously navigate the busy streets and staircases of Whiterun as they head for the Cloud District. After worrying herself half to death about the city's safety for so long, Lydia is quietly delighted to see things are much the same as always. The boulevards are bustling with fiery priests, downtrodden refugees, and industrious farmers preparing for the first harvest and sowing of the year. Everything is perfectly normal.
"But why in Shor's name are there so many stairs?" Torgen grumbles. "This is worse than Steelhead Pass. How in the world are your elders supposed to get around? Are they carried everywhere in litters?"
"Hardly." Lydia reaches the summit of an especially grueling set of stairs and pauses to catch her breath. She would never admit it, but this climbing is already starting to get to her. It makes her wonder how her Thane is faring. "People grow accustomed to them, especially those who were born and raised here. They're a part of everyday life for the inhabitants of the higher districts."
A few steps behind her, Torgen is practically crawling on all fours by the time he reaches the top. "It just ain't right," he huffs and puffs while tenderly massaging his calves. "Subjecting folks to this suffering."
Lydia rolls her eyes and continues on their tiresome route. They've now reached the sacred grove of the Temple District, their first destination of two for today. The gods' sanctuaries look much the same as ever with their dedicated priests and loyal adherents of all denominations. Further ahead, beyond the towering boughs of the grove, is Whiterun's final arch-shadowed staircase ascending to the Cloud District and the great hall of Dragonsreach. Her uncle's imposing abode is looming over the city as an eternal symbol of the Jarl's gods-given authority.
Even though the lower city seems to be in good spirits, Lydia's worries have still been eating away at her with each step closer to the Cloud District. What if her uncle's worst fears came to pass and a dragon descended upon Whiterun while the Dragonborn was away? It isn't infeasible that one of the winged menaces could've annihilated the upper districts, the most defensible part of the city, while leaving the rest to languish in inconsequentiality.
But now it seems all her worrying was for nothing, and she couldn't be happier. Thank you Kyne, Mara, Dibella, Stuhn, Jhunal, Shor, Tsun, and Ysmir. Thank all of you!
She allows herself a small grin and quickens her pace, leaving Torgen to fall behind while he's preoccupied with gaping at their surroundings in wide-eyed wonder. It doesn't occur to her that he's never seen the upper levels of the city before. He curses and jogs unsteadily after her when he notices her receding form.
First on their list for today is delivering Nettlebane to the Sanctuary of Kyne. As a fairly recognizable figure in the upper districts, Lydia has no problems gaining access to the innermost sanctum of the temple grounds where Kyne's holy trees are cultivated. There she finds Danica Pure-Spring and an entourage of priestesses already waiting for her.
They're extraordinarily excited to see the dagger safe and sound, barely paying any attention to the deliverers as they gather around the artifact – not even when Torgen unsuccessfully tries to flirt with a few of them. He's brushed off and ignored without a second glance, which causes him to start sulking in a corner while Lydia retrieves their payment from Danica Pure-Spring per her Thane's directive. Danica forks over a hefty sum of septims and offers to provide free Restoration training whenever it's convenient, which Lydia files away for future reference. She wouldn't mind trying to learn some magic, but she's never had much of a knack for it as the Jarl's court wizard can attest. With that done, she grabs Torgen by the arm and drags him out the front doors while the priestesses continue fawning over their beloved relic.
With that out of the way, their next stop is the Cloud District and Dragonsreach. Messengers have already been sent ahead from the lower gates to inform her uncle of their arrival. The Jarl awaits them.
Unfortunately, her uncle will surely be displeased that she failed to remain by her Thane's side. She knowingly dishonored the most important duty of her position as housecarl. Yes, she was explicitly ordered to leave her Thane behind, but that still doesn't excuse her lapse in responsibility.
Excitement and dread meld together as she mounts the stairs to the Cloud District and approaches her awaiting judgement. She barely pays any heed to the bandit stumbling wearily after her.
-x-
"That could've gone better. Is the Jarl always so ornery? No wonder Mull hates his guts."
Lydia clenches her fists as she and her infuriating hanger-on retreat into one of the side wings of Dragonsreach, leaving behind the great hall and her uncle's throne. Her prediction was regrettably accurate. Jarl Balgruuf was not pleased in the slightest with her negligence.
Practically speaking, she understands there's nothing she could've done differently and she's fairly certain her uncle recognizes that as well. Her Thane commanded her to return to Whiterun without him and she followed his orders to the letter in spite of her own reservations.
However, entering the great hall without her Thane was admittedly not the best circumstance in which to reunite with her uncle after over a month apart. By the tomato-like redness of his face, he must've been absolutely livid that the city's only defense against the dragons is now alone in an unfamiliar region without anyone dependable to guard him. He was merciful enough to let her vacate the hall before setting loose his burgeoning wrath, but not before giving her a stern lecture on her obligations and the importance of her position. As if she didn't know these things already.
"Perhaps so," she snaps at the bandit as she stalks down a familiar wood-paneled hallway. "But it also could've been much worse. And I feel the need to add that your presence did nothing to help matters in the slightest. My uncle cares nothing for you, brigand. You would do well to remember your place in the future." She fails to mention that their rugged and unwashed appearances probably worsened the Jarl's mood, as that would shift additional blame onto herself instead of her moronic companion.
"I tried to keep my head down," he protests. "I thought I did a pretty good job."
"You didn't!" Ugh, I'm not sure how much more I can stand from this imbecile.
"It isn't my fault I've never seen a place like this before!" the bandit exclaims. "Your uncle's got himself a nice hall, is all I'm saying. Those goblets could've gone for twenty septims each to the right buyers, and there were dozens of them sitting in plain view on that table! How was I supposed to not take a look?"
Torgen slows down to brush his and across a hanging tapestry depicting horses and armored riders assaulting a thorny wall of spears – a work of art worth more than the sum of any labor he could provide in the span of three decades, and thus literally worth more than himself – before following after the increasingly irate housecarl.
"Why are we still here anyways? Ole' Balgruuf seemed like he was ready for us to get out of his hair, the sooner the better."
Lydia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, struggling to restrain the anger threatening to explode from within her. "I wish to ask the Court Wizard about the vampire we encountered in Steelhead Pass. I believe the amulet we recovered from its remains was unusual enough to merit his attention."
That thankfully seems to satisfy the bandit's curiosity, as he promptly shuts his mouth. His sudden reticence certainly isn't due to the seething hatred dripping from her every word like molten iron. No, of course not. She's a refined and dignified young woman. Such lapses of character would be beneath her.
Anyways, vampires. Lydia is no expert on Nirn's most prolific sentient undead, but in hindsight she admits their nighttime fight in the cave went about as well as it possibly could've. She doesn't like to imagine what might've happened if she hadn't had Nettlebane with her. The ancient dagger pierced through the vampire's flesh and bone where even Torgen's enormous bearded axe fell short.
As far as she knows, only silver, enchanted items, and daedric weaponry are capable of seriously harming a vampire. So what does that make Nettlebane? It looked incredibly old and surprisingly simplistic for a ceremonial weapon, with a tapering blade and an unadorned pommel. It's clearly some sort of important artifact, but objects imbued with Aedric blessings are exceptionally rare and can usually be identified on sight. Does that mean Nettlebane was a less well-known one? It seems unlikely, but she supposes it isn't impossible. It would explain why the priestesses seemed to think the dagger's return was such a joyous occasion. Perhaps she should've asked before they left the Sanctuary.
The morning after their nighttime battle, Lydia had cleaned Nettlebane of the vampire's blood and brains to ensure it remained unsullied. She and the bandit then took turns keeping watch until morning, thankfully without any other unwelcome visitors. All traces of the vampire's footprints were erased by the blizzard, so they had no way of telling where he came from. They were left with too many questions and not enough answers – and so here she is, seeking out those answers in the most likely place she knows of.
It takes longer than Lydia would like to reach their destination, but eventually the door to the court wizard's study comes into sight around a timber corner. She harshly shoves it open and stomps into the room without so much as a knock.
"Ah, Maul! It has been quite some time since you last… Wait, lady Lydia?"
Farengar Secret-Fire hastily scrambles out from behind his desk in all his blue-robed and mutton-chopped glory. The poor desk is piled high with a cluttered assortment of parchments, alchemical tools, and gods-know what else. It might be a trick of the eyes, but Lydia can almost see it sagging beneath all the weight.
"Forgive me for mistaking you! I spoke without looking, I'm afraid. An unfortunate tendency of mine. Maul – or the Dragonborn, I ought to say – often barged into my office with much the same ruckus while he was still in my employ. He made a habit of that for whatever reason. Oh, but please take a seat! It isn't often that you grace my humble abode with your luminous beauty. I'll put on some tea for us."
Lydia makes a point of examining the handful of chairs scattered throughout the study, each stacked to the brim with a prohibitively excessive number of documents and other scholarly objects, before striding over to the wizard's equally cluttered desk and clasping her hands behind her back. "I'm not here for pleasantries, Farengar. I have a question for you, after which I'll be on my way."
"No worries, I completely understand. We are each of us busy with our own tasks and duties. And, uh, who is your companion if I might ask?"
Torgen leans around the desk and extends a hand in greeting. "Hey, friend. The name's-"
"No one of consequence," Lydia brusquely interrupts. "Please pretend he isn't even there."
The wizard blinks uncertainly. "Uh… as you wish."
Torgen slowly retracts the hand and mumbles something unflattering that Lydia pretends not to hear.
Instead she produces the vampire's amulet from within her satchel and holds it up for Farengar's perusal, allowing it to dangle freely on its chain from between her fingers. "During our return from Ivarstead, we were attacked not far from the eastern entrance of Steelhead Pass while we took shelter from a snowstorm. It was a few hours after sundown, long after anyone with an inkling of common sense should've sought safety from the elements. There was only one assailant, but he was not an easy foe to slay. He was a vampire."
The wizard's demeanor changes drastically as a cold mask of professionalism descends over his features – or what passes for professionalism with this eccentric man. "I see. Judging by your tone, you seem quite certain of this assailant's undead nature."
"He used a life-draining spell during combat and dissolved into vampire dust upon his demise, so yes, I am quite certain. The question is why there was a vampire in Steelhead Pass in the first place. I didn't think there were any covens in the Jerall Mountains further north or east than Lake Neugrad." She reaches over the chaotic desk to deposit the necklace into Farengar's waiting hands. In exchange he offers her a mug of warm barley tea. "That amulet was in the vampire's possession. I thought it might represent the face of a Dremora, but I wanted to ask your opinion before I made any further assumptions."
"There's always the chance it could've been a rogue vampire wandering about on its own." Farengar turns the pendent over as he analyzes it with a critical eye. "Though that's admittedly unlikely in such a remote location with no easy sources of sustenance available. Vampires can't go much longer than a week without feeding."
"The creature seemed desperate," Lydia supplies. "We wouldn't have been able to kill it so easily otherwise."
Torgen raises an eyebrow. "You thought that bloodsucker was easy to kill? It nearly choked us both to death without ever touching us, and it slammed me into a wall like a sack of potatoes. I'm lucky I didn't break anything."
"Have you ever fought a vampire before, brigand?"
"…No," he reluctantly admits. "Never in all my years. I supposed I've been lucky."
"I could say the same, and I've heard plenty of first-hand accounts from my father, my uncle, and Irileth to be exceedingly grateful for that fact. They're so widely feared for a reason."
"Understood," he grumbles.
After the wizard finishes his assessment of the necklace, he catches Lydia's gaze and grimaces. "This is an amulet of Clavicus Vile, the Daedric Prince of Trickery and Pacts. The horned head symbolizes his most important artifact, the Masque of Clavicus, and not a Dremora as you suggested earlier. Although I see why you might think that since these horns are quite distinctive. Ah, more tea?"
"No thank you," Lydia quietly demurs. She doesn't know much about the Princes of Oblivion beyond the most basic trivia. The subject never held much interest for her, being vaguely heretical in nature.
"I've heard that a shrine dedicated to Clavicus Vile, a place of substantial antiquity, was once located somewhere in Steelhead Pass," Farengar continues. "What you've found here seems to verify those reports. It's entirely possible that a coven of vampires has taken up residence in this shrine or somewhere nearby. Their ilk have been known to worship Clavicus Vile at times, especially the scions of archaic Cyrodiilic lineages."
"It was a Cyrodiilic vampire," Lydia confirms. "The eyes were red."
The wizard nods. "I doubt your vampire was lurking in those mountains alone. They're rarely solitary creatures. My guess is that you passed near a coven's lair and never even realized it. I imagine such a thing would be easy to do in the middle of an alpine storm, especially if it was already dark."
"…That's a worrisome prospect." Lydia's thoughts immediately jump to her Thane and the likelihood that he'll follow in their footsteps through the pass during his journey to Whiterun after winter's end. "If there truly are more vampires lurking within the pass…"
"Then Mull might run into them," Torgen finishes for her. "Alone."
"…He seemed like a capable man when I knew him," Farenger says, breaking the uncomfortable hush that falls over the study. "And he is Dragonborn, of course. A handful of half-starved vampires might not be too much for him to handle."
He doesn't sound convinced. Vampires are fearsome creatures in all circumstances, but most of all when they're hunting on their own territory.
"Here's to hoping," murmurs the bandit.
Lydia doesn't vocalize her thoughts. She wouldn't dare.
Terror descends upon her, sending a frigid chill dancing through her bones. She abandoned her Thane and now he's at risk of being waylaid by vampires, the very same vampires she could've dealt with herself while she was still inside the pass. If only she had been more proactive, or had given more thought to the possibilities. If something happens to him… would she be at fault for it?
"You good there, princess? You're lookin' a little pale." Torgen leans down to peer at her face.
She scowls and swats him away. "I'm fine," she stiffly replies. She's proud that her voice doesn't waver. "I'm merely concerned, as I ought to be."
Concerned that her failure as a sworn housecarl might have very real consequences that would affect not only herself but potentially all of Whiterun. That is her greatest fear by far. If she were to fail in her duty to her city, the shame of it would be unimaginable.
"Eh. Don't forget that he's a big boy. I'm sure he can take care of himself." Torgen nods to Farengar and turns for the door. "Thanks for the advice, wizard. It's appreciated."
"Of course. I'm more than happy to offer my services to the Jarl's kin and her companions." Once the bandit has departed, Farengar steals another worried glance at Lydia. "…Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup of tea?"
"Perfectly sure," she replies impassively. The wizard holds out the pendant but she waves it away. "I have no use for that. You can keep it." He opens his mouth to protest and she sighs. "Consider it payment for services rendered, if you must."
"…Very well then," he diplomatically accedes. "I wish you a good day, lady Lydia. Feel free to return to my humble abode at any time if you should have further need of my expertise."
Lydia acknowledges the wizard with a short nod as she turns on her heel and marches out the door. Her thoughts are whirling at the speed of a falcon's dive. She hardly notices when Torgen rejoins her in the hallway with an uncharacteristically tentative expression hidden poorly beneath his beard and patchwork of scars.
It's still Evening Star. First Seed and the spring snowmelt are still far off, so in the best case she might hear news of her Thane in approximately three months. So much could happen between now and then, and she would never know about it until it's already too late.
She gets the feeling that she isn't going to sleep well for a long, long time.
-x-
The winter solstice has arrived in Whiterun, a dark and gloomy day made even gloomier by the unwelcome onset of Skyrim's frigid northern winds. As the sun descends and dusk approaches, the city's inhabitants begin streaming by the thousands to the Temple District where they'll partake in the annual Vetrblót ceremonies. Unlike the Elfblót in Hearthfire, this won't be a pre-festival celebration in the streets with drinking and bardic song. This is a much more solemn event… and that's especially true for this year.
The winter solstice is the time when offerings are made to the World-Eater to keep him at bay until the next Evening Star. Among Nords who still cling to the beliefs of their ancestors, there is no other societal duty so momentous as this one – a safeguarding of the entire world from armageddon in the most literal sense.
The solstice ritual is a blót, a religious blood sacrifice, from which the name 'Vetrblót' is derived. At every winter solstice, an animal selected by the high priests is ceremonially killed and its blood is spilled atop a hörg, which is an altar or cairn of piled stones sanctified with the gods' blessings. This tradition is usually performed at burial sites that hold significance to the ancestors, and Whiterun is no exception to that rule. The hörg has already been erected in the plaza in front of the Hall of the Dead, where the denizens of Whiterun are now gathering.
Lydia always felt that the Hall of the Dead was an odd location to host a holiday blót. It's hardly a pleasant place for most regular people, given the god Orkey's less-than-stellar reputation among the Nords. However, she does have to admit the grounds surrounding the Hall are quite nice and plenty large enough to host the thousands of people already in attendance.
The Hall's courtyard is furnished well-maintained standing stones carved all over with red-painted runes, wrought iron braziers as tall as a man containing beds of molten coals, and a beautiful timber pergola leading to the main entrance of the Sanctuary. The entrance itself is sunken into the ground and is accessible by descending a flight of stairs, giving mourners the impression that they're plunging into the depths of Nirn. The young housecarl has only been inside the Sanctuary once, during the funeral procession for her mother many years ago. She was still a child then and can barely remember the events of that day.
The sacrificial animal for this year appears to be a cow. The fattened animal is placidly awaiting its fate near the front of the crowd where a pair of attendants are watchfully ensuring its continued compliance. Its thick brown fur and canted ivory horns have been painted with matrices of crimson runes and symbolic hieroglyphs to signify its sacred purpose. Sometimes they use pigs or horses during years with leaner harvests, but not this year. No one would dare shortchange the gods their due when so many catastrophic things have happened in recent months.
The rituals related to the World-Eater are markedly different from those belonging to the other Nordic gods. Whereas most holidays are joyful celebrations and opportunities to offer the gods praise for their benevolence, the Vetrblót is much more grave and formal as befitting the frigid depths of the northern winter. It's a grateful commemoration of the fact that the World-Eater hasn't yet returned, but it also emphasizes the inevitable fact that he will one day consume the world in a raging storm of shadow and flame. With the apparent resurgence of the dragons, that eventuality is laying more heavily on the minds of the populace than ever before.
Lydia cranes her neck to peer across the multitudes assembled before the Hall of the Dead, comprised of individuals from all walks of life. She's somewhat shorter than average for a Nord woman and it's mostly a futile effort even when she stands on her toes, but she can see well enough to notice a few details here and there. For instance, she notes with curiosity that there are more people than usual who've chosen to garb themselves in black and other dark shades, the colors of mourning. The atmosphere of this Vetrblót is much more grim than what she remembers from previous years.
Common laborers, merchants, warriors, and nobles alike are rubbing shoulders as they impatiently await the beginning of the ceremonies. At her side, her Thane's pet bandit is looming over them all in stark contrast to her own smaller frame. His scarred visage and otherwise menacing features have the unintentional effect – presumably – of maintaining a bubble of vacant space around himself and Lydia, which she's grudgingly grateful for. Maybe he's good for something after all.
In the hushed discussions taking place around her, Lydia catches numerous whispers about the return of the dragons and its unbelievability. It really is difficult to fathom, she wordlessly agrees. She herself would be among the skeptics if her father and Irileth hadn't personally confronted the dragon at the Western Watchtower. She wouldn't trust the word of anyone else, but she does trust their word, and so she believes.
And given the identity of her Thane, she guesses it won't be long before she sees a dragon with her own eyes. She thinks back to his terrifyingly vivid description of Helgen's destruction and struggles to suppress a full-body shudder. She doesn't look forward to that day, not at all. But even so, whenever it arrives, she'll do her duty without complaint.
There are quite a few Cyrods in attendance alongside the native Nords, but most of them are visibly uncomfortable with the proceedings just like every year. This is especially true for the wealthy clans and aristocrats, who frequently submit complaints to the Jarl about the 'borderline Daedric' nature of the blót and its lack of reverence for Akatosh. As always, it appears they've been summarily ignored. Her father has said many times that these are the sacred traditions of their people which have been dutifully observed for thousands of years and are thus non-negotiable. If the Cyrods are unable to make the proper distinction between their favored Imperial Divine and the World-Eater, or even worse a Daedric ritual, then that's their own intellectual failing.
The Nords do not suffer from the same confusion regarding the subject of Alduin's nature. The World-Eater is a god, but he is not benevolent. He's one of the two Twilight Gods, the dark counterpart to the light-wreathed glory of Ysmir Talos, and thus represents the end of this Cycle while Talos represents the beginning of the next. Even having spent much of her life around those very Cyrods – Proventus Avenicci being one of them – Lydia still can't fathom why such a simple concept is so difficult for them to grasp. Avenicci often complains about my uncle's lack of proper devotion to Akatosh, so I suppose it goes both ways.
There is no priesthood for the World-Eater – why in Shor's name would there be? – but an individual of local prominence always volunteers before each Vetrblót to take on the role of his token priest or priestess for the duration of the ceremonies. They're typically a member of one of Whiterun's prominent Nord aristocratic families, and in recent generations the responsibility has become something of a hereditary tradition among them.
This year's priestess is a young woman who Lydia doesn't specifically recognize, though she might be a Grey-Mane if her platinum-blonde hair is any indication. She's clad in a sleeveless black tunic and a black cloak that flutters behind her like a bat's wings in the evening wind as she waltzes to the hörg at the front of the crowd. When she reaches her position next to the hörg and raises her bare arms skyward, the crowd quickly falls silent.
Charcoal facepaint has been applied in rough lines down the girl's chin, across her cheeks, along her nose, and jutting upwards from her eyebrows like horns, while pale grey ash has been dusted beneath her eyes and in the center of her forehead to deepen the contrast. The coloration and design gives her the semblance of some sinister monster, like a terrible beast of the wilderness or a savage Reachman's skull totem. Or perhaps more appropriately, a dragon.
At an unseen signal, a group of priests resplendent in onyx gowns begin ushering the red-painted cow closer to the probably-Grey-Mane girl. Another man follows in their wake, this one clad in a garish orange and yellow robe with a long-bladed knife held delicately in his hands. She can't make out many details since the distant is too great, but Lydia is fairly sure this is the head priest of Talos, that troublesome old man named Heimskr. He approaches the Grey-Mane girl and offers her the knife hilt-first, which she accepts without hesitation. She raises the weapon over her head, causing the steel blade to shimmer brightly in the light of the braziers and dozens of torches as she begins reciting the time-honored litany of Vetrblót.
"Nirn is shrouded in the shadow of winter's long breath. Darkness lies behind and darkness lies ahead. But here among our fellow Men, light and life shine still."
The crowd recites their customary response in a murmuring tide that sweeps across the hallowed grounds. "The light is preserved." Lydia's voice is lost among them.
"Countless seasons of adversity our ancestors have endured. Their hardships were as numerous as the stars in the sky. But the gods are merciful, and it's because of their guiding hands that we stand here today with our hearts full of righteous fear as we partake in this holy blót by which the covenants of old might be renewed."
"Here we declare that the vows of our forefathers are reaffirmed."
"However, these blessings do not come without price, and it is our solemn responsibility to prove ourselves worthy of benevolence. Long ago, the World-Eater descended upon the realms of Men with fire and darkness as he sought to bring an end to all things. Great and terrible was his wrath, and greater still was the devastation he wrought upon our ancestors – but it was not enough. The mightiest heroes among our fathers' fathers took up their swords and wetted their Tongues, and they rose against him with unquenchable fire smoldering in their hearts, for they would not be sent wailing into the Void without one final contest of courage and strength. They greeted him in noble battle upon the Nirn's Throat and beyond all odds defeated him in a contest of arms memorialized in eternal song. Although their losses were grievous, they banished him into shadow forevermore and thus was the end narrowly averted. They demonstrated that they were deserving of the world they inherited from the gods… and just as they once did, so too must we."
"Cast judgement upon our immortal souls, ye divine spirits, and see that we are still worthy."
"But as we know too well, there can be no value without loss. There can be no reward without sacrifice."
The onyx-clad assistants urge the cow forward, positioning it between the priestess and the hörg. It glances curiously back and forth between its handlers and the girl about to end its life, but the priestess doesn't notice as she continues chanting at the top of her lungs.
"By this spilling of blood, may the dread wyrm that gnaws on the bones of the world be placated! May his dreamless slumber continue unbroken for another cycle of the heavens!"
"Be placated, o wyrm."
The priestess continues without a hitch as she reaches around and draws the knife across the unfortunate cow's throat, eliciting a mournful groan. It thrashes against its restraints, but the dark-robed assistants hold tightly to strong ropes lassoed around its neck and legs. "Taste the warmth of this freely-given offering of blood and flesh, o wyrm! May the life of this fattened beast assuage your wrath and deaden your ire! Take heed of our fidelity, I beseech thee!"
The cow collapses feebly atop the hörg, staining the holy stones crimson with jetting spurts of its lifeblood. The assembled citizens of Whiterun watch with grim fascination as its panicked movements gradually become more sluggish until faltering entirely. By the time it's over, the hörg is dyed completely red.
The priestess lowers the dripping knife, heedless of her blood-soaked arm. "It is done. Should we be judged worthy, the World-Eater shall accept this ransomed soul and remain content in his torpor. And so the ceremony is now complete," she announces. "Go forth and celebrate the world that Shor and Kyne have deemed fit to grant us, along with their many blessings!"
There isn't any cheering or clapping at the conclusion of her liturgy. The crowds slowly disperse with a smattering of hushed whispers, with most meandering to the long wooden tables scattered around the Hall of the Dead but a few discreetly taking their leave instead. The majority of the latter group are Cyrods.
Lydia and Torgen pick out an empty table and make themselves comfortable, wordlessly agreeing to wait until the hubbub has died down a little.
Torgen produces a flask of brandy he'd somehow managed to conceal underneath his shirt. She recognizes the heady smell as he unstoppers the cork. "I never much cared for the winter solstice. It always gives me the heebie jeebies."
"As it should."
"Aye, you're probably right. Staving off the end of the world and all that." He wipes his beard after downing a mouthful. "Don't you want to go eat with your Jarl tonight? You're a little too high on the irminsul to be keeping company with us commoners."
"I'm not currently a beneficiary of the Jarl's favor," Lydia stiffly states. "He's still displeased with my dishonorable conduct, so I think keeping my distance is the wisest choice of action at this time."
"Fair enough. Those prissy nobles don't know how to have fun anyways." He holds out his flask to the housecarl.
She stares him down and quirks an unimpressed eyebrow.
He smirks and withdraws the liquor. "One of these days, you'll finally accept the most undeniable truth of this world – that cheap alcohol is the best kind."
"Keep dreaming, brigand," she harumphs.
They watch as the crowd buzzes busily around them, already commencing the public feast or wrapping up the final preparations. The sacrificial cow and a handful of supplementary livestock are butchered, cooked over open fires, and distributed to the masses. The probably-Grey-Mane priestess orates one last benediction before the feasting officially begins.
In addition to the meat, portions of ale and mead are also provided for the banquet by the Jarl and other wealthy individuals as a symbol of their generosity to the city folk. That obviously means it's all free, which Torgen is inordinately excited about.
The bandit claims he's going to retrieve food for them both and promptly vanishes into the crowd. Twenty minutes pass without any hint of his return. Lydia's fingers drum against the rough-shorn surface of the table as her indignation mounts.
When she grows bored of watching the people around her, she entertains herself by speculating what her Thane might be doing at High Hrothgar at this moment. Are they also observing Vetrblót? Is it difficult to live on the Throat of the World during winter? What are the Greybeards like?
She also imagines what the solstice might be like in Ivarstead. It's common practice for the Vetrblót ceremonies to be performed at ancient Nordic burial sites or temples, so she assumes the people of Ivarstead are gathered around Shroud Hearth Barrow. Whiterun doesn't have any conveniently close ruins other than the Skyforge, which is hardly a good location for hosting such a large number of people, so that leaves them with the Hall of the Dead and its environs.
When Lydia runs out of things to think about and her errant companion still hasn't returned, she finally gives up on him and abandons the table to go track down some food for herself. The lines have already shrunken substantially, so she doesn't have to wait long to receive her share of pork, fresh bread, and mead. To her dissatisfaction, all of the good cuts have already been claimed by now. Curse that bandit and his blatant irresponsibility. At least I don't have to worry about his presence fouling the air.
She returns to find that her table has been occupied by others, so she relocates to a low stone wall separating the Hall of the Dead's plot of land from the rest of the Temple District. The wall is short and broad enough to sit on, which she manages with only minor difficulty while balancing her mead in one hand and her platter in the other. Once seated, she rests her platter atop her lap and eagerly – but with dignity – digs into her meal. It's lukewarm but still delicious.
She never finds Torgen that evening, so she leaves him to the whims of fate and walks back to the barracks a few hours after sundown with the moons lighting her way. The streets are surprisingly quiet. It's windy and cold, but that's hardly unusual.
Being the only person sleeping in the barracks for the night is decidedly odd. The refurbished building feels empty and chillier than usual due to the frosty weather. But even when she gets a roaring fire kindled in the hearth and drags her bedroll next to it, she still can't fully dispel the chill from her bones. Burying herself in a pile of furs – including those that nominally belong to her Thane – helps a little. She congratulates herself for her ingenuity.
Still, the night is a lonely one. It's strange how much of a difference there can be between sleeping in a place where there are other people present, even if you aren't in the same room, and sleeping in a place where you're completely and utterly alone. She lies awake until the moons are high in the sky, staring down at her through the windows like the mismatched eyes of a leering god.
-x-
AN: If Masser and Secunda are the physical remnants of Lorkhan/Shor/Shezzar's divine corpse, then could they actually be his enormous cosmic balls?
-x-
Torgen reappears the next morning, sluggish and worse for wear. He doesn't even have the decency to apologize for his stupidity, instead immediately slumping into a chair at the dining table and falling asleep with his face pressed against the varnished wood. His loud snoring is particularly irritating as Lydia stoically prepares breakfast for herself. Only herself, for the record. The bandit can reap what he's sown.
She spends most of her morning running various errands, including purchasing two dozen broadhead arrows from Ulfberth War-Bear and replenishing their stock of potions from Arcadia the alchemist. Their journey to Ivarstead and the perils they encountered along the way were proof enough that potions are an important resource to keep handy at all times. But not as important as knowing how and when to use said potions. She grimaces at the unpleasant memory of Orphan Rock's aftermath.
When she returns to the barracks around midday with her spoils of commerce, the bandit is finally awake and nursing a cup of steaming elves ear tea. He regards her blearily with dark-rimmed eyes as she sets about organizing and storing her purchases. "Mornin', princess."
"It's afternoon now," she quips. You have the rest of today to see to your own affairs. Tomorrow, our work begins."
He grimaces and drains his tea in one long gulp.
-x-
The next day, Torgen is mostly back to his normal self – which is to say incessantly annoying – and jovially obeys Lydia's instructions to be on his best behavior as they depart from the barracks. Today she plans to fulfill one of her Thane's most important directives for this winter, which is to maintain their façade as a functioning mercenary company.
That's a difficult thing to do with only two people, especially when one of them is a bumbling ignoramus. Her Thane mentioned in passing that she could use their collective funds to hire someone new if she thought it were necessary, which she does. "Find someone who looks like they know what they're doing." That was the extent of his instructions on the matter.
Which isn't very helpful, she internally grumbles.
They briefly stop by Jorrvaskr to speak with Aela the Huntress, who she asks for tips regarding suitably competent individuals currently looking for work. She'll only accept the best underlings for her Thane.
Unfortunately, it looks like the Vetrblót festivities are still in full swing at the Companions' mead hall, which in typical fashion is much more boisterous than anywhere else in the city. With the heavy drinking and multiple fistfights taking place in close proximity, Lydia can barely get in a word edgewise with the redheaded Huntress, who insists that she and Torgen should, to quote, "Loosen up a little and join in on the fun."
Immediately following that statement, their table is utterly obliterated by the falling form of a hulking mercenary engaged in a brawl with one of his compatriots. Ale is spilt and tableware is shattered. That's the final straw for Lydia and she takes her leave from the chaotic hall thereafter.
With Jorrvaskr being a bust, she drags Torgen between several different taverns around the city's eastern market square in search of potential hires. She keeps him mollified by graciously allowing him to sample each establishment's ales while she interviews the patrons. As much as it irks her, she understands the importance of maintaining a subordinate's morale.
They encounter a woman in the Bannered Mare who looks like an especially promising candidate. She's called Uthgerd the Unbroken according to the other patrons, a veteran warrior for hire with more than a few battles to her name. Her expensive plate armor and unreasonably large greatsword lend credence to that reputation.
Unfortunately for all involved, before Lydia can find an opportunity to express her interest in the woman… Torgen reaches her first.
He leans against the wall next to her table with suave poise and starting flirting with her while she tries to ignore him. "By the Nine, but you sure look like my type of lady. Judging by that sword, I'm guessing you've got some nice arms hidden underneath all that armor. That might make some men uncomfortable, but not ole' Torgen. I love the kind of woman who can actually just kill me."
Uthgerd sets down her bowl of cabbage stew with dainty precision, scoots back her chair, and surges upwards with the speed and ferocity of a coiled snake. Before Torgen can react, she delivers a brutal punch to his stomach that drives the breath from his lungs and causes him to stagger backwards with a pained grunt. She matches his steps and grasps both of his shoulders to stare directly into his eyes. Despite the circumstances, he grins lecherously at the close contact.
Uthgerd heaves him bodily into the air with a harsh yell and slams him into a nearby timber column. His limbs splay in all directions as he crashes onto the floor. He doesn't have time to react before she straddles him and proceeds to pound his face into bloody pulp. Torgen does an admirable job of defending his nose and eyes, but his jaw and ears are soon raw and blackened with bruises.
Lydia stands on the sidelines while watching with bemusement, unhappy with the armored woman's actions but not willing to intervene either. Torgen brought this on himself.
After about half a minute, some of the other patrons work up the courage to pull Uthgerd away from the beaten man. "Alright, enough! You made your point to the poor bastard. Get off him already." Uthgerd shakes them off, strides back to her table, and continues eating nonchalantly like nothing ever happened.
The patrons help Torgen back to his feet. Someone passes him a mug of spiced wine that he accepts gratefully. Several of the men comment that they've been in his shoes before, some more than once, and commend him for his courage. Lydia exasperatedly shakes her head and waits impatiently for Torgen and his new acquaintances to finish their morose reminiscing so she can get on with her day.
Once Torgen is physically and mentally recovered, they exit the Mare and continue their mission. They wander across most of the lower city over the course of the afternoon, stopping to chat with shopkeepers and guardsmen as well as anyone else who might know of unsworn warriors on the lookout for well-earned coin.
Finally, Lydia and the bandit find themselves standing before a tavern doubling as a woodsman's shop called the Drunken Huntsman. Her Thane mentioned this establishment by name once or twice, though he never spoke about it in detail. Lydia's never been inside herself and had quite honestly forgotten about its existence until now.
She opens the front door and enters the building while squinting to help her eyesight adjust from the brightness of the outdoors. The Drunken Huntsman's dim and smokey interior doesn't look much different from Whiterun's other taverns except for the assortment of hunting supplies situated on racks around the perimeter of the room. There's also an impressive number of decorative windcatchers hanging from the ceiling and walls.
Her focus turns to the patrons. Most are lounging at tables next to kindled hearths with food and drink or quietly browsing the shop's merchandise. Almost every single one of them are Elves. The sole exception is a Redguard couple sitting in an isolated corner.
One step behind her, Torgen makes a soft noise that she interprets as faint surprise, or perhaps veiled interest. It's a strange sight in Whiterun to see so many Dunmer and Bosmer gathered together in one place, all the more so because there isn't a single Nord inside the establishment other than themselves. No High Elves either, she notes with curiosity. Only Dark Elves and Wood Elves.
Trying and failing to act as inconspicuously as possible, they meander to the nearest unoccupied table while numerous pairs of eyes follow their movements. She orders the bandit to sit down while she goes to order something to drink from a male Bosmer manning the bar. Sending Torgen to speak with the Elf would almost certainly be a bad idea, given his track record today. There's no doubt in her mind that he would say something stupid enough to get them kicked out or worse.
As she approaches the bar, she notes with mild amusement that the Bosmer's shoulder-length ginger hair is braided in a distinctly Nordic style. She introduces herself and keeps the conversation brief, not wanting to attract undue attention from the other patrons, and quickly returns to the table armed with new information as well as three mugs of ale clutched precariously between her fingers.
"Is all of that for you?" Torgen teases.
"Absolutely not." Lydia sets down the tankards out of his reach and starts scanning the room for her quarry.
The Bosmer at the bar, who called himself Elrindir, was helpful enough to give descriptions of every patron at the Huntsman currently searching for work. There were several who sounded like promising candidates, though their asking rates were quite high. In this instance however, coin is irrelevant to Lydia. What matters much more is reliability.
She spies a few of the individuals described by Elrindir, most of whom are seated along the walls or next to columns to take advantage of the shadows they cast.
Once she's gotten a good lay of the land, she gestures for Torgen to pick up the ale. "But don't drink any," she informs him. "Now come with me"
They start by going to a neighboring table occupied by a male Dunmer with a wrinkled visage, several missing teeth, and gratuitously pierced ears, who Lydia selected to be their first interviewee. He's wearing a set of studded armor that protects his vitals while minimizing weight and offering a good range of motion, which she takes to mean he's at least somewhat competent. She begins with a cordial greeting and bequeaths him with one of the mugs of ale, but the Dunmer responds by scowling darkly at her. "What's this for, then? Lookin' to get on my good side? Try your luck with sujamma, n'wah." He leans over and spits on the floor. "Don't you know a Redoran when you see one?" His Dunmeri accent is so thick that Lydia can barely understand him.
She lays out her offer exactly as she's already done multiple times today, but the Dunmer immediately demands an exorbitant price that even she isn't willing to match. He tries to justify the ridiculous amount of money by showcasing a small Flame spell, but it isn't very impressive compared to what she's seen Farengar demonstrate in the past. He claims to know more powerful Destruction magic but refuses to give an example. His behavior is questionable at best and outright dishonest at worst.
Lydia shares a look with Torgen and the older man shakes his head. "No dice, girly. I wouldn't trust him to stand behind my back with a wet sock."
The Dunmer doesn't seem offended as Lydia gives a short farewell and they depart. This must not be the first time he's had an interaction like this.
Their second stop is the table of a sallow-skinned female Bosmer who's only clothing above the waist is a tight hide chestwrap and a fur mantle, leaving her midriff and cleavage exposed to the whole world. Torgen inspects her lithe form appreciatively, doing little to hide his attraction. You'd think he would've learned his lesson by now.
Lydia wonders how the Elf doesn't freeze to death in her outfit considering her choice of vocation as a mercenary. It's absurdly impractical for the winter wilderness, or even just for walking around the city in this chilly weather.
A recurve bow and quiver are hanging from the back of her chair, which gets Lydia's hopes up. They're in dire need of a dependable archer. But it unfortunately ends up being a moot point as the Bosmer refuses to speak with them, not even accepting the free mug of ale that Lydia presents as enticement. All her attempts to initiate a dialogue are coolly rebuffed. The shopkeeper said this was one of the Elves looking for work, so why won't she hear us out?!
When the Elf's expression begins to darken, Lydia finally takes the hint and gives up. She wordlessly moves on to her third target.
This one is a female Dunmer sitting at a table in the left corner of the tavern, giving her a clear view of the door and all who enter. Lydia steps towards the Elf but Torgen stops her with a tap on the shoulder. "I'll take the lead on this one."
She side-eyes him dubiously.
"The last two went belly-up and that was all on you. Just let me try. I promise I'll be good," he finishes with a toothy grin. There are still specks of blood staining his teeth.
"Like you were 'good' with that Uthgerd woman?"
His grin widens. "Nah. I really mean it."
She can't tell whether or not he's being sincere. "…Fine." At worst, he'll botch the interaction and they'll go to the next mercenary.
She leans to the side and lets him shuffle in front of her. The Drunken Huntsman is slightly more spacious than the White Whale, but not by much. Many of the tables are pressed closely together, making it difficult to avoid the attention of nearby patrons. More pairs of eyes are following them around the room than when they first entered.
The Dunmer woman looks up as they approach. Her crimson irises are gleaming vividly in the firelight. Like most of her race, her features are angular, her ears are pointed, and her skin is the color of ash. Her alien qualities are accented by lines of yellow warpaint tracing her prominent cheekbones, slanted brows, and thin lower lip. A shortsword and dagger are sheathed on opposite sides of her waist.
Torgen strides up to the Dunmer's table like he owns the place and smoothly slides into an empty chair across from her. Lydia hangs back and watches, morbidly contemplating just how badly this will go.
"You got a moment, svartelf?"
She winces. Off to a terrible start. Perfect.
As a general rule, Elves don't like being called 'Elf,' which is the Cyro-Nordic word for their race. They almost always prefer the term 'Mer,' their name for themselves. 'Svartelf' is the most Mannish way imaginable of addressing an Elf – which is to say, undiplomatic in the extreme.
Torgen pushes a mug of bribe ale across the table. The Dunmer slowly looks him up and down with furrowed brows. "…What do you want?" Her voice is throaty and low. Intimidating, in a word. That along with her sonorous accent gives her an aura of dangerous mystique.
"Well now, do I need a reason to share a drink with a pretty lass like yourself?" Torgen flashes what he apparently imagines to be a dashing smile.
The Dunmer and Lydia simultaneously roll their eyes. It might've worked better if he weren't still sporting the scrapes and bruises from his beatdown at the hands of Uthgerd.
The bandit barges ahead. "I'm Torgen and this here is Lydia. We're mercenaries looking for a new hire. If you need the coin, we'd like to have you watch our backs on a few jobs. Are you interested?"
"Perhaps. What sort of jobs would these be?"
"The usual, probably. Hunting fugitives, escorting merchants, killing whoever needs to be killed by folks willing to pay for it. The average life of your average sword for hire. As much as I hate to say it, we aren't anyone special. Just trying to get by like everybody else."
The Dunmer hums neutrally and examines the two humans with an intensity that nearly makes Lydia blanch. Even having known Irileth for so much of her life, the red eyes of a Dunmer are still always eerie. For a split second, she's unpleasantly reminded of the vampire at Steelhead Pass.
The mercenary finally concludes her inspection and leans back. "You may call me Jenassa. And before we go any further, you should know that I don't like working with Nords."
Torgen snorts. "And I don't like working with Elves. Last time I did, the gutless bastard ran off with all our money and got himself killed by a bunch of draugr. But that's life. Whether you like us or not doesn't really matter as long as everybody's professional about it."
The woman nods and adopts a slightly more open expression. "You speak truly. I value forthrightness such as yours." She picks up the mug of ale, sniffs it experimentally, and takes a sip. "Blade and shadow, silence and death. These are my arts. For a modest fee, I may use them on your behalf and make a great art for you."
Torgen chuckles and Lydia feels her lips quirk upwards. The Elf's declaration is a bit melodramatic, although she doesn't seem to think so. She maintains the utmost seriousness.
"And what does modest mean to you?" asks Torgen.
"Five hundred gold septims up front would cover my expenses for one month."
His eyes bug out of his skull.
Jenassa's crimson gaze twinkles with cruel delight, like she's relishing Torgen's pain. "And that would be in addition to a twenty percent cut of all loot acquired. I am a lethal instrument, and I assure you that my skills are well worth the price."
…That actually isn't as much as she could've demanded. To Torgen's visible dismay, Lydia doesn't balk as she produces her coin purse and withdraws the requisite lump sum. Carrying so much gold on your person at a given time is never advisable, but she assumed she would need to pay something close to this amount up front. Still, five hundred gold is nothing to scoff at.
She places the coins on the tabletop one stack at a time. Jenassa watches intently until the full set of fifty ten-septim denominations have been counted out. "Not just any mercenary off the street could afford to pay that sum on a whim," she comments.
"This is not a whim," Lydia informs her. "We've been planning to take on an additional blade for some time and have budgeted accordingly." That's a white lie. In actuality, she's only able to pay for this because she… reappropriated… some funds from the Jarl's treasury. But her status as his niece would be more difficult to explain, not to mention detrimental to their cover story as a run-of-the-mill mercenary company, and thus the obligatory lie.
"Is that so?" The Dunmer finishes off her complementary ale and sweeps the septims over to her side of the table. They tumble into an open knapsack with practiced efficacy. "Then it appears we've reached an accord. My sword shall be yours to command until the final week of Morning Star. When that time comes, my contract can be renegotiated if you so desire." She reaches into the knapsack and rummages around until withdrawing a scrap of thick parchment. "We will, of course, commit all of this to writing. I assume you wish to avoid future misunderstandings?"
"Of course," Lydia replies. She should've prepared scribal materials of her own beforehand, but thankfully Jenassa seems to know what she's doing. Also, she must've been on the lookout for work if she's carrying these things around with her.
Officiating everything doesn't take long, only a few minutes of hashing out unimportant details.
Once they're done, Jenassa rolls up the parchment and returns it to her bag. "I'm surprised to find Nords hard at work so soon after your Vetrblót festival," she comments. "You lot are usually comatose for days after so comprehensively emptying the city of its mead."
Lydia is surprised by her nearly perfect enunciation of the Nordic name for the winter solstice ceremony, one that's notorious for frequent mispronunciation by útlendings. Disregarding the Dunmeri accent, her Nordic is impeccable.
"Unlike the equinoxes and summer solstice holidays, the Vetrblót is less of a celebration and more of a necessary practice to ward off evil." Lydia isn't sure how much Jenassa knows about Nordic culture, so she keeps her explanation simple and to the point. "There is feasting involved, but it's a much more solemn affair than you might expect."
"I see. How… quaint."
Torgen snorts at her obvious sarcasm and stands to leave alongside Lydia.
"We'll be in touch with the specifics of our next job whenever we learn them ourselves," the housecarl announces.
"You can find me here most days. If not, then leave a message with Elrindir at the bar. He's a trustworthy sort."
"Understood. Until next time then."
"Likewise."
As they exit the Drunken Huntsman, Lydia reflects on a saying she once read in a book. 'More of a Reachman than the Reachmen themselves.' From what she remembers of her studies as a child, that idiom traces its origins to the Bretons of Evermore who conquered and settled parts of the Western Reach in the late First Era and early Second Era. Within a few generations the Bretons abandoned their own heritage and adopted the ways of the native Reachmen, becoming staunch enemies of those who had once been their own countrymen.
She wonders if some of these Elves might be like that. The Bosmer bartender with his Nordic hairstyle, Jenassa and her impeccable proficiency with the local language. The Red Year was nearly two hundred years ago, so many of them must've lived in Skyrim for their entire lives.
"She reminds me of Irileth, and not just because they look alike," she says aloud. "They seem to have similar personalities."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I think so, although Mull would likely disagree." He never did a good job of masking his unease around the Jarl's housecarl. His dislike for her was obvious.
"Not 'my Thane?' Just Mull now?"
"…Shut up, bandit. It was a slip of the tongue."
"Right, princess. Whatever you say."
