Barely any words were spoken between the three members of the Hand as they rode slowly north. They traveled single file, as they had done on their journey south earlier. Their conversation at that time had also been thin, each of them lost in their own thoughts in anticipation of meeting Aric. Their silence now had a different tone, if it could be so described. Any notes of dejection or disappointment certainly belonged to Soran. He had liked the man with whom he had met, however brief that meeting had been. It was no wonder he was in such high demand throughout Skyrim.
Soran's sources had confirmed that Aric was Thane of Haafingar, a fact that surprised no one. What had been surprising to Soran, but what appeared to be common knowledge to Solitude's residents, was the number of days, or rather nights, while he was in residence, that he entered the Blue Palace in the evening, only to exit it again the next morning; preferring, if Elisif's maid Erdi was to be believed, Elisif's bed to his own in Proudspire Manor. Both Erdi and Una stated plainly that for the past year or more Aric wore a ring on a chain around his neck, a ring given to him by Elisif, a ring that had belonged to the Jarl of Haafingar's late husband Torygg, a fact that Soran could now confirm himself, since he had seen that same ring while he and Thane Aric spoke. He was sworn brother to the Jarl of Whiterun, a trusted friend, and counselor, to the Jarl of Hjaalmarch, and Husband, in all but name, to the Jarl of Haafingar. Soran did not forget the title of Archmage of the College of Winterhold, however it was obtained. It was no wonder that he had declined Soran's offer; the honor of joining the Silver Hand paled quite badly when compared to his assembled list of titles.
Soran had been disappointed when Aric had declined his offer, though he understood the reason behind it. But his disappointment seemed to grow with each successive drop of his horse's hoofs. They were well on their way home when the sun set, and as the darkness began to settle around them Soran thought it perfectly matched the darkness that he felt in his heart. He had failed to convince this honorable man that their cause was just.
His notes of despair, played constantly but quietly in the silence that accompanied them as they rode, were outweighed by those happier notes contributed by Vala and Gwenyfe. The two women were just as silent as Soran was, but their reasons could not have been more different from his. Each of them was too busy replaying every detail of their meeting with Aric in their respective minds to spare any mental capacity for speech. Rather than a failed attempt to convince Aric to join with them, in their minds the meeting had been a resounding success, their private missions to meet the beautiful Thane in person completed. It was only their positions as they rode, Soran first, Vala last, and Gwynfe in between, that hid the women's smiles from their commander, and from each other.
But hope springs eternal, even in the heart of the Harbinger of the Silver Hand. He and Aric had parted on friendly terms, and Soran's offer to assist Kodlak in his quest for a cure had been well received.
Perhaps it was too much to expect that Thane Aric would abandon the men and women he and his family had known for so long a time, Soran thought as an idea occurred to him, perhaps his refusing our offer is, in fact, a good thing.
"It would have severed his connection with them," Soran said to Hellina as they sat in front of the hearth in the large house. The hour was quite late. Soran had been weary as he closed the front door behind him, but his arms retained more than enough strength to embrace her warmly. Husband and Wife shared a late supper of toasted bread and cheese as Soran warmed his feet by the hearth and recounted his meeting with Aric.
"That is true," she replied as she pulled the shawl back up over her shoulders and tucked the hem of her nightgown out of the way again, "and in its place would have been a plethora of hard feelings, most of them directed at us."
"It took some time for my mind to clear enough to see that it was a blessing that he declined as he did and not a curse. I believe we have gained an ally, however unofficial our connection, one that is well disposed towards us."
"It was well thought to offer to assist Kodlak. That proposition alone sealed your friendship with him."
"My offer was genuine, you know that well enough. The Gods would have struck me dead on the spot if it had been a lie, with good cause. If we are successful, then the end result would be the same, whether he joined with us or not. The schism would be ended."
Hellina set her small plate aside before she stood up and brushed crumbs from her nightgown.
"Come to bed, beloved. You have done all that you can for one day, and a good portion of a night as well. We are owed some peace and quiet before the sun rises again."
Soran was weary, but found some reserves of strength in that moment.
"Are we not owed a bit more than just peace and quiet?" he asked as he took her hand in his and stood up from his chair.
"Why do magistrates always take things so literally?" she replied before kissing him sensuously.
The weather continued to improve, progressing deliberately but steadily from Winter to Spring; a journey whose end would once again be marked by the holiday of First Planting, a time to put aside the differences of the past and come together and greet the future with a new beginning. Soran had tried his utmost every year on First Planting after he had become Harbinger to put aside his feelings for Krev and his men and embrace them as equal members of the Silver Hand; though it grew harder as each year passed. He could not recall a time in all the years that Jarran had been Harbinger when the tall man had not commanded the respect, and in many cases (Soran's included) the love of every man and woman that made up their group.
But Jaran had not had to contend with Krev, at least not the Krev that Soran dealt with. The Krev of old was never a happy man, but being passed over for a title for which he was ill suited, a title that would never be his unless he was the last Silver Hand alive, had poisoned his mind against Soran and anyone who celebrated his ascension. Jaran would never have allowed Krev to collect an army of his own, no matter how small or ill equipped that army was. Soran had allowed it because he thought it would soothe Krev's damaged ego but it had, in fact, done the opposite. Soran had ample opportunity to regret that mistake, which he felt was the first of many examples of how far below the mark he fell when he compared himself to the man who had handed the responsibility to him on his deathbed.
But it seemed that he would be spared the effort of embracing Krev, and each of his men in turn, this year. Dyus had returned from their last known location only to inform Soran that they had departed, and it did not appear that they had any intention of returning. This in itself was not unusual; he regularly found a new home for his men, even if that new home was just as decrepit as the previous one. He had always appeared a short time later to inform Soran (or Hellina) of the move, and to beg for supplies, or money to buy them. But those gaps between moving and begging had never extended to the number of days that now stretched into double digits, and that did not include the days prior to Dyus finding them gone; the number was almost certainly higher than that.
They will turn up eventually, Soran thought to himself, almost as if he were experiencing a premonition, and trouble will follow in their wake.
"It was the saddest thing I have seen in some time," Clesa said as she sat in Eofel's infirmary while the Healer put Dralof through his exercises. Everyone had noticed how the Redguard warrior always seemed to find one reason or another when she visited them to be in the vicinity, if not in the actual company, of the very attractive Nord warrior whose rate of recovery had increased markedly once Eofel had assumed the duty of guiding his care. As it regarded his daily exercises she was an unyielding taskmaster; and while Dralof grew to hate her during those short intervals of pain, he loved her like a little sister once that pain had subsided, and the motion and strength in his arm continued to improve.
No one in their community found even the slightest fault in the Vigilant's attraction to, or behavior towards, Dralof. Clesa knew full well where his affections lay, and she seemed to be content to simply be in his orbit, though she was more than willing to take advantage of whatever opportunity presented itself should their two trajectories collide.
At that particular point in their respective paths she was describing a scene that the four of them, in company with the two members of the Eastmarch Rangers, had come upon on their return from Kynesgrove.
"Gods no, let it not be so," Nilsine had said, her voice filled with dread from the head of their small column after her horse had come to a stop, which had forced them all to stop in turn. Her commander was fourth in line, and so it took a moment for Captain Sophie Storm-Dawn to maneuver her horse next to her friend and companion.
"The Gods are cruel. I have always known it; but this..."
It took another moment for the members of the Silver Hand to move up to the point where their view of the scene was clear.
A giant sat cross legged next to the body of a dead mammoth. His right hand gently stroked the furry head of the beast that lay partially within a pool of water. He looked at them briefly as they sat upon their horses and stared back at him before his gaze returned to his dead pet.
Nilsine Shatter-Shield stepped down from her horse and handed the reins to Sophie before walking slowly towards the giant. She removed her gauntlets as she walked and tuck them in her belt, finally stopping next to the giant, who did not move from his position. Even sitting down he was still taller than the Nord woman.
"What has happened?" Salama asked.
"His last remaining mammoth has died it appears," Sophie answered, the anger plain in her voice, and on her face, "Curse whatever Gods choose to punish him in this manner. All he has ever wanted was to care for his beasts, and they have been taken from him, one after the other."
Nilsine had reached up with her left hand and placed it on the giant's forearm as she spoke to him quietly.
"Do giants understand us?" Terek asked, "I confess that I know nothing of them."
"I have no answers, friend," Sophie replied before a small laugh escaped her lips, "my brother Samuel is neighbors with a giant and his mammoths. That giant chased a chicken around my brother's millstone for thirty minutes once. We never discovered the nature of the disagreement, but they made amends finally, and coexist in peace to this day."
Nilsine had moved to place her hand on the mammoth before she stroked its head much in the same fashion as the giant had. The only words that were spoken were by her. She bade a silent farewell to the giant and returned to her horse and took the reins from Sophie. When she regained her saddle everyone could see the tears on her face.
"He cries constantly, and will not be consoled," she said as she wiped her own tears from her face, "This land is cursed, and it is no mystery who has cursed it."
"We do not know that for certain," Sophie said.
"I do not understand," Clesa said.
"The Sacellum of Boethiah is a short distance east of Windhelm," Sophie said, "her cultists are a pestilence in the regions east and south of the city."
"Boethiah," Salama said. The word seemed to send a shiver through her.
"Her shrine has recently been active. Her followers gather to engage in ritual combat. So long as they limit themselves to killing each other we let them be, but they have begun to venture out, and it is possible that they are responsible for this," Nilsine said.
"Though I would expect to see a number of dead cultists here if that was the case," Sophie said as she moved to the front of the column and they resumed their journey.
"That poor giant, to lose all of his beloved pets in that manner," Eofel said once Clesa had finished her tale. Dralof was occupied at the moment lifting an iron ingot in a repetitive manner that he had quickly come to despise, but that, along with the other exercises, was proving quite effective.
"It is a wonder that they do not clean out that nest of cultists," Clesa said just as Dralof called for mercy and Eofel called a halt.
"They are well known for being very skilled and powerful. But that is the whole point of their rituals. The strongest survive, the weakest die," he explained through uneven breaths.
"You are finished for the day, friend," Eofel said to Dralof just as a mischievous thought came into her mind. She handed Clesa a jar containing an ointment that smelled strongly of eucalyptus.
"Would you do me a service and rub this into his shoulder and back? My exhausted hands have earned a rest."
"It would be my pleasure," Clesa replied with a broad smile as she reached for the jar.