Chapter 4

"Set her down there."

With a strained grunt, Hadvar complies with Ralof's order and roughly deposits Rana onto a patch of moss beneath a knot-ridden pine tree. He then promptly drops to the ground next to her, heaving with exhaustion. All of them are splattered head-to-toe with blue spider ichor. The smell is revolting.

The woman shivers as she clutches at the pus-filled wounds on her arm.

"She looks pale," Ralof worriedly observes.

"I saw her get bitten," Mull remarks from his seat against a nearby stone. "I think she's poisoned."

Ralof's features darken as he squats next to the woman and feels her cheek. "Ah, she's freezing. This is Frostbite venom for sure, and it's already spread beyond her arm." He utters a harsh curse. "It's too late to amputate. I doubt she'll make it to Riverwood at this rate." He exhales unsteadily and turns to Mull. "Do you… do you have any ideas?"

"…No."

The Stormcloak growls. "Well, we have to try something! Anything!"

Hadvar interjects. "Have you seen any orange butterflies?"

Mull and the Stormcloak pause to look at him with tentative confusion. "…You haven't gone mad, have you?" Ralof asks.

"No, you fool. It's to keep her alive. To try, at least," Hadvar gripes indignantly as he points to Rana. "Wild wheat should work too, but I don't think it grows up in these hills. The air's too cold."

The Stormcloak raises his voice. "What does any of that have to do with helping her?!"

The legionary remains unflustered. "Basic knowledge of common alchemy is a standard requirement for soldiers of the Legion, so trust that I know what I'm talking about. It makes things easier when you need to throw together healing solutions out on the battlefield. Though…" He clenches a fist. "I've never dealt with Frostbite venom before."

Ralof chuckles scornfully. "The Imperials really must've ruined you. Every true Nord knows that only the Priesthood of Jhunal have the divine right to practice magic. Those accursed southerners have wormed their lies into your head, Hadvar."

"It's alchemy, not magic," he retorts. "There's a difference."

"Oh, is there?"

"Yes! And besides, what I have in mind isn't even real alchemy. We don't have the necessary facilities to make potions. Anything I'm able to create with what I have on hand would be a second-rate blend at best."

"The butterflies?" Mull irritably interrupts. He doesn't want them to start squabbling again. Listening to that would be aggravating, especially when there's a girl literally laying there on her deathbed. But he wasn't lying – he really doesn't have any ideas. He has no familiarity with treating this kind of wound.

"Ah. Right." The Imperial gives Ralof an aggrieved look but quickly gets to the matter at hand. It's clear that they don't have time to waste. "The wings of orange butterflies are an alchemical ingredient. They're used for healing." He closes his eyes, as if recalling knowledge that hasn't been used in a while. "Find some, grind them into a paste, add hot water, and mix it all up. Do that, and you should have something that might keep her alive. It won't be anything close to the effectiveness of a true potion since no magic is involved and there's only a single active ingredient, but a mundane concoction is better than nothing at all."

Ralof seems doubtful, prompting Hadvar to sigh in annoyance.

"I don't know if it will work for Frostbite venom, but if either of you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

The Stormcloak mumbles something intelligible. "I'm not entirely sure, but I've heard that blue-petalled flowers growing in these hills can lift fevers and the like. Perhaps we could use those."

Hadvar shrugs. "Aye, we could try. I've heard the same."

Mull idly scratches his beard. "One of us will need to stay with her. We shouldn't leave her alone. That would be asking for a wolf or a sabrecat to come along and make a meal out of her." With the luck they've had so far, it wouldn't even surprise him.

The group falls silent as the three men exchange halfhearted glances.

Finally, Hadvar steps forward. "I will. I'll keep her safe, and I can prepare what I need in the meantime."

Ralof raises a suspicious eyebrow. "Would you really do all of this to help a Stormcloak, Hadvar? Why?"

Hadvar glares at the man with disappointment. "Do you really think I'm such a snowback, that I'd leave one of my comrades to die in this forest for no reason?" His severe expression melts into a wry grin. "We've come this far together. We may be on opposite sides of this war, and I know you don't trust me, but we'd all be dead already if it weren't for each other."

Ralof's gaze drops to his feet. "…Aye. I know."

Mull reclines against his rock and snorts. "A legionary and a Stormcloak. That's a tale for the bards, right there."

He elicits a mournful laugh from Ralof. "It really is, isn't it?" He looks up and stretches his arms before pulling Rana's mace from his belt and offering it to Hadvar. "I picked this up when we were running. Hopefully you won't need it."

The Imperial scowls good-naturedly. "Just because you said that, I'm sure I will." His expression tightens. "I'm sorry about your man. Gunjar, right?"

Ralof smiles gloomily and nods. "Don't be. He died a warrior's death. For a true Nord, there is no better end."

Unseen to the two soldiers, Mull's smirk disappears as he vividly recalls the last he saw of the deceased Stormcloak, thrashing and screaming as the Frostbite spiders closed in around him. He grimaces. It's a nice sentiment, but I can't say I agree. I wouldn't wish a death like that on anyone.

-x-

While Hadvar assembles the necessary hardware to create his proposed concoction, Mull and Ralof comb the immediate vicinity for the blue flowers mentioned by the Stormcloak. They find a meager handful, and also manage to catch two orange-winged butterflies with the wings intact. Mull wonders how idiotic they must look jumping around that meadow, trying to snatch the diminutive insects out of the air without damaging them. Their haul is small however, and Ralof isn't confident that it'll be enough for Hadvar to work with. There's only one way to find out.

They return to their meager campsite after about an hour. Hadvar is already waiting for them and gets down to business straightaway. He uses two flat stones to mash up the petals, does the same for the butterfly wings, and stuffs the resultant paste into one of their waterskins that he had warmed over a fire. He then whirls the waterskin around his head by a leather strap to mix all the ingredients together. With that, the surprisingly simple pseudo-potion is complete.

Hadvar immediately goes to Rana and kneels by her side with the waterskin in hand. A few whispered words are exchanged before he puts the waterskin to the woman's mouth and tilts it back. She makes a face and splutters, but is able to swallow most of the concoction.

"Did it work?" Ralof asks hopefully.

"Be patient," Hadvar replies, his tone strained. "It may be a while before it takes effect."

They settle in to wait. Their campsite, until now a hive of activity, falls still. Mull plops down on the same stone he'd previously claimed as his seat. He's tired beyond belief. First the spider nest, then their escape, then rushing about to find the flowers and butterflies… It seems like today will never end. And to think it wasn't even that eventful compared to the past few days. Gods give me strength.

"Hey." Mull looks up just in time to see something flying at his face.

He snatches it out of the air on instinct, fumbling the unexpected object. It's a strip of dried bear meat.

Ralof squats down next to him, his own share of food in hand. "Eat. You look like you need it."

As if to punctuate the man's statement, his stomach rumbles voraciously. He scoffs, ignoring Ralof's amused grin, and bites into the bear jerky with relish.

He chews while thoughtfully examining the Stormcloak. "You don't look much better."

"I'm sure I don't. None of us do." Ralof swallows a mouthful of his own jerky and sighs heavily. He casts a worried glance at Rana.

Mull does the same and notes that the woman's condition doesn't appear to have improved much over the past couple of minutes. Though that isn't very long. Don't jump to conclusions yet.

As he eats, he considers why he's bothering to help these people at all. It's true that Hadvar and Ralof have both saved his life at least once in the last few days, but why should he care? What's done is done. Back at the spider nest, he really should've turned and ran when he had the chance.

But once again, he recognizes that repaying debts can only ever be a good thing. It's simply common sense. If you don't owe people anything, then they won't have a reason to come after you. That isn't all there is to it, however. Even beyond the self-serving, he feels that there's something more to this conundrum.

He remembers Lokir, whose presence made his life that much easier even if he was a pain in the neck at times. He winces as he recalls the image of the horse thief's arrow-ridden corpse sprawled on Helgen's bloody street with limbs bent at odd angles.

He remembers the black dragon, the fire in its eyes, the sound of its earthshattering roar. The heaped carcasses of the slain. The sorts of things that no man should ever have to bear witness to. He shudders. I ask why I should care, and I know that I shouldn't, but… we made it out of that hell together. So I guess, against my better judgement, I do care. We've all earned that much.

-x-

Mull is roughly shaken to consciousness. "Wake up!" someone snarls in his ear. His lethargic mind recognizes the voice as Ralof's.

He scrambles unsteadily to his feet, startled at being woken so suddenly from his slumber. "What is it?"

Rana groans from her makeshift bed under the boughs of the nearby pine tree.

He blinks rapidly and wipes his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to alertness. "How is she?"

"Bad." The light of the setting sun dyes everything in fiery shades of yellow and orange, including Ralof's pallid visage. "Very bad."

Hadvar is sitting next to Rana, in the process of draping a water-soaked rag over her forehead. She's swaddled in almost every piece of spare clothing they possess, including Mull's cloak that had apparently been requisitioned from his sleeping form, and is nestled in a makeshift bed of pine needles. Even through the many layers, he can see her shivering uncontrollably. She's murmuring something in her fever-addled delirium, but it sounds like nonsense.

"We need to do something!" Ralof frantically insists. "There must be something we didn't think of!" He looks to Mull, eyes wide with desperation.

He cringes. Even he can't remain completely coldhearted in the face of this man's anguish. "…I'm sorry," he lamely replies. "I don't know what else there could be."

Ralof snarls and whirls towards Hadvar. The legionary looks up from his ministrations to the dying woman and sullenly shakes his head.

Ralof's shoulders slump. The transformation of his expression into one of such utter defeat is painful to witness.

"A-ah…" The attention of all three men instantly shifts to Rana. She squirms under the pile of clothing, as if trying to raise an arm. Ralof is immediately by her side.

Mull remains a few feet away, what he considers a respectful distance. This isn't the first time he's been in this sort of situation.

The woman's cloudy azure eyes cast about blindly. "Ralof?"

"I'm here!" he cries. "Right here with you!"

"Gunjar? S-svalti?"

Her trembling gradually lessens. Excruciating silence overtakes their campsite The only sources of noise are Ralof's heavy breathing and the woman's indistinct whispers. She takes a ragged breath, seeming to gather her strength. The words that next escape her lips are barely audible.

"I don't… want to die."

She falls still, as if exhausted from the effort of speaking that final sentence. The better part of a minute passes before her breathing ceases and her eyes cloud over.

Ralof bows his head, hunched over her unmoving form.

Hadvar stands and wearily rubs his face. "Never gets any easier," he mumbles, just barely loud enough for Mull to hear.

He's inclined to agree. He's seen plenty of people die, enemies and strangers and the closest of friends all alike, so this is nothing new. But still… something about this time in particular is making him feel sick to his stomach. It's so reminiscent of that day in the mountains, all those months ago, where he lost Morven. The deathly stillness. The stagnant air. The trees crowding in from every side.

How cursed must he be for the events of that day to be paraded before him all over again? He tries to suppress his nausea with a long gulp from his waterskin. It helps a little, though not as much as he'd like. "The gods are cruel, aren't they?" he says softly, not realizing he'd spoken aloud.

Hadvar nods sadly. "Aye. Welcome to Skyrim."

They bury her along with her mace next to a patch of lavender and a weatherworn standing stone, whatever it once depicted having long since faded to Kyne's scouring wind. A gap in the treeline grants the girl's resting place a distant glimpse of the northern mountains shimmering in the light of the twin moons. Ralof carves her name onto another stone, small and flat but still heavy enough to not be moved around by bad weather, and positions it over her grave. He chooses to include Gunjar's name as well.

It's a somber moment, quiet and reflective. Mull decides not to disrupt it with his uncharitable thoughts.

The girl is lucky. This makes for a far better grave than the bellies of Frostbite spiders.

-x-

When he again succumbs to the embrace of sleep, it offers no solace from the waking world. His nightmares are horrible. He only remembers indistinct snippets, the same as before, but the little he does recall is bad enough that he considers the forgetfulness to be a blessing.

He dreams of a man being eaten alive by shadowy monstrous creatures, thrashing and screaming.

He dreams of another man fleeing desperately before being felled by a volley of merciless arrows, piercing his flesh by the hundreds.

He dreams of a slow, agonizing death beneath a flower-laden tree in a snow-soaked glen, with tender words and desperate pleas only serving to make that final goodbye even more excruciatingly painful.

He dreams of the many, many deaths he's witnessed over the course of his singularly violent life. They're too many to count.

Finally, he dreams of a stranger's final words. "I don't want to die."

When he awakens, he's absolutely furious.

He isn't entirely sure why. Fighting and killing isn't something he's ever taken issue with, until now. As for why now… perhaps it's because he's older and more jaded. Or it could be that most of the people he's ever known are either dead or an entire province away. A part of him is tired of all this… pointlessness.

Whatever the reason, his anger is difficult to control as he rises from his cloak-turned-bedroll. It seethes beneath the surface of his skin like a layer of scorching flame, threatening to burst forth and turn him into a human torch.

They gather their things and depart around midday, having taken the entire morning to rest from their nighttime burial. Even then, his anger refuses to lessen.

The road to Riverwood is hard going, especially after the encounter with the spiders just the previous morning, but they persevere through their fatigue and sore muscles. He's looking forward to some good food and decent sleep in a proper tavern, and strong mead or ale that will hopefully provide a solution to his terrible dreams.

However, his anticipation is overshadowed by that black rage eating away at him from within. He ignores it as best he can, but the discordance grows stronger with each passing hour, churning with the unrelenting ferocity of the wind-lashed surface of a lake. Eventually he can't stand it anymore.

Though he knows he'll regret it, he speaks his mind to the Stormcloak marching just ahead of him. "You didn't seem so broken up by Gunjar's death. Being ripped to pieces by Frostbite spiders is a bad way to go. He must've suffered before it was over," he finishes with a sneer.

Hadvar sucks in a sharp breath.

Ralof stops in the middle of the road and turns to regard Mull with glittering azure eyes, visibly restraining himself. Even from that one comment, his face is already turning red with barely suppressed rage. "His was a warrior's death," he growls. "Rana's was not."

"What is the godsdamn difference?!" Mull shouts.

Both Hadvar and Ralof balk, taken aback by his outburst.

"Tell me," he demands. "Why does it matter? They're dead either way. So why?"

The legionary shuffles uncomfortably. Ralof trembles with fury.

"…A death in battle is honorable," Hadvar finally answers. "It is something to be emulated. It is desirable. All Nords strive to gain entrance to Sovngarde at the conclusion of their lives."

"You're still going on about Sovngarde after everything we've seen? Do you think all those people in Helgen earned their way into paradise, or was getting killed by a dragon like rats in a cage not a noble enough ending for the gods' taste?" He chuckles deprecatingly. "Oh, but that's right. You Nords enjoy getting yourselves killed for no reason. The Civil War, the Forsworn Rebellion, the Great War. How could I possibly forget that a life isn't worth anything in this hellhole of a province? I've already seen hundreds of Nords die like it's nothing. What are a few more?"

"You Hearth-cursed bastard!" Ralof roars.

Despite knowing it would be inevitable, Mull is still shocked by the sheer speed of the Stormcloak's incoming fist. He has no hope of avoiding it. The punch barrels into his left cheek, spinning him around and putting him on the ground in a heap.

The furious man looms menacingly over him, his body cast in shadow by the sun. "You know nothing of our land, you cowardly sack of trollshit! You know nothing of our people's struggles! What have you done?! You would be dead if it weren't for-!"

"Ralof, that's enough!" Hadvar grabs the Stormcloak's shoulder and yanks him away. He allows himself to be manhandled, though he continues spitting vicious curses.

When stars are no longer dancing across Mull's vision, only then does he notice the tears trailing down Ralof's cheeks. He's surprised. He hadn't expected a reaction like that. He isn't sure what he expected, actually. When he gets angry like he did today, he isn't able to think. He just acts.

Hadvar takes Ralof's place, standing above him like a giant. "What is the meaning of this?" he stonily demands.

Mull is silent for a long moment. His thoughts are muddled. He isn't sure what his answer will be until it's already being said. "I… I don't understand you Nords. How can you watch them die, somehow know that they'll be waiting for you in Sovngarde, and just accept that? How can you bear to see them accept that? To welcome it? She didn't want to die! She said it herself!" He stops himself before he says anything else he'll regret.

Who was he talking about just then? Rana? Or her? He's wading into dangerous waters. If he lets out too much, the dam he's been trying to pretend doesn't exist will collapse and the flood will come. It isn't that he doesn't want to think about Morven. She deserves his remembrance. It just… it isn't easy. It never is.

As he has that thought, caustic shame blooms within him. Would she want you to say something like that? Would she want you to not care? You know she'd be angry. She always was whenever you did something stupid like this.

The rage goes out of him, overcome by remorse for having failed her expectations. He allows himself to fall back onto the dusty road. "I didn't mean what I said," he says to the sky. Clouds drift lazily overhead, casting the land below in their shadow. "I… dammit. I'm sorry." Though it's difficult to force those words past his lips, he's taken aback to realize he means them sincerely. "I've been an ass, and everything you said is true. Just go on to Riverwood and leave me be. It's what I would do in your place. I owe both of you too much already."

He waits a while, watching the sea of blues and whites flowing above. It would be nicer if his head wasn't killing him, but he figures it's well-deserved. He hopes Ralof and Hadvar will leave. They're good men. Better than himself, certainly. They don't belong with a bandit who's done things they would surely abhor. He doesn't regret having done those things – making a living in the underbelly of Tamriel is a messy business by definition – but it's simply a fact of life. Men of good standing belong together and men of bad standing belong together. That's how it is.

For that reason, his confusion grows when he doesn't hear footsteps moving away. Instead, a hand wraps around one of his arms and pulls him to his feet. His forehead buzzes as his body grows reaccustomed to standing.

Ralof is the one who lifted him. The man is still categorically livid, but not nearly as much as when he threw the punch. "Luckily, we aren't like you," the Stormcloak declares. "We won't abandon a fellow warrior even if he is a right bastard. You spouted shit and I gave you something to remember why you shouldn't." He gestures to Mull's bruised jaw. "On that count, we are even. But, if you ever, ever say something like that about my comrades again, I swear to the gods of Hearth, Twilight, and the Dead that I'll gut you like a skeever myself," he finishes with a furious hiss.

Mull meets his enraged gaze. It's the least the man deserves after that display. "I believe you."

The three stand quietly for a while. The forest hums with life all around them, insects chirping and grass swaying peacefully in the wind. The occasional squirrel or rabbit rustles in the underbrush.

"We should be going," Hadvar finally says. "We've wasted enough time with this foolishness. Home awaits us."

Mull and Ralof both nod, and they get underway without further interruption.

As they walk in an uneasy silence stretching from minutes to hours, Mull wishes more and more that they would speak of something, anything, to pass the time. After that shitshow, the memories he'd rather not remember are out in force.

Accursed words echo through his mind, the same that have haunted his dreams unceasingly. He can't escape no matter what he does. Unseen to his companions, he grits his teeth and boils with wrath, though this time directed at himself. He wishes with everything he has that the words would go away, but they don't. He hears them again, and again, and again, and again. Over and over and over.

"I'll see you… again… in Sovngarde."

-x-

The forest has thinned significantly by late afternoon. They soon emerge onto an overlook above several switchbacks of the road, leading down to the banks of the White River. Beneath their feet, the river valley is dotted with a rustic assortment of hamlets and small villages, rarely more than five structures clustered together. Chimney smoke curls languidly into the air from several dozen locations. High in the mountains to the north, Mull can make out the soaring arches of some crumbling ruin swathed in billowing clouds. Ralof mentions it by name – Bleak Falls Barrow. It's got a ring to it.

In the east, the great bulk of the Throat of the World rises heavenward on the horizon. He briefly wonders if the Stormcloaks' prayers to Kyne back when they were first being transported to Helgen had actually worked in the end. Though somehow, I doubt the Mother of Mankind would be responsible for sending a dragon to wipe out an entire town. That doesn't seem in character for a benevolent goddess. But I'm no priest.

That night, they strike camp at an ancient stone circle near the shores of the river, presided over by a trio of especially tall menhirs. Ralof and Hadvar wander around to look at the carvings, but Mull is too tired to bother. He busies himself with building a fire while they dawdle.

They eat the last of their bear jerky before settling in around the fire, sputtering lively in the deepening darkness. The same awkward silence from the road persists through most the evening.

Finally, Hadvar groans with exasperation, stands, and pulls Ralof aside. He marches the Stormcloak to the edge of the stone circle, out of earshot, where they exchange animated whispers for the better part of a minute. When they return to the fire, both men seem even more guarded than before. Mull watches them warily.

But fortunately, his fears of some malicious conspiracy prove unfounded. Staring into the spiraling flames, Ralof begins to tell stories of his childhood in Riverwood. The man is stiff and speaks haltingly at first, but once he gets into a rhythm, Mull is forced to admit that he's a talented storyteller. If nothing else, the Stormcloak does a good job of taking his mind away from recent events.

He pities the man. It's hard to lose companions, and he's sure Ralof lost more than a few at Helgen, not only Gunjar and Rana. He legitimately regrets what he said earlier, which means a lot coming from somebody capable of killing in cold blood without a shred of remorse That, he freely admits.

Empathy has never been his strong suit, but when he imagines what he would've done if someone had spoken to him like that right after Morven's death…

He grimaces. Had their roles been reversed, he would've torn out Ralof's throat with his bare hands in a heartbeat.

And Hadvar has likely experienced the same, given the sheer number of Imperial soldiers stationed at Helgen. Most of them are probably dead.

He also pities Lokir for the shameful fate he suffered, as well as Gunjar and Rana, but he isn't sure that he truly mourns any of them. He's lived and fought alongside many people over the years. For him, death has been a constant part of life, an incessant reminder that he's still breathing and on his feet, still alive unlike so many others. Such is the fragility of Man.

With these unpleasant things to occupy his thoughts, it turns out to be another long night.

-x-

The next morning, Ralof is acting almost as if nothing had ever happened between them. Not entirely – there's still perceptible tension underlying every interaction – but almost. Mull idly wonders what Hadvar said to him last night.

It occurs to him that giving the two adversaries a common enemy in the form of himself might've allowed them to grow closer. Hmph. That's actually pretty funny.

They wash themselves at the riverbank just below the stone circle before getting on the road. They need it badly – they all smell worse than a troll in the height of summer. Mull is elated to finally be rid of the stench of that disgusting spider blood. He'd grown used to it, if only a little, which to his mind is an impressive feat in its own right.

When he sees his reflection in the river, he's taken aback by his appearance. He's changed a lot in the past few months, and even the past few weeks. Much more than he would've expected.

His yet-to-be-washed reddish-brown hair is hanging in greasy strands, just long enough to be irritatingly unkempt as it brushes against his neck. The same can be said for his matted copper-colored beard. As always, his nose is crooked and partly misshapen. His dirty and ash-stained face is marred by a collection of scars, some many years old and others more recent. Dark circles hang heavily beneath his dull green eyes, causing him to appear ill or malnourished at a glance. His cheeks are sunken worse than he remembers. In a word, his is the face of an exhausted man.

He looks a little better after the bath, more bedraggled than anything else, though that isn't saying much. He's never spent much time or effort worrying about such things, but Morven always did. She would insist that he needed to take care of his physical appearance even though there wasn't much incentive to do so as a bandit. She'd always say something about preserving his dignity as a man, whatever that means.

Ralof and Hadvar don't try to drown him in the river even though it's a perfect opportunity for an assassination. That more than anything is what convinces him they really must've forgiven his transgressions.

They finish washing up, break camp, and continue toward Riverwood with a few hours still remaining before midday. They reenter a denser stretch of forest, where the previously omnipresent pine trees are now interspaced with deciduous varieties of rowan, oak, and hazel.

After a while, Mull notices Hadvar keeping an unusually close eye on the heavily-wooded south side of the road. Visibility in that direction is minimal. He realizes belatedly that this would be a good spot to stage an ambush. "Is there something you're worried about?"

"…Maybe." The legionary turns slightly to address him while still watching the trees. "This road goes near a place called Embershard Mine. It's the stronghold of the Embershard Clan, who dwell in the vicinity of the mine and operate it. They're a traditionalist Nord clan who hold true to the old ways. They have more in common with our kinsfolk of the Old Holds than they do their own neighbors."

"Which means…?"

"They've been known to waylay unsuspecting travelers on occasion," Hadvar supplies. "They aren't brigands in the truest sense of the word, but they aren't exactly upstanding citizens either. For one thing, they refuse to pay their due taxes. They're known to raid outlying settlements on occasion. They take from the weak and respect the strong. That's just their way."

Huh. Interesting. These Embershard folks sound like the kind of people he could get along with if he set his mind to it. "If they're such a problem, then why doesn't the Jarl of Whiterun do something about them?"

"The Jarl can't deal with them himself since the mine is technically located within Falkreath Hold despite its proximity to the territories of Whiterun. And even if that weren't the case, Imperial intelligence indicates that he doesn't have the manpower to destroy the clan, so it's a moot point. Also, if he were to send a large body of men this far south, then the Jarl of Falkreath would surely take it as a provocation. He's notorious for his… fickle attitude."

A defensible stronghold and a lack of central authority to deal with them. That's a recipe for success. "Sounds like they have a good operation going. You said before that there's a lot of commerce along this river, right?"

"Right," Hadvar replies uncertainly.

"Hmm." Mull nods approvingly. Even only having heard this much about the Embershard Nords, he's already growing envious of them. If it weren't for certain recent events, he might even seriously consider taking a detour to their mine and finding out if they're currently recruiting. You never know whether or not a bandit gang has good management until you interact with them directly, but it could be worth the trouble to see for himself.

That said, those certain recent events have made him much less inclined to return to wholesale banditry – for the time being, at least. He had something good going with Lokir, but that was small-time. Accosting lone travelers and stealing a couple of mangy horses was the extent of their activities. It was necessary for his immediate survival. He doesn't know how to do anything other than that.

Going to a clan of unruly Nords with the explicit intention of taking up the bloody banner of banditry once again is something different altogether. Jumping back into the thick of it less than a week after surviving a dragon attack – a dragon attack! – that leveled an entire town in less than an hour would just be wrong on a fundamental level. To escape from that hellscape, that cauldron of suffering, and then to immediately turn around and inflict that same suffering on others… what would Morven say? Gods, he can already imagine the nagging.

He groans and scrubs his fingers through his hair, frustrated by that troublesome voice of morality refusing to go away. It sounds suspiciously like Morven's voice.

The destruction of his old gang was sobering, among other things. Morven's death, of course, was the worst of it all by far. And there are her final wishes to consider. She didn't want him to continue living the way he'd been for so long. She wanted him to become better.

"…Like I never could. For me."

He shakes his head, forcibly dispelling his previous thoughts of larcenous opportunities. Old habits die hard. He'll never become the kind of person she wanted him to be – the kind of person she was, a definitively good persondespite being a bandit herself – but she wanted him to try. He knows that. And despite my best efforts, I could never say no to her. I might not be able to do it. I think I'll always be a bandit at heart. It's just who I am deep down. But… I guess I'll try. She deserves that much. At the very least, I'll get myself back up to snuff in this Riverwood town and then go from there. Checking out the local flavor of bandit gangs is one option of many. I'll leave it at that for now.

He sighs and continues trudging along the road, ignoring Hadvar's confusion about his unusually interested questions and inexplicably morose demeanor. He realizes that he wouldn't have any idea what to do with himself as an ostensibly law-abiding citizen. All he's ever known is fighting and thievery. A part of him deeply misses that life, though that's tempered somewhat by the bloody memories of his gang's ignoble fate. That's how Morven was different from him – she did what she had to do, but she never liked it. She wished her life could've been something better, just as she wanted the same for him.

"As a little girl, the Hero of Kvatch was my idol. I wanted to be her when I grew up. I dreamed of slaying deadra and saving the world. We all played those games as children, right? I must've never outgrown them like most people do. And now look at me. Isn't it funny, the places life can take us?"

With a mournful sigh, he makes his decision and keeps walking. Right now Riverwood is his destination, and whatever comes next can wait until afterwards. If he decides that he wants to take up banditry once more, then he'll probably encounter opportunities to do so at some point. If he decides he'd rather try something new, as Morven would've doubtlessly preferred, then he can do that instead.

But despite giving himself the illusion of a choice, he already knows which option he'll select in the end. It's a foregone conclusion. Even in death, Morven continues to haunt him. He'll never be rid of her. And in all honesty, he wouldn't have it any other way.

-x-

The sun is setting by the time the three men reach Riverwood, having walked the entire next day along the road spanning the south bank of the river. They passed a few farmsteads and fisherman's huts, but they mutually decided to hasten for Riverwood instead of stopping and begging for a meal. They're exhausted, starving, and clad in ratty bloodstained clothing, all of which would've convinced any landowner with a modicum of common sense that they're naught but a trio of troublemakers down on their luck, or perhaps deserters.

As a result, the three men garner more than a few odd looks as they limp into the township of Riverwood, relieved beyond words to have finally arrived. The only reason they're allowed inside at all is because Ralof is recognized by one of the watchmen at the western gate.

Riverwood is a sizeable settlement, though not quite as large as Helgen, and Mull estimates the population to be at least several thousand. The town is bounded by the river on its northwest side and squat stone walls on the other three. Like the rest of the region, most of the surrounding countryside is heavily forested.

The central road is bounded on either side by rows of flat river stones, which branch off into winding pathways between buildings. The town's modest single-story longhouses are constructed predominantly of wood and roofed with grassy turf, much less structurally impressive than those of Helgen, but giving Riverwood a distinctly earthy feel that better fits the image of the Nord countryside. Rising behind the town is a vista of verdant mountainsides with a handful of lonely trees, watered by tumbling streams. All told, this place is very green.

"Riverwood, huh?" Mull muses, observing a group of men and two oxen dragging felled trees along the riverbank nearby. "Creative name, that."

Ralof chuckles pleasantly. "Aye, it certainly is." He seems to be in a good mood.

Mull stretches his arms and looks around, taking in the various businesses and homes lining the way. They're still getting odd looks – with their scavenged Imperial gear, they probably do look a lot like deserters now that he thinks about it – but the dozens of people walking the streets alongside them have somewhat reduced their conspicuousness. He isn't unduly worried about getting arrested anytime soon.

"As much as I'm happy to be back, I need something to eat," Ralof announces. "I'm starved."

Hadvar voices his heartfelt agreement. "I could eat an entire cow, hooves and all. Even if that killed me, I'd die a happy man."

"It's settled then. Come, I'll take you to my sister's. She'll cook us the best cheese-baked trout you've ever tasted!"

"Cheese-baked trout," Mull mumbles under his breath. "That's a new one."

The Stormcloak must overhear his comment since he laughs and gives him a hearty slap on the back, earning himself a glare. "Then you've got to try it! You haven't lived, man!"

He snorts but finally nods his consent. He's still amazed by Ralof's reversal of attitude. He just hopes it isn't preceding a knife in the back.

The Throat of the World rises far above, the cloud-wreathed mountain an ever-present feature in the landscape of this river valley. Even as they walk between buildings, it remains eternally visible. This close to the first of its foothills, it blots out almost the entirety of the western horizon. "What's it like to live in the shadow of the Throat of the World?" he asks Hadvar as they continue walking. He's expecting the Imperial to give a profound answer about heightened spirituality or some such.

Instead, the man merely shrugs. "Not much different from anywhere else, really. Just a nice view to wake up to in the morning."

He stifles a chuckle. He doesn't take Hadvar for the sacrilegious type, but he supposes that even the sight of the most incredible vistas would lose their splendor after a few years. However, he hasn't reached that point quite yet. It's still astonishing to him that a mountain so massive could even exist. As before, the peak isn't visible at all through its girdle of cotton-white clouds.

As they plod further along the town's main thoroughfare, they notice a loud commotion nearby. An old woman is standing on the porch of a modest house and yelling insensately to nobody in particular. "A dragon! I saw a dragon! It was as big as the mountain, and black as night! It flew right over the barrow!"

Some of the other townspeople berate her, questioning her sanity, but the woman is adamant in what she'd seen.

The three men share a dark look, their earlier lightheartedness suddenly forgotten. The old woman's voice follows them as they draw further away, drifting between the houses.

Hadvar is the first to speak. "I hate to say it, but maybe the food should wait. We have news that some people might want to hear."

"..Aye," Ralof reluctantly concurs. "You're right about that."

Mull shares the Stormcloak's reluctance, but seeing as these men are his only connections in this town, he consents to following them around for the time being.

With that, the trio turn down a side street, Mull and Hadvar following Ralof's lead toward a lumber mill on the riverbank. "This mill belongs to my sister and her husband," he informs them over his shoulder. As the high-roofed structure comes within earshot, he calls out a loud greeting. "Gerdur!"

His response is a feminine shout and the sound of someone stomping on wooden boards overhead. A head of blonde hair appears on the balcony of the mill, a two-story structure with a peaked roof of wood shingles. "Brother!"

The woman rushes recklessly down a flight of stairs, sprints towards them at full speed despite being hindered by her ankle-length green dress, and throws herself into Ralof's arms. The Stormcloak grins and hugs her fiercely. A handful of burly men laboring around the mill stop what they're doing to watch the spectacle.

Gerdur is half a head shorter than her brother, but still tall for a woman. Her golden hair is heavily braided as is often the case for Nords. Mull guesses she might be around his own age, thirty or thirty-five. Her face is a little wrinkled, but guileless and happy.

"Mara's mercy, it's good to see you." Her voice is muffled by Ralof's shirt. "But is it safe for you to be here? We'd heard that Jarl Ulfric has been captured. Won't the Imperials be looking for you?"

"If that's what you're worried about, then I think it's a bit too late. I've already been found." He releases her and gestures to Hadvar.

The woman sees the legionary and her eyes go wide. "…Hadvar. How do you do?" she greets with guarded politeness.

The Imperial scoffs good-naturedly. "Gerdur. You don't have to worry about anything from me. On my honor, I would be a dead man if it weren't for Ralof, and I think he can say the same for me. I won't give you any trouble."

Her confusion visibly mounts. "Are you hurt, brother? What has happened?"

"Gerdur, I'm fine," he assures her. "At least, I am now."

She graces her brother with a displeased glare, clearly unsatisfied by his attempts to assuage her doubts. She catches sight of Mull and her expression turns to puzzlement. "And who's this? One of your comrades?"

"No," he coughs. "Gods no. But… we three have been watching each others backs for the past several days. We owe one another our lives. He may not be a friend, but he's close enough for it not to matter. No offense," he says to Mull.

"None taken," he drily replies. "That's probably nicer than what I would've said about you. You did punch me in the face."

"Which you deserved."

"…Which I deserved," he agrees.

Ralof turns back to his sister, who's now even more confused than before. "Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when news of Helgen will begin to spread. There are things you need to hear."

Gerdur's frown deepens. "…It sounds like you have some explaining to do. Come with me. The back side of the mill should be discrete enough."

She ushers them to an isolated corner of the lumberyard nestled against the banks of the river, waving for the workers to get back to their tasks. Here, there's a lawn of stubby grass with a few shorn tree trunks to act as improvised seating. It's far enough away from the workers that Mull doubts they'll be overheard.

"Find somewhere to sit, please. I'll be back in just a moment. I need to scrounge up some food and track down my good-for-nothing husband." She fusses over Ralof and positions him to her satisfaction before striding quickly back to the mill, where she vanishes around the far end of the building.

While she's gone, Hadvar smiles teasingly at Ralof. "Looks like your sister hasn't changed much."

Ralof chuckles easily. "No, I'd say she hasn't. I always knew she'd make a good mother. I like to think I was right."

A few of the mill workers wander closer, peering at the three newcomers with palpable curiosity, but their scrutiny is interrupted by the reappearance of Gerdur with a basket in her arms and two figures following behind. They hastily return to their stations, pretending not to have any interest in the proceedings even as they continue to watch from the corners of their eyes.

Gerdur bustles across the lumberyard and begins pulling one foodstuff after another out of her basket. As she does, she hurriedly introduces the two others accompanying her. "This is my husband Hod and our son Frodnar. Frodnar, say hello." Hod is a brawny Nord with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a bushy mustache. Frodnar is a young boy with hair the same shade as his father.

Instead of following his mother's instruction, the boy instead makes a beeline for Ralof and begins pestering him with a barrage of questions. Gerdur blows a strand of hair out of her face, the action conveying her exasperation in spades, but Ralof laughs as he struggles to answer each question before the next.

The husband seems amused by his son's antics. "As he said, you can call me Hod," he says genially. "While Ralof is preoccupied, look here – we've brought you all something to eat."

Together, he and Gerdur pass out loaves of bread, sliced carrots, and fist-sized wheels of pale blue-veined cheese.

Mull's stomach rumbles loudly. Without further ado, he mumbles his thanks and enthusiastically digs in.

The bread is decent, not particularly warm but still fluffy, with a hint of salt. The carrots are crunchy and fresh. But the cheese… Gods above, that's some good cheese. It's tangy and delicious, exploding with flavor as he chews. It might just be because he's so hungry, but this is quite possibly the best cheese he's eaten in Skyrim to date. "What is this?" he asks.

Gerdur seems amused by his profound interest. "That's eidar cheese, made from local stock. You like it?"

He firmly nods.

"I'm glad. If you see our cow Audra, you can thank her yourself. It's made from her milk."

"I'll be sure to do that," he declares.

She snickers while her husband gives a full-throated laugh. Hadvar is too busy with his own food to notice, not that Mull can blame him.

After a few more minutes of Frodnar jabbering excitedly, Gerdur's patience expires and she orders him to go keep an eye on the south road, ostensibly to watch for anyone else coming from Helgen. It's obvious to everyone but him that she's just trying to get him out of Ralof's hair.

With that, the husband and wife take their own seats and they get down to business. At Gerdur's prompting, the three men begin recounting all of the events of the past week, ever since Darkwater Crossing. They're at it for several hours, long into the evening.

The honors mostly fall to Ralof and Hadvar, as Mull ends up dozing through the vast majority of the conversation. He only regains consciousness to offer input whenever explicitly requested before falling back into his stupor. He can't help himself. His satisfied belly, the darkness of dusk, the monotonous gurgling of the river, and the scent of sawdust and tree sap all combine to make the siren call of sleep wholly irresistible. Not even when Hod passes around a wineskin to keep the conversation lubricated is he enticed into contributing to the discussion. As the man who usually drinks more than his fair share in these situations, that more than anything is a clear indicator of his fatigue.

It's fully dark by the time they finish talking and making plans for the night. Hadvar gives his goodbyes, saying he's off to see his uncle and aunt, but promises to return at a later time. Mull blearily stands and gets ready to go look for an inn – completely forgetting that he has no money at the moment – but Gerdur and Hod insist that he can stay in their home for a few days, along with Ralof. Wanting nothing more than to hurry up and get to sleep, he readily agrees.

And what a home it turns out to be. Positioned a short ways back from Riverwood's main street, the timber interior of the L-shaped longhouse gives the structure a rugged but welcoming atmosphere. Multicolored pelts and taxidermized fish adorn every free inch of the walls. Barrels of ale and other commodities are tucked tastefully into nooks and corners, sufficiently out of the way but simultaneously ready to be broken open for merriment at a moment's notice. The centerpiece of the main room is a huge riverstone hearth of beautiful craftsmanship. Mull has never been much of a craftsman himself – as a man who pillages for a living, he's arguably quite the opposite – but even he can tell it's a well-built home. It's very… homey.

After that, his full attention is devoted to the guest bed they're kind enough to prepare for him. The fur blankets are unimaginably soft, and the wool mattress sinks beneath him like a cloud. He sleeps about fourteen hours straight, well into the following morning. He's too exhausted to even dream.