Chapter 23
AN: Shorter chapter.
-x-
Mull, Torgen, and Lydia loiter on the narrow street as they stare at a dilapidated structure tucked between unremarkable timber houses. It's a two-story wooden building, half-sunken into the ground to better insulate the bottom floor in the manner common to Nordic dwellings. It's anchored by a low stone foundation around the base and topped with a steep wood-shingled roof, though this one is lacking the ornamentation present on many other homes – carvings of horses and dragons, etcetera. This was once a carpenter's combined workshop and house if Proventus Avenicci is to be believed, but has lain vacant for some time.
Mull asked the Jarl for someplace inconspicuous to lay low for a while. Being near the southeastern corner of the city and not particularly close to the larger thoroughfares, city walls, or anything else of note, this is about as inconspicuous as it can get. It's a little too close to a major market square for his liking, but not so much to be an issue.
However, it might be too inconspicuous. The roof has seen better days, with numerous shingles sitting crooked or outright missing. The glazed windows are clouded with detritus and in a poor state of repair. The walls are covered in the sort of deep-seated grime that can only accumulate over the course of many years. Even compared to the neighboring buildings, it isn't a remotely impressive sight.
"I've gotta say, this isn't exactly what I was expecting."
Mull's eyes narrow at Torgen's accusatory comment as he inspects the decrepit building. "Maybe it'll look better inside."
The older man's chortling laughter draws the attention of a few nearby townsfolk. "I wouldn't count on it. This place looks like it's been abandoned for a lifetime. We'll be lucky if it doesn't fall down on our heads the moment we step through the door."
Ignoring the unsolicited cynicism, Mull unlocks and opens the front door with Lydia her customary two steps behind. The young housecarl seems curious, though she also plainly shares Torgen's uncertainty. The door hinges shriek like a dying Frostbite spider as they're forced to turn for the first time in gods know how long.
They stop just beyond the threshold as they process the scene before them.
A long beat of silence is ended when Lydia drops her knapsack full of personal belongings, overcome by this appalling spectacle. "Shor's bones…"
What a mess. Every wall, every table, every cabinet, even the ceiling, are all wrapped in a dense stratum of cobwebs. The floor is more dirt than actual floor. Dust rests so heavily in the air that they can't see farther than fifteen feet.
The young housecarl mutters under her breath just loud enough for her companions to hear. "Avenicci didn't say it would be like this."
"I wonder why," Torgen snipes. "Looks like your Jarl did you dirty. Heh. Get it?" He glances back down the street. "If this is all you had to show me, then I think I'll be on my way back to the White Whale. There's still drinking to be done."
Mull grunts unhappily and steps back outside while studiously ignoring his housecarl's concerned stare. He looks up at the cloudless sky and takes a deep, calming breath, allowing his nascent anger to wash away.
Then it surges right back, threatening to overflow. He grinds his teeth as he imagines the creative variety of ways he could end Avenicci's life. He would only need a few minutes. That's all it would take for him to make the steward's remaining time on Nirn a living hell.
Lydia peers up at his face. Whatever she sees there causes her to blanch.
Now having garnered something of an audience among the townspeople around them, he angrily announces his intentions to the world. "I'm going to kill that bastard."
-x-
It takes several days of nonstop cleaning to make the building even somewhat livable. Mull forcefully apprises Avenicci of the situation – "I swear, we had no idea it was in such deplorable condition! Please understand!" – though he stops just short of harming the man outright. As much as he'd love to, he's dissuaded in the end by Irileth threatening to slit his throat before he can blink. If anyone is capable of performing that feat, it would probably be her.
He solicits some hired help on the Jarl's septim, mostly all-purpose laborers who Avenicci assures him won't blab about anything they aren't supposed to. The only consolation about this mess is that he doesn't have to pay for any of it.
They put in a lot of work – even Torgen despite his reservations, which is something of a surprise – and in the end it turns out to be a deceptively cozy place.
A high-ceilinged main room on the ground floor runs all the way from front to back in an arrangement reminiscent of a great hall, long and somewhat narrow with stout timber rafters angled above. Rows of clerestory windows allow sunlight to filter inside, augmenting the illumination provided by firelight. It almost makes Mull think of a miniature Dragonsreach, though that's mostly him being fanciful.
The main room boasts a nice sunken hearth, two trestle tables, and a cramped but functional kitchen area. There are three smaller side rooms, two on the left and one on the right, as well as another two that comprise the second story. Torgen claims one of the top rooms for his own while Mull and Lydia take two of the three on the bottom. The third is converted into a provisional armory.
For her part, Lydia mostly focuses on making the barracks – as they take to calling it – a bit homier in a variety of ways. Mull and Torgen honestly couldn't care less, but she insists on acquiring decorations and other assorted amenities for their new abode. She at least avoids purchasing anything excessively ostentatious, mostly staying content with rugs for the floors and circular or hexagonal ornaments for the walls, all woven from dried grass and other fibrous plants in the traditional plains style of Whiterun Hold.
Other acquisitions include miscellaneous furniture, drying racks for food, candleholders, a small shrine set for the hearth gods, and the hundred and one other items apparently necessary for a nascent household to function.
Mull doesn't know much about homemaking, but he's forced to admit that the girl does a good job. The building doesn't feel like a collection of empty walls with a roof anymore, but rather an actual dwelling. That's a woman's touch for you, I suppose.
In addition, there's a respectable amount of unused space behind the barracks. It's perfect for a training field, if only a small one. It's where the raw lumber had been worked during the property's previous life. The heady scent of sawdust and tree sap is still lingering in the earth. It's a peaceful spot, isolated from the bustling streets by the walls of surrounding houses on all sides.
This place really isn't too bad.
He's finally turning over a new leaf for himself here in Skyrim, the reason he came to this godsforsaken province in the first place. Not quite how he originally imagined – not even close – but the alternative is being dead, and he knows which of those two he'd prefer. Though recent events considered, it remains to be seen how long this can last. He has a sinking feeling that his life will continue to be much more exciting than he'd like.
"Hey, kid." Torgen strolls up next to him with a mallet propped over his shoulder.
He greets the Nord with a nod and continues quietly observing the results of their hard work. Their barracks has come together pretty nicely if he does say so himself. It isn't perfect, but it's a whole lot better than a lot of places he's lived in the past.
And… as strange as it feels to say it, this place is his. By the letter of the law, he owns it. The deed to the property is tucked inside a drawer in his brand-new nightstand, stamped with the Jarl's wax seal and everything. That's as official as it can get.
He's never owned property before, but now he does. Although it's such a simple thing to say, to him that statement carries a significance he can't put into words.
Torgen takes a look around and grins. "I'd be lying if I said I ever planned on becoming a mercenary, but this setup isn't bad. I think it could work out."
"Agreed. On both counts." He's still surprised that Torgen decided to stick around, especially with his initial reaction to the pre-cleaning barracks. But like he said back in the White Whale, he and the big Nord are similar men in some ways. Torgen can probably smell a good opportunity when he sees one, and he likes to think that's what this will be. A good opportunity.
"…Want to go grab some ale?"
He graces the older man with a scathing look. "Sure, as long as it doesn't taste like pig piss again."
Torgen guffaws. "I can't promise anything!"
That's the best answer I can expect from him. I wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally poisons me one of these days.
-x-
"I don't know much about this side of running an operation. I just kill things. But I have some expertise and more importantly I know the right people, so we can make this work. Take it from me, you'll be the biggest and baddest mercenary lord on this side of the White River in no time!"
Aela the Huntress thoughtfully taps her chin.
"Well, except for the Companions of course. Nobody's better than us."
"Of course," Mull drawls.
It's late afternoon, still sunny but gradually getting cooler as the sun descends from its zenith. He and Aela have found themselves on an isolated perch high atop Whiterun's southern walls in a more dilapidated area of the city. Behind them are plots of empty land strewn with weather-faded masonry and beds of grassy weeds, a stark reminder of Whiterun's once-proud history as the Imperial City of Skyrim. Ahead the townlands beyond the walls steadily give way to beige steppe, and that to a range of purple and grey mountains across the horizon. The same mountains housing Bleak Falls Barrow, he thinks. It seems like Skyrim has mountains just about everywhere you look.
He isn't sure how or why they ended up in this spot. He went to Jorrvaskr to talk to Aela, she said something about getting away from the mead hall's rowdy inhabitants, and… here they are.
She'd led him up a flight of open-air stairs onto the walls, flashed her wolf-token to the guardsmen patrolling the ramparts, and they allowed her past without a second thought. It's strange that a mercenary company would have such high standing with the Jarl's warriors. Though if the Companions of Jorrvaskr really are hundreds of years old, then it sort of makes sense. They must be a local staple by now, and if they weren't reliable then they wouldn't still be here.
"You're lucky to be on such good terms with somebody like me, you know," continues Aela. "For this kind of situation, you almost always need another highly-positioned mercenary in good standing to vouch for you. I just so happen to fit the bill."
He cautiously leans over the ramparts and peers at the sheer drop on the other side, down to unforgiving jagged rocks below. Aela is sitting on the crenellations and dangling her legs over the edge without a care in the world. The rays of the sun make her hair shimmer like fire.
He crosses his arms and shakes his head, unwilling to join in on her pointless risk-taking. These fortifications are old, and they look like they could crumble at any moment. "What do you mean by 'highly-positioned?'"
"The person doing the vouching can't be some nobody straight outta the Riften Ratway," she clarifies. "They have to be somebody. I'm one of the most senior active members of the Companions of Jorrvaskr, which means I'm part of what we call our Circle. We're the leaders of the company, basically. That means my word carries weight." She grins impishly, an expression Mull has seen far too often for his taste in recent weeks. "Again, you're lucky. Not only did you happen to meet someone with a particularly unique skillset who helped you take down a big scary dragon, but that same someone can help get the ball rolling for your own little mercenary company. Wonders abound, huh?"
"They sure do. Which begs the question, why exactly are you agreeing to help me?" Mull already knows the answer – it's pretty obvious – but he still wants to ask, if only to confirm what he's sure to be true.
The woman's grin becomes predatory, though not outright aggressive. If anything, it's a step down from her usual bellicose demeanor. "Why wouldn't I? After all, we both know what you are. What's a secret like that between friends, hmm?"
She sidles closer and lowers her voice, though none of the guards are close enough to overhear.
"You're the Dragonborn. I still can't believe it, but sometimes the truth is just that unbelievable. Not only that, but I saved your life at the watchtower. I revealed my secret in order to do that, which might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is to me. And now I'm helping you with this." She smirks. "You owe me twice over. Only good could come from the Dragonborn being indebted to me."
Her features tighten, becoming much more serious.
"I say that Mull, but I only partially mean it. You're the Dragonborn. Meeting you, knowing you, is important to me. Gods, that's so much of an understatement it isn't even funny. It would be important to any Nord. You're a hero. Or you will be one day, if you aren't already. It's an honor to have saved your life, and in the same way, it's an honor now to be able to help you with this. I won't pretend to understand why you want to start running your own company when you could be living it up with the noble types in Dragonsreach, reaping the benefits of being gods-blessed, but I sure as Oblivion won't fault you for it. That kind of life would be too boring for people like us, right?" Her roguish smile returns.
"…Sure." His eyes grow dark and he makes a conscious effort not to frown. He can't believe he just sat and listened to that entire spiel without batting an eye. It was total bullshit.
Make no mistake, he's extremely grateful for everything Aela has done for him, especially the things she did prior to the battle against Mirmulnir. Before then, she didn't know he was Dragonborn. No one did, not even himself. She helped him out because… well, he still doesn't really know why. Certainly not out of the goodness of her heart. She isn't that kind of person.
Now though, when she does something like this – promising to vouch before the Jarl's steward for his ability to run a professional mercenary company in Whiterun – it feels like an empty gesture. She just said it herself. It's because he's the mythic Dragonborn, not because he's Mull the bandit. She's completely ignoring who he actually is. A brigand. A killer. Hardly someone to be emulated in any respect. But evidently, these people don't see things that way.
Still, he isn't going to say any of that to her face. She's hardly the first person in the last couple of days to act like this. And again, he quite literally owes his life to her. That isn't something he'll forget anytime soon. He mentally promises to not hold this against her, to the best of his ability. She's still the same Aela – it's just that now, there's an underlying tension coloring their every interaction that wasn't there before.
"Not to rush you or take away from your… earnestness," he says. "But didn't you say that you wanted to fill me in on some of the basics?"
"I certainly did," Aela easily responds.
He motions for her to go ahead.
"Well, where to start? As a major city with a favorable location, Whiterun has always had its fair share of mercenary companies. The most famous, unsurprisingly, are the Companions of Jorrvaskr. According to some sources, we've been around just about as long as the city has existed. But recently things have been getting even more hectic. With the worsening of the Civil War after High King Torygg's death last year, the number of sellswords basing themselves in the city has grown exponentially. We have a lot of competition these days. Whiterun turned into the primary center of mercenary activity in Skyrim practically overnight. As you might guess, that's largely due to Whiterun being a politically neutral Hold, which means prospective mercenaries have more freedom to act with autonomy than they would in most other places."
She's really getting into this. He does his best to keep up.
"That doesn't mean the Hold is lawless, of course. The Jarl keeps things running smoothly by requiring any mercenaries that own property in Whiterun to purchase a permit officializing their activities. As you already know, that's why I'm here. You're a Thane now, so you could probably get one without explicitly needing a thumbs up from someone like me, but it makes the process go more smoothly if someone respectable is involved."
Heh. 'Respectable.'
"In any case, most mercenary companies in the city are on the small side, with something like five to ten combatants and a handful of support staff. As the largest in the city, we Companions have about thirty to give you an idea. A company of three would be prohibitively small, but it wouldn't be explicitly out of the ordinary for a company just starting to get their feet under them. Besides, some folks prefer to keep their operations modest."
This is something Mull is very happy to hear. At present, his grand scheme is to found a mercenary company of his own with Lydia and Torgen as his subordinates.
His rationale is pretty simple. It's a good way to make money, he'll technically be self-employed, and it'll be a valid excuse to leave Whiterun for extended periods of time – meaning he won't have to attend the Jarl's court sessions, an absolute plus in his opinion.
It'll also help him avoid suspicion when he goes to High Hrothgar and learns whatever the Greybeards have for him. From what he's seen and heard so far, it won't be a short journey. It could easily take a month there and back, and possibly longer depending on the weather. Being away for such a long time would make sense for a mercenary, but it might not for a run-of-the-mill Thane.
So, his becoming a mercenary – on paper, anyways – works well for all parties involved. When he's in Whiterun he'll be at the Jarl's disposal for whatever emergencies might arise, such as the appearance of another dragon. When he isn't, he'll get to do whatever he wants. He can maintain a high degree of independence. Balgruuf gets his part-time dragon-slayer on a leash. As the Bretons say, voilà. Everybody's happy.
He takes a commemorative breath of fresh air blowing in from the high plains. It's dry and crisp, though soured with a hint of vegetative decay. It's the smell of autumn. The days are already growing shorter. "That's all good to know. I appreciate your help with this, Aela."
"I'm happy to. Anything for a friend."
Friend. Right. We've only known each other for a month, and to you I'm just a leg up in the world.
It crosses his mind that he's being unfair to her with those cynical thoughts. Maybe her motives aren't actually so selfish and one-sided as he believes. Maybe she really meant everything she said about the importance of the Dragonborn, the honor, blah blah.
But it goes without saying that he's lived an inglorious life so far. His worth in the eyes of others has always been couched in his ability to do things. Save for a few exceptions – Morven being the foremost – he was rarely valued simply for existing, for who he was as a man. But he isn't complaining about that and never has. That's the life of a bandit, and it's the life he willingly chose.
That's an extremely different state of being compared to what he's experiencing now. Now, people are placing value on him for what he supposedly is – Dragonborn – and not even so much the things he's able to accomplish. It's strange, and not in a way he particularly likes.
He removes his hands from the edge of the crenellations, stretches his back, and takes a few shuffling steps towards the staircase on the inner side of the wall.
"Leaving already?" Aela leans back and glances over her shoulder, still idly kicking her feet in the open air.
"Aye. I've got things to do. Mercenary companies don't found themselves."
"True enough. You're a busy man these days. A lot's changed since the time I met that ungrateful útlending who ruined one of my kills."
The redhead draws in her legs, stands atop the crenellation in a single fluid motion, and nimbly leaps down onto the walkway. She follows him as he heads for the stairs.
"Do you think we'll be seeing you at that ceremony the Jarl's putting on? I've heard they finally collected all the bodies from the Western Watchtower, so now it's officially happening. I wouldn't be surprised if they throw a mantle around your shoulders and shove you front and center to receive the public's adoration," she cheekily finishes.
"I doubt that'll happen. The Jarl has worked hard to keep me under wraps. He doesn't want word getting around that there's a Dragonborn in Whiterun, and especially not that he's named him a Thane of the Hold." He stops at the top of the stairs and faces her. His expression grows flinty. "It goes without saying that you shouldn't tell anyone about me. Anyone, for any reason."
"I know, I know," she waves him off easily. "I heard you the first five times you said that. You keep my dirty little secret and I'll keep yours. Fair's fair."
"Good."
He starts down the stairs, but the redhead cuts him off by dropping over the side of the wall and landing on the steps in front of him with the effortless grace of a pouncing sabrecat. He throws up his hands in exasperation at how unnecessary that was, but she strides down the staircase to the empty streets below without looking back to see his reaction. She doesn't need to. She knows him well enough by now to have learned how to get under his skin.
He sighs with annoyance and tramps down the staircase after her.