Chapter 5

After a few days of recuperation and eating good, and more importantly free, food – including Gerdur's vaunted cheese-baked trout, which is astoundingly delicious – Mull somehow allows himself to be talked into sharing a celebratory drink with Hadvar and Ralof at a tavern called the Sleeping Giant Inn, supposedly Riverwood's premiere establishment. It probably has something to do with Hadvar promising to cover the tab, no matter how inflated it gets. Yeah. Probably.

However, he does have a few concerns. He's intensely worried that the dragon from Helgen could show up in Riverwood at any time. They saw it flying northwards, in the approximate direction of Whiterun Hold, which isn't exactly ideal considering they're in Whiterun Hold. It isn't at all a good feeling to be so irrationally afraid of something that by all rights should be a myth.

Still, he reasons that if the dragon decides to come for them a second time, their odds of surviving will be miniscule, so he might as well risk inevitable death while doing something he enjoys – that is, drinking. But it does raise the point that staying here for too long could be a very bad idea. I should consider moving on soon. But not tonight.

Besides, visions of Helgen and its destruction have been on his mind far too often of late. The black dragon haunts his quiet moments with its terrible roars and burning eyes. This is a good opportunity to not have to think about it for a while.

As the three men enter the tavern, they're greeted by a swell of wild laughter and passionate shouting. The place is extremely busy. Nearly every table and every seat at the two separate bars on each side of the room is occupied, some by multiple people. From a cursory glance, most of the patrons seem to be farmers and laborers relaxing after a long day of work.

The interior is certainly bucolic, as could be expected from any country inn, but appears to be well-maintained as well. Candles burn merrily along the pinewood walls. The ceiling is two stories high, so the room doesn't feel as cramped as it might otherwise. The stone floor is carpeted with animal skins of varying shades and sizes. All told, Mull would say it's probably one of the better smalltown taverns he's visited based on appearance alone.

He'd also say that based on its smell, too. Most of these sorts of places have a noticeable stench that takes some getting used to, that of unwashed sweat and pungent food poorly masked by the liberal usage of sweet grass. The Sleeping Giant's musk is much more palatable than average. He thinks he might even detect a hint of lavender in the mix.

A middle-aged woman calls to them from behind the main bar. "If you need any food, just let me or Orgnar know. The girls are handling the drinks."

Mull spares her a glance before his attention migrates to the establishment's ale kegs lined up atop a long table. The woman has a forgettable face, barely earning a second thought.

Hadvar waves to her in acknowledgement as he ushers Ralof and Mull to an empty table. "That's Delphine, the innkeeper," he informs Mull. "She's a nice enough woman and she knows how to run a tight ship. This is the best tavern in Riverwood by far."

Ralof bobs his head in agreement as he ogles an admittedly cute serving girl. "The ale is gods-blessed, make no mistake."

Mull follows his gaze. "The ale. Right."

The Stormcloak fails to notice his sarcasm.

They only have to wait for a couple of minutes before they're able to claim one of the smaller tables as it's being vacated. They place their orders with a serving girl – less cute than the first, to Ralof's palpable disappointment – and settle into their stout wooden chairs, nicked and battered from lifetimes of abuse. Mull habitually analyzes his chair's sturdiness as he shifts his weight. It's a solid piece of furniture, well-crafted for sure. It wouldn't shatter if he used it to clobber someone over the head.

As he takes in their surroundings, he sees what Hadvar meant when he said the Sleeping Giant is a tight ship. The serving girls are all business, sliding between tables and chairs with practiced grace and rarely stopping to chat with patrons. They don't act provocatively for better tips, as he sometimes sees in less reputable establishments. One of the girls even seems to be on dedicated cleaning duty, which the vast majority of innkeepers would view as wasted time and effort.

Once their first round of drinks arrives, it doesn't take long for them to fall into easy conversation. It's mostly comprised of Hadvar and Ralof discussing their lives in Riverwood and the more tame of their experiences on their respective sides of the war – they're very clearly trying to dance around the topic – while Mull occasionally interjects whenever he has something worth adding. He's mostly content to sit and listen. After the awful time we've had this last couple of weeks, getting to sit down, drink, and relax is just what I needed.

The two men try to ask him about his homeland and previous occupations a few times, but he gracelessly redirects the discussion whenever they do. He doesn't particularly enjoy talking about those things, and he doubts they would either if they knew what they were really asking. That would be a hell of a conversation. 'I've been on the move since I was a child and I'm a career bandit, wanted dead or alive in multiple Cyrodiilic Counties for robbery, brigandry, murder, and gods know what else.' I'm sure that would go over well. He grimaces into his tankard.

When their discussion turns to the subject of Skyrim's alcoholic beverages, he finds himself much more interested in contributing. He was always partial to stronger ales, but since his arrival in Skyrim he's been introduced to the wonderful new world of Nordic meads. He was lucky enough to sample Black-Briar mead a few times while in the Rift, around when he met Lokir, and by the gods was that stuff good. The Sleeping Giant's mead doesn't quite compare, but it's still worth drinking in its own right. It's sweet but not too sugary, else it might rot your teeth straight out of your mouth. But nor is it tasteless swill, as is also sometimes the case. In a word, it's good stuff.

Ralof voices his agreement with Mull's belief in the supremacy of mead, while Hadvar espouses the supposed qualities of Cyrodiilic brandy. "Strong yet flavorful," or so he claims.

Despite having spent a significant chunk of his life in Cyrodiil, Mull never had the opportunity to try the stuff. Maybe I'm missing out and never knew it. Or maybe Hadvar is full of shit. When he asks a serving girl, he's brusquely informed that the Sleeping Giant doesn't keep a stock of brandy, so he has no way of finding out at the moment.

After a few rounds, their inhibitions have waned far enough for the conversation to turn substantially more serious. Ralof slams his mug on the table and faces Mull with an almost comically stern expression. He works his jaw for a moment. "…The true sons of Skyrim have need of strong arms and steady souls," he blurts out. "If you're a believer in the cause of freedom and an enemy of the Thalmor, then come to Windhelm with me and pledge your sword to Jarl Ulfric! Fight for the liberation of Skyrim!"

A few heads turn their way at the neighboring tables, their features showing varying degrees of approval, displeasure, and curiosity.

Mull blinks a few times as he digests the Stormcloak's outburst. Then he chuckles humorlessly. "No thanks."

Ralof's hopeful expression dies a harsh death.

"I don't have any interest in your war. It doesn't have anything to do with me. And I'm not from Skyrim in the first place," he scoffs. "There'd be nothing in it for me."

The Stormcloak nods sourly. He's clearly trying hard to keep a frown off his face. "This freedom is not for Nords only. It's something that holds meaning for all Men. But… I accept you answer."

Hadvar steals a glance at Mull and shuffles uneasily.

He sighs and looks to the legionary expectantly. "What?"

The man loudly clears his throat. "I feel like I've been outdone, but I had meant to ask you… Will you consider joining the Imperial Legion? Regardless of whatever potential wrongdoings in your past might've led you to the headsman's block at Helgen, I can guarantee an official pardon if you accompany me to Solitude. You're an able fighter, my friend. You've proven that beyond a doubt. That being said, we in the Legion do much more than waging war. We're the peacekeepers of the Empire, and the Emperor may mobilize us to assist those in need where necessary. I think we'd be lucky to have someone like you."

"Again, no thanks," Mull drawls. "I won't be enlisting in anyone's service anytime soon. I'm a free man and I intend to stay that way." He tries to imagine someone molding him into a disciplined soldier and immediately gives up. It wouldn't go well.

The Imperial receives his rejection with better grace than his counterpart. "Understood. I can't blame you for feeling that way."

Ralof grumbles into his drink. "Of course you'd stoop to telling Imperial lies to honest men."

'Honest men.' I don't think that applies to me, Ralof.

"I've done no such thing," Hadvar stormily replies. "I speak only the truth as I see it."

"Your truth is worthless! It is Imperial truth, twisted facts peddled by those who would see us become slaves to our enemies!"

"If we can no longer bring ourselves to trust our fellow Men, then what hope do we have?!"

"You tell me!"

The two men glare at one another with counterpoints already poised to leave their lips.

"Shut up," Mull growls. "I didn't come here to listen to you squabble. I came here to get drunk."

Despite his clear annoyance, Ralof huffs with amusement. Hadvar bites his tongue and glowers at his ale. The atmosphere at the table rapidly grows sullen.

Eventually, Hadvar raises his mug and breaks the silence. "I propose a toast to the dead. They deserve that much from us."

Ralof recognizes the olive branch for what it is and mimics the legionary's action.

They both turn to Mull. He follows their lead with as little bad humor as he can manage.

"Hail to the glorious dead," Ralof declares. "May they rest upon their laurels in Sovngarde and dwell there in bliss for the rest of eternity."

"Hail." Hadvar downs the remains of his drink and wipes his mouth.

"…Hail." Mull does the same, though he doesn't only think of Gunjar and Rana as the mead flows down his throat. He thinks also of Lokir, and Morven, and Lotosk, and everyone else. It's just as Hadvar said. They deserve that much.

When the atmosphere fails to return to its previous lightheartedness even after a few minutes, Mull stands and heads for the door. "I'm going outside to take a piss," he calls back to his tablemates. They mumble their acknowledgement.

As he exits the building, a gust of cool air washes over his reddening cheeks. It's a refreshing sensation after the warmth of the inn, practically an oven with so many bodies packed closely together.

There isn't much activity on the street, just a handful of locals going about their business. The river burbles distantly out of sight. The moons are already visible overhead. Masser's deep red is especially vivid tonight.

When traffic on the street has lessened, he wanders over to a nearby bed of reeds in a drainage ditch and successfully relieves himself without incident. A quick scan of his surrounds confirms he didn't ruin anyone's night with his public indecency.

As he returns to the Sleeping Giant, he notices something new in the pattern of raised voices and laughter. The staccato notes of some stringed instrument intermittently pierce through the boisterous chorus of merrymaking.

He shoves open the door and peers around, following the sound. On the right side of the common room, there's now a bard playing for the patrons' amusement. However, he doesn't appear to have much of an audience. He isn't bad – at least, not to Mull's admittedly tuneless ear – but there isn't anyone visibly taking an interest. The man is practically by himself.

Not wanting to sit down quite yet, he meanders over to the lonesome bard and stands in the shadow of a column as he listens for a while. The tunes are simple, nothing particularly worthy of remembrance, but it makes for a better ambience than listening to two old friends argue with each other about politics.

After a few minutes, the bard looks up and jumps slightly as he notices the stranger watching him. "A-ah, what can I do for you, my friend? Sven the minstrel, at your service." He gives a shallow bow.

"I'm just listening. Don't mind me."

The man – more of a boy, he realizes, with a clean-shaven face and bright blonde hair – nods uncertainly and goes back to his strumming.

But he's already grown bored of the young man's lute. In a fit of morbid humor, he poses an unprompted question. "Do you know any songs about dragons?"

The bard pauses, twisting his lips as he thinks for a moment. "There's an old ballad about Tiber Septim and the dragon Nafaalilargus, but I never bothered to learn it. The Blades killed all the dragons centuries ago. Nobody asks to hear that lay anymore. I apologize for the inconvenience."

Mull is tempted to question the validity of his statement regarding the dragons, but manages to hold his tongue. "It was a jest, bard. Don't worry about it."

Sven seems puzzled but nods anyways.

He doesn't have any money for a tip – he still remains penniless ever since Helgen – so he gives the bard a complimentary slice of grilled turnip snatched from a nearby platter before moving on.

"T-thanks…"

He weaves aimlessly between chairs and patrons for a while longer before redirecting himself towards Ralof and Hadvar's table. When he returns, he finds Ralof laying unconscious cheek-first against the tabletop and Hadvar drinking by himself.

He slides clumsily back into his chair, taking a moment to appreciate that his tankard has been refilled. A long draft quenches his renewed thirst.

Hadvar remains silent, only acknowledging him with a brief raise of his mug.

As he lounges there, he has a thought. He'd meant to ask this at some point but hasn't yet encountered what he felt to be a good opportunity. Now's better than never. "A few days ago, you took Ralof aside for a little chat at our campfire, and after that he didn't seem so angry with me. What in the world did you say to him?"

Hadvar frowns, tilting his ale back and forth as he considers his response. "I told him… that you were grieving for Rana in your own way."

Mull pulls a face. He doesn't like it when people try to assume what he's thinking. But this time, he's forced to admit that the Imperial is close to the mark. Not exactly right, but not shooting in the dark either.

"Am I wrong?" the Nord presses.

His scowl deepens and he looks away. "It wasn't for her."

"Wasn't for…?" Hadvar is clearly puzzled, but registers his meaning after a few seconds of deliberation. "Ah. You must've lost someone."

"…Yes." He has absolutely no desire to speak of this, but the cat's already out of the bag. He should've just kept his mouth shut in the first place. He probably has the alcohol to thank for that. His head is already buzzing pleasantly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He gives the legionary a blank look. "Hell no."

The man struggles to suppress a chuckle. "I'm sorry, but… that's about the answer I expected."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Isn't that what brothers-in-arms are for?"

He sighs. "I already told you, I'm not going to join your Legion. Go ask someone else."

"That isn't what I meant." Hadvar sets down his mug and tilts his head toward Ralof's comatose form. His demeanor turns somber. "He is my brother-in-arms, and you are as well. We survived Helgen and the Frostbite spider nest together. If any one of us hadn't been there in the forest, I believe we all would've died instead of only two. We went through the fires of Oblivion and came out of them alive. So you are my brothers. Both of you," he firmly states.

Mull stares at the man from across the table for a long time. He's never been good at handling solemnity. He'd like to give a response befitting the legionary's earnestness – he's a little touched, though he'd never admit it – but he simply isn't sure how to do that. Finally, he settles for being an asshole. Can't go wrong with that.

"I'm not your brother-in-arms," he retorts. "You can think whatever you want, but I'll think whatever I want too. We survived that mess, sure, but we're going to go our separate ways here pretty soon. That isn't being brothers, or however you want to say it. That's called being allies of convenience. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Maybe," the legionary agrees with surprising ease. "You could be right, though I personally would like to think otherwise. Call me an idealist." He shrugs. "Surely there's more than that to fighting alongside each other and shedding blood in defense of one another's lives."

"…Whatever you say." Mull takes a long draft of his mead and glares at the tabletop. The scarred and stained surface of the poorly-varnished wood manages to hold his interest long enough to make it clear to Hadvar that the conversation is over.

The rest of their evening is quiet, thought not in an entirely uncomfortable way. It's a nice change of pace from the terrifying events of recent days.

Later, Mull only vaguely remembers returning to Gerdur and Hod's longhouse in the dead of night. After sincerely complimenting the family's cow Audra for the quality of her teats, he staggers into the house and topples headfirst into his woolen mattress as darkness consumes him. He sleeps dreamlessly once again.

-x-

On the morning of the day after next, Mull is approached by Ralof and Hadvar while he's trying to do some fishing along the bank of the White River near Gerdur's mill. As the two men tramp through the ferns and beds of loose gravel to his position on a narrow headland, he's almost thankful for the distraction their arrival provides. He hasn't managed to catch a single fish despite being out here for hours already. He can see them swimming just beneath the surface of the water, indistinct streaks of silver darting after prey or idling against the current, but none of them are in the mood to go after his bait no matter how much he wiggles it around.

It's a nice enough morning, with banks of fog hanging low over the water and a pleasant breeze blowing in from the west, not to mention the magnificent ranges of mountains rising skywards on both sides of the river. But despite the enjoyable view, it still feels like his morning has been a total waste of time. And here I was hoping I could repay Gerdur somehow, even if only a little bit. I appreciate her kindness, but I've never much liked receiving free handouts. I'm a man, damn it. At least make me work for it, even if that means seizing it at swordpoint. That's better than turning into a beggar.

"Ho there!" As Ralof calls out a genial greeting, he and his legionary friend hop down a waist-high shale ledge to reach Mull's level on the riverbank. "You've found yourself a good spot here. It's a popular angling hole with my sister's workers."

Mull sighs and props his fishing pole against his shoulder. Well, he shouldn't call it his. He borrowed it from Hod, Gerdur's husband. The man had proudly mentioned that it was crafted from strips of hazelwood and blackthorn glued together. "I can't imagine why. I've barely gotten so much as a nibble in the last couple of hours."

"What kind of bait are you using?"

"I've tried worms, leeches, and crickets," he dejectedly lists. "Some big ones, even. But none of 'em seemed to work. Like I said, not so much as a tiny nibble."

"Hmm. Sounds like you're having a streak of bad luck. Sai must be upset with you."

"It's sure looking that way," he gripes. "Or maybe your fish are just picky."

The Stormcloak chortles. "Aye, they very well could be."

Deciding now's probably a good time to call it a day, he removes the twitching cricket from his fishing hook and starts packing up his things. He'd brought along a simple wicker basket for any fish he might catch, but it ended up being unnecessary. He passes it off to Hadvar and begins threading the fishing line along the rod to prevent it from catching on branches during the walk back to town. "While you're here, you might as well make yourself useful."

"Sure." The legionary accepts the basket without complaint and settles it under the crook of one arm.

After several seconds longer of the two men watching mutely as he maneuvers the rod and line, he turns and gives them a practiced glare from the corner of his eye. "Is there something you need? Or do you take that much pleasure in lazing around while somebody else does all the work?"

The men share a wordless look that immediately informs Mull they're about to say something he won't like.

Following a moment's hesitation, Hadvar takes the initiative. "There's something we would like to ask you."

He grunts and bends over to pick up the last of his equipment, a small box containing spare hooks and rolls of horsehair line. "Ask away then."

"We're wondering if you'd be willing to travel to the city of Whiterun with a message to the Jarl. He needs to be informed of the events at Helgen and of Riverwood's defenseless state, assuming he hasn't been already."

"Whiterun, huh?" He pauses to glance down the river. There's only forested hills visible in that direction, but he knows Whiterun is supposedly located somewhere further downstream. "Alright. Why're you asking me?"

They both grimace. "I intend to return to Solitude as soon as possible," Hadvar answers. "And Ralof to Windhelm. Neither of us have the time to make such a detour. And besides, Whiterun Hold is supposed to be neutral territory. I can't speak for the rebels, but it goes directly against Imperial policy for a soldier of the Legion to meddle in Whiterun's affairs, no matter the reason."

"I could say the same," Ralof adds. "Jarl Ulfric has been adamant in the past about preserving Whiterun's neutrality."

"However," continues Hadvar, "we aren't comfortable with the idea of leaving our hometown vulnerable to the dragon if it should return. Riverwood needs to be better protected than it is now. There aren't nearly enough professional guardsmen to defend against even a determined bandit raid, much less a dragon. It's the Jarl's duty to provide warriors for the security of his Hold in times of trouble, and considering recent events, I'd say we have trouble to spare."

"I'm not sure how much of a chance Riverwood would have against that dragon, no matter how many defenders are on the walls. Helgen had more than its fair share of legionaries and look what happened." At Hadvar and Ralof's downcast expressions, he quickly continues. "Fine, so the Jarl needs to provide some more men. Sure. That's great. But why send me?"

"Well…" Ralof scratches his beard uneasily. "My sister thought it could be a good way for you to repay her and Hod's hospitality. She was the one who suggested this in the first place, as a matter of fact."

Did she now? This is pretty good timing, actually. He's all for reimbursing Gerdur however he can, but he was hoping to find a method of repayment that would be a little less… momentous. Like a gifted basket of fish, as he'd been trying to do today.

The Stormcloak notices his reluctance. "The Jarl of Whiterun would surely offer a reward to a messenger bearing such important news, and all the more so since you aren't one of his servants or even a citizen of his Hold. If you don't mind me saying so, I think you might profit greatly from accepting this proposal."

"And that's all it is," Hadvar adds. "A proposal. We don't intend to force you into do anything against your will."

When he hears the word 'profit,' his deeply ingrained avarice slithers out from its shadowy abode to take the reigns of his tongue. All other considerations besides those of cost and benefit are thrown out the proverbial window. "What kind of reward are we talking about?"

Ralof ponders for a moment. "Gold, precious materials, maybe weapons and armor. That sort of thing, I'd assume. But keep in mind I'm a poor country man," he grins. "I don't know much about lords and their ways."

"What about Jarl Ulfric?"

The Stormcloak scowls. "…That is a different matter."

Hmm. This offer is tempting if true. He's flat broke at the moment, which is never a good thing to be. He'll need to start making money at some point, and now is better than later. This might not be an opportunity I can afford to refuse. Besides, it would be a convenient way to repay Ralof's family.

The downside is that he'd be committing to a multiday journey through unfamiliar geography to a city where he doesn't have any connections or acquaintances. There are a lot of things that could go wrong in such a scenario, and all the more so since Whiterun is a neutral Hold wedged precariously between the warring halves of Skyrim. And then there's the dragon to consider. Gods only know what it's doing right now.

But as has been stated before, there's an presumably equivalent likelihood of the dragon attacking anywhere at anytime. Riverwood might not be safer than Whiterun in that regard – and it could be less safe for all he knows. There are too many unknown variables to bother guessing.

So what to do here? I need the money, but money isn't good for anything if you're dead. Accepting would be a risk, though I don't know how much of one exactly. I doubt any of my bounties will have made their way to Whiterun – they're all in Cyrodiil, and Skyrim's Holds don't even share bounties with each other as far as I know. So that at least shouldn't be a concern. It's getting to Whiterun in the first place that I'm more worried about. "Describe the terrain along the road to the city. What would I be dealing with?"

"You'll do it then?" Ralof eagerly asks.

"I didn't say that." Mull's gaze turns flinty. "I'm still deciding. Answer my questions first."

"It's forested hills until you're out of the river valley," Hadvar answers. "After that, you'll be on the high plains for the rest of the way to Whiterun, which makes for easy traveling as long as the weather's good. You might see some rain, but Second Seed and Midyear are the rainiest months by far, and the weather now should be much better in comparison."

"Alright then." With that now established, his thoughts turn to the Frostbite spider nest in the forest. "What about the wildlife? Anything dangerous I should be worried about?"

Hadvar shrugs. "Wolves, sabrecats, the same as you'd find anywhere else in Skyrim. The road should be fairly safe unless things have changed more than I'd expect in the last few years. There's a lot of commerce that goes between Whiterun and the river valley."

Wolves and sabrecats are still bad enough on their own, but I suppose that's the best I could ask for in this hellhole of a province. "Do any bandits operate out in that area?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"And if they were, would you be aware of it?"

The legionary frowns. "I imagine so. My uncle and lady Gerdur are well-informed of what goes on in Riverwood and the surrounding area. They would've passed on any troublesome information relevant to this request."

Gerdur seemed like an honest enough woman. That doesn't mean he'll necessarily taking Hadvar at his word, but it's a good sign nonetheless. This doesn't sound overtly dangerous, assuming everything he said is correct. I guess I've made my decision then.

"Fine, I'll do it. But you'd better be right about the Jarl offering a reward. I don't do these things for free." Except occasionally in cases like this one, where he feels an obligation to repay somebody for services duly rendered. But that's neither here nor there.

"Of course." Hadvar nods to Ralof, who reaches into his coat and produces a sealed egg-white envelope.

"Here." The Stormcloak forks it over to Mull, who exchanges it for his box of fishing tackle.

He squints as he examines the package. The envelope material is some sort of stiff fiber, clearly high-quality. It even has a stamped wax seal and everything. This sure looks the part for official correspondence to a Jarl.

"The specifics of Riverwood's request to the Jarl have been set into writing in that letter," Hadvar expounds. "It was authored primarily by Gerdur and my uncle."

"His uncle is a local blacksmith," Ralof interjects. "He and my sister are both leading members of the town's folkmoot."

The legionary notices Mull's perplexed expression at the unfamiliar word. "A folkmoot is a local governing body. Due to their relatively prominent positions in Riverwood's folkmoot, Gerdur and my uncle's word carries some legal weight."

"Ah, I almost forgot! Speaking of that…" Ralof digs through his pockets before withdrawing a small object. It gleams with the reflected light of the sun. "This belongs to my sister, but she has decided to loan it to you. It's her ring, to act as proof of your authenticity as a courier."

Mull accept the item with a slight frown. It's cool against his skin and heavier than expected from its diminutive size. Upon closer examination, his eyebrows shoot upwards. It's a solid silver ring bearing an emblem on the outer surface, some sort of elaborate intertwined pattern. It isn't a symbol he recognizes, though it might mean something to a person more familiar with the culture. Regardless, the item is certainly quite valuable based on its appearance alone. And not only that, but he's pretty sure the entire thing is pure silver. He has a practiced eye in that regard.

He glances up at the Stormcloak with a hint of uncertainty. "Are you sure about this? This thing could go for a lot of money. Why is she willing to give it to me?"

"She's expecting it back, of course," Ralof scoffs. "But without something like that, the Jarl and his folk wouldn't be able to verify your status as a messenger. They'll recognize the signet on the ring as a symbol of Riverwood's folkmoot. At least, that's what Gerdur told me."

"And she isn't at all worried I'll just… make off with it and never come back?" Without a doubt, he would've done exactly that without a hint of remorse if he were still running with any of his past bandit gangs. Even now, he'd seriously consider it if Gerdur hadn't graciously invited him into her home the way she did.

"She's choosing to trust you," the Stormcloak frankly replies. "I'm not sure I'd be willing to do the same in her shoes, but camaraderie is something we Nords value greatly. You and Hadvar helped me escape Helgen with my life just as I helped you, and so in her eyes you've become worthy of her confidence. That's why."

Gods dammit. Of course they had to play the trust card.

As a general rule, honor among thieves is a lie. People are often willing to do whatever's necessary to advance their own interests even at the expense of others, especially in a profession – if it could be called that – where the dregs of society tend to congregate. Despite that, Mull found what he believes to have been true, unrestricted trust in his previous gang with Morven, with Lotosk, and with some of the others. That trust was a priceless thing. It wasn't something you could buy with gold or favors. It ran deeper than that.

I don't think I can betray someone's freely-given trust like that. At least, not anymore. There's a lot of things you're willing to do when your survival is on the line, but now it would feel extremely wrong. He restrains a sneer. That's rich coming from me.

"Alright, alright," he answers aloud. He stuffs the ring into a pocket in his trousers, down into a little cranny next to his necklace where he knows he won't be tempted to pawn it off, and starts heading back toward the road. "I'll make sure it doesn't get lost."

"Good. Be certain of that."

"Don't feel like you need to depart immediately," Hadvar says as he fall into step alongside him. "We only wanted to give you the letter so you'll have it for whenever you do decide to leave."

Mull waves his acknowledgement, readjusts his grip on the unwieldy fishing pole, and scales the riverbank steeply ascending to the level of Riverwood's streets, using roots and protruding stones as makeshift handholds. His two hangers-on follow behind him, and together they start weaving through the late morning foot traffic in the direction of Gerdur's mill. He needs to return Hod's gear.

I've done a lot of different things over the years, but being a sanctioned messenger to a high-ranking lord is definitely a first. It sounds like a respectably easy way to make some good money, so I won't refuse the opportunity. Besides, I think it's about time I took my leave from Riverwood.

After having spend a few days loitering around town, he can say with certainly that the town's defenses are downright pathetic. His estimation of the local guardsmen is extremely low, as most of them seem to be lazy ale-swigging country folk accepting a monthly salary to sit around and do nothing. If Helgen as one of the most formidable Imperial strongholds in the Jerall Mountains couldn't stand against the winged creature's onslaught, then there's no way in Oblivion that Riverwood could survive the same. He doesn't want to remain in town any longer than necessary. If the dragon were to appear now, he doesn't trust his luck to survive a second time.

-x-

Mull says his goodbyes and prepares to leave town early the next morning. Seven days have elapsed since the destruction of Helgen. Somehow, it feels like it's been much longer than that.

Gerdur is kind enough to provide him with some basic supplies for the journey, including a set of used traveling clothes. They're worn and baggy but still far better than wearing his pilfered aketon while walking all day. Such garments are made for protection, not for comfort, and are inflexible and heavy as a result. He didn't complain about it during their escape from Helgen since being a little uncomfortable was better than being naked or dead, but now that he has a choice, he'd rather have his upcoming journey be made easier if possible.

Hadvar's uncle also seems to be in a charitable mood, as he furnishes Mull with a bow and a quiver of arrows before his departure, free of charge. The former is a simple longbow made from maple wood, nothing special in its own right, but free is free. "You saved my boy's life by how he tells it," the gruff blacksmith explains. "This is the least I can do."

He isn't in a position to refuse such a useful gift, so he gladly accepts. Seeing as his worldly possessions amount to the few items he's currently carrying on his person, he'd be willing to accept just about anything at the moment.

He wouldn't consider Ralof and Hadvar to be his friends by any possible stretch of the word, but it's true that they've survived a lot together. After all that, it feels strange to now be leaving them behind, and all the more since he grew accustomed to traveling with Lokir before. He wonders if he'll ever see the two soldiers again. If they're going off to fight in the war, then I'd say the odds aren't too good. But they can only blame themselves for that. It's their decision.

Gerdur tries to convince him to stay for an upcoming festival to celebrate the year's final harvest in a few days, but he declines the invitation. After everything that's happened, he feels that any sort of merriment would be borderline blasphemous. He'd rather just deliver the Jarl's letter, get a suitable reward, and be done with it.

And besides, the longer I spend in Riverwood, the greater a likelihood that the dragon will show up again and kill us all. Back when we escaped from Helgen, Ralof wasn't entirely wrong when he said the dragon could appear anywhere at anytime. Nowhere is safe. But still, I'd rather at least be somewhere with strong walls and a lot of men to guard them. From what I've heard, this Whiterun is a pretty big city.

With one final glance back at the squat palisades of Riverwood, he shoulders his rucksack and sets off along the dusty road. I guess I'll be able to judge it for myself soon enough.