Chapter 34

Lydia awakens not long after the battle's conclusion, which conveniently resolves the issue of finding a way to transport her. She's shaky and lightheaded from the alchemically-compelled healing her body has just undergone, but she seems physically fine otherwise. The potions did what they're made to do. She even manages to choke down a few mouthfuls of deer jerky, though she doesn't speak a single word as she pulls herself back together. She's clearly exhausted.

Once she's mobile, Mull escorts her to the hagraven camp and they rendezvous with Torgen, who's in the finishing stages of plundering the destroyed witches' coven. With their affairs in order and the loot packed up, they depart from Orphan Rock with as much haste as they can manage.

They emerge from the densely-forested vale onto the main road just south of the witches' lair, where they then turn east for Steelhead Pass. They spend the rest of the day walking along the grass-grown cobblestone highway, a faded relic of a time when the Tamrielic Empire spanned an entire continent and linked together far-flung nations across vast distances.

As night approaches, they pitch their tents in a grove of evergreens not far from the road. Mull and Torgen use the downtime to gather snowberries from nearby bushes to spice up their thin and tasteless turnip-and-leek soup. One nice thing about these secluded highlands is that there are snowberries growing everywhere – it would be a challenge to starve up here instead of the other way around.

The occasional squirrel or rabbit rustles through the undergrowth as they scavenge among fallen leaves for their own dinners. There's plenty of wildlife along the roadside, unlike in Orphan Rock Vale. Mull wonders if the stench given off by the ritually-burned spriggan is what scared everything away, or if it was simply the hagraven's vile presence. She was ugly enough to frighten off just about anything.

When the soup is ready, Mull and Torgen fill up their bowls and withdraw a short distance to the edge of the firelight, leaving Lydia to eat her meal next to the crackling embers with some privacy. They settle down near the elongated form of a fallen menhir, carved all over with runes whose meanings have been lost to time, and slurp down the pleasantly hot broth as they review the day's events.

Once they've sated their hunger – they haven't eaten anything since this morning – their first order of business is to look over their respective wounds and ensure none of them are neglected. For Mull, most of his attention is devoted to the burn on his back and the scratches from the hagraven's talons, which still haven't been properly treated. He used all of his potions on Lydia while they were still at Orphan Rock and for that reason is now needing to do things the old-fashioned way. He'd While they were still at Orphan Rock he hastily cleaned his wounds and wrapped them in simple bandages as they were leaving the vale, but that won't be enough to ensure a speedy recovery.

Now, he takes off his shirt and applies a paste of ground-up snowberry and dried dragon's tongue petals to the burn from the hagraven's fireball. As he swabs the slimy ointment across the stripe of blistered skin, he can already feel refreshing coolness spreading throughout the affected area. It isn't a potion, but he knows it'll do the job just fine. This isn't the first time he's had to throw together something quick and easy like this.

He also mashes together a concoction of garlic and wild thistle that he slathers on the stinging cuts crisscrossing his arms and shoulders – courtesy of the hagraven's dirty talons – which he then rebandages with clean rags. He hopes the herbal mixture will be potent enough to stave off infection, but he still needs to have them looked at by a professional at some point. There have been gods-know how many bandits over the years who died from festering wounds due to their ignorance, a misplaced sense of pride, or sheer stubbornness. He's seen that happen too many times to risk making the same mistake himself.

Torgen drank all of his remaining healing potions immediately after the fight against the hagraven, but they weren't quite enough to completely mend him. He sustained numerous injuries, all superficial but also painful. Among them were burns, frostbites, and deep lacerations of all shapes, sizes, and depths, most of which are still lingering in some form or another.

He makes liberal use of Mull's ad hoc medicinal blends and also diligently redresses his injuries. By the time he's done, nearly his entire torso is swathed in layers of gauze already turning red in a few places from weeping wounds.

Mull was impressed with the older man's performance. He dove headfirst through the witches' magic and still managed to kill two of them almost singlehandedly, with his injuries barely slowing him down in the middle of battle. He's a tough bastard. No doubt about that.

While he bandages a particularly nasty gash on his arm, Mull glances over at Lydia sitting quietly by the fire a dozen paces away.

She still hasn't moved from her spot next to the warming flames. She's had a difficult day, and if anyone deserves some rest, it's her. Gods know she's earned it.

The young housecarl's performance against the witches wasn't bad, all things considered. He'd really been expecting too much from her, seeing as she's a city girl of high birth who probably hasn't spent much time in the wilderness. The ability to move quickly and quietly through wooded terrain is something that must be cultivated through years of constant practice. Objectively speaking, he led her into a situation that she had no reason to be in. She simply wasn't ready, and in his opinion that isn't something she can logically be blamed for.

But in the opinion of a certain incorporeal dragon…

'…This joor is weak. She is a blight upon your name as a dovah. If she could not defend herself against your enemies' wretched depredations, then why does she still bear the responsibility of defending you, her thuri, as well? She should not. Indeed, the only sensible recourse is for you to cast her aside, as is the proper consequence for all who prove themselves worthless. Why would you assign any value whatsoever to the life of this pitiable being? If she is your servant, then she is deserving of an ignoble death for her ineptitude. If she is your slave, then she is unfit for the title.'

Mull grits his teeth as he tries to ignore the unwanted commentary. He's incensed by the dragon's statements on their own, but that anger is magnified because there's a traitorous side of him that agrees. It's the same side of him that willingly gave into Mirmulnir's insidious counsel, causing this whole mess in the first place.

'Ah. You see the truth, do you not? You know that I speak wisdom unto you. Heed me, for just as your shortcomings are also mine to rectify, so too is my insight eternally at your disposal.'

Your brilliant scheme to eradicate those witches almost got my housecarl killed! That isn't wisdom or insight, it's idiocy!

Mull failed the poor girl and that's all there is to it. If a bandit chieftain marches his men into an obvious ambush and gets everybody wiped out, it that his fault for inadequate planning or their fault for not being vigilant?

Personally, he would say the chieftain is to blame. And how is this state of affairs any different?

Mirmulnir responds as he always does. 'Your foolish attachments have enfeebled your spirit, Qahnaarin. A dovah cares only for a single living creature, and that is themself. We are no different from the vicious snowbears of the frozen north or the prowling striped cats of the humid south, who hunt alone for the entire duration of their lives. They depend on no other, for they are self-sufficient in all things as they preside over their sovereign territories in the wilderness. So it is with the dov.'

The dragon's arrogant voice echoes through his mind, simultaneously infuriating and alluring.

'But rest assured that we are not dull-witted animals like these lesser creatures. We are greater than them. We are greater than the creations of Kaan, we are greater than the bones of the earth, and we are greater than the ephemeral joorre. This is what it means to be one of the dov – but still you fail to accept this for the immutable truth that it is.'

Mull snarls as he stares unseeingly at Lydia, fully embroiled in the argument taking place inside his skull. The dragon's twisted analogies are offering a tempting avenue of validation for his impulsive actions, but he forces himself reject them. He's unambiguously at fault for succumbing to Mirmulnir's delusions and he can't rationally argue otherwise.

He's already spent much of today wrestling with this matter, and there's nothing to be gained by wasting any more time on it. Go to Oblivion, you damn lizard. And take your wisdom with you. Leave me alone.

With that final expletive, he drags his eyes away from the housecarl and back to his immediate surroundings. When he notices Torgen curiously watching him, he reengages the man in conversation to give himself something more constructive to do.

"Now that we aren't about to drop dead from blood loss, let's go to the next thing on our list. What all did you scrounge from the witches' camp before we left?"

Torgen nods and reaches over to grab his oversized backpack. "Let's see here…"

He delves into his cluttered belongings and starts digging around, carelessly tossing aside spools of bandages and other miscellanea while muttering to himself. After a few seconds, he grunts with satisfaction and withdraws a bundle of eclectic objects, which he spreads on the ground for Mull's perusal.

He points out one specific item, something Mull doesn't recognize. It looks like a gnarled mass of hardwood and spongy green tissue. "Look here, boss. This is taproot from the spriggan, which the hagraven had already harvested. It's valuable and should sell to the right buyers for some good coin."

Mull knows that spriggan sap is a prized commodity for wizards and alchemists, so it isn't unreasonable to assume the same would hold true for this taproot. And speaking of that… "Were you able to collect any of the spriggan's sap?"

"Sorry, but no. It was all burned up."

He tsks. "No great loss." That's about what he expected, but it never hurts to ask.

Alongside the taproot Torgen arranges the hagraven's claws and feathers, which should also fetch them quite a few septims. Mull notes with grim humor that the razor-sharp claws are still crusted with their blood.

There are a few preserved herbs and multicolored potions in glass vials, including healing and stamina draughts. He doesn't trust these potions since they were brewed by a hagraven coven, but he decides to keep them in case they're needed for an emergency later on.

And last but not least, there's Nettlebane. The vaunted Bane of Nettles. "I found it on the hagraven's body," Torgen reports as he holds up the Sanctuary of Kyne's sacred knife. He reverses his grip, delicately clutches the blade with his fingers, and presents it to Mull hilt-first.

He accepts the weapon and turns it from side to side as he studies it. The blade is about as long as his forearm, single-edged and tapering into a wicked point. It's narrow enough to pierce most chainmail but simultaneously sturdy as well, made for both stabbing and slashing. Its shape is slightly uneven, like it was crafted from unworked natural material rather than traditional forged metals.

He leans down to assess the blade more closely in the flickering firelight. He can't determine the exact nature of the material from a cursory inspection. The ceremonial knife is heavy for its size, but that's as far as his analysis can go. For something that's allegedly an artifact of Kyne, he supposes its odd composition shouldn't be too surprising. Not only does the dagger look ancient, but it feels old as it rests weightily in his palm, as if the vast span of years to which it's borne witness have burdened it with their own physical weight. He doesn't blame the Sanctuary of Kyne for wanting this back. It would be right at home inside a dusty, timeless temple.

But he isn't one to waste time in consideration of spiritual niceties. In his eyes, a dagger is a dagger regardless of how old it is. They've accomplished their mission and survived Orphan Rock, as much as he wishes he'd had the foresight to let sleeping wolves lie instead. But the Jarl wants this damned thing and he's going to get it. End of story.

He scowls as Mirmulnir hisses wordlessly, making known his displeasure. The dragon never approves of such craven sentiments, and he's been increasingly vocal about it in these recent days.

He raises his voice to drown out the dragon's aggrieved rumblings. "This rusty piece of junk was not worth the effort."

"I agree with you there," replies Torgen as he gingerly tugs on a new shirt. "But it is what it is at this point, and for what it's worth, I think things turned out alright in the end. We killed who needed killing and walked away to tell the tale – and a little bit richer to boot."

Mull grumbles angrily. He saw how Lydia reacted to his comment this morning about beating the shit out of the priestesses of Kyne for sending them into this unmitigated disaster – which was his attempt at a joke, for the record – but now he's thinking he might need to ask his housecarl for preemptive forgiveness. Because whenever he gets back to Whiterun, he's going to burst through the doors of that sanctuary and go on a rampage that would put a rabid troll to shame. They were given far too little information about the coven, and while their lack of preparation was mostly his own fault, it was also partially due to the Sanctuary not being as helpful as they should've been. He won't forget that anytime soon – neither their transgression nor Balgruuf's.

"I think the hagraven used Nettlebane to kill that burnt spriggan," Torgen suddenly remarks. "Back when we were still living in the Pale, my clan's elders used to tell us youngsters that if we had the misfortune to encounter a spriggan in the wilderness, we should always avoid them, run away, or placate them somehow. They're the embodiment of nature and are beyond a mortal man's ability to kill without magical weapons. It makes sense if they're servants of Kyne that the hagraven would've held a grudge against them. If she wanted to end that spriggan's life, she would've needed something special to do the deed. I'd say Nettlebane fits the bill nicely, assuming it really is sacred to Kyne."

Mull purses his lips as he thinks that over. "Then why do you think she burned the spriggan on that altar?"

Torgen shrugs. "Burning it could've laid a curse on the vale, to poison the air or the trees. It sure smelled bad enough for that. Or maybe it was the hagraven's way of telling Kyne to screw off by spitting in the face of her benevolence. Who can say?"

"You seem to know a lot about this stuff. I thought you said you've never seen a spriggan before?" Mull hasn't either, but they're reportedly widespread across many of the lands he's traveled through. He's listened to his fair share of stories regarding the enigmatic nature-guardians of Kyne – or Kynareth, depending on who's doing the telling – but Torgen's knowledge on the subject appears to be greater than most.

"Oh, I haven't. Most of what I just said was a blind guess. I'm not a clever-man, so magic and monsters aren't exactly my strong suit. I was repeating what I remember hearing as a young man, that's all."

…And I was giving him too much credit, Mull sighs. Sometimes I forget he's an icebrain Nord.

"What do you think, princess?" Torgen calls out towards the campfire. "You have any input for us lowly, ignorant commoners? We're eagerly awaiting your guidance."

They both turn to see the housecarl's reaction.

She doesn't respond. She keeps staring at the campfire without any movement or physical indication that she heard them.

Mull frowns. It isn't like her to pass up a chance to put her book-smarts on display. He raises his voice. "Lydia? You alright over there?"

Still nothing.

Did she fall asleep sitting up? Concerned by her behavior or lack thereof, he clambers to his feet and saunters over to the fire, grimacing as a few of his half-healed cuts wrench themselves open again. He squats down next to the girl and nudges her shoulder to get her attention. She still doesn't react.

He slowly reaches out to avoid startling her, takes hold of her head, and gently turns it. She allows him to manhandle her without any resistance whatsoever. His frown deepens.

She stares at him with a vacant expression. Her lips move sluggishly, but the soft noises that come tumbling forth are complete and utter gibberish. Globs of viscous drool are leaking from the corner of her mouth in a way that would almost be cute if it weren't for the circumstances, like a slobbering dog.

She obviously isn't all there, so to speak. Needless to say, that isn't a good sign.

Still grasping her head, he pushes open both of her eyes with his thumbs and examines her pupils. They're extremely dilated, so large that her bright blue irises have been engulfed by the orbs of lightless black.

The girl could be concussed, but Mull didn't see any sign of head injuries at Orphan Rock, not even after the fireball sent her flying. He'd specifically checked for bleeding or bruising around her head and neck. The fate of that one man in Bleak Falls Barrow made him paranoid about the risk of busting one's skull open on a rock.

This coupled with the fact that she does seem aware of her surroundings to some extent – though confused like someone with a severe fever – raises one other possibility that's starting to look increasingly likely.

He leans back onto his haunches while keeping a firm hand on the side of Lydia's head. He curses bitterly, not looking forward to saying what he's about to say, but he still forces himself to say it.

"I think I gave her more healing potions than her body could handle at one time. Five whole bottles in a couple of minutes is a substantial dosage, especially since one of them was a potion of regeneration. The symptoms are all there. She's been poisoned."

As Torgen kneels next to him in front of the fire, a humorless chuckle bubbles from his throat. "You're kidding. Ye gods, that's just perfect. Of course you did." He sighs heavily. "Well, go ahead and give her another one. Maybe some more will jog her brain or something."

Mull gives him a deadpan stare.

"What? Don't look at me like that. Do you have any better ideas?"

"…Not yet, but that definitely isn't an option. If I'm right, then it would only kill her faster."

"So what should we do? Is she gonna make it?"

Mull wracks his brain for answers, still holding onto Lydia as she starts acting more agitated, murmuring louder and rocking back and forth. The motion irritates the burn on his back, but he ignores the stinging pain.

"I'm not sure. I've dabbled with alchemical ingredients before, as you saw, but I'm not an expert. I've never brewed a proper potion in my life. I don't even know how. I was always too scared I'd poison somebody – and isn't that ironic?" he growls. "We could feed her charcoal cooked down to a paste, which would force her body to… you know, shit and vomit everything out. Or if we knew what exact ingredients those potions were brewed from, we could try to give her whatever herbs would counter those ingredients. But we don't know, so that option is off the table…" He trails off grumpily.

Torgen blows a long breath. "That means it needs to be the charcoal then. Right?"

Mull sullenly nods.

"…When you say 'shit and vomit everything out-'"

"Yes, I mean everything. I've seen it before. Really wish I hadn't."

The fair-haired man runs a large hand through his matted beard, methodically straightening out kinks and disentangling knots. "Shor's bones, this sounds like it's going to be bad."

"Aye. It sure does."

The two men sit in uneasy stillness for a few minutes, staring into the crackling fire as Lydia grows both increasingly delirious and concerningly lethargic.

Finally resigning himself to the inevitable, Mull gently props the girl against her knapsack, shuffles closer to the campfire, and nudges a blackened log away from the flames with his boot. He then grabs a small copper pot used for boiling tea from their cooking gear and fills it with water. He crushes the charred log into smaller chunks with his hands, drops them into the pot, and sets it to boil above the open flame. Only once he's retaken his seat does he speak again. "It should be about ten or fifteen minutes until it's ready. She won't have to wait long."

His companion grunts in acknowledgement. Silence returns, broken only by the hissing and popping of the fire and the rustling of dead leaves in the chill mountain wind.

A sense of urgency returns when Lydia suddenly stops breathing and goes limp, falling into total unconsciousness. "And, there she goes," Torgen mutters with superficial indifference. But the rapid tapping of his fingers against his thigh betrays him, as does the fact that his gaze never leaves her still form.

After giving the man an irritated glare, Mull checks his housecarl's pulse, finds it still going strong, and realizes she actually is still breathing, but very shallowly. He points for Torgen to bring over her bedroll.

He returns to the fire, produces a small stick with one end wide and rounded like a pestle which he had specifically chosen for this role, and mashes the charcoal in the water pot into a gruel-like paste, steadfastly ignoring the boiling liquid as it leaps and bites at his fingers. While he does that, Torgen tries to settle the housecarl into a more comfortable position, though there's admittedly only so much one can do with light fur blankets on such stony ground.

A few minutes later, the charcoal-water mixture has coalesced into what could best be described as a sludge. Mull carefully removes the pot from the fire, pours about a quarter of the steaming contents into a smaller tin cup, and allows it to cool to a palatable temperature in the crisp air, waving it back and forth to speed up the process.

He and Torgen share a decidedly uneager look.

"Prop her up. She needs to be sitting straight enough to swallow," he halfheartedly instructs.

Once the young woman is ready, he tries to push apart her lips to deliver the charcoal mixture, but to no avail. Her jaw is clamped tight. In the end, Torgen has to use both hands to pry open her mouth while she leans bonelessly against his broad chest.

Mull sticks a couple fingers between her teeth, prays she won't bite them off, and pours the improvised medicine down her throat. His first two attempts are rendered ineffective by the housecarl's gag reflex as she regurgitates black sludge all over the front of her gambeson. Even if she were aware of herself, he wouldn't blame her. The mixture smells like a skeever den in a graveyard.

The third attempt is more successful. They're able to position the girl at just the right angle for the sludge to flow down her throat and all the way to her stomach unobstructed. She chokes and retches but doesn't cough it back up.

They chase it down with two mouthfuls of water, one after the other, and return the girl to her bedroll. She's sweating profusely and her arms occasionally spasm in random directions, but they've done what they can. Only time will tell now.

"That's a wrap," mutters Mull. "I don't know what else there is to do for her, except to watch and wait. Her body should handle the rest."

Torgen stretches his arms over his head. "I wouldn't worry too much, boss. She's a sturdy lass, and I'm sure she'll be back in fighting shape in no time."

"That's precisely what worries me. She's going to be pissed when she figures out what happened."

The bandit stares at him for a moment, then guffaws as he connects the dots. "Heh. Aye, you'll be in for it like a mudcrab stuck in a weir with a slaughterfish. All claws and no teeth."

Mull pulls a face as he tries to decipher the analogy. "Is that supposed to be encouraging?"

"Not in the slightest," Torgen mirthfully replies. "In fact, my guess is…"

He pauses. The humor vanishes from his expression. The next thing Mull knows, the older man shoots to his feet without warning and reaches for the handle of his axe lying nearby.

His muscles coil tightly and his bright eyes take on a watchful gleam. He inaudibly mouths something in the orange-tinted darkness, but Mull can't make out what he's trying to convey.

A second later, he hears a faint rustling from behind his back and cranes his neck to look. He drops the cup of charcoal 'medicine' and swiftly unsheathes his dagger as he rises into a crouch. Torgen wouldn't have reacted like that if there weren't something or someone nearby who isn't supposed to be.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary at first, but after another moment, the branches of a snowberry bush begin to shake vigorously, accompanied by more rustling.

A head pops out from cover, bald except for a thick red beard, followed by the rest of its leather-and-fur-clad body. It's a man with a strung bow in his hands and a shortsword hanging at his side, who maintains unbroken eye contact as he cautiously but steadily treads closer to the edge of their camp. A few paces behind, another man who's similarly armed and armored also emerges from the brush.

Mull allows the strangers to come within spitting distance of their camp before calling out for them to stop. "That's far enough, fellas."

Torgen plants the butt of his axe into the mossy earth, an unambiguously threatening motion. The two men wisely halt as they inspect the tall bandit warily.

Several seconds pass, allowing a strained silence to grow between the two pairs. Finally the man with the red beard speaks up. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

His voice is hoarse but possesses a presence and ability to project that makes him easy to understand regardless. It's the speech of a man who is accustomed to issuing orders and having them obeyed, that of a professional soldier.

Straight to the point. "We're travelers," Mull responds vaguely.

"Who're minding our own business," Torgen helpfully adds.

After a moment of cautious consideration, the second man bobs his head towards Lydia, now laying back on her bedroll. "And her?" This man sounds younger, though the evening gloam obscures most of his features.

"Our companion," Mull dismissively replies. He casually shifts his weight to hide the mess made by the charcoal sludge.

His efforts are unsuccessful as the red-bearded newcomer wrinkles his nose and gestures at the comatose housecarl's black-stained clothing. "What is Shor's name is that foul stuff? I can smell it from here. That's not tar, is it?"

The poor girl's two comrades keep their expressions carefully blank as Mull answers. "I don't think that's any of your business. Besides, who in Oblivion are you? We're the ones who should be asking the questions here, seeing as you barged into our camp uninvited."

At his combative tone, the two newcomers tighten their grips on their bows and surreptitiously reach for their quivers. Redbeard whispers something to his partner before raising his voice. "We serve Thorygg Sun-Killer, the lord of these mountains. Do you know the name?"

Mull and Torgen shake their heads.

"Sun-Killer is sworn to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and the rightful High King of Skyrim. Tell me, are you friends to the Bear of the Eastmarch? Or are you his enemies?"

Dammit. These two morons are Stormcloaks, Mull groans. I swear, today's been one thing after another with no end in sight.

Torgen shoots him a tense look and takes a step back, giving the stage to his ostensible employer.

This should be good. Mull adopts as close to a conciliatory tone as he's capable of producing on such short notice – which isn't saying much. "We're not your enemies if that's what you're worried about." He surreptitiously glances back and forth, searching the ever-growing darkness for signs of more men in the trees. "Like we said, we're just traveling east. We've got business in Ivarstead as a matter of fact."

"You're pilgrims then?" the younger of the two Stormcloaks inquires.

"That's right," Mull says without missing a beat. It's technically the truth, after all.

Redbeard regards their weapons, armor, and assorted bandaged wounds with visible suspicion. "I can't say you much look the part."

"Travelers these days should be ready for a fight at any time, or else they'll make easy prey for brigands and the like," Torgen interjects. "There are a lot more of them around here than most folk seem to realize." The corners of his lips twitch upwards.

Mull is the only one who notices, and he resists the urge to palm his face. Of course the former Nord bandit would make a joke at a time like this, and of course it's one that would probably get them arrested if these Stormcloaks had understood it.

The younger Stormcloak smiles approvingly at the mistaken sentiment, though redbeard remains impassive. He gives their camp another onceover before shrugging. "Fair enough," he acquiesces. "In that case, you might like to know that traffic through Steelhead Pass has decreased tremendously ever since the destruction of Helgen. Not many pilgrims take this road anymore. You're perhaps the third or fourth party we've seen in this last month, and none were much larger than your own. Of course, we would never deny those who wish to pay homage to the gods at Kyne's holy mountain. Count yourselves lucky that we true sons of Skyrim now maintain possession of this pass instead of those elf-wooing Imperial bastards."

"We'll be sure to do that," Torgen dryly responds.

Redbeard's attention inexorably slides back to Lydia. "Again, I must ask… what is that?" He points to the charcoal concoction, prompting Mull to wince.

No point in lying, I guess. "We… well, we may have… accidentally given the girl a few too many healing potions." At the two men's incredulous expressions, he hastily tries to explain himself. "We got into a bad fight while we were in Orphan Rock Vale, back to the west of here. These wounds are from a coven of witches." He raises his linen-wrapped arm to illustrate. "The girl was hit by a fireball. She's lucky to be alive." Guilt churns in his stomach, but he doesn't allow it to show on his face.

The Stormcloaks' eyes go comically wide. "W-witches?" the younger man stammers. "The ones at Orphan Rock, you said? There's a gods-be-damned hagraven there! We've encountered her ilk ourselves!"

"We know. Most of our injuries were her, uh, 'parting gifts,'" Torgen snickers.

Redbeard tugs on his eponymous facial hair, seemingly impressed. "That raven-tufted bitch is dead then?"

"Aye. Dead as a rock." Mull kneels down to check Lydia's temperature, a little less nervous now that the possibility of combat has diminished. She seems marginally better. The fever has already diminished, but her breathing is still concerningly erratic. "The big man there took her head clean off with that oversized axe of his."

Torgen preens at the statement. "That I did. I paid her back for her lacking hospitality, and then some."

Mull learned a little about the Stormcloaks from his interactions with Ralof during and after Helgen – foremost that they respect strength above all else. Well, you could say that for Nords in general, but the Stormcloaks are the epitome of what it means to be a traditional Nord in more ways than one. In many areas of the Old Holds, it's customary for a man to ascend to adulthood by hunting and slaying an ice wraith, a difficult proposition even for a qualified warrior. To them, strength is all.

So it stands to reason that if you casually mention you killed something like a hagraven, you'll quickly find yourself in a Stormcloak's good graces. Or that's the idea, anyway. Here's to hoping.

"Truly? That… that's incredible!" the young Stormcloak cries out. "Did she use magic? Did she shoot cursed feathers at you? Did she summon a flock of ravens to do her bidding? Did she fly?! Did she-!"

The young man is cut off by his comrade smacking the back of his head. "Shut your mouth, you fool. You sound like a little girl swooning over her sweetheart. Show some backbone for once in your life."

The boy rubs his neck sheepishly as redbeard turns back to Torgen and Mull.

"I must say, you certainly tell an impressive tale. You aren't lying, to us, are you?"

Mull shakes his head and Torgen crosses his arms with an indignant snort.

Apparently taking them at their word, the Stormcloak raises a hand to placate them before motioning to Lydia. "In that case… your companion there requires aid, yes?"

"Aye," says Mull. He won't turn down an opportunity to help her recover, regardless of how little he trusts these strangers. He would feel guilty about subjecting the girl to more of his own ministrations if a viable alternative is presenting itself. Besides, he was responsible for her condition to begin with. He has an obligation to do whatever's necessary to ease her ailment.

"Then you should come back to our camp with us," the Stormcloak offers. "We have a healer who can try to do something for her. Not a mage, mind you, but a healer nonetheless. We're too small of a detachment to merit a proper wizard. And either way, Sun-Killer will want to have a look at you three."

Torgen raises an eyebrow.

"It'll be up to him whether or not you're allowed to continue into the Rift," he elaborates. "You're crossing into Stormcloak territory, and we've been charged with guarding Steelhead Pass against all intruders without exception. That includes pilgrims, as distasteful as it might be. Rest assured we'll provide you with whatever accommodations we're able."

Mull holds an unspoken discussion with Torgen as they gauge each other's reactions. He's already made up his mind, but he wants to make sure the older Nord is on board with it.

When no disagreement appears to be forthcoming, they nod at the same time.

"That sounds good to us," Mull speaks for both of them. "Lead the way, and we'll pack up our things and follow. We'll just need some help with the girl."

-x-

The Stormcloak camp isn't much to look at, being little more than a cluster of circular tents halfway up a wooded hill to the north of the road, with a small clearing set aside for a group of six horses. Although I suppose that's the point. They don't want the Imperials knowing they're up here.

A part of Mull hopes to see Ralof standing somewhere among the watchful faces that observe their arrival, but to no avail. The chance of such a meeting would be miniscule anyways.

Lydia is handed over to the camp healer, a wiry grey-haired woman with prominent stress lines. Mull notes with passing interest that there are three wounded Stormcloaks occupying the healer's pavilion. They must've had a skirmish with the Legion. Or maybe it was a run-in with the witches.

After the healer listens their story, she gives Mull and Torgen a venomous glare on par with what they received from the hagraven. Once they've been suitably chastened for their negligence, the two men are escorted by redbeard to a large rectangular tent in the center of the camp. In addition to its shape and size, it's distinguished from the other tents by a charm-woven rug hanging over the entrance and a pair of armed guards posted on either side.

"Wait here." Redbeard lifts the rug and ducks inside. Mull and Torgen keep a close eye on the guards, who watch them distrustfully in turn. After a few moments, redbeard reappears and motions for them to enter. They enter the rustic domain of Thorygg Sun-Killer.

Despite his impressive epithet, Sun-Killer is really a rather forgettable man. His pale skin is rippling with muscle, his blonde hair is tightly braided, and his eyes are blue – all typical Nordic features further accentuated by healthy doses of grumpiness and suspicion. He reminds Mull of a bear, which is appropriate all things considered.

He questions them in much the same manner as redbeard had earlier. "Where are you from," "where are you going," "what is your business in the independent Holds of Skyrim," and on and on. He also insinuates that they're Imperial spies, which Mull and Torgen have no way of disproving but loudly deny all the same.

It's nearly an hour and a half before Sun-Killer is satisfied enough to let them go. He grants them permission to remain in his camp until Lydia has recovered, but only so long as they don't cause trouble among his subordinates. Pursuant of that order, they pitch their shared tent on the edge of the encampment and both fall asleep the instant their heads hit their rolled-up cloaks. Even if they'd decided it were necessary to keep someone on watch for the night, neither of them would've been able to do it. After the day they've had, they can't keep their eyes open for a minute longer.

-x-

By noon of the next day, Lydia is already conscious and capable of moving under her own power. The Stormcloak healer's natural remedies worked wonders on the girl. Mull tries to convince the healer to tell him about her methods, but she remains firmly tight-lipped. Not that he expects something like this to ever happen again, but… you never know.

Lydia still feels sick and spends most of her time resting in her tent. However, she does muster the energy to berate Mull and Torgen for her mistreatment at their hands. "I had to take care of both of you after the fight against Iron-hand at White River Watch, and when I needed your help, you do this?! By the gods…"

The chestnut-haired housecarl's tirade isn't exactly quiet or subtle, and although Mull and Torgen keep their distance from the rest of the Stormcloaks, that doesn't save them from being on the receiving end of variously contemptuous, judgmental, or amused stares. The two men agree that they should get moving sooner rather than later, for the sake of their dignity if nothing else.

They spend a second night in the company of the Stormcloaks to give Lydia a chance to recover more of her strength before getting underway the following morning. They leave the camp behind without much in the way of farewells, and the rebels don't seem sad to be seeing them off.

The only reason they were so cooperative is because Mull and his companions are pilgrims, which is something the Stormcloaks – who are self-reportedly fighting for the religious freedoms of the Nord nation – would naturally respect. But that doesn't mean they want random travelers hanging around their clandestine command posts longer than explicitly needed. And so, their departure is entirely without fanfare.

As the day wears on, the road snakes higher and higher into the Jerall Mountains. It's rough going, and the weather turns intensely cold as they venture into more extreme altitudes. Snow is starting to fall with increasing frequency, a foreshadowing of this region's harsh winter gales that are due to arrive at any time. Mull recalls his most recent journey through this pass under the auspices of the Imperial Legion, specifically when Ralof had said to him 'in a couple of months, it'll be much colder.' Aye. He was right about that.

He hunches into his cloak to escape the frigid temperatures, and he soon notices Lydia mimicking his actions. Her face is pallid and her eyes are sunken, indicative of the trials and tribulations she's endured over the past few days. In particular, she spent an inordinate amount of time sitting on the privy due to the effects of the charcoal concoction. It worked as intended, but whether or not that's a good thing is very debatable.

The steep incline and stinging air in their lungs aren't conducive to a prolonged conversation, and the tension hovering over their group steadily grows uncomfortable as the hours pass by. Lydia makes it abundantly clear that she isn't in a talking mood. She's staring daggers at the two men as they march, which is a pretty good hint.

Mull has already acknowledged his culpability and resolved himself to face whatever repercussions she chooses to inflict upon him.

But as always, Mirmulnir disagrees with the sentiment.

'These joorre do not deserve your sympathy. Would you demean yourself in this manner over the fate of an ant that has been flattened beneath your heel? No, you would not. You must understand that this is no different, Qahnaarin. Weakness is not a virtue. It should not be tolerated, not in yourself and certainly not in your subordinates. They remain worthy of serving you only so long as they continue to adequately fulfill the roles to which they've been assigned. If they fail you due to their innate weaknesses, as this one has…'

The dragon chuckles long and low.

'Then should they not be discarded for another more worthy than they? Tell me, Qahnaarin – what is the purpose of loyalty if it is to your own detriment? Why do you still cling to these foolish ideals even as they drag you down to the depths?'

"Shut up, Mirmulnir," he growls. "At least give me a few days before you pull this shit again."

He doggedly keeps marching, fatigued and perpetually short on breath as they venture further into the mountains. A sense of foreboding settles over him, both due to the dragon's unsolicited tenacity and his housecarl's obvious displeasure. Oddly enough, it's the second of those that disturbs him more.

-x-

Lydia is livid.

Her unrelenting glare scorches a pair of holes into the back of both her Thane's head and the bandit's. From their uneasy backward glances, she can tell they must sense her ire.

To think she was almost ushered into Shor's Hall by being force-fed too many potions! All because of these two imbecilic men and their abject stupidity! What kind of death would that be?!

She can hardly believe it. Aren't they supposed to be battle-hardened frontiersmen, experienced and knowledgeable in the ways of the world? That's what her father and uncle had claimed of her Thane – that they had seen something striking in his eyes and his bearing. That's what she believed after White River Watch and their successful navigation of Skybound Watch Pass.

Were they wrong in their assessment? Was she? They must've been if something like this latest debacle could've happened.

The sheer humiliation is what rankles her most. She is the niece of one of Skyrim's nine Jarls, a tried and tested warrior, and the duly-elected retainer to a man whom the gods have named Dragonborn in no uncertain terms. They should be better than this! She should be betterthis! There's no arguable excuse for this degree of utter incompetence.

…And that's where much of her frustration is stemming from. They should've been better, and so should she. She had a part to play in the events at Orphan Rock as well.

When she takes a metaphorical step back and looks at the bigger picture, she realizes her annoyance might be misconstrued. Is it her Thane and the bandit that have upset her so? Or is it something deeper than that?

She refocuses on the road ascending high into the snow-shrouded clouds before them. The towering bulk of the Throat of the World rises in the north, seeming to reach all the way to the blue expanse of the sky itself. She fervently hopes they won't be struck by a blizzard, or else they'll be in a fair bit of trouble. There's precious little shelter up in these mountain passes, treacherous even at the best of times, and Steelhead Pass has a worse reputation than most in that regard.

Opposite to the backdrop of the World Throat's foothills, the southern horizon is bounded by another range of mountains, a wintery expand of whites and greys. They aren't the tallest peaks in Skyrim but are still impressive in their own right, especially in the way they seem to stretch endlessly from east to west.

Perhaps it's this vision of the harsh beauty of her native land, or perhaps it's the sight of Kyne's holy mountain looming so close and yet so distant, but something about this serene landscape causes her mind to wander inwards. Her anger gradually melts away along with the sensations of the biting ice-laden wind on her face and the dull burn in her calves from the continuous incline.

When she's being honest, she knows her anger is partially directed at herself for failing in her duty, and that she's projecting that anger onto others – her own Thane even – in the same manner a spoiled child would.

Being caught unawares by the hagraven's spell was unacceptable. She must be better than that. The only reasons she wasn't killed outright were that the fireball fell a couple of yards short and that her armor negated some of its explosive force. Her custom-fitted chainmail hauberk and the gambeson underneath – inanimate objects! – had been of more use than herself.

She clenches her fists, ashamed by her shortcomings and her detestable propensity to blame her Thane for her own failure. Doing such a thing is the height of dishonor for a housecarl, and yet here she is, giving these unworthy ideations an opportunity to fester.

She makes her decision. With a fuming exhale, she tramps forward at a quickened pace until she's abreast to her Thane and the bandit. The two men look at her warily, no doubt expecting another tongue-lashing.

"My Thane, I…" She briefly closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, ignoring the raw dryness of the icy alpine air. "…I have something I would like to say."

"…What is it?" he guardedly asks.

"I feel that I must apologize to you."

He blinks slowly, taken aback by her non sequitur.

"In recent days, there have been many things for which I need to seek your forgiveness. At Orphan Rock, I failed you in my capacity as your sworn retainer. I was a hindrance and a burden to be dragged along for no other reason than the continued inconvenience of its existence, and not a useful asset as I should've been. I couldn't meet your standards for silent movement. Indeed, I didn't even come close. I didn't see the second witch – the one with the defensive familiar – until after she was already preparing to retaliate, and so was not in a position to offer you timely assistance. I lowered my guard in an entirely unprofessional manner and was thus unable to protect myself from the hagraven's spell that knocked me unconscious. The last of those was an irrefutably deplorable error on my part.

"And after this sequence of failures, you still chose to expend several valuable potions to speed along the mending of my self-wrought injuries. It was more than I deserved. But despite your leniency, I had the gall to be angry with you. Even this very morning I've treated you with nothing but disrespect."

She grimaces.

"The healing process may not have progressed as smoothly as any of us would've liked, but I know that wasn't by your intention or design. You did what you felt was necessary for my well-being at the time and I recognize the reasoning behind your actions. How can I, in good conscience, continue to begrudge your honest mistakes when you haven't said a single word about my own?

"The truth is that after these regrettable events, I no longer feel worthy to serve you. You are Dragonborn and deserve only the best from your subordinates." Her eyes flicker to Torgen, but nobody smiles at the unspoken jab. "I'm sure we're all in agreement that I am not deserving of such an appellation. I am young, and I'm certainly not the most experienced warrior in my uncle's household. There are others in the Cloud District who would be able to serve you better, and should you wish it, I will speak about this matter with my uncle when we return to Whiterun. This judgement should be yours, my Thane. I humbly await your verdict."

As she concludes her oration, she lowers her head and consigns herself to patiently awaiting her lord's solemn decree. He doesn't keep her in suspense for long.

"…Are you a fucking idiot?"

Her gaze darts back to him and her lips part with astonishment, startled by his unfiltered crassness.

Her Thane's face darkens with unrestrained fury and his bared teeth grind together. As she watches, he becomes so wrathful that he physically begins to shake. She recoils, fearful that she's overdue for a disparaging lecture.

But when he finally answers, it isn't at all what she was expecting.

"You do not apologize!" he spits out. "What in Shor's name has possessed you, girl?"

He jabs a finger into Lydia's armored sternum with such vehemency that she winces despite the protective layer of steel and leather. It must've been more painful for him, but he hardly flinches.

"Everything you just said? Absolute bullshit. You get that into your head right now. If I didn't know better, I'd say the healer's medicines still have you addled. Ysmir's beard."

He exhales loudly, distinctly unhappy to be speaking his next words.

"I used to work for a man named Joren. He wasn't a perfect leader and he made mistakes just like every other person on Nirn, but he never blamed the rank-and-file for his own shortcomings. If one of them did something stupid, he punished them accordingly. If he did something stupid, he took responsibility for it like a grown ass man. Lydia, in Orphan Rock Vale I did something stupid. I got full of myself and you paid the price for it. That's my shortcoming, not yours. Even a skooma-hooked idiot could see that."

He stops and tilts his head in that odd way he does sometimes, like he's listening to something that isn't there.

He weathered visage contorts with rage. "Be quiet!" he snaps abruptly.

Lydia flinches and drops her gaze to the snowy stones at her feet.

Her Thane curses savagely and begins pacing back and forth. He mutters heatedly to himself, not quite loudly enough for her to make out what he's saying but enough to make it clear he's extremely agitated.

His behavior is… erratic, to say nothing else. Erratic like it was in Orphan Rock Vale, but with an entirely different tone.

Lydia is pleasantly shocked by his response to her earnest apology – to know that he doesn't blame her for her ineptitude is a liberating feeling – but the resulting butterflies in her stomach are being rapidly captured and crushed by her burgeoning anxiety. As is often the case, she's worried for her lord. This behavior isn't normal even for him.

"My Thane, are you…?"

"What?" he irritably asks.

"…A-are you well?" she lamely stutters. "As of late, you've seemed abnormally distracted. I-I appreciate your graciousness, of course, but I must confess that I've grown concerned for your welfare. You're… that is…"

"It's nothing," he deliberately waves her off. It's the same sort of deliberateness that a premeditative liar would exhibit. "Just worry about yourself for one godsdamn second of your life. I swear, you're worse than a mother hen."

He shifts his posture to include Torgen in the conversation.

"As much as I hate to say it, I made a major blunder," he firmly states. "I didn't come up with a plan ahead of time and I put both of you in a bad situation as a result. That's on me and it shouldn't have happened in the first place, and as long as we're out here together, I'll do what I can to keep it from happening again. There. You deserved and apology and now you've got it."

"I, um…" It would be borderline sacrilegious to accept her Thane's expression of regret. But at the same time, wouldn't she be dishonoring him if she refuses to acknowledge him? So what should she do? Would it be better to say something or to hold her tongue in this situation?

She never anticipated that her duties as a housecarl would require her to engage in these mental gymnastics.

"…I believe you're being needlessly modest," she murmurs. "But if it's your wish for me to grant you forgiveness, then I do so freely. You've admitted to your misstep and you took swift action to atone for it. In my eyes, the matter has long since been settled."

Her Thane grunts cantankerously and says nothing.

Torgen finally contributes to the proceedings, but with a lack of seriousness that is entirely inappropriate for the circumstances. "I think I'm about to lose my breakfast after seeing something that sappy and heartwarming," he says with a teasing grin. "It was exactly like what you'd read in an Imperial woman's books of lovey-dovey poetry. Mara preserve me, the two of you really are birds of a feather."

Lydia's mouth twists into a scowl at the older man's uncouth insinuation. She respects her Thane as her station demands, but that doesn't mean she appreciates being compared to him.

Her Thane gives the bandit a dry glare, completely unfazed. "I'm sure you've read lots of Imperial women's poetry. Hell, you've probably got whole volumes of the stuff crammed inside that pack of yours, bursting at the seams as it is."

"What can I say? I'm a man of culture."

"Aye, and I'm a horker. Now cut the crap. That kind of thing might work on airheaded tavern girls, but it isn't going to work on me." Lydia catches her Thane sneaking a sidelong glance her way. "And something tells me it won't work on the resident housecarl either."

"I feel like I'm being unfairly judged here. Just because I'm a Nord doesn't mean I'm an illiterate snow-ape. I mean, look at her!" He gestures with both hands at Lydia. "She's smarter than both of us put together, and she's a Nord too! So who's to say I can't be a patron of elegant Imperial women's poetry?"

"You aren't a woman, for starters. And can you even read?"

They resume walking along the road as the two men's bickering escalates without an end in sight. Snowflakes dance around their heads and shoulders. Each individual fleck of crystalline ice is illuminated innumerable shades of silver and gold by the sun shining overhead.

Lydia doesn't deign to participate in their ridiculous argument. She's ensconced in her own world with a windstorm of conflicting emotions whirling through her head. This discussion has given her a lot to think about.

What is happening with her Thane? Something is very odd about his mannerisms, but she can't discern what the fundamental causes might be. Could it have something to do with his continual irritation towards her uncle? Is it some lingering affliction from the previous chapters of his life now newly-emerged, whatever those years would've looked like?

Or is it related to his status as Dragonborn?

That's the possibility that worries her the most by far. It introduces too many unknown variables. What if his irregular behavior is a previously undocumented symptom of his gods-given gift?

There are some literary records that have been left behind by Cyrodiilic scholars and statesmen which claim the Dragonborn Emperors were able to see that which could not be seen by mortal eyes, a blessing bestowed upon them by Akatosh the Time-Dragon – or perhaps by Shor and Kyne, as she is personally more inclined to believe. There's a chance her Thane is dealing with something similar.

But that's just a theory, and an entirely unsubstantiated one at that. It could also be a strange trait of those who use the Voice, for which he's already demonstrated an inexplicable aptitude. Or it could have to do with his devouring of the defeated dragon's soul at the Western Watchtower, an event witnessed by many and yet which remains a closely-guarded secret in her uncle's court. Or it could be any of a thousand other things. She simply doesn't know.

Whatever's going on, her uncle and father will certainly want to hear about it. This development doesn't bode well at all for the continued security of Whiterun. If the city is to depend on her Thane for protection again the dragons upon his eventual return from High Hrothgar, then he must be fit for the role in all respects – physically and mentally. To say he's an important individual is to insinuate that water is wet. He's quite possibly the most important individual to have appeared in the province of Skyrim in the last several centuries.

And by some stroke of fortune – whether it be good or ill – the responsibility for watching over him has been devolved to her. She understood from the beginning that this task would be difficult one, but the events at Orphan Rock have driven home that understanding in no uncertain terms.

Her features harden as she retakes her position behind her Thane and the bandit, trudging resolutely in their footsteps. Whatever else may happen, the most crucial thing is that she has a duty to her Thane which must be upheld. If he's being confronted with hardships, then she must do whatever she can to alleviate them.

Her defeat at the hands – or claws – of the hagraven was something that caused difficulty for her Thane. And that is something which cannot be countenanced.

Beneath the life-giving sun and the snow-shimmering peaks of Skyrim's loftiest mountains, she swears on the name of Kyne the Warrior-Wife that until the day she is taken by death or released from her oath, she will not fail again. No matter the circumstances.

-x-

AN:

As always, I appreciate the reviews! I've gotta say, it's really exciting to see people get invested in this ignominious creation of mine. Y'all are awesome!

If you see typos, please point them out! I dedicate more time to editing than I do to actually writing, and you wouldn't believe how many mistakes I still miss. It's pretty ridiculous. So remember kids, if you see something, say something! :D