I do not own the Elder Scrolls series.
AN: I have updated all previous chapters as of 12-14-23. Mostly grammar fixes and typo corrections, as well as some minor changes to correct some continuity and lore consistency issues. Feel free to reread and marvel at the dumb mistakes I fixed (and new ones I doubtless made), but only one thing of import has changed. Chapter 5 has an entirely new ending.
Chapter VI: The Aftermath
26th – 27th of Last Seed, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81
"What is a Knight without his Squire? But what is a Squire without his Knight? Knight and Squire, Noble and Peasant. On such a relationship, High Rock is built."
Reynard De Menevia, Duke of Menevia, 2E 456 – 2E 531
They managed to beat the news of what had happened at the Western Watchtower, but not by much. By the time they reached the Wind District, it was already midday. Irileth's brusque dismissals of curious citizens and concerned guards were becoming nearly constant, and the first time that she heard the word 'Dragonborn' Lydia was fairly certain the housecarl would break out into a run. She clearly wanted to get the news of this to the Jarl before it got any more out of hand, and Lydia found it hard to disagree. She kept looking over at Sebastien – at the Dragonborn – and tried to figure out why he would have been chosen. The Breton clearly had no knowledge of what his status entailed, and a day and a night of marching by his side had finished what had begun in Bleak Falls and being hunkered behind a pillar and dragon flames. She had always been good at reading people, and was starting to get the hang of this one. He was afraid and worried, and she would have expected nothing less. As it was, he had not spoken since his quick words with Irileth after the battle, and she was ax anxious as the Dark Elf to get him before the Jarl. Jarl Balgruuf had spent times with the Greybeards as a young man, and had a respect for the Voice and those who could use it that might give him insight into this current situation.
Ordinarily, returning to Dragonsreach filled Lydia with a sense of security and home; now all she felt was unease at the changes around her. A Breton was Dragonborn, and a dragon had appeared where he was thrice now. She had heard what he said to Irileth, and knew that this was just the beginning. If dragons have returned, then he may be of great help to Skyrim.
As they crested the steps and the Dragonsreach gates came into view, Sebastien suddenly spun around, eyes flitting across the sky. Irileth's blade was out before Lydia had time to blink; her own was only half a second behind. Her shield had been ruined and in its deformed state it was of little use; she had kept it only because it felt wrong to leave it behind. She scanned the sky as well, looking for whatever had him so on edge. It cannot be another dragon. Not so soon.
The Breton inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Lydia looked at the Dragonborn in confusion, wondering what in Oblivion was going on with him. He opened his eyes slowly, and a low rumbling sound began all around them.
Irileth's sword lost no time going to Sebastien's throat. "What are you doing?"
He shook his head. "Not me." His voice was strained and hoarse,
It broke above them; a thunderclap, though sharper than any that Lydia had ever heard, and without lightning to presage its presence. It echoed and reverberated, and she saw Sebastien with his eyes closed again, lost in some thought or sensation. She heard it then, behind the thunder.
"DOVAHKIIN!"
It was not blisteringly loud, but it echoed as through it came from a great distance. With a lurch, she realized just what it was she was hearing. And the Greybeards spoke 'Dragonborn' and called young Tiber Septim to crown him as Ysmir. She saw Sebastien narrow his eyes, clearly trying to figure out what had just happened. He does not know. He is Dragonborn but he has no knowledge of what it means. He responded with scorn when told he could use the Voice. Irileth resumed her approach to Dragonsreach, and Lydia steered Sebastien after her. He is not worthy. Akatosh, why would you choose this one to defend us?
It quickly became obvious that the mighty of Whiterun were better informed than the citizenry below. The Jarl was surrounded by the powerful of the city, and they all broke into exclamations and questions when they saw the war party returning. Irileth ignored them all, shouldering between Olfrid Battle-Born and Danica Pure-Spring to go to one knee before the Jarl. The rest of them did the same, though Sebastien's attempt at a bow was clumsy and ended in him simply going to his knees on the floor. He looks worse than he did while losing a fight to a dragon. His eyes were dull, his dry black hair had been tied back in a sloppy attempt at keeping it out of his face, and every line of his posture indicated he was one good push away from going to the ground right there in front of the Jarl.
The Jarl, however, had more pressing concerns than a single Breton's comfort. "Irileth, the dragon is slain?"
"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf. It was brought down successfully, though not without losses."
"Irileth, your actions in this matter are worthy of any hero of Skyrim, and I am once more in your debt. All of you who were at the battle, come with me." He raised his voice to address the others in the hall. "I thank you all for coming in this time of uncertainty, and you will be sent for when I have need of your wise and valued counsel."
The volume in the hall began rising as the Jarl stood, when it became apparent that he had no intention of making those in attendance privy to his further discussions. It was obvious that while the dragon had been at the front of everyone's mind just yesterday, the mystery of the Dragonborn was the reason that so many had gathered here. Eorlund Gray-Mane even made to approach the Jarl, until Irileth planted herself in his way with such a look upon her face that Lydia half feared the Dark Elf might strike him had he not backed down.
Lydia reached down to pull Sebastien to his feet, and then hesitated. She remembered the burns he healed even as they spread along his hands and up a leg, and felt the lopsided weight of her shield on her back. She extended a hand before him instead. Let him keep his dignity. His eyes regarded the hand for a long moment, then he looked up and took hold, pulling himself to his feet. Together, they followed the Jarl up the stairs set off to one side of the throne and deeper into Dragonsreach.
As he followed Lydia down richly carpeted corridors and past beautiful tapestries, his mind was still where it had been since he saw his own body burn. Not my body. That was Mirmulnir. Fortunately, it seemed whatever piece of the dragon that had passed into him was composed of memory and temperament rather than identity. Only at Mirmulnir's last moments was the line blurred, and Sebastien had his own theory about that. He had been trying to probe the depths of this new side of himself for the entirety of the return to Whiterun, and had arrived at several reassuring conclusions, and one extremely troubling truth.
First, he could rest assured that he was still Sebastien Ciero de Wayrest, son of Sir Marcel and the Conjuress Cassandre. He did not feel the urge to identify with the persona of Mirmulnir, or any dragon for that matter, and that his core self was still solidly his own.
Furthermore, he understood that any subsequent battle with a dragon would be far simpler. Looking back now, he could trace Mirmulnir's rationale for every decision it had made. Many of them were predicted on reasoning that was equally wholly alien and… strangely familiar to him. On some level he could, if not relate to, understand Mirmulnir's need to show off, to boast and support it with action. That inherent need for a certain level of pageantry was almost… knightly. In any case, in the future, he could not only possibly anticipate the actions of dragons, but maneuver them into situations that were more to his advantage. It would require work, but he was confident that he could use this power to control the battlefield and bring the dragons down.
Ambition and rekindled hope were the final pieces of this change. He was filled with a resolve that he hadn't felt for 15 years now. Perhaps it was spurned on the Ebony Warrior, or by the Dragon, but for whatever reason, the Mark felt lighter now than it had ever been before. Suddenly, Absolution didn't just seem possible, but probable. It was an intoxicating and addicting feeling, this newfound hope. Now, he had ambitions, burning wants within him that moved him in ways that he had long forgotten. When he thought of Mirmulnir's death, he did not feel relief that people were safe or even satisfaction at a fight well won. He felt exultant in victory. He had consumed Mirmulnir, and added the old one's strength to his own. He has gained power, and could now vanquish his foes all the better.
Sebastien sighed as a well of self-loathing crashed over him. Am I truly so craven? That one victory, no matter how grand or petty, can undo nearly two decades of penance?
And therein lay the part of this transformation that worried him. It wasn't the fact that all these feelings felt normal, right even. It was the fact that Mirmulnir's death was only the catalyst for them to resurface and not the cause of them in the first place. Sebastien liked to win. Even when he was a child, the feeling of being victorious, of being right had been addictive. Whether it was in debate or in combat, knowing that with each victory he was proving himself to be better, superior even, had been an intoxicating rush of emotions that left him wanting more.
But shouldn't he want these things? He was Dragonborn! How dare the ruler of some timber town demand I bow before him! When I burn his hall around him and rend his offspring from limb-
No.
That was not him. When he had consumed Mirmulnir, when he had taken that dragon's soul, he had been given a glimpse of how that ancient creature felt about mortals, about Joore. The certainty that the great dragon was a class of being they could not even begin to comprehend. And now he is dead. He had to remember that. He had been brought down by the mortals he despised. This was nothing but another passion, and passions could be controlled. He was a Breton; they were above their base urges. He could crave companionship for an evening or even fall in love, but lust could never be allowed to rule his actions. He might hunger, but once sated on ample fare he must be content to set food aside. In all things we must show temperance, for our desires test us, and our fate is to be found worthy. That was why High Rock thrived, even as the Empire was crumbling around them. They knew how to keep themselves above petty hungers and how to manipulate their enemies with their own. When Vrage the Butcher came to High Rock to conquer it, it was the Nords who ended up changing, who ended up taking Breton names and worshipping Breton gods.
He had concentrated on the teachings of his faith and his people, but tendrils of treacherous knowledge wormed their way into his thoughts. He knew that he was more than those who had laid out these rules for his people. He had power the Direnni, and the Kingdoms could never even imagine. Why should he be constrained by archaic codes and oaths of loyalty, he who was Dragonborn?
Because I choose to be.
It was as simple as that. All the power in the Aurbis was meaningless if he did not use it in a manner true to himself. He was Sebastien Ciero, and the ambitious lusts of dragons were just another facet of his mind, to be understood and shaped into righteousness. I keep telling myself that, but is that what I really want? Imagine all that could be done, all the wrongs that could be righted if I simply let go. I could be a god, and the thankless life of a servant is unfit for a Dragonborn.
He had been having this argument within himself for the better part of a day, interrupted only when the echoing Thu'um from the sky called out his title. He could taste the power of those who had sent the calling before his ears had even perceived the sound, and knew that the voiced he heard could show him much of this power. As it was, he felt the Thu'um was a trifle compared to the overwhelming force of a dragon soul, but he knew that it could shatter mountains and break the wills of the strongest men. I am going to have to learn, and whoever those voices belong to, it was not dragons.
"We are here." With a start, he was pulled back into the space outside of his head, and realized that they had arrived at their destination. Past the open door was a room dominated by a long table and ringed with braziers and rich tapestries depicting hunting and battle. It had the look of a meeting-hall, and was decidedly more intimate than the cavernous hall below. He did not take a seat until the Jarl did at the head of the table, following the others present. Jarl Balgruuf had the big Nord Hrongar to his left, Irileth to his left, and that Cyrod steward of his at his shoulder. Farengar the wizard entered from a side door and sat down next to an older man in the garb of the Whiterun town guard. As he got settled, the ruler of Whiterun never removed his eyes from Sebastien. Soon enough, the entire table was looking at him.
"So. You are Dragonborn." Jarl Balgruuf had gotten to the heart of the matter in four words, and the table waited for his response. Farengar's hands clutched tightly around the scrolls he had brought with him, Hrongar's glare was intense, Irileth looked as annoyed as ever, and the eyes of every person who had survived the battle were fixed on him. Only the steward seemed not to be invested in his answer.
"I believe so. I… took power from the dragon when it died, and now… yes. I am Dragonborn."
The Jarl raised his hand to forestall any discussion or outburst from the table. In the silence, he turned to his court wizard. "Farengar, what can you tell us about this?"
For once, the wizard did not look pleased to be the focus of attention. "Ah, very little, I'm afraid. The Dragonborn is a mortal who, according to numerous texts, it either born with a dragon's soul, dragon's blood, or both. Ancient Nord sources refer to the Dragonborn's ability to consume slain dragons, though little mention is made of what this entails. Imperial sources focus on the Dragon Blood as a prerequisite for wearing the Amulet of Kings prior to the Oblivion Crisis. The Dragonblood Emperors, as they are called. Other than that, mention is made of Tiber Septim being Dragonborn-"
"We know all of this, wizard!" Hrongar's outburst startled Farengar into silence, and the Nord in his scaled armor continued. "Why do we have a half-elf as Dragonborn?" He glared at Sebastien. "Is this some Thalmor trick?"
Irileth interjected then. "Before we get up in arms over what race," she glared at Hrongar, "your Dragonborn is, we have something else that needs to be cleared up. Ciero, tell the Jarl what you told me."
"The dragon we killed wasn't the one that attacked Helgen." He was aware that he probably should have stood to address the table, but it had been nearly three days since he had really slept, he was still trying to figure out what in the Seven Hells was happening to him, and at least one person as this table took it as a personal affront that he had the temerity to be both a filthy half-elf and Dragonborn. He would sit.
They took it well enough, all things considered. Lots of outraged yelling and one guard bolting out of the room at a dead run, perhaps to warn everybody that they might still die horribly. The Jarl and his councilors tried to restore calm and lay out some sort of plan while Farengar began paging frantically one of the books he had brought with him. Finally, the Jarl pounded on the table with his fist until silence returned.
"We have killed one dragon, and we can kill more." The Harl spoke with a certainty that Sebastien worried was completely unfounded. "However, the greatest advantage is sitting among us." Sebastien waited patiently for the inevitable declaration of some additional task he had to bring an end and restore peace to Skyrim. This is the part where I become a mighty hero and rescue a beautiful princess in the bargain. When did my life become a fairytale? "The dragons reappear, and so also rises a Dragonborn? This is not a coincidence." He looked around at the table. "You heard the Greybeards call from High Hrothgar. We all know what that means." He faced Sebastien again. "You must go to the Throat of the World, to the sacred monastery of High Hrothgar, and learn from the Greybeards. Do this thing, and we can stand together and cast the dragons back into the legends where they belong!"
Sebastien nodded his assent. "I have much I need to understand, if these Greybeards you speak of can help me, I will gladly go to them." I will climb Monahaven and show these arrogant mortals who think to teach – No. I will go, and I will learn. Perhaps they can help me temper these bouts of delusion. The thought cheered him, and as he relaxed, his fatigue forced its way to the fore and his vision swam. "Forgive me, but it has been days since I slept and… much has happened that weighs heavily on my mind. I am afraid I am doing nobody any good here as I am."
The Jarl clapped his hands. "Of course! Any who need it, go get some rest. Bathe, eat, I have been remiss in my duties as your Jarl!" Sebastien rose, and nearly fell right away. Gods, I need that bed. As a servant led him from the hall, he worried briefly that he was not upholding the dignity expected of a Dragonborn. Tomorrow. I will wear royalty as mantle and splendor as armor, but for now I need some gods-blessed sleep.
Lydia had been, if not as visibly wasted from her ordeal as Sebastien, at the very least most appreciative to be back in her bunk for a night. It was with considerable displeasure, then, that she found herself being shaken awake by Aud. The huge guard only looked a little better than she felt, and she managed to pull herself into a sitting position without groaning out loud. "Aud, why on the Holy Bones of Shor are you waking me up?"
"Apologies, Korpral Lydia. Jarl wants us. Everyone who was at the battle. Now." She noticed that he was unarmored, so she threw on a simple tunic and leggings while he waited and followed her subordinate through the pre-dawn corridors to where the leaders of Whiterun waited. She noticed as she took her place at the table that more had returned from the battle. Kemming was there, and Borje grinned at her through the ruin of his beard. As she took her seat, the Jarl addressed them all.
"First, I want to offer my thanks to all of you, and commend you for what you have done." He smiled at them all. "You have slain a dragon! For this fear, every one of you will receive a bonus of two month's pay, a trophy from my personal armory, and the eternal gratitude of the people of Whiterun." He sobered and continued. "Sadly, many perished to bring us this victory, and while we mourn them, our first thought must be for the safety of our hold. "Kaptain Carth!"
The highest-ranking member of the Dragonsreach guard and Irileth's second-in-command stepped forward. "Guardsman Borje, Guardsman Aud, step forward!" They did so, the towering Nord looking nervous, the bearded one excited. "For victory in the field, and courage in facing the enemy, you are to be commended. For your achievements and merit, you are to be rewarded. You are both promoted to the rank of Korpral of the Dragonsreach guard effective immediately. You will receive duties and patrols on the morrow." He saluted, and every soldier there did the same. The silence was expectant, however as only one Korpral had fallen, but one Sergeant had as well. Somebody is getting promoted. He turned to Lydia, and her heart felt as though it would leap from her chest.
"Korpral Lydia, step forward!" As she did so, she struggled to hold her face in solemn dignity as a smile threatened. I have earned this, but it is not just an honor, it is a duty. Dragons return, and I will serve my hold. "Korpral, for extraordinary daring and outstanding discipline in the face of a foe unmatched in living memory, you are promoted to Serjeant of the Dragonsreach guard, and charged with the duties and responsibilities of such. You will receive rotations and commands on the morrow. Congratulations to you all!" The guards raised a round of cheers, and Lydia felt as though she drunk on the finest wine she had ever tasted. I have done it. Serjeant of Dragonsreach, at eight and twenty, the youngest in decades!
The Jarl started talking again, and Lydia forced herself to return to the task at hand. She was a serjeant now, and had to behave as such. "This evening I am holding a great feast for the people of Whiterun, and your new ranks shall be announced with them then. We shall also announce those newly inducted into the guard, as well as several strategies to counter dragon attacks in the future. You are all veterans now, and I expect each one of you to make your knowledge and skill available to those who request it." He looked at them all once more, hesitated, and gestured at Proventus. The steward stepped forward, unfurled a proclamation, and began to read.
"Jarl Balgruuf the Greater and the people of Whiterun Hold, in recognition of valorous deeds and extraordinary ability, hereby bestow the title of Thane of Whiterun upon Sebastien Ciero, the Dragonborn. From this day until the end of time he is named protector of the Hold, and champion of the people of Whiterun. Signed, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, et cetera, et cetera." He finished, and stepped back.
Lydia felt as though she had been punched in the gut. That Breton mercenary, a thane? Skyrim would eat him alive. Beside her, her fellow guards seemed to agree.
The Jarl addressed his stone-faced audience. "I have not made this decision lightly, nor will I be swayed from this. We need to show both the Empire and the Stormcloaks that we are not a weak branch to be snapped from the tree, and even Ulfric will hesitate to before making war on a Dragonborn. Besides which, he brought news to us, fought with us, helped our people, and gave aid at the western watchtower. He is more than worthy of being a Thane." Lydia knew that these days thane was largely an honorific title; it was even possible in certain Holds of lesser honor, to purchase the position with sizeable 'gifts'. Nevertheless, she had a hard time thinking of Sebastien as Thane of anything.
The Jarl was still speaking. "As a thane, he is entitled to a housecarl if he so chooses. Given the unique nature of his position, I feel that he should one well versed in arms and war-craft, However, I would not ask any if you to do this if it were against your desire. I have no doubt that many will leap at the chance to be housecarl to the Dragonborn, but my first choice would be for him to be accompanied and protected by one of proven valor and loyalty, who will remind him of his duties as both thane and Dragonborn. I ask of you who have fought beside him, do any among you wish to take up this task?"
The room was dead silent. It was an honor to be a housecarl, to be sure, and to the Dragonborn nonetheless, but at the same time, he was a mercenary, and a Breton besides. When presented with the facts of his being Dragonborn, he had at every point responded with disdain, apathy, and aversion. His very culture was opposed to all that Nords were, and his being Dragonborn did not change that. Even Lydia, who liked to think that she could judge any on their own merits, found the idea vaguely nauseating. It was simply wrong, to be subservient to someone who wasn't a Nord. It was one thing for Irileth to serve Jarl Balgruuf and command them in battle; she had served Whiterun since the Great War and besides, she served the Jarl as well. She might give the guard orders, but Whiterun was still ruled by a Nord of proven honor. But this? A thane's word became the Housecarl's bond. He could order them to do anything, and they were honor-bound to obey or die in the attempt. There were stories of thanes who went mad, and the housecarls obeyed increasingly horrific demands until finally they slit their own throats to escape from the obligation to do evil. To be so bound to a Breton was…unthinkable.
The silence in the room grew even more uncomfortable. Irileth's eyes were narrowed as she gazed around the room at them, the Jarel had faint sadness on his features, Farengar clearly would rather be anywhere else, and even Hrongar looked vaguely displeased at the entire group's refusal to speak up. Lydia looked up, and found Irileth staring at her full in the face. It was only for a moment before she shifted her red eyes away, but Lydia felt shame flood her, and blood rushed to her cheeks.
She could tell herself that he was of unproven honor, but that was not it. She knew why it was, for all of them there. It was one thing to see Bretons and elves every day, even to fight beside them or share meals and call them friend. But this was a bond of trust, and every Nord knew deep in their bones that truly trusting an elf could only end in betrayal. The Thalmor were the enemies of all Mankind, while the Dunmer worshipped Daedra and behaved in perverse and profane manner. And the Bretons had served them willingly. The Imperials had been enslaved, and the Nords took Skyrim back, but the Bretons had bent the knee. They breathed magic as the Elves taught them and practiced dark and unknowable craft in their secret places, all know. It was only natural not to trust one. Irileth had laid her life on the line for Whiterun more times than Lydia could count, but she still wondered what she was really thinking sometimes, when those eyes fixed on her or gazed off at nothing. It was uncomfortable to admit, but she was not sure she could trust herself with him.
Then, all at once, she remembered, and wanted to shrink away in shame. She remembered his demand. "Bring my body to Wayrest." She remembered him conjuring the shield over her, and his eyes burning bright while he tried to explain himself and to her why he was saving her life. She remembered him offering her a potion for no reason other than that he had two, and the way he had gone rigid every time the dragon had been mentioned. He was terrified, but came anyways. He was not a Nord, but he has fought. He needs a strong sword by his side. He had held a shield against a dragon's fire and saved her life. He had no reason to defend me, but he tied his life to mine. I cannot do less.
Lydia had dreamed of being in the guard all of her life. She had joined the Town Watch at fifteen as a gangly girl, was serving in the Hold Guard by her nineteenth name-day, and had joined the Dragonsreach guard after cutting down four bandits on her own, all before she was twenty-one. Now she was the youngest serjeant since the Great War, and with the dragons about, she would not lack for important and exciting work. She would have to be mad to throw It all away for this. I wounder if he felt this way when he dove into dragon's fire.
"My Jarl, I will present the title of thane to the Dragonborn." Every eye in the room turned to Lydia, and her heart once more tired to drown out her thoughts as she realized what she was doing. "I will do this as his housecarl, and swear to his service upon my honor, my sord and shield, to be his until my dying day."
At that, the dam broke, and Lydia was nearly crushed beneath a tide of congratulations and genial slaps and hugs Now that they do not have to serve him, they are overjoyed. She made her way through the crowd towards the Jarl, who clasped her hand warmly and congratulated her by her given name, without rank. That was the gesture that hit home for her. I no longer serve the Jarl. I no longer serve the guard. I serve Whiterun, but my first service is to the Thane, a Breton I barely know. Sweet Mara, Mother of Mercy, what have I done?
Suddenly panicked, she left the guards congratulating each other and speculating on who would get the position she had just vacated, and stepped into the hallway to catch her breath. She tried not to think about that she had sworn to do. They had shed blood together, to be sure, but a housecarl was typically a dear friend or sworn shield-companion. He would be well within his rights to reject her. He would not do that, would he?
"I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out." Irileth offered her a mug; she sipped at it to find fine rich Riften mede which she downed gratefully.
"You knew it would be me?"
"Not for certain, but who else? I saw that stunt he pulled with the ward. You owe him your life, guardswoman." It seemed that despite her new position, Irileth would not be using her name any time soon.
"I do, but to be a housecarl…"
Irileth snorted. "Ha! As the only person in that room who actually knows what it means, you'll be a fine housecarl once you get the way of it. You'll serve, aye, but you have enough brains and an excess of spine; in no time at all you'll be telling him which way to march. That one doesn't know the first thing about Skyrim, and even less about this Dragonborn business. You have that honor, showing the Dragonborn the customs and honor of your people. Isn't that some great Nord tradition, breaking down misconceptions about your race?"
In the face of Irileth's hard-nosed optimism, Lydia felt better, albeit much like a child that feels reassured by an adult. It was easy to forget that she had a full head of height on the Dark Elf; the housecarl – the other housecarl – dominated any space she was in, even when standing before the Jarl. The Jarl could order someone jailed or executed, but Irileth would kill to defend her charge without blinking. Could I do that? Serve without hesitation? "Irileth, how long did it take before you could do that?"
"You mean how long before I became the guard dog that scares all of the little petitioners?" She snorted again. "I was only doing it on day two." That did not reassure Lydia as to her own ability. Irileth put a hand on her shoulder. "There's only one thing to remember, the same thing old Housecarl Margus told me. No matter what, as long as someone else is watching or can listen, you are an extension of your master. Serve without question; carry out any order to the best of your ability. Those we serve will have the world trying to break them down and tear them apart; they need a strong right hand against that. If you need to question something, phrase it as clarification. You'll get the hang of it soon enough. In private though? That's when you tear into them and make them explain what in Dagon's great red ass they thought they were thinking?"
Lydia could not help but grin at the image of Irileth berating Jarl Balgruuf like that, and the Dark Elf returned the smile. "Thank you, Irileth. I think I can do this."
Irileth looked thoughtful. "One more thing. That one, Sebastien Ciero, he's not a Nord."
"I had noticed, but I thank you for your insight."
"No, listen. Now that you've managed to overlook the fact that not only is he not a Nord, but not even fully human and decided to trust him and judge him for his deeds and not his blood," Lydia winced at how transparent the guards in that room must have been, "you need to take a step back and take his blood and background into account.
"I'm a Dunmer, a Dark Elf, because my parents were. For me, it means I'm a little better than most with magic, warm up slower than some, and can hold a sword as well in my left hand as my right. Other than that? I was born on the road, fought in a dozen wars by the time I was sixty, and settled down here. Oh, I know the Reclamations and bits of our history, and give thanks or curses as need be, but they aren't much more important to me than that.
"What you need to do, then, is figure out what being Breton means to Ciero. Is he Breton because his mother and father were and no more than that? Is it because he knows how to turn a single coin into a fortune? Because he knows how to bind Daedra and shape the earth to his will? Or is it because he has fought and bled for Crown and Kingdom either as Knight or Nightblade? You noticed the hourglass on his armor?" Without waiting for Lydia's nod, she continued. "It's the symbol of the Order of the Hour, Akatosh's personal Knightly circle. Tell me, do think he's wearing it to honor a god, or if it has some other meaning to him?"
"I- I don't know."
"Exactly. I don't either because I'm not a Breton like he is. He might have a hundred beliefs you've never heard of, and I'm sure there are just as many ways for him to accidentally offend you. So, when he mentions Auri-El or Phynastre, don't get bet out of shape just because he worships Aldmeri gods. They do that, and from what I've seen, it's not the worst way to live. And if he mentions some Nord god wrong, work with him to fix his mistakes." She took a long breath. "I've got a feeling that a lot of people are going to be waiting for him to fail. His housecarl needs to be on his side always. Even if he does get Tsun and Stuhn mixed up. Can you do that?"
Lydia thought. She had never been as devout as some, but she knew the stories of her people and was fiercely proud of her heritage. "So long as he makes an effort to understand and to be respectful, I will stand beside him." She shivered as the magnitude of what she had done occurred to her once more. "It's frightening. I'm being asked to swear my life away."
"No, you're not. You volunteered. And you'll do fine. You wanted duty, didn't you? I remember the day you joined the Dragonsreach Guard, so proud in your new armor. I asked you why you wanted to be here. Do you remember what you said?"
"That I wanted to serve the Jarl and the people of Whiterun, and be worthy of the trust they had placed in me."
"Was that the truth?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good. Well, right now there is a Dragonborn asleep in this palace. I won't pretend that means much to me, but that matters to you Nords, and a lot of people are trying to figure out how to use that to their advantage. I'm telling you right now that I trust you to watch over him, and he needs someone whose only agenda is going right by him. It's not an easy thing, to swear your life to another, but you have the chance to serve as no other Nord had in thousands of years, as sword and shield to the Dragonborn. You'll do yourself proud."
He lay in the bed beneath Dragonsreach, unsure of how long he had been like that, lying there in silent contemplation. He had slept for a time, before coming awake all at once. He had no memory of dreaming, but the feeling of wind beneath him echoed through his mind. Was I flying? No, he could not fly. The battle's done. I'm…I'm Dragonborn. He wondered what that actually meant, and how it would change his time here. For one, it means there will probably be quite a lot more of it. He suspected that the Nords would not let the Dragonborn leave Skyrim just as the dragons made their return. And if he tired hard enough, he might be able to trick himself into thinking the two events were not related. He doubted it, however. So, that meant he had to understand what all of this meant, and what would happen next. No doubt that would mean asking a Nord; perhaps Farengar could explain some of this madness.
Also, I must ask about Alduin.
It had been the last echo of the entity that had been Mirmulnir as it vanished within him, a certainty whose memory still chilled him. Your soul belongs to Alduin. The statement had not been a threat or boast, it had been a simple declaration of fact. He knew from Faltur that Alduin was some type of Old Nord god, possibly a corruption of Oriel or the Imperial Time Dragon, but beyond that, nothing. If the dragons revered Alduin, it could be useful to know more about it. Speculation is pointless, I need to learn more. He still felt vaguely disoriented and more rest would not have been unwelcome, but as he was now, he needed answers and peace of mind far more than sleep.
His room had not a window, but the light in the hallway outside told him that it was the dark of night, with silvery moonlight filtering in through a panned glass window. Truth be told, he had mostly lost track of the time of day since the dragon battle. At some point he would have to return to something resembling a coherent sleep schedule, but one of the upsides of being some sort of Nord hero was that he could likely wander Dragonsreach unmolested even after most were abed. As appealing as the prospect of accosting random Nords in their sleep was to him, Sebastien decided to go see Farengar, only to find his workshop empty and his bed rumpled but vacant. Annoyed at the wizard's apparent absence, he found himself oddly reluctant to bother anyone else. He had left the wizard's chambers and was passing into the main hall before the reason occurred to him. Farengar is the only person here who likes me.
It hurt more than it should have. He had been alone for close to 15 years now and, perhaps should be more used to it than he was. Instead, he found himself doubly injured from the sting of isolation. He was a stranger in Skyrim and Dragonborn besides; the reality of the situation was that he was a total outsider. Perhaps these Greybeards knew something of the Thu'um, or of being Dragonborn, but he would wager every coin he had that every last one would be a Nord. The only person who he was even remotely familiar with was an ebony-clad giant that only appeared when his life was in danger. Sebastien anxiously licked his lips. I need to smoke.
The sudden urge for his pipe took him, and rather than retracing the steps down to his own modest cell, he took one of the stairs leading upwards from the main hall. A railed gallery ringed the great hall on all sides, offering a commanding view of the long approach from the massive wooden doors to the ornate throne of the Jarl beneath the dragon skull. With a start, he realized that that while he had seen the skull several times, he had not actually noticed it until just now. Looking at it from above, it was easy to see the power inherent in every line and ridge of the bone. These are what we face. But this one had fallen, and its skull served as a trophy. He turned and made his way to the outer walls of the gallery, where the tall glass windows stood tightly shut against the chill outside. Each was etched with a scene from what seemed to be a story of a hero capturing a dragon and putting it in chains, and he wondered if it had actually happened even as he admired the craftsmanship. He gazed at them, before moving on past the great wooden doors. They gallery exited out to a massive balcony of carven stone and the sky beyond balcony had lightened to a murky gray.
The terrace was empty; the plains of Whiterun Hold stretched out before him, with the White River drawing a shimmering ribbon across the scene. Far to the south, the foothills of the Throat of the World pushed up through the trees; the mountain itself looming overall. From this distance, the top of the peak was shrouded in clouds, giving it an otherworldly appearance. That is where I must go.
Sebastien walked forward and leaned over the balcony's edge, gazing out at the expanse of grasslands below. Turning away from the magnificent view, he pulled out his simple pipe and filled the pot with a pinch of tobacco, lighting it with a small spark that danced on his finger. He pressed his lips to the pipe, letting the warm smoke fill his longs and chase away the early morning chill before breathing out a smoky gray ring. Smiling softly, he watched the ring dissipate before taking another puff. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling an even large cloud. This one did not become a ring, however, and instead, the shifting gray mass become humanoid, sprouting legs, arms, a head, a shield, a sword… Before long, a knight made of smoke stood before Sebastien and bowed deeply. Chuckling, he playfully returned the bow and took another deep drag from his pipe.
A knight needs a lord after all…
It took Lydia far longer than it should have to find her new thane. After leaving Irileth and speaking briefly with the Jarl and Kaptain Carth she went looking for him, only to fins that his room was empty and none of the servants about had seen him leave. She did not want to tart her time as housecarl by having to admit that she lost her charge, so she looked by herself not knowing were or why he might have gone. It was by pure happenstance that she glanced up while crossing the man hall of Dragonsreach for the third time and saw him up there walking away from the balcony's edge. Annoyed, she took the steps up to the gallery two at time; upon reaching the upper level, she found the gallery vacant but the doors to the great balcony left slightly ajar. Lydia threw the doors open, intent on marching straight up to her thane only to halt in her tracts as her mind struggled to comprehend the sight in front of her.
What in Oblivion?
Her immediate assumption was that the balcony had somehow been filled with people, though where they could have come from, she had no clue. It wasn't until she hesitantly stepped closer did she realize that the 'people' were all made out of billowing, gray smoke. An entire ghostly court taken straight from the palaces of High Rock or Cyrodiil now inhabited the great balcony, in the midst of a grand and complete silent festival. Looking around, she made out specific figures among the gray; a proud king and a regal queen waltzing to underheard music, a small dainty princess laughing as a prancing jester in a floppy hat juggled rings of smoke, a somber wizard in a pointed cap waving his hand causing multi-colored sparks to fly before a crowd of awed onlookers, boisterous knights dueling with smoky swords and shields. And at the head of these gray, courtly phantoms was her thane. Sebastien Ciero was sitting on the edge of the balcony, a lit pipe in one hand, overlooking this silent soiree. Once again, Lydia was taken aback. This time by the look on the Dragonborn's face. Sebastien was smiling. It was a warm, joyful look that lit up his eyes and made the harsh angles of his face seem kind and welcoming.
Lydia gathered his wits as best she could and started approaching her thane, squeezing and slipping past oblivious, faceless phantoms. She was momentarily taken aback as a faceless lord offered his hand, seemingly wanting a dance. "Um...I uh- no thank you." She stammered, not sure what to say. The smoky lord's shoulders slummed in seeming dejection, only to perk up as a gray cloudy lady offered him her hand instead. Lydia shook off the interaction as the lord and lady danced. Sebastien soon caught sight of her, his eyes widening in surprise. In one decisive motion, he swept his arms wide apart, and a billowing current of air rushed across the balcony, causing the court of smoke to dissipate into shapeless, gray clouds. All that remained of their existence was the lingering smell of pipe smoke and the fading sound of silent laughter.
Before the Breton could say a word, Lydia was in front of him. "Why are you up here?" She should have been more diplomatic, but it had been a long, stressful, and right now confusing morning, and she was in no mood for games.
"I felt like it, I suppose. I've had some very long past few days. Some solitude is nice for a change" That took her aback. Considering everything she had just witnessed…
He broke into her thoughts as he turned to face her, suddenly asking. "Who is Alduin?"
The random inquiry caught her off-guard. "What?"
"Alduin. I would like to know more about it."
She had to take a moment to gather her thoughts; it had been years since she had given the matter of the Nord gods more consideration than the standard devotions. "Alduin is the World-Eater. He will consume Nirn at the end of time, and takes the form of a mighty dragon."
"So he is a god?"
"Yes, I think so." She vaguely remembered hearing someone mention that Alduin was the Nordic aspect of Akatosh, but didn't feel confident enough in her knowledge to bring that up. "Why does this matter?"
He waved her off. "It is not important. I was merely curious." He leaned against the rail again, and resumed his vigil of the plains. "My turn to ask you, why are you up here?"
"It is not important." She gave him his own words back. "I can come back later if you wish to be alone, though there things I want to talk about before the feast this evening."
"Feast?" His green eyes narrowed in confusion, and she realized that he would have no way of knowing.
"Ah, that is, yes, the Jarl is feasting the mighty of Whiterun and honoring the dragon slayers. And… announcing other matters as well." She would find the right time to tell him about his new position, and hers, but she did not think this was it.
He made a thoughtful noise. "Hmm. I would assume that one of these matters is my new… status?"
She felt momentary guilt over his obvious discomfort at being Dragonborn. It was not her fault though, any of this. "Yes. You are Dragonborn, and the Jarl wants to make it clear that you are here to stand against the dragons."
He turned, and his eyes were different, lighter somehow. She remembered Irileth telling her that elves could smile with only their eyes, and wondered if Bretons could do the same. "I don't suppose anybody is hoping that there were only two dragons out there, and we've managed to kill half of them?"
She almost had to laugh at that. "No, not even Proventus would claim such a thing right now. By dusk, everyone will be ready to fight a host of dragons." She tried to take the measure of him, half-facing her in the pale morning light. "With you at our fore, as Dragonborn."
He sighed. "Yes, Dragonborn. I somehow take the soul of a dragon, and now I know things I shouldn't and speak Thu'um without training."
She knew of the Shouting, of course, but the knowledge… "What do you know now? And what do you mean you shouldn't?"
"Do you remember when we were beneath the dragon's fire?"
"Yes, and if you are just reminding me that you saved my life-"
"No, listen. We should not have survived that. There were a dozen ways it could have broken through my ward. It could have brought down a claw on us, and broken me physically. It could have moved its head and avoided the shield, or simply left. It was surrounded by foes, so why try for so long? It makes no sense."
"It was otherwise distracted, I had thought. The guardsman attacked it, for one. Besides, though it seemed a long time to us, our peril made us remember the time we spent differently. It happens often in battle. Only a moment passed in truth."
"Hroldr landed a blow of the kind that it had knocked away too many times to count just minutes before. And yes, I'm sure the eternity I spent trying not to burn to death is exaggerated somewhat in my memory, but we had a chance to talk, which takes time."
She had to concede the point. "Why was it then? You seem to know."
"It was because I challenged him. He would have burned you, but I placed myself in the path of his flames and denied them. To do anything other than overwhelm us with the same attack would be admitting that we had defeated his fire. He refused, and continued his attack." His lips twitched. "A happy accident. I wonder what would have happened had the Dragonborn died. Would my soul have gone to Mirmulnir?"
"Mir-who?"
"The dragon. It doesn't matter, really. The point is, I know this now. This kind of knowledge. Imagine what can be done with it, korpral." He left the railing and paced into the shadows, apparently deep in thought.
Lydia kept her gaze low. "I'm not a korpral, anymore. The Jarl promoted me to serjeant."
Sebastien blinked in surprise. "Congratulations then, I'm sure you'll be superb."
"I turned him down." She knew it had to be now. He understood how important it was that the Dragonborn be present for the fights to come. "The Jarl has named you Thane of Whiterun, with all the duties and honors that come with it. I am to be your housecarl."
Sebastien was completely silent, his face and eyes alike unreadable. Lydia felt her neck and face turn red as her doubts returned with a vengeance and focused on the floor beneath her feet, struggling to find the right words. She had been anticipating this moment, had a speech prepared about the honor of the position, and how despite his blood he was welcome among the height of the city. Yet, the words wouldn't come.
Her turmoil was interrupted by the Breton moving to stand directly before her, hands crossed across his chest. "Lydia? Are you alright. I'm sorry that I didn't say anything, but I don't know what it means to be a thane. I intended no offense." She looked u, and saw his eyes bright and intense, brows furrowed, and all joviality gone. He reached up and tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you."
She looked at his hand where it rested on her. His fingers were long and thin, almost like spider-legs. This close, she noticed the lingering smell of tobacco smoke, almost but not quite covering up the scent of metal and leather. She thought back to the ghostly dance before.
"Do all Bretons summon ghosts from their pipes?" She blurted it out without thinking, and stood in mute shock at what she had said. He pulled back and looked at her, bemused. Oh gods, and he was apologizing! He must think of her an utter fool.
On the contrary, his eyes lit up in one of his smiles, and his lips twitched upward again. "Not ghosts, just smoke." He leaned against the railing, raised his pipe and relit the remaining tobacco. Taking a long puff from it, he exhaled a small cloud of shapeless smoke. To Lydia's amazement, the smoke slowly formed into a small horse that pranced and trotted before her wide eyes.
"Incredible…"
He smiled. "Would you believe me if I said rings were harder?"
She snorted, but felt more at ease than she had since this conversation began. He chuckled, and she knew that she had made the right decision. "I can answer your real question now. A thane is a person of importance in the hold. The title is awarded by the Jarl in recognition of a deed done or to accompany an appointment to some special office. In your case, it is a little of both. You are Dragonborn, true, but the only reason we even know that is because you helped kill a dragon." There was more to his particular appointment, but there was no need to complicate the issue at this stage. Let him learn the complications slowly.
"So, I imagine that one of the duties that goes with this title is some sort of obligation to defend the hold?" The Breton was speaking slowly and deliberately, clearly thinking through every word.
"Yes, although in reality thanes generally serve as advisors or commanders. As thanes are given honors beyond the ordinary citizenry, so too are they expected to serve the will of the Jarl and the hold."
"Like bannermen then, yes. From what I have been able to gather, the Dragonborn is a phenomenally important figure in Nordic tradition, associated with both the Draconic myths that dominate your prehistory as well as Tiber Septim and the Empire. So, for a neutral hold like Whiterun to install a Dragonborn as thane would present any Nord force that meant to take the hold with a serious problem." Suddenly, she recalled Farengar ranting about how sharp the Breton was; how quickly he picked up information and approached problems from unconventional angles. "Given that Ulfric Stormcloak has predicated his rebellion on the worship of Talos and veneration of Nordic tradition, he would need to delegitimize me as Dragonborn if he wished to mount any serious assault on Whiterun." He looked at her questioningly. "Would an average Nord attack a city if they knew that a Dragonborn was defending it?"
"I'm… I'm not really certain. You have to understand, this is unheard of. Dragonborn come out of the very oldest stories, fighting dragons in the days of Ysgramor! They aren't something that anyone thought they would see in their lifetime! It's like…like…"
"Like a miracle?" His eyes went from smiling to dark and serious in a heartbeat. "I am not a Nord, and I am certain that many will never forgive me for that. However, I am Dragonborn, and whether your people like it or not, I am here to defend them." The smile returned, and he stood straight and briefly clasped her shoulder again. "Thank you for coming to tell me about all of this, Lydia."
"You're welcome, my thane." Heh. Her thane. There was one more part, and this would be the hardest. He seemed to like her well enough, but to have another bound to you… "As your housecarl, I am no longer in service to Whiterun. Instead, I am your personal warrior and will serve as your sword and shield, the embodiment of your will. I have chosen to serve, should you have me." She looked at his face but could make nothing out from his expression.
His response was not long coming this time. "You chose this? It was not demanded of you?" His voice was even, with only the slightest inflection to signal that he was questioning rather than making a statement.
"I chose freely. You have proven yourself worthy of following, and I believe that I can be of assistance in the challenges you will face." As she said the words, she meant it more than she ever had when saying it to herself. Facing him here and now, she saw honor in this strange Breton who was the Dragonborn, and felt confidence in her decision.
He looked at her for a long moment more. "I lied earlier; you know."
With a lurch, everything she had thought, every judgement she had made on this balcony, was thrown into doubt. What lies did he tell? Was it her youth or his actions during the battle that had led her to trust a strange Breton? She opened her mouth to demand her explain himself, only to be cut off as he continued.
"I said I came up here because I desired solitude. That was untrue. I came up here because I have nowhere else to go. Of all of Dragonsreach, Farengar alone seems to tolerate me for anything more than my status." He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, the servants bow and scrape and guards salute and call me 'Dragonborn' but that is for the title, for something that still feels like a false name I have taken from some worthier host. Would your Jarl have named me thane if I were simply another sellsword who had participated in slaying Mirmulnir?"
She sook her head reluctantly. "No, you would have been given a token reward and sent on your way."
"So, I am given this honor and title I have no connection to. Once more, the Dragonborn is cast into light while Sebastien Ciero is ignored." He held up a hand to forestall her as she started to protest. "It is for the best perhaps, in recent years, I've found myself more and more disenchanted with Sebastien. I understand why, but still, it had become tiring after little more than a day, and I have no doubt I will grow wearier of it with time. Rest assured; I don't resent you for it! Remind me to tell you the tale of King Caydren." A brief smile tugged at his lips and that same brightness flitted through his eyes. "I simply want to know that you wish to be housecarl for me, not for the Dragonborn."
That took her aback, and to her shame she had to think on it. Would I follow him if he were not the Dragonborn? He was a mercenary, but he had helped kill a dragon. He was not – she stopped abruptly as she realized that she was simply rehashing the struggle she had had before declaring to the Jarl that she would serve. I made my decision then, and my thoughts were only of the person he is, not his title. She met his gaze unblinking. "I do. You have acted honorably and aided us in a time of need. You worked with Farengar, fought the dragon despite your fear, and risked your own life to save mine. I would be proud to serve you as housecarl."
He looked up at her for another long moment, and then held out his hand. She clasped his forearm firmly as he gripped hers, and he looked up at her with fire in his eyes. "Lydia of Whiterun, I accept you as housecarl. I do not know what form the path from this place will take, but I am glad to have you at my side." The fire faded, and that laughing light returned. "Now, it seems I am going to be presented to Whiterun at a feast. As your thane, my first order is to show me how not to humiliate myself. It would not do for the Dragonborn to use the wrong fork."
"Then you are in luck, my thane." Lydia had attended too many of these feasts since arriving at Dragonsreach to not know how they went. "There is only a single fork per person, and it is used to hold in place any item that requires cutting. However, most food can be eaten with the hands. Brining a dagger to cut one's meat is fine for a jarl's feast, though in a lesser hall it could be perceived as an insult, suggesting that the host it too poor to provide a knife for each guest. As the guest of honor, you will be seated…"
They discussed the feast for the better part of the morning, with Lydia appreciating for once the tedious lessons in proper etiquette that had been drilled into her as part oft the Dragonsreach guard training. They had wandered down to the main level o Lydia could better reference specific locations for him. The servants in the main hall largely ignored them as they went about their preparations, though Farengar did stop by to let Sebastien know that the Breton was still welcome to stop by and help with research any time he wanted. He was practically salivating at the chance to interrogate a Dragonborn, but Lydia placed herself between the two of them and assured the wizard that while his enthusiasm was welcome, they still had a lot of work to do in little time.
"I like to think I am not so hopeless that we might run out of time before the feast." The statement might have seemed accusatory or wounded, were it not for the tone that she had come to recognize as his attempting humor.
"Not at all, but as your housecarl, I am sworn to defend you. That includes impositions on your time. We do have a feast this evening, and you could well wish some time to yourself before it begins."
Her thane stopped dead in his tracks and turned to regard her. "It seems I made a fine choice accepting your service." Lydia grinned as he returned to studying the table. "Explain to me the status of this group that calls itself the Companions."
Soon, Lydia felt confident that Sebastien would not embarrass himself at the feast, and was comfortable calling for a halt. He seemed happy to hear this, and made to depart. As he did so, Lydia suddenly remembered her duty.
"My thane, might I know where you will be? The Jarl has ordered finery prepared for you, and you mentioned wanting some alone time before beginning preparations for the evening."
"Beginning preparations." He rolled the words around his mouth as though he was unsure of their taste. "I suppose the Dragonborn must be ready before such events." He sighed. "I will be in my cell should you need me."
"In Skyrim, a cell is for prisoners. Do you not mean your room?" He had taken off down the hall, but she caught up to him in moments.
"No, a cell is what it is. Small, unadorned, a place to sleep but not to relax." He seemed distracted, somehow managing to exclude her from a conversation of two.
"Is something the matter, Thane Sebastien? Are you displeased with your lodgings?"
Her use of his title jolted him from whatever reverie had held him. "Ah? No, no, just… lost in thought." He was still out of sorts, but was at least paying attention to the conversation now. "No, my cell is fine. Truth be told, I was expecting a bunk in the guardhouse when the Jarl offered me lodgings. I was just thinking."
"What about, if I may ask?"
"Alduin." He did not seem inclined to say more, and Lydia could tell that pressing him for details would only strain their fledgling partnership. We work well enough together, but we are still strangers. She let him go on his way, and was returning to the hall when she saw her father exiting on of the side passages.
Hagom looked only a little worse for the ordeal they had been through. Though his uniform was pristine, his face was lined with fatigue and age. He was flanked by several of the townguard, though upon seeing his daughter he waved for them to continue on without him and moved to intercept the new housecarl.
"Lydia, thank the Nine." Hagom stopped short of his daughter. "I have much to say, it there somewhere we could talk?" He smiled proudly at his daughter. "You know this place better than I after all." Lydia led him into one of the halls to the left that would eventually lead to a perfect place to speak, wondering what her father was so intent on speaking about.
The great balcony was empty and behind her, Hagom shut the heavy wooden doors that led into Dragonsreach, and then joined her in looking out over the city and the plains beyond.
"I've been asked to return to the townguard." She didn't need to see her father's expression, the bitterness in his voice was enough for her to know how he felt about this 'promotion'. Still, Lydia could privately feel relieved, knowing her father would not be out on the plains defenseless should another dragon attack. He turned to face her, a small smile on his weathered face. "I suppose I'll be able to see you more often then."
The relief Lydia felt drained away as she was overcome with dismay. He doesn't know. Her father had not yet learned that Lydia was no longer a member of the Dragonsreach guard.
Swallowing away her dismay, she confessed. "Father, I am Sebastien Ciero's housecarl, and it is my duty to follow him as his sword and shield."
Hagom spun to face her, looking as if his daughter had just confessed to worshipping Daedra. "You are bound to him? You are his housecarl?" Lydia nodded, and her father focused on the floor in quiet astonishment. "Housecarl…" He looked back up at her. "Did the Jarl demand this?"
Lydia knew that many would ask her these same questions in the coming days. "No, he did not command it. I saw in Sebastien a thane worth following, and as the Dragonborn he is in need of my support. I am sword to be his sword and shield."
She broke her gaze away from her father and focused out onto the plains, fearful of his response. Her father sighed. "Lydia…Lydia, please, look at me dearest." She reluctantly turned to face her father, fully expecting to see disappointment etched on his face. Instead, she was taken aback as Hagom gently embraced his daughter.
"Father?"
"I'm proud of you, Lydia." The housecarl gratefully returned the hug, heartened to know her father was not disappointed in her as she feared. "Promise me one thing, won't you Lydia?" She told him of course. "Promise me you'll say goodbye to your mother before you leave."
Lydia froze at his words, but nodded anyway. She set off down a hall. I have chosen my path. Her thane was waiting.
AN: Three chapters in one month, dear god. Using this chapter to cram a whole bunch of Lydia backstory and characterization. Not entirely sure all of it is up to what I want it to be, but it will serve for now. Next chapter introduces the Companions, and should move out of the Greater Whiterun Metropolitan Area. Take care folks and have a very Mery Christmas and happy Holidays. - Bones