Chapter 30
Less than half an hour after the inauspicious beginning of Mull's morning, another one of the Jarl's courtiers arrives at the front door with a summons to Dragonsreach.
"Again? I already gave Balgruuf my report on the Whitewatch attack yesterday," Mull grumbles irritably as he pulls on his boots. "What in Oblivion does he want now?"
"My Thane, you shouldn't speak of the Jarl's summons in such a discourteous manner." Lydia wrinkles her brow. "If he's calling for your presence again so soon, then it must be for an important reason."
"I'll talk about Jarl Ballsack and his summons however the hell I want," he retorts. "Your uncle can go piss on a slaughterfish for all I care." Balgruuf already wasted enough of his time with that wild goose chase – or dragon chase, more accurately. Mull did his due diligence as a good little Thane and followed his orders. But apparently that wasn't enough for the Jarl, who has seemingly sough out new ways to inconvenience him.
Lydia gapes at him, too scandalized by his colorful vocabulary to form a retort.
He finishes donning his footwear and stands with a sullen groan. "Let's just go and get this over with. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish." With that, he sweeps out of the building and exits onto the cobbled road.
Lydia shoots Torgen a trademark housecarl glare for daring to chuckle at Mull's less-than-stellar insults as she follows him out the door.
"Have fun!" the former bandit calls after them.
"Hmph." She slams the door in lieu of a response.
A diverse assortment of townsfolk are moving between the surrounding buildings as they each begin their own workdays of labor and commerce. Hammers clang against metal and drying garments sway in the breeze on clotheslines strung between houses. The urban hubbub of voices from a hundred mouths never quite fades away.
Mull starts down the street, not waiting to see if his housecarl coming. A few seconds later, the sharp staccato of her footsteps indicates that she is.
Dragonsreach is practically on the opposite side of the city from the barracks, and as always their route involves far more stairs than Mull would like. He's grown more accustomed to Whiterun's layout by now, but the constant ascents and descents will eternally be a struggle for him. As they walk, he has plenty of time to ruminate on his experiences during the night.
"Have your adversaries not oppressed you and thus driven you to become a pathetic specimen even among your own kind? Joorre allow these things to be done to them, for their will is feeble. But you are not joor. You are dovah."
Out of Mirmulnir's many statements, that one felt especially significant to Mull. It's the first thing that springs to mind when he reflects on their conversation atop the phantasmal Dragonsreach.
He's never felt wronged by the world per se. He's a firm believer that men become who they are through their own actions, and that the circumstances of one's birth and upbringing are no excuse for what they choose to do with their life. But for Mirmulnir to say something like this, the same thing that his traitorous thoughts have sometimes hissed from the deepest recesses of his mind in his most frustrated moments… Were these truly Mirmulnir's words, or were they his own? He wonders, but he doesn't have an answer. Either way, it worries him.
The pair soon emerge into one of Whiterun's eastern market squares. It hosts several familiar locales, including but not limited to Arcadia's alchemist shop and the Bannered Mare tavern. Up a shallow hill to the northeast, Jorrvaskr rests in all its ale-soaked glory. Beyond that, the stone eagle of the Skyforge stands tall and proud.
They press through the throng of people packing into the market for the morning business rush and eventually emerge on the northern side of the plaza. From there they climb a particularly large staircase to the nearest gate into the Temple District. A brief flash of the horsehead emblem inscribed in the crossguard of Mull's sword gains them swift passage through the fortifications. Not even that, but the guards actually shove people aside to make room for him and Lydia.
He isn't sure if he likes that or not. On the one hand, bullying people is always fun. On the other, it makes him more conspicuous.
The Temple District is beautiful, but it isn't peaceful. It seems that the various priests of Talos, Akatosh, Kyne, and numerous other deities presently have little else to do besides endlessly debating their conflicting theologies with one another. At the moment, a large assembly of robed figures are gathered within the sacred grove at the center of the district to shout in one another's faces about issues that are without a doubt utterly pointless.
Mull and his housecarl skirt around the edge of the circular grove to avoid the commotion, which brings them close to the Temple of Talos – the second-largest holy place after the Sanctuary of Kyne. On the steps to the entrance of the temple, an older man draped in a yellow robe with rich orange trim stands tall with arms held aloft, zealously crying forth the commandments of his god. An audience of perhaps three dozen people has assembled to listen. His raised hood doesn't quite hide his remarkably ugly nose. Though when it comes to that specific issue, I'm hardly one to talk.
Mull knows of this man, who's called Heimskr. He's Whiterun's high priest of Talos and a firebrand of the highest order. He often uses the temple grove as his platform to deliver passionate sermons deriding the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominon. There are loudmouthed priests all throughout the city, so Mull has never paid this one much attention despite his high-ranking position.
Today proves to be an exception to that rule. Just as he and Lydia are walking past the man, he launches into a new segment of his raucous sermon. It's a spiel that Mull hasn't heard before.
"He has returned. Oh, how Talos has returned! Helgen has been purged in his light, that vile bastion of Imperial oppression! The Dragon's children have come to bathe the world in fire and righteousness! Who else still dares to defy the will of mighty Talos? Will Whiterun be next? For these are his words as memorialized in divine scripture: 'I will show you how much you must suffer for my name!' Can we continue to so eagerly reject the affections he has passed down to us, ere the arrival of the end?"
Mull stops in his tracks, taken aback by the priest's words. He can't believe someone would say something so irrefutably idiotic. He's physically stunned by this display of abject stupidity.
Then the anger arrives. Oh, that son of a bitch. To insinuate something like that when so much was destroyed, where so many people were killed for no damn reason at all…
His vision goes blood-red. Without any further coherent thought, he growls like an animal, turns on a septim, and marches toward the priest's audience with a hand clutching the horsehead hilt of his sword.
"My Thane, no!" Lydia recognizes his violent intent and swiftly jumps into action. She grabs both of his shoulders and tries to pull him back. He aggressively shakes free from her hold and lunges ahead. His housecarl is faster than him however, and she manages to snake one of her arms around his own, locking them together and digging her heels into the ground.
So thwarted, he whirls on the girl with eyes flashing furiously. "This isn't your business, Lydia. Get out of my way!"
"My Thane, I am not holding you back with the intent to do you wrong." The words tumbling quickly from her lips. "I am preventing you from committing an offense that I know you will regret."
"I will not regret putting that sorry sack of trollshit in an early grave. That I can promise you," he sneers.
He takes a step back, in the direction of Heimskr's yet-undisturbed gathering, but Lydia matches his movement. He takes another and she matches him again. If he makes a break for it, she'll leap on top of him in a heartbeat.
He feels humiliation burning behind his cheeks at being trapped in such an impasse, but he still remains adamant. "How can you stand by while that man, a godsdamn high priest, spouts that kind of nonsense?!"
"It's none of my business what the servants of the gods choose to say, and nor is it yours. If you take issue with his statements, then you may bring them up with my uncle. Besides, I'm not sure I understand what exactly has made you react this way."
He gives her an incredulous look. "You heard what he was saying about Helgen! 'Talos has returned,' 'Helgen purged in his light!' Are you fuckin' kidding me? That's… that just…"
He grits his teeth and tears his arm away from her grip. With one final backwards glare at the aberrant priest, he heatedly stomps away. Lydia follows at his shoulder, prepared to intervene again if he should do something else she doesn't like.
"Talking that way about what happened to that town…" Mull's voice is low, but carries just far enough for Lydia to hear. "It's wrong. Even to me, it's wrong. Those people don't deserve it."
"My Thane," Lydia murmurs. "…What exactly happened at Helgen?"
He glances down to meet her solemn eyes.
"I'm aware of some details, such as those that have been discussed by my uncle and father as well as the public at large. But… what happened to make you act like this? This is unlike you."
He doesn't want to answer the question. There's no reason to, and he'd frankly like to tell her that she's out of line for asking such a thing. 'This is unlike you.' What does she know about me? I'm still practically a stranger to her.
But it seems that his mouth has a mind of its own. He responds against his own wishes.
"Helgen was completely destroyed," he grudgingly begins.
Maybe there's a part of him that does want to speak about what happened. Maybe he isn't even aware of his own thoughts on the matter. He won't admit it, but it's more often than not that he wakes up in a cold sweat with dreams of devouring flames and a blood-stained town haunting his memories. To share this with someone else after holding it in for so long… he admits to himself that it might not be such a bad thing. But that being said, a public venue is hardly the place for this discussion. They've already almost reached the stairs leading up to the Cloud District. I'll keep it short then.
"Which, I know you're already aware of that," he continues quietly. "But I…"
He pauses to gather his thoughts.
"Words aren't enough to do it justice. It was… it was hell."
It's a beautiful autumn day today in Whiterun, with people chattering and a nice breeze blowing and songbirds chirping merrily. There are always little signs of the Civil War and the newer dragon crisis to be spotted here and there, but in the Temple District they're few and far between. It really is so peaceful here.
So was Helgen on that fateful morning.
It didn't last.
He turns in a slow circle as he walks, observing the grove and the grand temples lining its perimeter. He waves vaguely to encompass all of it.
"Imagine everything here is perfectly normal one instant. People talking to each other, going about their business, eating lunch, whatever. Children are chasing dogs around. Old farts are sitting on their porches and watching the cart traffic go by. Smiths and cobblers are hammering away. Cows are mooing, pigs are shitting, and everything else you'd expect to see in your average provincial town. Life is perfectly normal.
"Then you blink and it's all gone the next. The buildings are reduced to mounds of charred timber and broken rocks, shattered to pieces like a walnut that's been cracked open. You can barely see anything because there's so much fire and smoke. The locals are running everywhere, screaming like nothing you've ever heard, looking wherever they can for someplace to hide. Nobody's thinking about the possibility of fighting back. There'd be no point. It's hopeless. They know they can't."
To his shame, his voice cracks. Lydia doesn't quite flinch, but her involuntary movement is enough for him to notice.
He wants to stop, but now that he's broken the seal on this particular memory, he can't prevent the words from inexorably flowing.
He halts and points to the collection of priests and priestesses gathered among the grove's innermost trees. "A shadow passes overhead and they die. They go up in flames like a bunch of damn torches."
His finger moves to another group.
"Then them."
Another.
"And them, just like that. Men and women, kids, babies – it doesn't matter. The dragon didn't discriminate. Anyone who's hapless enough to be caught out in the open is fair game. Even the Imperial Legion at Helgen were like ants scurrying around, waiting their turn to die. The warriors of Whiterun wouldn't stand a chance either."
Lydia looks away, as if no longer willing to picture his descriptions or to see whatever's now visible in his expression.
"This entire district is reduced to a pile of ash. The smell is like charred skeever meat but worse, because you know it isn't coming from a dead animal. There are bodies scattered all over the place. Some of them are burnt down to practically nothing, some are popped like grapes, some are just smears across the cobblestone. And the worst part is that there's nothing you can do about any of it. You can't stand your ground. You can't duck in an alleyway and huddle against a wall. You can't do anything to survive except keep running and get really, really lucky. That's all there is to it."
By the time he finishes, his tone is dripping with emotion but he feels totally empty on the inside. It's a good kind of empty, actually. The paralyzing fear and revulsion he once felt whenever thinking back to that terrible day don't seem so overpowering now, although they aren't entirely gone. It wasn't enjoyable to say these things, but he thinks he's glad that he did.
And it did take my mind away from that milk-drinking priest for a minute, he recognizes with a silent chuckle. Small victories.
Lydia on the other hand doesn't look like she remotely enjoyed listening to his depiction of Helgen. Her fists are clenched and her arms are shaking at her sides. Her shoulders are hunched, and the low-lying position of the sun in the east casts her face in shadow.
"I-I can't imagine if that were to happen to Whiterun," she whispers. "This city is my home, and I've lived within these walls for as long as I can remember. A dragon attack was always an abstract idea. I know it's a possibility, but it never quite seemed real to me – not even when the Western Watchtower was destroyed and the slain dragon's bones were paraded through the streets. But now… if a day like that were to come for us, I don't know what I… what I would…"
"…Are you alright, girl?" Mull nervously asks. He's never seen his usually-stoic housecarl react to something this way. Sure, she's only been with him for a couple of weeks, but the only time he can recall her acting like this was in the aftermath of their opening fight at White River Watch. And when that happened, she had literally just killed somebody.
Sometimes she's a little timid, and sometimes she's annoyed or headstrong. Those things are normal. But this version of Lydia is something entirely new, and he really doesn't like it.
She looks up. Her sky-blue eyes are rimmed with red, though her cheeks are conspicuously dry.
"Are you?" she croaks.
He swings his gaze across the grove, unwilling to seriously consider the question or to look at his housecarl's inner turmoil any longer. Birds flitter between crimson- and bronze-leafed branches. A handful of snow-white clouds scuttle swiftly overhead. The city's clerical denizens are arguing and yelling and cavorting loudly with one another, all robed in an eclectic assortment of eye-catching colors. Their voices drift distantly across the otherwise serene space.
"…I think so."
The churning in his gut immediately informs him that's a lie.
He tsks as he reconsiders his answer. "Well… I don't know."
They stand in awkward silence for a while. Mull isn't sure what else to say, and he gets the impression she doesn't know either.
Finally, the girl wipes the sleeve of her gambeson across her face and takes a deep, shaky breath. "My uncle is waiting for us, and I don't think he would take kindly to our tardiness. We shouldn't tarry here needlessly." In contrast with her unsteady behavior, her voice is hard like steel.
There's the housecarl. He grunts in agreement. "Right."
With that, they approach the beginning of the staircase winding up the hill to the Jarl's great hall. Just before they enter into earshot of the guardsmen standing attentively at the foot of the stairs, Lydia catches his eye.
"You are the Dragonborn," she gravely intones. "I believe that you survived the disaster at Helgen for a reason. You're the only one who can save us from this… this madness. I will not allow the same fate suffered by Helgen to befall my home." Her lips quiver but her voice remains steady. "I will not allow you to allow that to happen. I swear this before all of the gods above and below."
Mull contains a sarcastic retort with no small effort, indignant that she would presume to tell him what to do with his apparent status as Dragonborn.
Then he berates himself for being an idiot. This isn't the time or place to start bitching and moaning. You just had a good talk, dumbass. Don't ruin it.
Instead, he forces himself to simply nod. "I understand."
The girl examines him closely. "…I hope that you do."
After that convoluted mess of a conversation, he's glad the guardsmen allow them to pass without issue. These are the same assholes who consistently gave him such a hard time when he first started working for Farengar, but now they treat him with the utmost respect as befitting a Thane. In his eyes, that doesn't paint them in a particularly good light. Bunch of snowbacks, he thinks uncharitably.
Ascending the meandering steps to Dragonsreach is always a remarkable experience. They rise above the elevation of the city walls to either side, giving them a gorgeous view of the high plains and the mountain vistas beyond. A series of artificial stone basins and pools positioned along the causeway provide direction to torrents of water flowing from the summit of the hill, where Mull assumes there must be a natural spring somewhere.
Today a flock of ducks have turned the pools into their temporary abode, splashing in the cool waters or drifting peacefully. Despite his lingering anger towards that ignoramus of a Talos priest and the unusually grim interaction he just had with Lydia, the sight of the ducks manages to draw a faint smile from him. Even though we're stuck having to deal with all this crap, they're still living like they always have. It must be nice.
As they crest the top of the hillside, the gates to the Cloud District are opened for them by the Jarl's warriors. They stride purposefully into the courtyard as their view of the plains below disappears behind the inner walls of Whiterun's uppermost ward. Yet another set of doors are pulled open, the entrance to Dragonsreach itself.
As they delve into the fire-lit interior of the Jarl's stronghold, Lydia leans over to whisper one final comment into his ear. "Do not call my uncle 'Ballsack,'" she mutters with the utmost seriousness. "If you do, Irileth will kill you."
In spite of his melancholy, he fails to hide a grin.
-x-
"It's my understanding that you still intend to depart for High Hrothgar tomorrow."
"That's right."
Jarl Balgruuf rubs the bridge of his nose, plainly displeased with Mull's response. "I thought you might say that, unfortunately." He motions to a nearby servant and takes a long draft from their proffered drinking horn. "However, I'm sure you'll understand when I say that after yesterday, I must ask you to remain in the city for at least a while longer. I cannot risk my men facing another dragon without your presence, Thane Mull. That these creatures are still so bold as to slay my warriors beneath the very shadow of our walls is disconcerting in the extreme."
Mull scowls. He didn't bother to think too hard about why the Jarl might've summoned him, but he really should've expected something like this. Especially after Lydia's display in the Temple District, it isn't surprising that the Jarl's reaction to the possibility of a second dragon attack would be so defensive.
"That isn't going to work. I need to go to High Hrothgar. Delaying any longer than I already have is going to get me stranded in a mountain pass or worse. And you've said it yourself that I need to meet the Greybeards. Multiple times."
Balgruuf holds up a hand to forestall any further objections. "I'm aware, son. You should go to High Hrothgar, no doubt about that." He leans forward. "But the Greybeards have waited a very, very long time for the appearance of a new Dragonborn. Surely they can wait another season. Are there not more immediate concerns to consider at this time?"
"And besides," Hrongar adds from his seat at a nearby trestle table. "It might already be too late in the season for the journey to Ivarstead. Steelhead Pass could've gotten snowed-in early this year for all we know. You really should've left sooner to better honor the Greybeards' summons." He shrugs expansively. "But we can't turn back time. Fate goes ever as it must."
"Steelhead Pass? Where's that?"
"It's the only mountain pass through the Jeralls that connects Falkreath Hold to the Rift," Lydia dutifully informs him. "There are alternative routes to Ivarstead, but they're all either much more circuitous or equally as likely to experience harsh winter weather."
Hmm. That sounds like the pass we went through on the way from Darkwater to Helgen.
He addresses the Jarl once again. "The Greybeards might be able to wait, but I can't. Shouting with the Voice again at White River Watch made me realize how much I don't know. I can't use it effectively without crippling myself. I need to learn whatever it is that the Greybeards have to offer me. Not want. Need." It goes without saying, but he also doesn't want to have to deal with Mirmulnir's constant harassment all the way until spring, and he's holding out hope that the Greybeards will have some ideas about that particular subject. If they have a method of making the incorporeal dragon less of a nuisance – or even better, making him completely go away – then the journey to High Hrothgar would be worthwhile for that reason alone.
He jumps as Balgruuf's fist slams against the armrest of his throne. Lydia, Proventus, and several other functionaries flinch at the sharp noise. "Dammit, Dragonborn! I do not worry for your lack of understanding! My worry is reserved solely for my Hold and my people! It's my gods-given duty to guarantee their safety, and I'll do whatever I must to uphold that responsibly! Do not forget that you're a Thane in service to the Jarl of Whiterun. When I require your services, you must answer. And if I require you to protect my city, then you are obligated to do so!"
The Jarl's audacity makes Mull absolutely furious, his status as theoretical liege-lord notwithstanding. He knows he shouldn't get riled up over this, but he just can't help himself. Who in Oblivion do you think you are?!
He angrily steps forward with a guttural rumble. "I'm my own man, Balgruuf. Do you remember those words? You agreed to them when I accepted your offer to make me a Thane. There's one person who gets to tell me what to do, and that's me. I already risked my life when I took a look at the site of that dragon attack yesterday like you asked me to – which was a pointless waste of time, by the way – and right now that's where I'm deciding to draw the line. No more."
"Then clearly you're more lacking in wisdom than I first thought," the Jarl scoffs. "You speak with the same arrogance as a churlish boy newly-arrived on the cusp of manhood, intoxicated by his own inflated sense of importance in life. The reality of your position is that you are my Thane, standing in my hall, living off my coin, whom I may order to do what I deem best without any need whatsoever to explain my reasoning – not to you and nor to anyone else save for the gods themselves."
"And you're the one calling me arrogant? That's rich."
"I am a Jarl!" Balgruuf erupts. "I speak with pomposity because my position demands it! But you, even if you're Dragonborn, are still ultimately but a Thane of Whiterun Hold and naught more than that! Do not dare to lecture me on the particularities of my station, boy!"
Mull's face heats up. He belligerently takes another step closer to the throne and opens his mouth to starting yelling, but he's stopped from advancing further by both Lydia's firm hand on his shoulder and the sight of Irileth as she prepares to spring into action from her position at Balgruuf's immediate left. Only much later does he find humor in the fact that Lydia saved him from making a very bad decision twice in less than fifteen minutes.
Lydia forestalls him with her voice raised. "Uncle, if I may be so bold, I am inclined to side with my Thane on this matter. I saw what using the Voice did to him at White River Watch, and it's for that very reason I don't believe he's capable of defending this city as he is right now. He's said it himself – he isn't prepared to confront another dragon. If we're forced into that situation, then our losses would likely be just as severe as they were at the Western Watchtower or perhaps even more so, and his presence would do nothing to mitigate it."
Mull stares at his housecarl, astounded that she would support his desire to leave the city even after her previous spiel about his duty to protect Whiterun. She fleetingly meets his gaze before refocusing on the Jarl.
"I don't like this either, uncle. However, I do believe it's necessary that he go to High Hrothgar as soon as possible. In the long-term our Hold would benefit more from the Greybeards' insights than from my Thane's continuous presence."
The subsequent silence is exceptionally uncomfortable. Balgruuf steeples his hands and hunches into his throne, glaring at the floor. The collection of loitering aristocrats and officials shuffle uneasily as the disquiet lengthens.
The tension eventually reaches a point that Mull can't stand anymore. He has to say something else.
"For what it's worth, Jarl, I'm pretty sure the dragon isn't close to the city anymore."
The Jarl lifts his icy gaze to regard him intently. "And how, pray tell, could you know that?"
"You won't like this answer, but… I just do. I can feel that it's true." He isn't certain of that claim's veracity since he's relying on what Mirmulnir said during his dream, that the dragon who raided Whitewatch Tower had already departed. But when he sensed Mirmulnir's presence during their cute little tutoring session, the only direction he felt any burning sensations coming from was that of the dead dragon himself.
To be fair, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He was in a dream and it was his first time doing that sensing thing. He doesn't trust himself to successfully reenact the dragon-tracking ability yet.
So he's really only telling the Jarl a half-truth, though it's a half-truth that he legitimately believes to be true. Why would Mirmulnir lie if he hasn't lied already?
Regardless of the sordid details, it appears that Balgruuf buys his claim. He's definitely skeptical, but after spending a while staring daggers into Mull, he relents at last and leans back. "This is some strange new Dragonborn power of yours, I presume?"
"It looks that way."
"Forgive me if I'm not reassured."
"I didn't expect you to be."
Irileth shifts her stance into one that's distinctly more threatening. "You may now be a Thane, Mull, but even you do not have the right to address our lord with such irreverent disrespect!"
Balgruuf waves a hand and she obediently falls silent, though she continues to fume. The Jarl spends a while longer in wordless consideration.
Finally, he addresses Mull once more with a look of ardent intent. "You've changed from the man who first delivered me news of Helgen all those months ago. You have the eyes of a sabrecat now, hungry and fierce, and you bark like a rabid wolf. What is your prey, I wonder?"
Mull doesn't have a response to that – at least, none that wouldn't cause further disruption – so he holds his tongue and steels his features.
The Jarl releases a blustery sigh and sits up straighter, returning to a more lordly disposition. "I hope my disapproval is obvious, Thane Mull. I don't like this, but I do recognize its necessity. You may depart for High Hrothgar with my blessing, such as it is. In return for my munificence however…"
He reaches for a stack of vellum resting on a small table nearby. He skims through a handful of pages, selects one, and holds it up.
"…There is something you could do for me. Or for Whiterun I should say, seeing as we no longer have manpower to spare for the pursuit of far-flung quests and commitments. Every able-bodied man and woman will be needed here to defend our walls. This task won't be too much of a detour, I assure you."
Oh, this should be good. Mull raises an eyebrow. "And what is this task, exactly?"
-x-
"A job from the Sanctuary of Kyne, huh? I get the feeling that isn't normal."
"It isn't, my Thane. The Sanctuary usually tends to its own business, but where more dangerous concerns arise, they do occasionally turn to my uncle for assistance. This is one of those cases."
"Alright. What does it say?" He motions to the vellum in Lydia's hands.
She quickly scans its contents as they descend the long flight of steps from the Cloud District back down to the Temple District. Mull is concerned that she might trip and fall, possibly earning an unwanted bath in the pools to either side, but his fears are unfounded. She's surefooted.
"Simply put, there's a coven of witches dwelling at a place called Orphan Rock located in the mountains between Riverwood and Steelhead Pass. They've attacked and killed members of the priesthood of Kyne and have stolen an item of value – significant value, if this task has been passed on to the Jarl. We're to retrieve it and bring it back with us upon our return to Whiterun, whenever that may be."
"So I'm running an errand to placate Balgruuf for allowing me to leave. That's really fantastic." Mull shakes his head, now thoroughly irritated. "It isn't my fault he's being a baby about this."
"Getting into a shouting match with my uncle before so many members of his household was just about the worst thing you could've done."
"He started it."
"Now you sound like a child, my Thane."
"It's the truth! Besides, that moron called me Dragonborn in front of all those people. That was a dumb mistake to make."
Despite his protestations to the contrary, Mull knows he was in the wrong to some extent. He shouldn't have allowed his pride to take center stage like that. But right now, that very same pride isn't allowing him to admit any wrongdoing. Recently it seems like this sort of thing has been happening more and more. He wasn't ever a particularly arrogant man in the past – even if he has had a lifelong propensity for irrational anger – so he wonders what could've changed. Maybe I'm just stressed. I can't blame myself for that.
"Most of them were are already aware of your status, my Thane. Almost all of the people present for that audience were members of my uncle's inner circle, and those who weren't, well… the odds are that they would've found out sooner rather than later."
"Still. It was thoughtless of him."
"He was angry," she points out. "And frightened. As are we all. You are our greatest potential defense against the dragons and we are voluntarily sending you away. It's necessary, but it's hardly ideal."
She sighs dolefully.
"This is ultimately irrelevant. What's done is done. You've secured his permission to depart for the Throat of the World and that is what truly matters."
"As if I needed his permission in the first place. When he named me a Thane, we agreed that I'd be able to do whatever I want as long as dragons aren't involved. And do you see any dragons?" He raises his arms to the encircling rooftops and the empty sky above. "No, you don't. I guess that means he lied."
That's stretching he truth a little, but he doesn't care.
"Perhaps, but I doubt he did so willingly." Her tone is overly placating, like she's patiently negotiating with a crying infant. "Although the Jarl is many things, a liar is not one of them. In this instance I think his desire to keep our people safe simply overrode his desire to honor his word to you. Can you blame him for such a decision?"
"…I'd like to say yes."
"But are you?"
He grumbles under his breath, not deigning to give a straight answer. He isn't letting the Jarl off the hook – not by a longshot – but despite his complaints, he can hardly begrudge a man for failing to uphold his given word. He's done much worse than that before.
Lydia mercifully allows him to fester in silence for the rest of their return to the barracks.
This time, their passage through the Temple District goes without issue. Heimskr is nowhere to be seen, which suits Mull just fine. He isn't sure how he'd react if the priest were within easy punching distance.
When the barracks comes into sight, he contemplates their planned departure tomorrow morning. They still have a lot of preparations to make. It isn't going to be a short or easy journey, and they're bringing along an excess of supplies to account for the weather and the possibility of an extended stay at the foot of the Throat of the World. Lydia has handled most of the logistics so far, but there's still much to do.
He rubs the back of his neck as he reaches the front door. "And now we've got to plan for killing a few witches on top of everything else. There's always something, isn't there?"
"What was that, my Thane?"
"Ah, nothing."
They enter the barracks to find Torgen dead asleep in a chair at the dining table, snoring loudly enough to rattle the bronze cutlery. He was supposed to be cataloguing and organizing their camping supplies. Several scattered containers that were once filled with various alcoholic liquids indicate the cause of his comatose state.
"Just… thinking out loud."
-x-
AN:
The name 'Steelhead Pass' is derived from the ESO dungeon 'The Lion's Den,' which is located in the same place as the eastern terminus of the pass between Falkreath and the Rift in TESV. In ESO, it's stated that the location was once called 'Steelhead Cleft.' Couldn't think of a better name for the pass, so I went with this. It's got a nice ring to it, if I do say so myself.
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- tetrapod
