Chapter 48
-x-
AN: This entire chapter is dialogue. You've been warned. See the author's note at the end for more information about your extended warranty.
-x-
After a rough awakening that leaves him less rested than he would like, Mull trundles out of his bedroom and washes his face in the rain barrel out on the veranda before fixing something to eat in the kitchen. He gets a fire going in the brick hearth and heats up a bowl of hearty oatmeal gruel.
Once the food is ready, he sits down at the main room's trestle table and starts eating while thinking over his next moves now that he's back in Whiterun. He's been doing almost nothing but thinking and drinking since he arrived here at the barracks a few days ago – the mead helps lubricate the process, as he isn't usually this much of a thinker.
When he got here at his journey's conclusion, he found the renovated building locked up tight and as silent as a graveyard. He wouldn't have been able to get inside without breaking something if he didn't have the foresight to keep a copy of the key with him at all times. Lydia and Torgen are nowhere to be seen which means they must be out on a job somewhere. Assuming that's the case, he's pleased that they're fulfilling his directive to act like real mercenaries. And making some money on the side is always a plus.
One of the most pressing matters in his mind is figuring out how to get out from beneath Balgruuf's thumb, which is something he mulled over a lot during the final stage of his trip from Ivarstead. Right now, the best thing he can come up with is to relocate to a hypothetical estate somewhere outside of the city but still within easy walking or riding distance. That would give him some autonomy while still allowing him to stay close enough to help if a dragon attacks Whiterun. Not that he cares much about the city's fate, but Balgruuf certainly would, so it'll inevitably become his problem since he's ostensibly the Jarl's pet dragon slayer.
And then there's the mission given o him by Arngeir to recover the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. He isn't in too much of a rush to complete the Greybeard's assignment, especially because he's still recovering from his most recent trek and still needs to procure new supplies. Earning the right to learn more from the Greybeards will be very important in the future, but there are still other matters to attend to down here in the world beneath the clouds. He also wants to grill his ever-knowledgeable housecarl about the Drak-whatever Marsh so he knows what he's getting himself into.
And that's all based on the notion that Balgruuf will be okay with him leaving Whiterun for an extended period of time so soon after his first absence, which is unlikely to say the least. He still isn't sure how he'll navigate that upcoming mess.
His spoon is hovering halfway inside his open mouth when the front door suddenly bangs open and a pair of familiar faces barge in, cutting short his peace and quiet.
"I'm telling you, Ysolda is a carnal goddess! Pale skin, cute red hair, perky tits, mwah!" Torgen theatrically performs a chef's kiss with his fingers and lips. "Dibella herself must've blessed that girl, because she can suck a man's soul right out of his-!"
"ENOUGH!" Lydia screams at the top of her lungs. "For the thousandth time, I do not care what debaucheries you've been getting up to with our client behind our backs! Please for the love of Kyne SHUT UP! Spare me the humiliation of listening to any more of your foul-mouthed drivel!"
Torgen grins down at the brunette housecarl while she squeezes past him and stomps through the doorway. He's carrying a long and narrow object wrapped in protective furs that's slung over his shoulder. It looks heavy but the muscular Nord doesn't seem to mind. "Didn't your daddy ever talk to you about the birds and the bees, princess? No? Then consider this my contribution to the betterment of society. A pretty lass like you ought to know how these things work."
"Ughhh, Mephala grant me patience. I sorely need it," an unfamiliar voice groans from outside the building. It's the voice of a woman, although somewhat huskier than average.
Lydia whirls around and yells in Torgen's face with her fists balled at her sides. "I DO! I am twenty-one years old, thank you very much! I'm keenly aware of the mechanics of love, but that doesn't mean I have any interest whatsoever in listening to you recount your lurid experiences in such disgusting detail! If you keep up this… this… harassment, I'll report you to my uncle and have you beheaded atop the battlements of the Cloud District where the entire city can bear witness to your grisly end! Honestly, I don't understand why my Thane hasn't done all of Skyrim a favor by using his skinning knife to geld-"
She turns away in the middle of berating the lascivious bandit and instantly freezes when she sees the room's sole occupant. Her knapsack drops to the floor a heartbeat later.
"My Thane," she breathes. "Y-you're back!"
"Oh, hey boss. How's it going?" Torgen sets down the bulky item with a weary huff before ambling over to the table and resting his hands atop the varnished wooden surface. "It's been a minute, hasn't it?" He narrows his eyes as he studies Mull's tired face and his enthusiasm quickly drains away. "You look like trampled shit. What in Oblivion happened to you?"
"Don't ask. It's been a long couple of weeks." He glances at Lydia, whose jaw is hanging open with abject shock, and snorts softly. "It's good to see my housecarl hasn't put you six feet under quite yet. Doesn't look like she was too far off." Both Torgen and Lydia seem much the same as ever, although the Nord bandit's beard is a bit longer than it used to be while Lydia's hair is lacking the decorative beads she used to thread into her braids every morning. The little differences drive home the fact that it's been many months since he last saw them. They also look tired and dirty, like they've been on the road without stopping for a while. He can relate.
"I think you're right," Torgen chuckles mildly. "Your timing couldn't have been better. If you weren't here with that handsome face of yours, these two might've finally lost their patience and ganged up on me today. And not in a way I would've liked," he winks.
Mull follows Torgen's gaze to the door where the unseen invoker of the daedric prince Mephala is now entering the building. He was right about her being a woman. She steps purposefully across the threshold and closes the door behind her. "Greetings," she courteously nods. "My name is Jenassa." Her movements are graceful and intentional, reminding him of a certain redheaded huntress.
In terms of physical appearance however, she couldn't be more different. Her crimson eyes, angular features, pointed ears, and grey skin make it clear that she's a Dark Elf. Stripes of yellow paint have been stenciled along her prominent cheekbones, slanted brows, and thin lower lip, although it looks like she hasn't reapplied in a few days. A shortsword and dagger are sheathed at her hips while a bow and quiver are peeking across the top of her shoulders.
The elf spreads her feet apart and clasps her hands behind her back in a pseudo parade rest, allowing him to examine her gear in deeper detail. This doesn't seem like her first guar-wrangling rodeo. She's wearing a boiled leather tunic with pauldrons, twin bracers trimmed with fur, and a thigh-length skirt with black leggings underneath. A rolled-up fur cloak is bundled on top of her backpack, a must-have in the wilderness of Skyrim even in springtime. Her outfit is practical and simplistic – another indication of professionalism.
"Hey there. You can call me Mull. I take it you're the hired help?"
"You are correct, sera. I must say that it's a pleasant surprise to make your acquaintance once more. It seems the tides of fate have conspired to bring our paths back together." The elf's voice is low but not quite as low as Irileth's, and her heavy accent makes it clear that she isn't a native of Skyrim. She sounds like a more recent immigrant from Morrowind.
"They have?" he blankly asks.
Her lips faintly twitch. "Yes. We've encountered each other once before in passing. It was several months ago at the Drunken Huntsman here in Whiterun."
It takes a few seconds of brushing cobwebs away from old memories before he recalls that transitory meeting. It was when Aela took him to the Bosmer-owned tavern and supply store for the first time. At the time he thought it was interesting that there were so many Elves gathered in one place. Now that he thinks about it, Jenassa's yellow facepaint is vaguely familiar. "How in Oblivion did you remember me from something like that?"
Jenassa relaxes her posture as she quietly considers him. "…Your eyes, I think. The way you scanned the room when you first entered the Huntsman caught my attention that day. You were either expecting an imminent fight or had lived through so many already that the habit was deeply ingrained into you. Hardly something unusual for us mercenary types in a province like Skyrim, but the woman you were with also drew my attention. She was… interesting as well."
"That's one word for her," he mutters. Aela is one of the most 'interesting' people in Whiterun without a doubt. "In any case, welcome aboard. Since Lydia and Torgen haven't turned you loose yet, I'm assuming you aren't a total screwup. How long have you been running with them?"
"About two months by my reckoning."
"Hmm. Not bad. And I take it those weapons aren't just for show. You do cut a rather striking figure."
She grins devilishly. "Of course they aren't."
"Glad to hear it. Well, go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I haven't seen any unfamiliar belongings lying around the place so I'm assuming you have your own quarters elsewhere in the city, but what's mine is yours as long as you're on my payroll. It looks like the three of you have been on the road for a few days, so you must be looking forward to resting your feet."
"Indeed," Jenassa impassively replies. Rather than taking him up on his offer, she instead continues standing and staring at him while he stares back with mounting awkwardness. Maybe she would view it as an admission of weakness to take a seat since he phrased it that way? Meanwhile, Torgen wanders over to the kitchen and starts loudly rummaging around in the cabinets for gods-know-what. Lydia backs up against the wall and sits on a bench while keeping an eye on the proceedings, likely to assuage her protective housecarl instincts. Her gaze rarely leaves Mull.
Eventually he grows tired of the uncomfortable atmosphere and says the first thing that comes to mind. "Did you know any of the Dunmer who fought at the Western Watchtower?" he asks Jenassa. There were multiple Dark Elves present during the battle against Mirmulnir including a few mages.
She tilts her head, prompting him to elaborate.
"I saw a few of them bite the dust, so… I was just wondering."
A smirk tugs at the Dunmer's lips. "You aren't a very tactful man, are you?"
"No, I can't say I am."
Torgen laughs while poking his head underneath a countertop.
"Then allow me to risk being tactless in turn. When we first started working together, Lydia and Torgen informed me that you were away for most of the winter on personal business. I trust that these matters were satisfactorily resolved?" Jenassa politely inquires. "If not, is it something I could offer my assistance with?"
"Huh? Oh, aye. It went well enough," he curtly answers before changing the subject. Per his orders, Lydia and Torgen don't seem to have told her too much and he wants to keep it that way. "Torgen," he calls.
"Mmph?" The big Nord looks up from the pantry where he's preoccupied stuffing his face with sweetrolls.
"What's with the luggage?" He gestures to the elongated object that his subordinate deposited next to the door.
"Oh, that?" He glances side to side before conspiratorially ducking his head. The effect is ruined by the melted sugar coating his beard. "That's a fortune, boss! It's a whole mammoth tusk without so much as a scratch on it! We'll make a killing if we can find the right buyers."
"A mammoth tusk? Where in the world did you get your hands one of those?" Needless to say, mammoth tusks don't grow on trees.
"It's part of the reward for our most recent job. We just got back from finishing it up, actually. Our client was this drop-dead gorgeous woman with an amazing rack who-!"
"Cool. I'm sure I'll hear plenty about it later," Mull cuts him off.
Now that the introductions with Jenassa and meaningless chatter with Torgen have been concluded, Lydia stands up and timidly steps closer to the table. "If there's nothing else my Thane, could you and I…?"
Mull can tell that she wants to have a word with him but the presence of the others is deterring her, so he speaks up on her behalf like a good Thane would. "Torgen, Jenassa, if you wouldn't mind giving us a minute. Go clean the outhouse or something."
"Sure boss."
"Erk… if we must," Jenassa unhappily accedes.
"That was a joke. I don't care what you do as long as you fuck off for a little while."
"A-ah. I see. Understood."
The Dark Elf strides out the back door and enters the training yard behind the building with Torgen hot on her heels. The Nord looks over his shoulder, mockingly salutes, and exits. Mull and Lydia are left alone.
He eats another spoonful of his porridge – already starting to get cold, unfortunately – and gestures with his utensil for the housecarl to get on with it. "What's the matter?" he asks.
"Um… n-nothing. I'm simply relieved that you've returned to us in good health, especially since you were left to fend for yourself in the Rift. We encountered some difficulties in Steelhead Pass during our return to Whiterun and I was hoping that you avoided dealing the same troubles. A vampire waylaid us while Torgen and I were camping for the night in a shallow cave and we were forced to defend ourselves against it. Neither of us were gravely injured but it was a perilous battle. I fear we wouldn't have survived if there had been more than one vampire. After that, I prayed every morning for your continued safety during your travels," she finishes in a small voice.
He connects the dots about the nighttime lightshow he saw in the pass during the night he spent hunkered down in a bed of thorns. Those two poor assholes that were tracking him down, whoever they were, must've had the worst luck. First they ran into vampires on the road and then he led them straight into the lair of a wispmother.
Eh, their loss. He doesn't feel much pity for them since they were pursuing him for reasons unknown. They decided to mess with the wrong person and got what they deserved in the end, if the screams and shrieks of the wispmother were any indication.
But he's much less satisfied about his subordinates getting ambushed by a vampire without him there to help. Neither of them know any spells or carry enchanted weaponry, so he's surprised they were able to survive at all.
"You ran into a vampire? Damn," he curses. "That doesn't sound good. I'm glad the two of you were able to take it down. I've never seen one myself, but I've heard enough about 'em to know they're no joke. How'd you do it?"
"Thank you for your concern, my Thane. I believe it was the dagger Nettlebane that enabled me to bring down the accursed creature."
"Oh right, I'd forgotten about that blasted thing. So it was enchanted? Hmm." He rubs his chin. "But more importantly, did you get paid by the Sanctuary of Kyne for that job?"
"We did, my Thane."
"Good. That's what I like to hear."
"A-and what of you, if I may be so bold? Am I correct in assuming you weren't attacked by undead yourself?"
"Aye, it wasn't all rainbows and butterflies but everything worked itself out in the end."
"That's a relief," Lydia sighs. Her shoulders bleed away tension.
"There's one thing I should probably mention though."
The tension returns.
"I was followed out of Ivarstead by two men who'd been asking the townsfolk about me over the course of the winter. Not too long before I returned to Ivarstead from High Hrothgar, they tried asking Lynly Star-Sung a bunch of questions about what we were up to."
Lydia perks up at the mention of her new friend. "Is she well? They didn't hurt her, did they?"
"She's perfectly fine," he assures her. "She seemed wary of them but nothing more than that. I don't think she revealed anything important, but whatever information they dug up elsewhere must've been enough to give them an idea of what I look like. I noticed them tracking me shortly after entering Steelhead Pass and did what I could to lose 'em. I ended up accidentally leading them all the way through Skybound Watch, where we ran into a wispmother just outside the western exit. I'm pretty sure it killed them while I escaped using my Thu'um. The whole thing is just plain strange, isn't it?"
"…Very strange," Lydia solemnly responds.
"Could they have been your uncle's men? At first I thought they might've been messengers looking for us."
"Messengers? No, I don't think that would've been the case. If he had sent someone to find us, he surely would've told me that upon my return."
He hums thoughtfully. "Stranger and stranger. It goes without saying that we need to keep a sharp eye out for a while. It's a slim chance, but we don't know when somebody else might come knocking."
"Agreed, my Thane. I shall be vigilant."
He gulps down the last dregs of his oatmeal, stands up, and takes the empty bowl to the kitchen. Lydia follows him and stands by his shoulder while he scrubs the bowl and spoon with water and ash soap.
"Earlier when you came over here with that serious expression of yours, begging me with your eyes to talk to you alone, I didn't expect we'd end up talking about all this important stuff. I thought you were about to ask me to cut Torgen loose. Or carve out that black tongue of his," he adds with a hint of humor.
Lydia frowns. "I must confess that's a tempting idea. He's been a constant thorn in my side for these last few months and I simply don't understand how that repulsive man can live with himself. But I presumed you wouldn't agree with that course of action and I'll acknowledge that he does have certain uses. Sometimes."
"He does? Could've fooled me. Do tell."
"Well…"
She dives into a retelling of their most recent mission, in which they escorted a young woman named Ysolda to a place called Halted Stream Camp on the northern plains. Apparently this Ysolda is an aspiring merchant who aims to establish her presence in the mercantile arena of Whiterun by building up a monopoly on the buying and selling of mammoth tusks, which necessitates dealing directly with the unpredictable plains clans. It sounds like the escort mission went well enough, mostly thanks to Torgen's invaluable understanding of clannic practices and traditions. Lydia and Ysolda were nominally in charge of the whole thing, but it was Torgen who took the lead during the meeting and made for a surprisingly good negotiator.
"They claimed to have reservations about finalizing any agreements with Ysolda because she hadn't proven herself worthy of their respect," Lydia concludes. "They even had the gall to call her all sorts of horrible names. So Torgen struck one of their representatives in the face and knocked him unconscious in a single blow. They became much more amenable after that."
"Good for him. And I take it our new friend Jenassa was able to hold her own too?"
"Yes, she did. As much as it pains me to say it, she did a better job of keeping her wits about her than I."
"From a glance, it seems like she's got a good head on her shoulders. What do you make of her?"
"Jenassa is capable, experienced, rational, and certainly isn't lacking in aggression. She's a well-trained fighter and can hold her own against both myself and Torgen in practice duels without any difficulty whatsoever. She hasn't revealed any talent with magic, but she's deadly with both her bow at range and with her blades in melee. While her wages are rather expensive, I believe it's well worth the cost to retain such a reliable warrior. The only thing I would say against her is that she has a penchant for melodramatics that I personally find somewhat prosaic. But that's much preferable to being a shameless lecher like Torgen," she finishes darkly.
"Something tells me he wouldn't agree with that."
"I don't care what he thinks."
"I'm sure you don't," Mull chuckles.
Then he goes quiet as Lydia suddenly leans in closer and peers at his face with unexpected intensity. He tries to ignore the fact that their noses are now inches apart.
"…You have a new scar," she announces in the grim tone of a displeased mother.
"Oh yeah. I guess I do." He reaches up to his cheek and lightly touches the long reddish stripe trailing from jaw to brow, a memento from the frost troll's claw. His beard conceals most of it, but not all. "I'd forgotten about it, seeing as I don't spend much time staring in a mirror."
"What happened?" Lydia demands in a soft but dangerous voice.
"It was a troll," he simply replies. And let's leave it at that.
"What kind of troll?"
"…A frost troll," he says with finality before going back to washing the dishes.
"Where did you encounter it?"
"On the Seven Thousand Steps."
"Claws or teeth?"
"Claws."
"Give me a detailed recounting of the attack. Don't you dare leave anything out."
He tries to ignore her.
"My Thane. Please tell me at once."
His eyebrow twitches.
"My Thane!"
"Aren't I the one who's supposed to be giving you orders?" He tosses the bowl into a tub of soapy water and gives Lydia a not-actually-angry glare. "Why are we doing this backwards?"
"I am your housecarl!" she stamps her foot. "It's my sworn duty to remain at your side no matter what! I acquiesced to your wishes at the time and departed from Ivarstead without you, but now you tell me that you were gravely injured by a troll?! You shouldn't have sent me away in the first place! My Thane, I swear an oath here and now that I will never allow you to dismiss me ever again."
"I'm your boss, Lydia. What I say goes and there's nothing you can do about it," he says without heat. "If I give you the same set of orders someday, I expect them to be followed to the letter."
"Urk!" The brunette warrior-girl turns away and grimaces. "I… please don't say such things."
"I mean it."
"Then I must vigorously protest!"
He can't help it. Laughter forces itself free from the depths of his stomach and rolls across the room as he reaches over and ruffles the girl's hair affectionately. She looks up at him with wide blue eyes, shocked by the sudden and uncharacteristic contact. It's endearing to know that the reason she's upset with him is because she cares.
He continues tousling her hair for a few seconds longer before freezing in place when he realizes what he's doing. They stare agape at each other with his hand still resting atop her head until he finally regains motor function and yanks it away. "Uh… sorry. I don't know why I did that."
He does, actually. He used to do that with Morven when she was being cute, pretending to be angry, or both. It's been a long time since he bantered with someone like this. It must've been muscle memory as his body reacted to a familiar situation.
Lydia's eyes don't waver from his own, not even when her entire face turns a startling shade of red, ears and all. "I-I, u-u-uhm… y-you…" she stammers. "That is, it's p-perfectly fine, my Thane. Please don't concern yourself over such a trivial thing."
The girl loudly clears her throat and switches to a new topic with all the grace of a diabetic mammoth.
"My uncle w-was displeased that we returned to Whiterun without you," she stutters. "Your extended absence caused him much grief. You should consider going to Dragonsreach as soon as you can, today if possible."
Mull finds his voice again. "No thanks. I do need to have a nice long talk with him at some point, but not now. I'm still getting my bearings after being away from the city for so long."
"Very well. I shall relay that to him at my earliest convenience. And, um… that is all." With one final long glance, Lydia accepts his answer and goes to her room to put away her gear. Her steps seem quicker than normal, like she's eager to get away from him.
I shouldn't have done that, he inwardly groans. It probably freaked her out, not that I can blame her. I'd be scared out of my wits too if some strange bastard a decade older than me decided to grab a fistful of my hair out of nowhere.
-x-
That evening they hold a spirited celebration at the premiere establishment known as the White Whale, where the drinking and feasting is interspaced with episodes of violence and bloodshed to liven things up. It's a fun night, especially when Aela the Huntress elects to join them. That woman knows how to party.
Mull makes sure to stuff the amulet of Talos that was given to him by the Greybeards underneath his shirt where it can rest next to Morven's pendant. He doesn't want to draw unwanted attention to himself, and openly displaying the symbol of a god banned by the Empire would be a fast way to do that in this neutral city. The political and religious divisions here run deep.
His companions ask him all sorts of questions about the Greybeards and High Hrothgar while they're lounging around a rickety table in the White Whale, but he refuses to answer most of them. He doesn't mind revealing extremely basic things like 'it was cold' or 'the ale was good,' but the the thought of discussing the Greybeards' practices and traditions with other people doesn't sit right with him for some reason, even if the people in question are his dependable companions. He learned many things during the winter that were for his ears only.
At one point Torgen tries to get Lydia drunk by spiking her ale with something stronger, but the girl is too perceptive and spits out a mouthful of the devious concoction. Most of the expelled liquid splashes onto Torgen's shirt, which is then joined by the rest when Lydia flings her mug at him.
Then Torgen ambles away into the crowd and somehow gets drawn into a bar fight within the span of two minutes. Punches are thrown, insults are exchanged, and faces are bloodied. When the chaos starts spreading beyond the initial group of drunken brawlers, Aela and Lydia both look at Mull with open expectation.
He glares back at them. "What?"
"That looks like fun," Aela drawls as she gestures with her mug. "But I think it would be more fun if you joined in." With her legs propped up on the table and her mane of bone-braided red hair framing her sharp face, she looks more like a decadent pirate queen than a humble huntress.
"Why in Oblivion would I do that?"
"Cuz it'll be entertaining to watch."
"Okay. And?"
"And I want to see you bash some heads, so get in there! Don't you know it's the duty of a man to make sure the women are having a good time?"
His gaze swivels to Lydia, who's trying very hard to keep her expression flat.
He releases a long-suffering sigh and stands up. Aela graces him with a smug grin while Lydia hides her own smile behind her tankard.
It's a hard-fought conflict, but he and Torgen carry the day and bring low their intoxicated opponents in a battle worthy of song. His knuckles are raw and red by the end of it, and his ears are aching from getting boxed so many times.
After carousing for another few hours, Mull emerges outside into the cool night air along with his companions in varying states of inebriation. Aela waves goodbye and gives Lydia a hug before strolling off into the night while Jenassa simply nods and melds into the shadows. The three Mighty Mudcrabs start heading down a different street towards the barracks.
It's been a great evening of catching up with friends and unwinding from the rigors of traveling through the wilderness of Skyrim… or it would've been if it had ended there.
Just as he's walking past the entrance of an especially dark alley between two houses, Mull feels something brush lightly against his belt near the spot where he keeps his decoy coinpurse – a cheap bag that only contains a few septims while the rest are sequestered in another purse tucked inside his waistband. The sensation is so faint that he almost ignores it, and maybe he would've if he weren't a career criminal. But he knows better.
Over the hubbub of the public street, he barely catches the sound of quiet footsteps retreating rapidly. That's good. It probably isn't a child then. If it were, then nine times out of ten he wouldn't be able to catch them. Kids are sneaky little shits like that.
As he makes that split-second judgment, his hand is already in the process of unsheathing his knife with a throaty rasp of steel. He smoothly sweeps his left foot backwards, pivoting in the direction of the noise, and launches himself down the alleyway. It only takes a heartbeat for him to catch up with a cloaked figure trying to make their stealthy escape. They weren't expecting him to react so quickly.
He lunges and jabs viciously with the short but razor-sharp blade as soon as it clears the lip of its oiled leather scabbard. Every motion is efficient, with nothing wasted or superfluous. This is a well-practiced maneuver.
His knife pierces into the runner's thigh with a wet squelch. The person – a man – cries out and stumbles to the ground. Mull is on top of him in an instant.
Lydia and Torgen dash after him the moment the realize something's wrong and find him squatting down next to the would-be thief, who's writhing in pain and clutching at his injured leg with crimson-stained fingers. He looks a bit younger than Lydia, still practically a kid but technically an adult by the laws of the Empire. His wheat-blonde hair, pale skin tinted red by the sun, and a cleanshaven face paint the picture of a young idiot who thought he could take advantage of a drunkard or two. Heh. Reminds me of myself.
"I bet you feel real stupid right now," Mull says conversationally.
He swiftly rifles through the man's pockets after making sure he isn't armed, ignoring his feeble protests and continued struggling.
"You're lucky, you know. I don't think that'll cripple you. It was too shallow. Ah, this is nice." He fishes a silver necklace with a fox head pendent out of one of the man's boots. "Something like this'll sell for a good bit of gold to the right people. Where'd you steal it from?"
The young man snarls like a wolf but refuses to look him in the eye.
"Fine. None of my business anyways." When he's finished looting and pocketing his findings – including the decoy coinpurse that the young man had swiped – he stands and casually brushes himself off. "It's a good thing for you that I'm such a merciful man. Anyone else might've just killed you for being a dumbass and called it a day. If I were in a bad mood, then maybe I would've. Putting your life in other people's hands will land you in an early grave. Not might. Will. Don't forget that."
He tears away a chunk of the kid's dirty shirt, uses it to wipe the blood from his knife, and turns to leave without another word. Lydia and Torgen trail hesitantly behind him.
"Was that truly necessary?" the housecarl questions. "Surely the man didn't have anything worth taking."
Mull's only response is an apathetic grunt.
She sighs and blows a wayward strand of chestnut hair out of her face. "You cannot behave in such a manner, my Thane. Someone of your position should stand above such things, and you mustn't forget that we're in the heart of my uncle's domain. It simply isn't right to leave a citizen of Whiterun bleeding on the streets in the middle of the night."
"Not right?" he scoffs. "'Not right,' she says. Excuse me, oh my virtuous housecarl, for failing to act the part."
"I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from mocking me," the girl quietly states. "I seek only to articulate what it means for you to hold a title of stature and what consequences might be had for certain actions you choose to take. The things you do and say are reflective upon my uncle and Whiterun Hold as a whole. You mustn't dishonor them. And… and I personally believe that you are better than this."
Her last sentence hits him like a punch in the gut. "Your uncle should've thought of that before he decided to make somebody like me a Thane," he sharply retorts. "What did he think would happen? I'm hardly Thane material, as you're well aware. Or Dragonborn for that matter."
"Then just what are you?" she coolly asks. "You've referred to yourself in this way more than once, but I fail to understand precisely what you mean. For what reason are you so unworthy of the title my uncle has bestowed upon you? For what reason is it such an impossibility that you might be a gods-blessed hero of legend?"
Her piercing blue gaze swivels to Torgen. He looks away and whistles innocently.
"If you don't tell me, then I will wring it out of him. He obviously knows what I speak of. There's something going on here that I've been kept in the dark about. "
Mull throws up his hands in frustration. It doesn't sound like Lydia is going to let this go. Not this time. "Alright, you want to know that badly? Then I'll tell you."
He stops and leans down to look her in the eye. She stares back without wavering.
"I killed a man for the first time when I was fourteen years old. Two men, actually. They hadn't done anything bad and they didn't deserve it. They were just a couple of fools who said the wrong thing at the wrong time a little too loudly. One of 'em had a pouchful of shakestone, you see. We usually call it red brittle the part of Tamriel I'm from, and it's easily worth its weight in gold. I think the two men were enterprising merchants but I never bothered to find out for sure. All I cared about was that bag of shakestone because I knew its value. I watched them from a discreet corner of the boarding house they were staying at, waited until they left town, and followed after them. Once we were several hours away from the settlement and I was sure there wasn't anyone else lurking nearby, I circled around in front of them and stepped out of the trees. I puffed up my chest and told 'em to hand over the shakestone like I was some bigshot highwayman. I thought I was at the time, still being a dumbass kid. That's why I was surprised when they said no."
He bares his teeth. Seen only to Lydia, his eyes gleam with cruel light.
"So we ended up fighting right there in the middle of the road, and by the end of it I'd killed them both. I stabbed them to death just because I wanted that bag of damn rocks. They died to some stupid boy with a knife too big for him was over the equivalent of… oh, a hundred septims give or take."
Shakestone, otherwise known as red brittle or nirncrux as he heard a mage once call it, is a highly-prized variety of red stone found uniquely in the highlands of Upper Craglorn. The Nords of the region believe it's the blood of Shor that spurted from his holy heart when it was torn from his chest by the Elven gods. It's also believed that the strange mineral was once used to imbue armaments with great power and could even grant men incredible strength, but the methods through which this was accomplished have been lost to time. Unrefined nirncrux is known to release a poisonous vapor when cracked open, so Mull finds these theories to be rather unlikely. But that's neither here nor there.
Lydia's gaze wavers slightly as he finishes his dissertation.
"I don't regret what I did to them. Not in the slightest."
That isn't strictly true, but saying as much would go against the point he's trying to make.
"That right there is the kind of life I've led. I'm a bandit, Lydia. I steal and I kill so that I get to live. Next time, before you start telling me how I ought to act or that what I'm doing isn't right, remember who I am. I'm not like you. My life hasn't been like yours. I've done things that would make you squirm, girl, and I'm not saying that to make myself sound big and bad. I'm saying it because it's just the damn truth."
"But no longer," she murmurs. "You are now a Thane of Whiterun – and much more than that."
"…It's been a while since those days, yeah," he grudgingly admits. "And my life has taken a lot of weird turns lately. Understatement of the century. But make no mistake, I am still a bandit. It isn't something that can be changed just because you want it to."
She blinks questioningly.
"All this Dragonborn nonsense doesn't undo the fact that I am who I am. A few fancy magical abilities and a wintertime vacation with the Greybeards aren't enough to transform a man. People fundamentally can't be changed and I'm no exception. I'm exactly the same as I've always been."
He slowly backs away, restoring a socially acceptable amount of space between himself and his housecarl. He's enveloped by inky shadows as he leans against the wall of a house and crosses his arms.
"Sometimes there are things we don't like about ourselves, but that doesn't mean we regret those things. I don't like what I did to that dumbass just now and I also don't regret it. It was necessary. It'll teach him not to get himself killed trying to chase after risky targets like me or Torgen."
"Ayep," Torgen interjects in a garbled voice. The alcohol at the White Whale did a number on him.
"But if you committed such violent acts yourself at a young age, then why would you behave so harshly with that boy? Shouldn't you have acted with more empathy towards him?" She nods in the direction of the pickpocket, now out of sight beyond a cornerhouse.
"This is the only way idiots like him will learn. Trust me, I should know since I was one of them for most of my life. And maybe I still am."
Lydia remains studiously silent, unwilling to comment on that statement.
"Are you satisfied yet?" he finally asks.
"…Hardly," the girl mutters. "But I… er, that is, I mean to say… I do appreciate your forthrightness in this matter, my Thane. It's encouraging that you've chosen to entrust this information to me considering its sensitive nature." She shuffles uneasily. "Don't think I'm saying this to discredit your words, but I've never known the man of whom you speak – who premeditatively murdered innocents in cold blood. I only know Mull the Thane of Whiterun, the chosen of the gods, the Dragonborn, a person who I've come to view with some amount of reluctant respect since our first meeting all those months ago. I've seen you slay disarmed opponents without a shred of remorse and I've also seen you care deeply for others. Today you are a Thane perhaps in name only, but one day you shall become a Thane in form and function as well. I have the utmost faith that you will be worthy of the titles you've been granted if you aren't already."
He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he keeps his mouth shut and continues walking through the moonlit streets without once looking at his housecarl.
"Hear that boss? Your rehabilitation has begun," Torgen taunts. "Soon you'll be a functioning member of high society, dressin' like a lord and sippin' on Nibenean tea. Just you wait."
"Your sarcasm is unwelcome. Be quiet," Lydia commands.
"Alright princess. As you command, hic… so it shall be."
Mull feels like he made a mistake somewhere in that conversation. Guilt simmers in his stomach and a part of him insists he should've gone easier on the girl since she's young and a daughter of the aristocracy. Of course she doesn't see things the way he and Torgen do. He knows that. He should've been more lenient, nodded along with her haranguing, and bitten his tongue.
The opposing part of him – Mirmulnir included – argues that everything he said was necessary and justified. That fact of the matter is that he isn't a godsdamn Thane and never will be. The sooner she learns that, the sooner she'll stop pestering him about this sort of thing. But still, the whole ordeal leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He doesn't enjoy bringing up what he talked about just now.
He's ambushed more than his fair share of caravans and guarded a few too. He's raided farms, raided villages, raided Imperial outposts, and raided rival bandit clans. He's waylaid couriers, smuggled all kinds of things, collected on unpaid debts, beaten and robbed in dark alleyways, cheated, stolen, maimed, murdered – everything under the sun and then some. If you can name it, he's probably done it.
Such is life.
They return to the barracks and Lydia goes straight to her room, but Torgen calls Mull over to the trestle table and sits down with a bottle of Colovian brandy. It looks like the same brand of vile stuff that got Lynly Star-Sung absolutely sloshed during his last night in Ivarstead. "Sit down and have a drink with me, boss," Torgen slurs.
"Isn't that what we've been doing for the whole evening?"
"A little more can't hurt."
"…Fine. I wouldn't mind forgetting the last fifteen minutes." Mull grabs a pair of ceramic cups and slides onto a bench opposite from Torgen. The older man pours two shots, they clink their cups together, and they get to drinking.
"So I've been meaning to ask, why haven't you paired up with any women lately? I don't think I've seen you flirt with a single damsel the entire time I've known you."
Mull scoffs. Didn't take him long to get to the personal questions. "I'm just not interested in that sort of thing, though not for the reason you're probably thinking when I say something like that. I'm a ladies man, make no mistake, but…" The only reason he even says that much is because he's swimming in the liquor. He recognizes that he's drunk but can't muster the strength of will to stop himself from talking either.
"But why in Oblivion not?" Torgen demands. "C'mon boss, why don't you at least try your luck? You know women love rough and tumble fellas like you and me. And on top of that, you also work for a Jarl! They'd go crazy over a man with those kinds of connections." He reaches across the table and thumps Mull on the shoulder. "You need something to keep you from acting so serious all the time. It'd be easy for you to find a curvy wench who's happy to earn her septims from a good-looking rogue, and if that ain't what you're looking for, you could always drop by the Sanctuary of Mara and grab one of those amulets they like giving out to you young single folks. You can't tell me you've never thought about finding yourself a good woman and settling down till you're old and grey, right?"
Mull's expression hardens. This is one of the last topics in the whole world he'd ever dream of discussing so lightheartedly. His thoughts turn to Morven and how she died. What she meant to him.
His gaze slides away from his companion. "Marriage?" he growls. "You've got to be joking. Marriage is for childhood sweethearts and princes who rescue their princess, not you and me. I'm not going to waste my time chasing after something I know I'll never have. There are no happy endings for men like us."
Torgen's grin fades. He grunts and turns to stare into the blazing hearth. The flickering flames make his numerous wrinkles stand out more than usual, emphasizing his age. "What makes you say something like that? That's dark even for you."
The words escape his lips before he can restrain them, not so much a spoken sentence as they are an exhaled whisper. "I…I had a woman."
The Nord bandit winces as he registers the meaning of that statement. "Dammit. Sorry boss, I shouldn't have said anything."
"It's fine," he rasps. "Don't worry about it. We all have our demons."
"…What was her name?" Torgen tentatively asks.
Mull grabs hold of the brandy and takes a deep draught straight from the bottle. He wipes his lips as he pulls away. "Morven," he forces out.
"Morven," Torgen repeats. He says her name slowly, as if testing it upon his tongue. "A Nord?"
"Aye. She was."
Torgen thankfully doesn't take it any further than that, allowing a morose stillness to fall over the table. Mull idly plays with the bottle of brandy while the older man continues gazing into the fire.
"Did you want to have children?" Torgen suddenly asks.
Mull makes a sour face. "No. I was always careful not to… do that." His expression morphs into something even more unpleasant. "I could've. She wanted to be something like that with me, but there's no way in Oblivion I would've brought a child into the sort of life I led. That would've been wrong." After a moment of wordless solemnity, his dark eyes flicker to Torgen. "You?"
The older man leans back. "Nah, no brats here either. And not for a lack of trying," he grimaces. "You know me."
Mull snorts disparagingly. "I sure do."
"I suppose I should be grateful that I never sired any brats, as far as I know. I don't think I would've been a good father. I stay on the move so often that the rest of the clan couldn't have hoped to keep up with me. The last thing I'd want is to have a kid and then do 'em wrong like that. Although," he adds wistfully, "I did always wonder what it would be like to have a family of my own. Messing with girls is nice in its own way, but it isn't the same. Even a washed-up idiot like me can see that."
Mull never thought he'd see anything eye to eye with this debaucherous man when it comes to matters of the heart, but it seems like they've finally found common ground. "I wondered that too at one time, but I think I'm of the same mind as you. Let's leave raising the brats for better men than us. That'll be our way of making the world a better place – or keeping it from getting worse."
Torgen raises his decanter of brandy in mock salute. "Aye, kid. I'll drink to that."
-x-
AN: I consider this to be the beginning of arc three, with the battle at the Western Watchtower being the end of arc one and the start of arc two. The pacing should pick up a lot from here on out. I know it's been gruelingly slow and I'm trying to rectify that. One more sorta setup chapter is coming next time, and after that we're off to Ustengrav.
Back when I was writing Chapter 47, I was working under the idea that Mull's mysterious pursuers were aware of his identity since they were tracking down a suspected Dragonborn. In hindsight I don't think I made that very clear, so I just want to go ahead and set the record straight. The two Penitus Oculatus agents assumed he was Dragonborn but weren't necessarily aware of the full extent of his powers as a Tongue. Remember that most of the Cyrodiilic Dragonborn emperors didn't use the Voice, with Tiber Septim probably being the only exception to that rule. Anyways, that's a little detail and doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Thanks for reading!
