The letter to Igmund is much more brief than I'd like, but I fit in the request for supplies and a rescue crew to fix the path, and mention the sensitive situation with the soldiers. I don't know if it'll make things move any faster, but maybe he'll be able to recognise that speed is of the essence. Brand's raven, Celia, is a patient bird who studies me as I tie the message to her leg-pouch, and we send her off into the sunset.
Hopefully she gets there before it's too dark. I don't want to even consider what might happen to her if she has to rest overnight, especially with Forsworn still out in the hills. And if anything happens to her, it's probably curtains on us.
I'm trying not to think about that.
Thankfully, the only pair in town that can handle instruments actually know the limits of their skill, and the cook manages to take a sparing amount of supplies and turn them into something to feed everyone for at least one night. We all crowd into the hall for a shared meal, and in the ambience of the hall I feel myself relaxing.
If nothing else, I'm glad stew exists; it uses few ingredients but manages to serve most of the group. I say most, because I decline – despite giving what I could to the town, I saved away some of my own pack food. I'm still not quite used to the fare of rural areas in Skyrim; food poisoning is still a thing here, it's just that most people have been exposed to the bacteria so they can handle it. Somebody needs to introduce food safety and hygiene to Tamriel, but it's probably not going to be me.
Jorell receives a warm welcome from the Stormcloaks, but it immediately turns into him getting berated by his father for being stupid enough to get caught. I want to dive in and save him, but I notice Skorm is trying to defend Jorell against the tirade, so I figure better off not going near them. Skjoren already hates me enough.
Fear. He fears you, and you can use it.
"You look better without the chains," I comment when Jorell finally breaks away from them and joins me at one of the tables. He grins.
"Your commander friend said I was free to go, apparently," he explains, "Quintus was saying he'd be happy to vouch for me if I do go back to Solitude, but I don't think it'll be needed now."
"You're still thinking of leaving the Stormcloaks?" I ask him. He glances surreptitiously back at his father and brother, before nodding.
"Da was happy to see me at first, but then started going off about how no son of his would ever give in to torture. I don't know how he plans to "train" that out of me, but I don't like the sound of it."
"Either do I," I keep my gaze on the fire in the centre of the room, purposely trying to keep my expression neutral. I figured Skjoren was that type of father, but I've also seen what happens to the kids raised by people like him. Not on my watch.
"Good to see you in one piece," Thelessa slaps Jorell on the back as she joins us, sitting beside him with a tankard in hand. There's a number of mead barrels in the basement of the hall, so I figure the liquor won't be running out any time soon. She nods at me. "How's your side? Boss took a nasty bite out of it; we thought you were dead but then you got up to fight that dragon."
I manage a half-smile at her. "I'm not Nord, remember? Atmorans are made of stronger stuff. You should have seen the beating my brother took when he fought Potema's Council."
That's a story that I know has spread far and wide, because Killian complained about it extensively in his last letter. It's strange, getting used to the idea that people are going to naturally be saying things about us behind our backs, but I guess it's something that just comes with the territory of being a so-called "legendary hero".
I wish the Bal story was more heroic, if I'm being honest. I know it's being told in whispers and rumours, but it seems to be more of a horror story, a warning against dealing with Daedra than an expression of my own strength or power. I should probably visit the bards when I get to Solitude, try and get the account written into verse so that I don't have to keep correcting the details.
Bjorn, the guy in charge of the liquor, appears to be fairly cautious about serving too much to any of the soldiers. There's a point where one of the legionnaires raises his voice about it, but Hadvar stands up, fixing the legionnaire with a look. The guy immediately backs down, apologising to Bjorn and heading outside. It's an interesting exchange to witness, and I find myself drawing a parallel between how Hadvar commands his troops, against how Ondolemar handles his subordinates.
Despite being their commanding officer and being able to control them with a gesture or even a look, Hadvar still seems well-liked by his group, surrounded by them as the night wears on. If he relocates to talk with someone like Brand or Hilde the healer, they seem to follow him and include whoever Hadvar is giving attention to into their group. People don't really trail after others if they don't at least like their company.
In contrast, Ondolemar is almost always alone, and doesn't even seem to care about his staff or personnel beyond what they can do for him. I remember our first meeting, the way he said "perhaps there is something you can do for me". Like I was a servant, made to do his bidding. I realise that's what most of the relationship has felt like – me almost always at his beck and call, always answering while he drip-feeds things like care, affection, attention, but never in public.
Thinking about it annoys me. Don't I deserve better? I've proven myself his equal, time and time again, and yet he still looks down on me, treats me like I'm yet another contemptible Nord while he and his kin are the "master race"—
"Um, Brighid? Why do your eyes do that?"
I blink, looking at Jorell and Thelessa. They're both watching me, Thelessa with some trepidation but Jorell with curiosity.
"Do what?"
"They were sort of... flashing. Really pale blue." Thelessa replies. "Like the colour they were when you killed the dragon."
"They were doing that in the camp, too," Jorell notes, "Is that a special power you have?"
The flashing eyes again – how could it be something nobody else ever mentioned? Especially Ondolemar; he had a built-in warning system for when I was getting worked up, and he never acknowledged it? "I've only recently found out they do that."
The "but why?" from Jorell leads me down the path of explaining the soul connection thing I have with dragons, which draws the attention of some of the locals as well. By the end of it I have an audience as I try to explain that I was seeing that fight today from two perspectives.
"It's like, when I see it from the dragon's perspective, I feel what it feels, I think what it thinks. I knew I had it before it even crashed into the cliff, because it knew I had it."
"You keep saying "it"," Munskr, one of the locals, speaks up. "Was it a boy or a girl?"
Oh god, draconic gender was not something I wanted to get into tonight. "Neither," I reply, "Dragons have a very slow development, and because they don't procreate like most other living beings; they don't really have "boys" and "girls" for the same reason."
"Then how are you "Dragonborn Sister"?" Skorm asks, joining the group as he settles in beside the hearth, content to sit on the floor. "That's what Dovahkiin Briinah means, doesn't it? Dragonborn Sister?"
'"As they age, dragons develop individuality," I explain, sighing slightly. "Through that, they develop an identity, and that's how they get their names. Usually they get it straight from Alduin himself, though sometimes they're named after a major fight with another dragon."
"Did Alduin name you that?" Munskr asks. I grimace, readying myself to tell him no, but then I pause, remembering that first dragon I fought on the plains outside Whiterun.
You are named Briinah by the Eldest.
Goraan Briinah! Mu fen alok!
"Yeah," I say numbly, before realising I said it out loud. Everyone around me has sat up a little straighter, leaned in a little closer – suddenly more interested than before.
"You met Alduin? When?"
"How do you know that's the name he gave you?"
"Is it true that he's so huge?"
"Helgen," I tell them, waving a hand to forestall any more questions. "He was at Helgen, and so was I. There was a moment, when we were trying to escape, and I was... well, I was kind of shell-shocked. I turned around and he landed right in front of me, looked me in the eye and spoke to me. Goraan Briinah was what he said."
I realise the hall has mostly gone silent, and sense a lot more eyes on me than before. I shift uncomfortably, feeling the sudden focus of attention.
"You were face-to-face with Alduin himself?" Skorm asks, his eyes wide as he stares at me. I gesture helplessly.
"Others were there, too,"
"Yeah, but none of them survived,"
"Hadvar did," I gesture in his direction. The attention shifts, and I see him suddenly freeze under the new spotlight. Whoops. "He was there, too. We got out of there together."
"You survived Helgen and you didn't even think to mention it?" One of the legionnaires speaks up suddenly. Hadvar shakes his head, grimacing slightly.
"It's not one of my finest hours," he says heavily. "I rather try to put most of it in the past."
"I don't know, taking a couple swipes at Alduin sounds pretty damn fine to me," I comment. He looks at me, and I realise I'm probably going to get berated once he finds a private moment with me again. "I was meant to be executed," I tell the rest of the room, "Alduin dropped in at the last moment. Hadvar helped me get out of there with my brother and two others."
"So that's why you got promoted so quickly after getting back?" Another legionnaire asks. "Showed up at Solitude after being officially declared killed in action. About a week later, there's a quiet ceremony where he gets his captaincy and thrown in with us."
"It wasn't meant to be made into a big deal," Hadvar says quietly, "General Tullius was impressed with the debrief on how we got out of there, said he needed more leaders with that sort of initiative. I tried to tell him most of it was Brighid and Killian, but he wouldn't hear it."
"Killian and I were stumbling around trying to figure out what a healing potion was," I tell him, "You and Ralof honestly did most of the work."
"I was carrying Hjeralt most of the way, remember?"
"Just take the compliment," I laugh, echoing his comment to me earlier. A few others also chuckle, as Hadvar shakes his head before taking a swig of his drink; I can see he's smiling, though.
"Yeah, a real hero, executing people without trial!"
Oh, gods. I almost manage to not roll my eyes as I look over at Skjoren. He's taken up a table in the corner with the other surly Stormcloak, and they're both looking foul. Skjoren raises his tankard, eyes narrowed at Hadvar.
"Best watch your back, dog. Our blades are still sharp, and you'll have to sleep sometime."
"Enough," Bjorn, the brewmaster calls out. "If you want to start a fight, take it elsewhere. The stone here is red enough without you adding to it."
Several others voice their agreement, including Thelessa. I look at Hadvar, who is watching Skjoren across the room. The tension between the two is so thick I could use it to build a house, but nobody seems to be giving it much attention after a few moments. Even as the rest of the group slide back into easy conversation again, I notice they keep watching each other for what feels like a long time after.
Men and their goddamn testosterone. Guess I'll have to add babysitting to the list of things to worry about while here.
Somehow, everyone manages to get some sleep. I don't know exactly how late it is when I fall into one of the beds on the upper floor of the hall, but it's definitely after midnight. The day exhausted me, and staying up late only made it worse, so I end up still being bleary-eyed when others in the room are moving about, making jovial conversation.
The hall itself has an upstairs, which has ten beds all arranged like a dorm. Bjorn entreats the legionnaires, Thelessa, and Jorell to stay there, though he pointedly doesn't invite Skjoren or the other Stormcloaks. They end up with a little camp outside, which I think most folks are happy about.
Breakfast is a bit of bread, cheese, and whatever's left from last night's stew for the lucky early-risers. I decline, mainly because I know I have some pastries in one of Alize's saddlebags, and I don't really want to chip into the food problem here too much if I can help it. Not to mention, food poisoning is not high on my to-do list.
A couple of locals head up to the wellspring near the top of the mountain, where they usually catch fish. Jorell volunteers to go with them, and Skjoren tries to argue the matter loudly before Quintus intervenes. I see Skjoren go for his axe, but a number of us – locals and Legion – stand up abruptly enough to alert him to the stupidity of his threat. He backs down, albeit reluctantly, and Jorell scrambles after Quintus.
I don't know what they discussed in the camp, but it seems Jorell has another friend now. I'm glad; Skorm doesn't seem too great at standing up to their father, so having someone who isn't afraid to step in would be good for Jorell's sake.
Alize is glad to see me and nickers softly when I join her. Someone took all her gear off and brushed her yesterday, and she's been let loose in the small fenced area with a couple goats. There really isn't any grass for grazing here, but the local woman called Gisra shows up with feed, Freia and another youngster tagging along. I sit by the pen for a while, watching the kids play with the chickens and goats while Alize moseys about. Gisra mentions that she usually takes them up to the forest after she has an early lunch, and keeps them up there until sundown. She's happy to take Alize with her, too.
A number of people are hammering away, building a funeral pyre for all the fallen. It isn't really in line with most faiths, but apparently while I've been sitting with the animals, that conversation was had. With most of the group working on it, and the construction being relatively simple, the thing is mostly finished before midday and the event is set for late afternoon, which means it'll be burning into the night.
I notice that, though Skjoren seems content to sit by his tent and drink all day, Thelessa, Skorm, and the other two Stormcloaks put in the work. One of them seems to be sharing looks with one of the local girls, who looks like she's blushing every time he smiles in her direction. That's just a bit cute.
I help where I can, though admittedly there's not much for me to do. I don't know much about carpentry, but I still try to be useful by running back and forth with tools and things for the people who do know what they're doing, and I make sure everyone's drinking enough water as the work carries on. I'm surprised when Hilde approaches me around mid-afternoon, though, as everyone is preparing the pyre itself.
"Brand said that you mentioned having healing," she says nervously, keeping her gaze down. "I know it might be a big ask, but... well, I'm at the end of everything I know. He's just not recovering."
"Who?" I ask, and she beckons me to follow her. I do, and we head into the small hut that I've learned is her place. Inside, various plants hang from ceiling rafters as a small hearth burns opposite the doorway. A bed beside the hearth is occupied by a man who looks in bad shape, and as I move closer I realise it's Aurius.
"What's wrong with him?" I ask, looking at Hilde over the top of the figure. He's laying flat on his back, sleeping, with thick furs covering the lower half of his body.
"He's... well, the dragon's frost got him."
As she says this, she pulls back the furs to reveal Aurius's lower half. I stare in shock, taking an involuntary step back as I hear my own breath catch in my throat.
From the stomach down, his body is solid ice. Not encased in ice – turned to actual ice, like it was carved from a block or something. Everything – boots, armour, even the lower half of his armour.
"I've tried to heat it up but even fire salts aren't doing anything. None of the frost resistance potions I have seem to be effective, either." She says softly. "I've tried using actual fire on it and... well, he couldn't feel it, but it burned a hole right through his leg."
"He can't move or anything, can he?"
"No," she shakes her head, settling into a seat beside the bed. "I don't know what else I can do, and he tried his own healing magic, but it did nothing. I thought, since you know dragons..."
Ice form shout. I used part of it on the fire yesterday, to stop it spreading across the thatching on this very hut, but the dragon was using the full version of it. I sigh heavily, shaking my head.
"I don't know of any healing shouts, or anything that can undo it," I tell her. "And I think this is something that only a Shout can reverse. If such a thing exists."
"You can't just shout some words in dragon speech and make it work?"
I shake my head. "That's not how Shouts work. I have to properly meditate on each word, understand its meaning in davohzul – dragon speech – and then understand how that translates to the world around it. Considering how high up this frost goes, he doesn't have much time," I look down at Aurius, who stirs slightly, his mouth pulling into a tight line. "I don't even know what words might be useful."
"At this rate, he won't survive the night," Hilde tells me softly. "I'm doing all I can to make him comfortable, but... if he eats, he just vomits it up again a bit later. Same for water. He knows, too; asked me to finish it for him, but I cannot."
"You shouldn't have to," I reassure her, looking down at Aurius. I thought he'd died already, so knowing he's here with a slow death is possibly worse than just thinking he went out in the skirmish. To survive all of that, only to fade away...
He stirs again, and his eyes open, immediately landing on me. He looks a bit bleary from sleep, but after a brief frown recognition settles in his gaze, and his face hardens.
"You,"
There's no inflection, no venom, just a single, identifying word as he recognises me. I grimace slightly, reach out to put a reassuring hand on his arm – the usual bedside manner thing – but he pulls away.
"I thought of asking the Dragonborn, thought she might know a way to undo the dragon magic," Hilde tells him, and he glances at her before glaring back at me.
"That'd be a twist of irony, wouldn't it? You're the one that got us into this mess, after all."
His words are sharp, cutting deeper than even Skjoren's axe. I try not to let it get to me, but at the same time I know he's right.
"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," I tell him, but there's no forgiveness in his glare.
"You should have thought of that before you made promises you knew you couldn't keep." He says. His voice is weakened, all but fading, but the accusation is still there. "I stood beside him as you looked him in the eye and swore nobody would get hurt. You might be some Nord legend, but all I see is an overconfident brat who got good men killed."
"Aurius, that's not fair on her," Hilde starts to say, but Aurius is shaking his head.
"Is there a way to reverse it or not?" He asks, looking between the pair of us. Hilde falters, looking at me, and I feel the heaviest sigh as I shake my head slowly.
"Even if I could find the right words, I wouldn't be able to get the right inflection in time," I tell him. "You're... fading too fast."
The anger in his expression is replaced briefly by something else, something more desolate, before the anger is there again. He turns his head, looking away.
"Then put me down. No sense in caring for a dead man."
"Aurius!" Hilde gasps, shocked, but I don't react. I've seen it before, when people know they're on the way out. I remember seeing it the very first day I landed in Skyrim, the old Stormcloak soldier that Ralof tried to save, who waved off the healing potions. Aurius shakes his head as Hilde tries to protest.
"If I'm not going to recover, and I'm going to die before we can find a way to reverse it, then spare me the suffering and just end it."
As he speaks, he looks at me. That accusation is still there, the coldness in his glare. He blames me, unequivocally, for his death and the deaths of everyone outside. And he's probably right.
"Well? Get on with it!"
I almost raise my hands, drawing on a spell, but my hands are shaking and I can't. Hilde has stood up, is backing away with her hands covering her mouth, shaking her head. She turns suddenly, dashing for the door, and I hear a sob as she wrenches the door open, before she's gone. I look back after her, feeling a pang of guilt for her as well, then back to Aurius.
"You could have been nicer, for her sake," I tell him. He sneers, but I can see his energy is waning. He was trying to prop himself up on his elbows, but lets himself fall back onto the bed now. I see another flash of pain cross his face as he looks away from me.
"I'm not even thirty yet," he says, his voice soft. "Now, I never will be. My mother will receive a letter, my father might be given leave, and my love..." he sighs, still keeping his face turned away from me as he sighs softly in resignation. "My love will bear a child out of wedlock and be shamed for it, because I will never return to marry her." He turns his head again, looking at me. "And you think I should be nice?"
"Hilde did nothing wrong," I remind him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "She's the one that's been looking after you. It's not easy on her, either."
"And what of you, Dragonborn? Should I be nicer to you?"
The way he says the title, like it's a curse or an insult, feels wrong to me – but then again, I'm not the one facing my own death despite having so much to live for. I shake my head.
"No, I deserve it," I tell him. He falters, eyes narrowing as I look up. "You're right. I overestimated my abilities and... people didn't just get hurt, they died. I regret it. If I could go back I'd probably just stay in the camp with you guys. But," I look up at the ceiling, at a branch of frost mirriam hanging from a rafter above the bed. "It's done. Can't undo it, can't change it." I look back at him. "I'll write to your family myself. Tell them you were thinking of them in the last."
"Tell them..." he hesitates, before shaking his head. "Never mind. I'm sure they already know."
"I'll tell them anyway,"
I've never thought about the resolve it must take to face one's own death, but it stays with me as the final preparations are made and Aurius is added to those laid atop the pyre. Most of us stand back, watching as the flames consume the wooden platform, burn through the bodies. Hilde adds a couple handfuls of fire salts to make the flames burn hotter, but once it takes hold we stand back, watching.
Most people start to head inside after a while, some of them mentioning something about food, mead or cold. Eventually, it's just me and a few others still out here, well into the night as the pyre slowly burns itself out.