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Skyrim Spartan

Chapter Nine

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Any normal person would have found the sight of the smiling stag-man covered in fur and bones to be unnerving and altogether frightening given the situation—out in the forest in the dead of night while in the midst of a raging blizzard—but Kratos merely found it annoying. Increasingly so, in fact.

Even without the little display of power to ward off the worst of the blizzard or brighten up the immediate area, Kratos could tell the creature was strong. He could feel some measure of its power even from where he stood, and he wondered what manner of creature had come to him this time. Was it another god of this world or something else entirely?

"What do you want?" Kratos rumbled, breaking their silent staring match.

The creature's head moved slightly backwards as if in shock.

"You don't know who I am," it stated after a few seconds, sounding intrigued. Kratos did not think the creature's smile could get any wider, but it did, the skin and fur on its face seeming to stretch to their limits.

"What do you want?" Kratos asked again with a little more force in his words as the muscles on his face tightened.

He honestly did not much care who or what the creature before him was. And he certainly did not appreciate being ignored in such a manner. The sooner he could be rid of this creature, the better.

"To meet you, of course," replied the creature in a tone that sounded like he should have already known that.

Kratos thought about that for a moment, then said with complete seriousness, "I am Kratos. We have met. Now leave."

The creature's eyes glowed brighter before it reared its head back and emitted an odd undulating sound that seemed halfway between a roar and a shriek. It was laughing.

"You are unlike most mortals I have met on Mundus in recent memory, that's for sure," said the creature after it got a hold of itself. "Very well, to complete the introductions then… I am Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt… among other things."

The word 'Daedric' triggered some bells in Kratos's mind. Rorik had mentioned them when discussing Skyrim upon Kratos first arriving in this world. From what he was told, the daedra—and their counterparts the aedra—were akin to gods in this world, though not quite the same as in his own world.

More importantly, the Daedra were considered by many people in this world to be untrustworthy, dangerous, and often evil. If Rorik was to be believed, they had even tried to invade this world from their realm before. Presumably to subjugate it, or perhaps even to destroy it. Therefore, it was not all too much of a stretch to assume that this Daedric Prince was up to no good.

Yet Kratos could sense no hostile intent from the Daedric Prince. This Hircine did not appear to have sought him out for a fight. At least not now.

"I don't have time for this," Kratos declared. "Whatever it is you want from me, I'm not interested."

Without waiting for a reply, the big Spartan knelt down and hefted the dead stag over his left shoulder, grunting from the effort. Some of its still warm blood began to drip onto him, but he paid it no mind as he turned and started walking out of the clearing towards the other deer. Even with his size, such a feat should have been difficult, but he made it look as easy as if he had been hefting a pillow rather than the heavy, unbalanced carcass of a large animal.

"You are not of this world," stated Hircine, following but still maintaining a respectable distance between them. Its glowing eyes peered after Kratos as he stopped walking. There was a thrum of excitement in its odd, echoing voice. "I don't know how you arrived here or why you have come, nor do I care much… but I do wish to know one thing, otherworlder: what are you?"

Kratos stood still, his back towards the daedra as he shifted the deer to a slightly more comfortable position on his shoulders.

"I am Kratos," he answered simply before resuming his journey home, a dark trail of blood following after him in the deepening snow.

Behind him, Hircine smiled one last time with flashing yellow eyes that stared at his retreating form. Suddenly, its body began to darken as if burned. Then the darkened parts began to flake away, disintegrating slowly into black specks that disappeared quickly into the howling wind as the blizzard returned in full force and the night darkened once more.

Before disappearing completely, Hircine whispered a promise that was quickly lost to the winds.

"We will meet again, Kratos. Until then, I'll be watching."

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Relaxing was not something Kratos was good at. It was a concept almost as foreign to him as surrendering in the face of an enemy. Almost. He could scarcely remember the last time he was able to relax for any notable length of time—not counting his time in the abyss of nothingness prior to arriving in this world. Yet here he was trying his best to relax.

It was the morning after the battle and Kratos found himself sitting off to the side without anything to do except watch the Nords work.

They had insisted that Kratos take it easy, offering to take care of pretty much everything from cooking to cleaning. They were doing this because they wanted to start paying off the great debt that they owed him for saving their lives, and they refused to accept when he told them they owed him nothing.

Deciding that he did not have the energy nor the inclination to argue with them further, he relented and allowed them to do what they felt they needed to do.

For starters, they skinned and gutted the two deer he had brought back, making sure to keep the bulk of the meat in the small storehouse Kratos had built adjacent to the house. It would keep for longer there.

Leesa and Sonji declared themselves responsible for cooking their meals for the foreseeable future, and no on disputed them for it. Kratos did not have much in the way of spices, herbs, and other supplies to cook with, so they made do with what they had. If breakfast was any indication, they possessed considerable cooking skills between the two of them.

Tarknir and Ned kept the fire going, melted snow into ice, and shoveled snow around the immediate vicinity of the house to prevent them from getting buried too deeply in the stuff later. Thankfully there was still a sizeable pile of wood next to the house, so they did not have to worry about foraging for firewood. And of course, snow was very much abundant so they would never be thirsty.

Rona looked after the twins, and the three of them helped wherever they could. At least as much as they could before the twins inevitably descended into bickering and fighting and had to be separated. Again, he was glad not to have to deal with them himself.

Meanwhile, Anske was still asleep in the lone bed of the house. Her visible injuries were healing well enough, but the battle appeared to have taken a great toll on her. The others checked on her regularly, and the women had washed her at some point, but Kratos had yet to even see her. He figured it would be best to wait for her to awaken.

Outside, the blizzard continued to pound Skyrim with more snow and fierce winds. Tarknir had said this storm was the most powerful one they had experienced in years, and the others agreed.

Blizzards were common enough in a land this far north, but they usually did not last more than half a day or a full day at most. And they were not usually this fierce. This storm was apparently an anomaly, a tempest of great magnitude, and Kratos wondered if this was somehow a sliver of the apocalyptic storm that had ravaged Greece upon his destruction of Olympus come to haunt him.

Had it somehow followed him here? A parting gift from the death throes of his old world? The thought darkened his mood as he brooded on his past deeds. Deeds done in the blinding fury of his all-consuming rage.

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Anske awoke sometime in the evening. She stirred slowly, groaning as her body ached and protested any movement, no matter how small. When her eyes opened carefully to the dim light of an unfamiliar room, her first thought was to wonder where she was and how she had gotten here.

"You're awake!" said a voice nearby. It sounded familiar, but she could not quite place it.

A shadow moved in her peripheral vision, and she struggled to focus on it. Groaning again, she tried to prop herself up but failed to gather enough strength to do so. She felt so weak. The effort left her gasping and dizzy, so she lay back down against the not-so-soft pillow beneath her head.

"Easy now, girl. Don't push yourself too hard," said the familiar voice again. It was feminine. Older. Where had she heard it before?

"What…?" she tried to say, but her words ended in a fit of coughing as her parched throat strained to formulate even that one word.

"Shhh… Relax. You've been through quite the ordeal and your body still needs time to recover." Gentle hands touched her then and they helped her to sit up with her back against the headboard. A cup of something was placed in front of her lips, and she drank greedily once she realized it was water.

She started coughing again as the cool, refreshing liquid washed down her throat in great gulps, but when the cup was slowly removed from in front of her she leaned forward in an attempt to drink more and whoever was helping her relented, allowing her to finish the rest of it.

Water escaped from around her mouth and splashed all over her, but Anske did not care. All she cared about was filling the great thirst that now consumed her. It was as if she had not drunk any water for weeks.

When she was finished, a satisfied sigh escaped her lips as she closed her eyes for a moment. She still felt weak and more than a little dizzy, but she was already much better than when she first awoke.

"I'll return with more water and a little bit of food," said the voice. "Don't move. Okay?"

Anske nodded. Even if she wanted to move, she doubted she could get very far. She turned her head and watched the vague silhouette of the person leave the room. A minute later and her vision sharpened enough for her to make out the room she was in.

It was quite bare, with solid wooden walls and a rough wooden ceiling held aloft by thick beams made of tree trunks. The bed she was in was surprisingly large. Far larger than any bed she had seen before. And the lone blanket that covered her was made of fur. It was slightly itchy against her skin, but the warmth was comforting.

Her eyes narrowed on the blanket. It looked familiar. Like the one her father had gifted Kratos not long ago. A gift for his help in saving her and the others from the Forsworn.

She gasped as the thought of her father had memories of what happened suddenly come rushing back to her. Her hands shook as they gripped the furs as tightly as her currently meager strength could allow. A handful of hot tears escaped down her cheeks.

Her father. Images of her father's fight with the Briarheart played in her mind. Then the horrible wound her father suffered, his dark blood staining the ground red. She remembered the terrible rage and sorrow that had welled up inside of her. Then power. Great power beyond her understanding rushed through her, escaping out of her fingertips towards the Briarheart and sending it flying into the blizzard beyond. But it was a futile effort. Her father was mortally wounded, and she felt drained beyond belief.

The last thing she remembered was seeing snow and hearing Kratos's voice. He had saved her once again; of that she had no doubt. But was he able to save her father as well?

She raised her hand to her face, staring at it as if it were not her own. What had happened back there? How was she able to do whatever it was that she did?

The woman came back with a crude wooden tray with some food and a fresh cup of cold water. Anske ignored the food at first as she drank once more from the cup, this time carefully holding it in her own hands. Then her stomach grumbled. Her thirst satiated for now, the hunger that had been lurking in the background finally made itself known.

"Take it slow," suggested the woman as Anske reached for a strip of meat.

Even in the dim light Anske thought it looked appetizing. It certainly smelled good. When she put it in her mouth, she let out a small moan of pleasure. It was juicy and delicious, and her body felt a surge of warmth as she chewed on it, savoring its flavor.

She ate a few more pieces of meat in silence. All the while, the woman kept watch over her. When she had finished everything on the tray, Anske finally turned her attention once more to the woman who was taking care of her. Her eyes now well adjusted to the light, she finally recognized who it was.

"Miss Leesa?" she said weakly.

The old woman smiled, though it did not quite reach her wrinkled eyes. "It has been a while, Anske. Though I wish this meeting was under better circumstances."

"My father…?"

The smile disappeared as Leesa slowly shook her head, her eyes filled with sorrow. "I'm sorry, child. According to Kratos, Mralki… your father did not survive the battle."

Anske nodded, feeling numb. She knew that was the case, but deep down she had harbored a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he had somehow survived.

It was a while before she spoke again.

"How long was I…?"

"Only a day."

"Oh." Somehow, it felt longer than that.

Silence settled between them again. Then the old woman moved.

"I'll get you some more water, dear. You should rest more."

Anske barely even registered her words as Leesa left, taking the empty cup and tray with her.

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"She's awake," Leesa declared as she exited the bedroom once again, now temporarily the bedroom of some of the women while they were trapped here by the storm. Only Sonji slept out with the men as she stayed by her husband's side.

"How is she?" asked Sonji.

Everyone was silent as they stared at Leesa.

"We should give her some space, but she'll be fine," she told them. "She's a strong girl. Stronger than even she knows. But… it will take her some time to recover from this. She asked about her father, and I told her the truth. There's no point in hiding it."

The Nords nodded in solemn agreement. Even the twins were quiet for once.

"It's difficult enough to lose a family member," Tarknir said in a low voice, "But to watch them die with your own eyes is the stuff of nightmares. Especially one so close."

"Aye, but she's a true Nord woman," said his cousin Ned. "Like Leesa said, she'll get through this."

"Does she have any other relatives?" asked Rona, the young woman clasping her hands together with worry.

Leesa shrugged. "I'm not sure. For as long as I've known Mralki, he never spoke of any other family besides his daughter. She's likely the last of her family. But I suppose we can ask the others. Perhaps Rorik knows."

Tarknir frowned. "Once the initial shock wears off, I imagine she'll…" He hesitated.

"She'll what?" Sonji asked her husband with a worried expression.

"She'll likely want revenge," Tarknir finished. "And we all know how much she wants to be a warrior and an adventurer."

Leesa sighed, looking every bit her age all of a sudden. "You're probably right, Tarknir. And I doubt we can convince her not to go down that path."

"Can you blame her?" Ned said, voice filled with emotion. "By Talos, I want to take my own revenge against those wild bastards myself!" He slammed his fist against the closest wall and the thud of flesh against wood was a loud punctuation of his words.

Leesa frowned but said nothing, a reaction mirrored by Sonji.

Tarknir reached out to grip his cousin's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. "We will have our chance for vengeance soon enough, cousin. Once word reaches the jarl, he will not allow this attack to go unpunished. There will be a reckoning with the Forsworn, of that I am certain."

"There better be," Ned said in a low voice. "My loved ones were nearly killed today, and I won't forgive them for this." He quickly stole a glance at Rona, who suddenly looked away from him.

Off to the side, Kratos watched quietly with hard eyes and an inscrutable expression.

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Anske stepped out of the room a few hours later, wanting to stretch her legs. Physically, she felt mostly fine. A little tired with a few aches and pains, but otherwise she was okay. The worst of her wounds—which were not overly serious—had been treated by Jouane, according to Leesa. The old man's healing magic was still potent.

Sonji and Rona had come into the room while she was still in bed to check in on her after Leesa, but for the most part they had left her alone. There was a lot weighing heavily on her mind and she appreciated that they gave her some time to herself.

It was not simply to stretch her legs that she had decided to leave the bedroom, however. She needed to talk to him. To the mysterious warrior who had now saved her life not once, but twice.

She found Kratos easily enough. There was not a lot of places to go in the house and, even despite his larger-than-life presence, it was hard not to notice him even as he kept to one corner of the room.

The room itself was a familiar space to her, having visited him multiple times over the past week. But now it felt strange. Different. Perhaps it was because of the other people there. Or perhaps it was something else.

Rona was seated with one of the twins on the floor by the fire. The young woman, perhaps a little older than Anske, spared a glance in Anske's direction and nodded in greeting. The young girl beside her, Anske thought it was Sissel but it was difficult to say for certain, did not seem to notice. So engrossed was she at staring into the fire as it roared and crackled with dancing flames.

In the diagonally opposite corner from Kratos and near the fire, Leesa, Sonji, and the other one of the twins were huddled around a large cooking pot. There were other things on the floor nearby, which were probably related to cooking, but it was hard to make them out from where Anske was looking.

Kratos had his eyes closed, the back of his head resting on the wall as he sat with one of his massive legs tucked in front of him and the other sprawled out. He rested his left arm, corded in thick muscle, on his upraised knee while the other laid across his lap. To Anske, he looked almost… weary. Exhausted even.

Anske stopped and stood only an arm's reach away, at least for Kratos, and wondered if he was asleep. She did not want to wake him if he was, but she also did not know what else to do. She had come here to talk to him, and she was not inclined to speak to the others right now if he was indisposed.

"I am awake." Kratos's deep voice nearly startled her, but she managed to keep her composure. If only barely.

"Kratos, I—" she hesitated, trying to better formulate what she wanted to say in her mind.

For his part, Kratos was patient. Or at least it appeared that he was. She was hard-pressed to tell how the mysterious man was feeling or what he was thinking. He still had his eyes closed and had not moved much since she arrived.

"First, I wanted to thank you," she finally said. "You saved my life. Again. I don't know how I'll repay you, but I swear by the divines that I will. Even if it takes me my entire life to do so."

Kratos snorted. "There is no need to involve your gods in such frivolous matters."

"Frivolous?" Anske said, indignant. "This is a serious matter! I owe you a life debt twice over!"

Kratos finally opened his eyes and turned to face her. "Gods are fickle beings, girl. Dangerous. Not to be trusted lightly. They often care little for the affairs of mortals beyond entertaining themselves. Invoking them lightly may bring woe and misfortune unto you simply for their amusement."

"Perhaps where you're from," said Anske, feeling her anger rising. "But not here! Not in Skyrim!"

Kratos let out another snort. "Gods are the same anywhere," he said in a tone that spoke of knowledge beyond her years.

"Argh!" she growled in annoyance. "That's not even what I came out here to speak to you about!"

"Then calm yourself and speak what you wanted to say."

Behind her, she could feel the stares of the other Nords. She realized she had been rather loud, and it took her a moment to notice that her fists were shaking and clenched tightly at her sides. She took a deep breath and tried to simmer down. After a few long breaths, her hands relaxed.

"Can you please tell me what happened when you arrived at the encampment," she said in a voice much quieter than earlier. "My memory is a bit hazy, but I… I wanted to know from your own eyes what you saw happen. The last thing I remember was the snow beginning to fall… and then you were there next to me."

Kratos's gaze bore into her for a what seemed like an eternity, almost as if he was trying to figure out why she wanted to know. She felt small beneath his gaze despite standing over him as he sat. She also felt the urge to look away, but she was barely able to resist it as she stood firm. For some reason she knew that looking away would diminish her in his eyes, and she did not want that to happen.

"When I arrived," Kratos began, looking away this time as if seeing the memories flash before his eyes, "Your father had been mortally wounded by the Forsworn warrior. A briarheart, you call them. You then used some magic to attack the briarheart that sent it flying, but the effort appeared to take a great toll on you, and you collapsed soon after. I slew the remaining Forsworn in the area, but by the time I was finished your father was already dead. I took you and one other survivor back to the village, where the old man healed you and asked me to bring you here with me. That is all that happened."

Anske's breath hitched at the casual mention of her father's death. It had still not fully hit her yet, or at least she could not quite wrap her mind around the idea for now. She remembered seeing her father fight the briarheart. He had fought bravely, valiantly, despite the odds stacked against him. Then there was blood. So much blood. And she remembered feeling both helpless and angry. She shivered and then tried not to think about all that for now.

Kratos had confirmed what she wanted to know. She had indeed performed some kind of magic. How or why she was able to do so was beyond her understanding. As far as she knew, her father had no inclination for the arcane arts. Though she knew little of her family beyond her father. If she even had any other family.

The thought of being able to use magic excited her, but it also scared her. Magic was a powerful tool, an ability that many would covet, but was largely shunned and looked down upon by most Nords. If she could really wield magic and it was not some kind of one-time fluke, then she would need to learn how to control it.

She raised her hands in front of her, scrutinizing her palms as if she might find the answers she sought somewhere there. A futile effort, for no answers came.

"Kratos, how much do you know about magic?" she asked hesitantly.

"Enough to know that I do not have the answers you seek, girl."

Anske nodded, mostly to herself. "I thought as much," she said under her breath. She would have to speak to either Reldith or Jouane about her sudden manifestation of magic ability. Hopefully, one of them would be able to teach her how to properly use it too.

At that moment, Leesa announced that supper was almost ready, marking the end of their conversation. Anske took one last look at Kratos, who had returned to resting with his eyes closed, before she finally walked over to where the others were gathering by the fire.

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Two more days passed before the blizzard finally weakened and began to dissipate. Only later would the people of Skyrim realize the magnitude of the storm that had seemingly come from nowhere. Covering the land in deep snow, the blizzard stretched almost the entirety of the breadth of the province, shutting down almost all activity in the region. Only the Rift was largely spared the wrath of the storm, thanks to its geography.

When the storm finally subsided, and the sun returned with clearer skies, the people of Skyrim worked feverishly to dig themselves out of the snow. The survivors of Rorikstead doubly so, for at the behest of Rorik and the other respected citizens, preparations were underway to abandon the village.

Even though it was only temporary, there were some grumblings from the people about abandoning their homes. But the opposition and misgivings were minor and easily overcome. The attack had shown them that they were definitely not safe here anymore. The Forsworn threat was far greater than any of them could have imagined. And there were other threats out there besides the Forsworn to consider too.

Kratos and company reconnected with the other survivors at some point, and they all pitched in to help prepare for the journey ahead. But before they could leave the village, they first had to bury their dead. A grim and depressing task, for there were so many, but they could not leave the bodies unattended. Nor could they bring them along on a journey that was already going to be arduous without the weight, both physical and mental, of hauling the dead with them.

A mass funeral was held, with most of the dead buried in a makeshift cemetery north of the village. The rest were burned to ash on pyres and collected into jars by their surviving family members who were also villagers of Rorikstead.

As for the Forsworn dead, they were burned unceremoniously in a massive pile northwest of the village because the wind that day was blowing from east to west. The smoke was thick and the smell was awful. It was gruesome work, especially since some of them had been killed in brutal fashion—evidence of Kratos's brutal efficiency in battle—but it had to be done.

When Anske came face-to-face with the cold and lifeless corpse of her father, she finally broke down and cried. She apologized over and over again for all the wrongs she had ever done to him. For not being a better daughter. Most of all, she apologized for being weak. Too weak to help him, to save him, when he needed her most.

Her tears spent and her voice hoarse, she vowed to avenge his death and eliminate the Forsworn threat, just as Tarknir and the others had predicted. And she swore to herself that she would become someone her father would be proud of once they reunited in Sovngarde.

Anske built her father's pyre herself. She asked that she do it alone, and the villagers respected her wishes. When it was finished, and her father was laid upon it with his hands folded over his chest and holding his sword, she lit the pyre in front of many of the villagers gathered to pay their respects. Mralki was well-liked among the people of Rorikstead, and it showed.

Afterwards, Anske collected the ashes into an urn that Rorik had provided for her. Cradling the urn in her hands for a while, she thought about where she would leave it. As if reading her thoughts, Vors came up to her and asked her just that.

"I think… he would want to be laid to rest at the inn," she finally said after thinking it over some more. She already knew where she would place the urn. Even though much of the inn had burned down, there were still parts of it that survived. Some of it was made of stone, after all.

Vors smiled sadly. "Aye, that sounds like something he'd approve of."

Anske gave him a small smile of thanks for supporting the decision. Vors, like several other villagers, had known her father for many years.

"And what of his sword?" Vors gestured towards her father's weapon among the ashes and remnants of burnt logs of the pyre.

Anske glanced at it. A part of her thought it would be best to take it and use it as her own, but another part of her felt it would be good to leave it with her father's ashes.

"It's a fine steel sword, lass. One o' the best weapons in the village, I reckon," Vors said, "The path ahead of ye is fraught with danger. He woulda wanted ye to have it."

Anske took a deep breath and reached down for the sword, feeling its weight in her hand. It was a familiar weight now. A comforting weight, even. She nodded, feeling the decision to be the right one.

"I will keep it," she declared. And she would make sure to put it to good use.

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"With haste and on horse, the journey to Whiterun normally takes two days without any delays," Rorik explained to the small group gathered in his temporary home late into the evening. "But because of the heavy snow and the number of people journeying with us, it will take us longer than that. Perhaps a week at most if we're lucky."

Kratos was among the group invited to this meeting. He stood leaning against a far wall, removed from the others who sat or stood around the table in the middle of the room where Rorik was seated. Kratos had a feeling he knew why he was called here, though he had yet to find out for sure.

"Thankfully," continued Rorik, "The Forsworn did not touch the stables, so our horses are still intact. I imagine they thought to take the horses for themselves once they were finished with us. Anyway, those of us familiar with fighting on horseback will be mounted, but most of the horses will be tasked with pulling wagons filled with people and supplies."

Kratos studied the leader of the village closely. He looked visibly aged since he last saw him. Thinner too. The stress and exhaustion of handling this crisis was clearly taking its toll on him, but he remained strong and steadfast despite it all. Something that the Spartan could respect well enough.

"Do we even have enough wagons?" asked one of the men in the group.

"We should have enough," Rorik answered. "If not, then we will build more. We have enough wood lying around, and a crudely made wagon is better than no wagon at all for our journey."

There were murmurs of agreement all around, and the man who asked the question appeared satisfied with the answer.

"It won't come as a surprise to you all that I'll leave the organization of our security and defense to Sergeant Vors here," Rorik said as he gestured towards the man in question. "But please make sure to listen to him. We can ill afford to argue when it comes to ensuring our safety. Enough of us have perished in this attack, I would prefer it if we all made it to Whiterun without losing any more of our people."

Vors swept his gaze around the room. "Honestly, we'd be a temptin' target fer any bandits foolhardy enough to be out in the snows. And I needn't remind ye that this is still Skyrim, folks. All manner o' beasts are out there looking to sate their hunger, so we best be prepared fer a fight regardless o' bandits."

A few more logistical points were discussed before the meeting was adjourned and most everyone made to leave. Kratos was among them but stopped when Rorik asked for him to stay. As he had expected.

"Kratos, I cannot thank you enough. You have done the village of Rorikstead another great service," said Rorik, looking serious, "And by extension, Whiterun Hold itself. As such, I expect the Jarl will want to speak with you and will undoubtedly reward you greatly for your actions here."

"By the Nine, I would reward you myself if I could," Rorik continued. "But as you can see, I've already lost a lot so there isn't much I can offer you now besides advice and support." He grimaced. "But even though we owe you so much already, I must humbly ask you for a favor. You are, of course, not obligated to come with us. I imagine that because of your strength and skill, you might think to stay here despite the potential danger."

This much was true. Kratos had already considered it when he first heard that Rorik planned to abandon the village. From what he had experienced fighting the Forsworn, they were not much of a threat to him. Even if they showed up again in greater numbers than he had already faced.

But he did feel some obligation to protect the villagers. He knew now that he was ultimately the target of the Forsworn attack. For what reason they were after him, he did not know. Still, the fact remained that because of him the village was attacked and now the survivors were driven from their homes.

If more villagers were to perish on the road to Whiterun simply because he refused to go along with them, even though he was the cause of their being driven from their homes in the first place, then he would not forgive himself. And though he would not admit it out loud, he felt somewhat responsible now for Anske. At least until she could better fend for herself.

Besides, his house was not going anywhere, and he could always return whenever he wanted once this was all over.

Rorik pressed on. "If I may, I would ask that you please accompany us on the journey to Whiterun. It would put our minds at ease, and my mind in particular, if you were with us. You have already shown your martial prowess, and we certainly have need for it if we are to make it to Whiterun unscathed. And I very much want my people to suffer no more than they already have today."

Having already made up his mind, Kratos did not hesitate. "Very well. I will go with you."

"I know it's a lot to—wait, what?"

"I will go with you," Kratos reiterated.

Rorik let out a breath. "Well, uh… I see. Thank you, Kratos. I'm relieved to hear that." He smiled tiredly at the big Spartan.

"When do we leave?"

"Midday on the morrow, assuming no delays," answered Rorik. "We'll spend most of the morning finishing preparations and organizing the caravan."

"Then I will see you at midday."

Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω

When Kratos neared his home, his boots crunching on the snow that glowed beneath the moonlight, he was surprised to see someone outside. They appeared to be practicing with a sword, and sure enough he caught flashes of moonlight reflected on the moving steel of their blade.

Grunts and the sound of steel slashing through the air sounded in the otherwise silent night as Kratos approached. When he was close enough, he confirmed it was who he had suspected: Anske.

The girl paused in her training, out of breath as she turned towards him.

"You should be asleep," Kratos said.

"I couldn't fall asleep," she replied with a shrug, wiping some sweat that had formed on her brow. "And I thought it would be better to get more practice in with my sword rather than lay awake in bed doing nothing."

"Rest is important, girl. The journey ahead will be long and tiring. You may regret this tomorrow."

"The only thing I'll regret is not practicing more, sooner," she replied coolly, glaring at him.

Kratos snorted. "Practicing poor form is worse than not practicing at all."

"Well this is all I have!" she cried in frustration. "This is all I can do!" She raised her sword, pointing it at him a little shakily as she gripped it too tightly in her anger. "My father was supposed to teach me, but he's dead now. Vors is too busy, so I can't ask him. And you already said that you won't teach me. So, all I can do is try to figure it out on my own! I already fought and killed during the battle, so I know I can do it!"

Kratos frowned and immediately stepped closer, unconcerned despite the closeness of the sword pointed at him. His expression was stern as he stared her down.

"Strike me," he said.

"W-What?" Anske took a step back, the sword wavering in her outstretched arm now.

"Strike me with your sword, girl."

She blinked, her anger fading somewhat as her confusion mounted. "But—"

"Strike me if you can!" Kratos growled, making her jump back.

Anske lowered her sword. "I… I don't want to hurt you, Kratos."

"You think you can hurt me, girl?" Kratos asked, mocking. "That would mean you'd have to hit me first."

"I'm not going to attack you," she ground out between clenched teeth. Her anger was rising again. Good. That was what he wanted.

"Coward."

"What did you say?" Anske practically hissed at him.

"You are a coward," Kratos said, delivering the words in his deep voice like a statement of irrefutable fact.

The girl glared at him but made no move to attack. Kratos already knew what he had to say to get her to give in though. It was all but guaranteed.

"You are weak," he added, "Weak and cowardly. Just like your father."

"Take that back!" Anske was shaking visibly now. She was livid. "I said. Take. That. Back!" She raised her sword again, eyes narrowing at him and filled with rage.

"Make me."

"RAAGHH!" Anske's furious cry echoed through the night as she finally took a swing at him, which he easily dodged.

"Too slow."

She brought the sword back around and swung again. And again. And again. Each time, she cut nothing but air.

"Not good enough."

She growled at him and swung a few more times. Up. Down. Horizontal. Diagonal. Vertical. No matter the angle or the direction, her sword never got close enough to the Spartan to even hint at making contact, despite his great bulk making for a big target.

In her frustration, she decided to forego slashing him and opted to impale him on her sword instead. She charged at him with reckless abandon, the point of her sword aiming for his gut.

Kratos turned and stepped to the side at the last moment, and as Anske stumbled from the unexpected lack of resistance where she thought she would stab him, he grabbed her sword arm with one hand to make sure the weapon would not hurt her and used the other to push against her back and drive her into the snow.

She yelped in pain as she fell face first into the snow, and then let out another pained cry as her arm was twisted behind her. Her sword fell from her grasp, thudding into the snow next to her.

Kratos, still holding her down, eased his grip on her arm. He did not want to injure her, only hurt her a little to make a point. He was exercising as much control over his strength as he could to that end.

"You lost control," he chastised her. "You let your anger control you, blind you. You can get lost in it, and that is why you are face down in the snow."

Well, it was more complicated than that. Even if she had been in control of her anger and better focused, she did not have the requisite skill to land a proper blow on him, let alone a weapon that could cut him. But that was not the point he was trying to make.

"Are you saying you've never been angry in a fight before?" she retorted, breathing hard. Her voice was laced with some pain but otherwise was still full of anger and frustration.

"Anger can be a weapon," he conceded. "If you can control it. Use it." He paused. "You clearly cannot."

She squirmed beneath his grip for a moment, before falling limp. After a few more seconds without any struggle, he let her go. She slowly pushed herself up to her knees, brushing the snow off herself. When she had gotten most of the snow out of her clothes, she reached for her sword and carefully sheathed it. She was still breathing hard, but slowly calming herself, when she finally looked up at Kratos.

"I'm sorry," she finally said in a quiet voice, then she hung her head in shame.

Kratos's normally stern expression softened by the barest of margins.

"Don't be sorry, be better," he said as he held out a hand to help her up.

She stared at his hand for a moment, before reaching out to grasp it with her own. When she was back on her feet, she gave him a determined look.

"Will you teach me?" she asked.

"Teach you what?"

"Teach me to be better."

Kratos studied her face, noting the lingering traces of anger mixed with a fiery conviction, then he turned away to walk towards the front door of his house.

"Get some rest, girl. We have a long journey ahead."

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AN: Much delayed update. Slow chap, I know. But more action coming soon. I hope you all are well, and thank you for your faves, follows, and reviews.