As they stepped back into the Gray-Mane residence, they were hit by a comfortable wave of heat emanating from the fire pit where everyone was gathered. Dark oak tables had been placed in an open embrace around it, set with filled cups and tankards ready for the feast. With heavy furs draped over chairs and benches that promised a comfortable feast. If being stock full of food wasn't an obstacle enough to overcome when trying to get out of your seat, the pillows swallowing you certainly would do the job. His mother was placing their most fancy cutlery around the table, while aunt Sigrid, despite all her fervent objections, was helping out.
Thorald's mind, however, was still racing too much from Jon's last barb to register the bustle. He knew he had no say in who Olfina could date or not, she'd break every bone in his hand if he even tried. But he couldn't help but worry. Did their parents know about Jon? And about the breakup? He doubted they'd ever approve.
At the very least, the knowledge would offer some leverage, for when his sister started acting up again.
He glanced around and saw Nazeem cornered by Uncle Vignar, who was clearly giving him a hard time. Thorald grimly realized that his family seemed to have a habit of attracting insufferable suitors. A lovesick giant knocking at the door and proposing to his mother would be par for the course.
His mother seemed to sense his thoughts as she marched up to them. "Ah, there you are. What took you so long? Did you get attacked by a herd of frostbite spiders?" she said, noticing the cousins' arrival.
Erik interjected with calm precision, "Technically, frostbite spiders are solitary creatures and unlikely to herd. Although, in rare cases, convergent evolution might- "
"Err... Right," she cut him off, momentarily stunned, her brain scrambling to file away that tidbit of potentially useless information. "Well, herd your feet to the table, if you'd please. We're about to serve the entrée."
An entrée. Thorald stifled a groan. Maybe Thorald had been living too long on the road where scrappy meals were your bread and butter, but he disliked the idea of an entrée. When dining with Jarls there was always an extravagant story accompanied with entrées. "Did you know this roast boar was hunted by Housecarl Gregory himself?" Meanwhile, Thorald just wanted to eat the bread which's only story was "I was baked yesterday."
With a mental shrug he sat down at the table, he would take any food he could right now. Yet, almost immediately, he realized his mistake as Vignar and Nazeem settled beside him, effectively trapping him in an 'asshole sandwich'. He was in for a long meal with these oafs at his side, and his uncle wasted no time in making Thorald uncomfortable.
"Hear that Thorald," Vignar to his left, began, the chair groaning underneath him, "Nazeem and I, were just in agreement about those Dark Elves."
Thorald turned his head to Nazeem with a skeptical glance, noting the beads of sweat on his brow that seemed to scream 'Help me!' Nazeem nodded intensely, clearly desperate for familial approval from his future father-in-law.
"Yeah?" he said, warily, "Enlighten me."
Vignar's brow furrowed, "They're... well, they're dark."
"Very profound, uncle," Thorald resisted the urge to bang his head upon the table, "But I believe they prefer being called Dunmer."
"You know what I mean. There's a reason they're not called Light elves, you know," Vignar insisted.
"Right," Thorald deadpanned, "And here I thought it was just a matter of poor lightning when they first encountered them."
Vignar huffed, "Thorald, you'd think differently about dark elves if you knew some of the stories I've heard."
Nazeem, who was still nodding as if his life depended on it, piped up, "Yes, exactly. Vignar's insights are quite… illuminating."
Thorald took a strategical sip from his tankard, hoping he wouldn't need to resort to getting plastered to get through this conversation. How in Oblivion did Eirika and Nazeem end up together? His uncle wouldn't recognize any true insights if it hit him over the head with a Giant's club, this thought then sent his mind into a spiral of different scenarios where Vignar was sent flying through the air.
His uncle droned on, "They steal everything they can get their hands on, you know? Not that they can help it, of course. It's just inherent in their nature."
Thorald groaned, this was just another of Vignar's idiotic rants. Every year, he picked a new group to blame all of societies woes upon. Their family usually nipped this in the bud, but since Nazeem was volunteering a listening, albeit mortified, ear, Vignar didn't need any more encouragement. Last year, it was the orcs, the year before that, the Redguards. Ironic, seeing as Nazeem was now eagerly nodding along to Vignar's drawn out speech.
It wasn't difficult to understand why his uncle thought like that, his Greybeard mentors had explained it in simple terms before. Fear begets anger. These times Skyrim was a land full of instability. Fear was everywhere, Dragons were roaming around, a civil war was brewing. Forts and keeps, previously used for harboring folk from the country side, had fallen to bandits, and corrupt nobles couldn't even protect their own people.
A beaten down people needed a win, an enemy they could defeat. But in reality, the enemy of a Nord would either be a swarm of Dragons or a far-reaching nation. So, what do you do when your enemy is too strong to hurt? You find a weaker enemy you can beat. And so, the outer circles of society fall victim to a drunken uncle's rants.
"Just the other day, my crops were vandalized and torn up by those despicable dark elves! They made a real mess of my field. Only the twisted minds of those people could think to smash my precious gourds!" Vignar said growing angrier the longer his rant went on.
Thorald's father, overhearing this, sat down across from them, "Are you still on about that, brother?" he said, exasperated, "I told you, it had been a wayward Giant that happened to wander onto your farm. The Companions confirmed it."
"But the potential for a dark elf was there. Who do you think sent the Giant there?" he said, holding this finger up sagely. "And that's why we need to take action," he concluded, pounding the table with his fist, causing the cutlery to rattle.
His mother's icy gaze froze the very air after the clatter had subsided, "If you damage any of my plates, you'll be eating of the floor, Vignar."
Vignar turned a few shades paler and, in an effort to recover, turned to Thorald, "You're my favorite nephew, Thorald, but you've got a lot to learn about the world."
Thorald tried to maintain a stoic expression while his uncle ranted, but the scenario was far too ridiculous to take seriously. "I'm sure you're right, Uncle Vignar," he said flatly. Never mind that he travelled through all of Skyrim's holds for years, studied with the Greybeards and faced the worst monsters imaginable. What did he know of the world anyway?
Nazeem, now visibly hiding behind his tankard, saw where this was headed. Nevertheless, he tried to give a last desperate defense, "Indeed, and I'm sure facing dragons is terrible, but the dark elves are truly cunning, are they not?"
Thorald's mouth twitched in amusement. "Yes, I've found that their chief weapon is confusion. They confound you with words, then while you're dazed, they rearrange your furniture. Truly evil."
Across the table, his father hid a chuckle behind a cough while Vignar, oblivious to the sarcasm, nodded gravely. "Exactly! Furniture is just the beginning. Next thing you know, they'll be binding your soul with their Daedric sorcery!"
His mother who had come back to the table with dishes in her hands, had finally had enough of their theatrics, and interjected, "Vignar, you will refrain from talk of dark elves, giants, or any group of people not at my dinner table. And Thorald, dear, don't encourage him," she said, her voice holding that tone which suggested that the wrath of a dragon was preferable to hers.
He held his hands up, "Understood, I shall reserve my commentary for these culinary masterpieces," he said with a wink.
Vignar, still looking somewhat sheepish under his mother's frosty gaze, seemed to perk up, "Now, that's a real topic worthy of our attention," he conceded, earning a satisfied nod from Fralia, who then recruited Olfina and Geirmund to help her bring back plates from the kitchen.
Watching them, Thorald found himself lost in thought. In truth, Thorald had felt reservations about Dunmer when first venturing into the world. How could you not? Everyone in Whiterun heard the stories that painted Dunmer as slavers, or Daedra worshippers. That this wickedness was why they deserved the destruction of their homeland. It had become ingrained into society, if a child dissapeared, Dunmer were the first group of people that were pointed at.
A person could go their entire life believing those stories. Until one day, you would happen to stumble into the lower quarters of Windhelm. And you get confronted with numerous Dunmer who had been pushed into a cold, forgotten corner of the city. You would see young families worrying about money, old ladies entertaining lonely children with exaggerated tales, and kind people sharing worn blankets to keep themselves warm in the cold surroundings. You might guiltily realize that these people are not kidnappers or schemers but simply folks trying to stay warm and fed in a land that seemed to reject their very presence.
At that point the idea of Ulric Stormcloak, leader of the Rebellion, might lose some of its sheen for you. All the noble cries and causes that you and your family had always chanted, start to sound a little hollow when you realize they never mentioned this part. Because when you meet those Dunmer refugees, it's hard to wrap your head around how a community was purposefully mistreated in the city of your future king.
And just maybe, after enough reflection, a few late-night conversations with your charming housecarl, and perhaps a few ales. You begin to understand that slavery, or cruelty was never a problem in the inherent characteristics of a race. But a problem in the inherent characteristics of power, and of those who wield it.
He was pulled back into the present by a plate of goat cheese that Olfina unceremoniously thrusted before him.
An array of tantalizing dishes was sat down before them, a turnip salad accompanied by a slab of crusty, dark bread was presented, laden with a slice of aged goat cheese, finished with a sprinkle of snowberries and a sprig of fresh thyme. His mother was not messing around, it seemed. It was as if she required everyone to sigh in appreciation at least once today.
And despite his reservations about entrées, this looked amazing. He looked up to tell his mother just that, but was interrupted by a wide-eyed Geirmund had just spotted Eirika. "Whoa, what's with the fancy bells, Eirika?"
Eirika, who had just sat down next to Nazeem, was momentarily caught off guard, looking down hesitantly at her gown.
"It's a beautiful homage to the Civil War's fallen soldiers," came the sharp voice of his mother, making the entire table look up in surprise as just earlier she had been mocking it, "Geirmund, a bit of decorum, please."
Eirika and Freila's eyes met. Sharp words were often traded between the two women. But even in those acts, there was a silent respect not unlike two evenly matched warriors clashing swords. So, when a stoned teenager barges into that delicate balance, of course the two women would have each other's backs.
A grateful nod of understanding was shared between the two, but perhaps they should have paid more attention to Geirmund's wandering finger, as he curiously flicked a tiny bell hanging off of Eirika's arm. The bell, perhaps in its own act of rebellion, detached and pinged merrily across the room. It bounced with a purpose right into Uncle Vignar's awaiting plate of goat cheese salad.
Vignar, hearing the bell echo around the table, stopped mid-sip, his tankard poised dramatically in the air. "What in Shor's name-?!" he began, while Eirika scrambled to salvage her symbolic attire from the goat-cheese presentation.
"It seems one of our fallen soldiers has gone AWOL," Thorald couldn't help but say under his breath, earning him a swift jab from Olfina.
This set off another tirade from Uncle Vignar, roaring about the youth's lack of respect for traditional Nord values. Geirmund sheepishly promised to keep his hands to himself, before sitting down at the other end of the table, far from Vignar's wrath.
After a few more grumbles and sips from his tankard, Vignar had finally calmed down. His voice grumpily rumbled, "Bah, we'll toast to their honor tonight. Make sure every clink of the glass is as loud as those bells!"
Everyone around the table echoed that statement, either in support, or eagerness to get on with dinner. But Geirmund, not known for his timing, decided to add, "And… each tinkle is a reminder that life's melody goes on…"
The collective groan around the table was palpable until Fralia, with the authority only a mother can wield, silenced everyone and ordered them to start eating. No one needed further prompting, and they dug into the meal with gusto.
Thorald had dined with Giants, feasted in the halls of Jarls and tried exotic insect meat, but none would ever compare to the taste of home. Each bite of the salad had the right amount of seasoning that was so perfectly familiar from his childhood. And he took the opportunity to savor every bite, after missing it for so long.
For a while nobody talked just enjoying the food, until Nazeem, seated to Thorald's right, decided to clear his throat. "So, Thorald, you shout at dragons... for a living?"
Thorald who was just enjoying a bite, felt the wonderful combinations of flavors turn to ash in his mouth. He really didn't feel like explaining himself to Nazeem of all people. Besides, he noticed his father's ears perk up from across the table, ready to dive headfirst into the discussion about his unconventional career choice again. So, he just gave a short nod, hoping it would deter further inquiries.
"You'll have to excuse my cousin's rudeness," Eirika said from Nazeem's other side, "Shouting at dragons is quite taxing on the throat. Isn't that right, Thorald?" she gave him a pointed look.
"Right sorry," he said stuffing himself with the biggest piece of bread he could find, "Shout-mgh, very-mgh loudgh…"
Nazeem, undeterred by Thorald's bulging cheeks and limited vocabulary, pressed on. "But surely, such adventures have made you quite wealthy."
Thorald chewed slowly, casting a silent prayer to any deity listening that his bread would last until Nazeem lost interest. When it became clear the conversation wouldn't die a natural death, he reluctantly swallowed and shrugged. "Wealth's not much use when there's a dragon trying to eat you as a snack. First things first, right?"
"But the treasures!" Nazeem said his eyes gleaming, "Gold, ancient artifacts, dragon bones…" at that last part Thorald heard his father snort. Eorlund had always refused Thorald's offers to bring dragon bones back for the Skyforge, letting pride and principle get in the way.
"Yeah, treasures for sure," Thorald conceded with another noncommittal shrug, hoping to convey a 'let's not go there' vibe. But it was already too late.
Eorlund cleared his throat, "You should know, Nazeem. Dragon bones are rather overrated, the juice really isn't worth the squeeze."
For a moment Nazeem's only response was a blank stare, but then his desire to be accepted by the family overcame his urge to get his hands on dragon bones. He quickly adopted a knowing expression, and nodded, "Ah, yes, of course! I've always said that, you know. Dragon bones... so passé. But, just out of curiosity, why do you think that, Eorlund?"
His father was more than happy to oblige, "Sure, the bones contain magical properties which can offer more protection than conventional armor. But when you consider the risk of gathering the materials, there's a clear winner there. Tell me, would you rather mine ore, or face a bloodthirsty dragon? Facing a dragon like that, it's foolish and dangerous."
Thorald clenched his fist around his fork, "Others might call that heroic."
Eorlund met his eyes, "Others? You mean ten-year-old kids dreaming about glory?" The sound of cutlery seemed to cease abruptly around the table after those last words.
"Or maybe, the townsfolks that were getting torched by this dragon?" he replied, staring back.
His father seemed to ignore his answer as he continued, turning back to Nazeem, "Besides, it's frankly, quite barbaric to hack apart a magnificent beast for trinkets and armor."
Thorald couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Really?" he said, feeling his father's eyes turn back on him, "Everybody wears bear fur hats and wolf skin boots. But we draw the moral line at a fire breathing lizard?"
His mother had decided that frantically waving a piece of bread around was the best way to distract the two men. Yet father and son only stared unyieldingly at each other. Nazeem, however, seemed unfazed by the discussion, and went on: "Still, just to even hang some bones in my house would be a truly prestigious thing. You must really take me with you next time you hunt one down! I would love to add some dragon bones to my collection."
Everyone's focus shifted to Nazeem, trying to imagine him as a rugged adventurer, instead of a pompous landowner.
Eirika was the first to burst out laughing, "Absolutely not! Have you lost all your senses? Nazeem, darling, you struggle with stairs, you're not even remotely fit to chase dragons."
Like a man trying to hide a bruised ego, he spluttered, "Oh come now, how hard can it be? You just shout at it a bit, and then smash it over the head with a hammer, isn't that right?"
Thorald leaned back in his chair, "Yeah, if by 'shout' you mean 'cry for your mommy' and by 'smash' you mean 'shit yourself'.
"I assure you, I'm very capable," Nazeem protested.
"Capable of shitting yourself."
Eirika shot him a look that could curdle milk. "Thorald, be nice."
"No. Look, the closest this guy has been to a dragon is in a tavern where bards tell ridiculous stories. Meanwhile I'm out there actually risking my life. It's not a bloody game-"
"And yet nobody asked you to do that," his father interrupted, igniting the fire within Thorald even more.
As he tried to ignore the old man, he turned back to Nazeem, "Look, why don't you stick to what you're good at? Counting coins and talking shi-"
Their mother, bread still in hand like a scepter, cut in sharply. "Thorald, please-"
Thorald held up his hands in defeat, he had probably gone a bit too far there, but keeping his cool here was a challenge. He tried to refocus his energy on the food before him, but an awkward air now hung over the table and Nazeem wouldn't meet his eyes anymore. The silence stretched for longer than a minute until it was finally broken when Vignar gave a huff, "Back in my day, we didn't slay dragons. We respected them."
A pause enveloped the room, as if Vignar's words were so stupid they demanded silence.
"Perhaps because they were purely mythological back then, dear," aunt Sigrid supplied helpfully from the other side of the table.
"Brother," Eorlund chuckled, "Back then, the only flames threatening houses were from your attempts at cooking."
"Provocation is the key," Vignar grumbled between bites. "Never insult a dragon's mother, and your roof remains intact."
He heard Ysolda and Olfina burst into laughter at that, the rest of the table following soon. Thorald's eyes met his father's in exasperation. The absurdity of it all dissolved any remaining tension, and even Thorald had to laugh.
His mother took this opportunity to steer the conversation away to other topics. And as the entrée continued, the talk turned to the upcoming wedding, harvests, and the latest Whiterun gossip, anything but dragons. Immersing himself in the lighter conversation, Thorald felt himself relax. Allowing himself to leave dragon-slaying at the back of his mind and instead focus on the amazing food in front of him was doing wonders for his mood.
He half-listened as the talk fluttered around him, catching snippets about Nazeem and Eirika. They had apparently met in the drunken huntsman, bonding over fashion, dreams of high society. And most likely a shared love of critiquing their peers, Thorald mused. Despite all solid reasoning, the connection was instant, and it didn't take long for them to decide to elope.
He also learned that uncle Vignar actually happened to be Eirika's biggest supporter when she spoke of her fashion projects, even going so far as to sacrifice his own wardrobe for her daughter's experiments. It was only Sigrid's stern persuasions that made him maintain a minimum of three shirts in rotation. But it seemed to pay off, and Eirika was making a name for herself around town.
As the entrée began to wind down, he had to admit that as long as he didn't interact with Nazeem or Vignar too much, the evening wasn't all that bad. And of course, the food helped a lot as well. After everyone had showered his mother in praises for her cooking, she decided to go back into the kitchen to prepare the main dish.
Since a brief pause in between meals was announced, Ysolda and Olfina also retreated to their room to discuss further business plans. Thorald as well seized the chance to escape from the two oafs flanking his sides, and after he gathered all the empty plates on the table, followed his mother to the kitchen.
Balancing a precarious stack of plates in his arms, Thorald nudged the kitchen door open with his foot. However, the sight that greeted him nearly made him drop everything.
There was his mother, hunched over the counter, her hands deep in a dessert that bore a striking resemblance to a juniper berry pie, possibly the one aunt Sigrid had proudly presented earlier.
"Mom!" Thorald gasped in disbelief.
Startled, his mother looked up, caught mid-bite like a child sneaking sweets before bedtime. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a guilty grin spreading across her face. "Oh, don't look so scandalized," she chided. "I'd wager this pie came straight from the market stalls. Sigrid didn't bake this, trust me, she doesn't know how to put a spoon in a jar."
"MOM!"
She met his incredulous stare with a defiant lift of her chin. But as the silence stretched, her posture started to deflate. She sighed deeply, a rosy flush of embarrassment blooming on her cheeks. "It's just… it tasted so good, I couldn't help myself." Her eyes hungrily darted to the pie and back to Thorald. "I feel terrible about it, truly."
Yet, her remorse seemed to waver as she stole another guilty forkful, her resolve melting faster than butter on a hot skillet.
Thorald put down the plates and grasped the fork from her hands. "Stop wolfing down that pie! It's nearly gone! Oh Gods, what will we say to poor aunt Sigrid?"
His mother waved him down desperately, "We can figure something out… Perhaps we can patch it up with a different pie?"
"Just serve something else, mom!"
"Thorald darling, I can't refuse to serve a guest's dish without a valid reason, it goes against all Nord values!" she was wringing her hands anxiously.
Thorald had never heard of such Nord values, but he felt that if he brought that up his mother might just faint there and then. "Fine," he allowed a little hope spring up in his chest, "Do you think patching up the pie could work?"
"Only if the eater has no taste buds whatsoever!"
"Then... Uncle Vignar?" Thorald ventured, half-joking.
His mother clapped her hands together, her eyes brightening. "Exactly! Smart thinking, Thorald!"
Thorald groaned out loud. "No, that's absurd, Mom. The textures won't ever match. Vignar has no sense of taste, but he's not blind!"
His mother shushed him, "We can always try, can't we? And if all else fails, we'll just blame it on you."
"Me?" Thorald looked up in disbelief, "You're the one who snarfed it down! You've got evidence all over your face!"
His mother wiped at the crumbs on her face, "Thorald, darling, think practically. I'm a respected woman in this community. You, as the Dragonborn, can easily weather a pie scandal!"
Thorald rubbed his temple, feeling a headache brewing. Could he actually be bothered to weather such a scandal? The Jarls already acted weird about him absorbing Dragon Souls, joking that they didn't serve those delicacies in their halls. He could already imagine their glee when a pie debacle came to light.
He suddenly stopped himself, why was he even considering taking the blame for it? This wasn't his mess to clean up. "No mother, you can't just demolish half a pie and expect me to take the fall!"
"Oh fine!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up, "we'll attempt the pie reconstruction! Come help me with this."
"Absolutely not," Thorald stood firm, crossing his arms. "I'm not getting involved with the creation of your monster pie in any way further!"
His mother gave him an upset look, laying it on thick, "I see. Over a year without a visit, and now you abandon your poor old mother in her hour of need?"
"That's correct," he deadpanned, refusing to fall for her guilt trip.
She huffed in response, "At least fetch Ysolda for me, she has some experience in baking."
Seizing the chance to escape, Thorald agreed and hurried out of the kitchen in search of Ysolda. He shook his head as he entered the living area again, trying to look as if everything was fine. Dealing with ruined pies made his thoughts drift back to Lydia. He wondered how she was dealing with her family, and whether she was dealing with it any better than he was. Her family's crazy dessert competition probably hadn't started yet, so he figured she'd probably be fine.
He pictured Lydia having to dive under a table as her family threw pies around in the background. All the while, beating off her relatives with a wooden spoon as her cheeks were smeared with flour, and sugar. Barking orders to her younger cousins as the dessert-war raged on, wearing a cute apron. That pretty smirk of hers would be on full display, revealing the tender person beneath her warrior facade. There would be that one strand of hair, begging for him to brush it away from her forehead and- WAIT, what the hell was he thinking about again? He quickly shook himself out of his imagination and tried to focus on the task at hand.
His gaze drifted towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. Olfina's room was up there along with Ysolda, a place he hadn't visited in what felt like ages. He had to get Ysolda's help, but he might as well ask his sister about Jon while he was there. The prospect of facing her, after what he'd learned, made him hesitate. He wasn't sure how to approach the topic of Jon, or if he even should.
The stairs creaked softly under his weight, the sound familiar and oddly comforting. The voices of his family faded into the background as he placed a hand on the banister, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers.
At the top of the stairs, he saw a familiar boy, with his head buried in another book. There was barely enough light from the dim torches to read, but that was enough for Erik, "What are you doing here, Erik? Shouldn't you be downstairs with the others?"
The boy looked up and shook his head, "I'm hiding. The more they see me, the more chores they can give me, and the less time I have to read. Besides, I'm bad at small-talk, dad just stares blankly whenever I tell him about all the different kinds of beetles in the world."
Thorald hesitated, small-talk with uncle Vignar was challenging even for him. "Well, you're just a kid. Nobody expects you to be the life of the party when there's only adults around."
"Still, I want to improve," Erik said, holding up a book with a big grin on his face, "See this? I've been reading about historic diplomatic mission. I'll be having normal conversations with dad in no time!"
"Hmm, yeah…" Thorald said.
"What about you, are you hiding as well? Because you can't use this hiding space, I was here first."
"No, no. I need to get Ysolda," he was about to leave Erik to his reading, but then an idea sprung to mind. "Diplomatic missions, huh? I may need your help with one of those."
Erik's eyes lighted up, "What about? Dragons? Dwemer? Politics?"
"Err, no. It's about Olfina, and Jon," he said, ignoring the disappointment in the 10-year-old's eyes, "I want to talk to her about it, but… it's delicate. I don't suppose you have some perspective from your book?"
"I see." he said, looking pensive for a minute, before perking up. "I've got it!"
Erik eagerly flipped through his book. "The Great Moot of Whiterun. When the Jarls needed to settle a dispute, they'd gather everyone in a circle, have each side present their case, and then let the people vote. "
Thorald frowned. "You want me to turn this into a weird family meeting and take a vote on whether or not Olfina should have dated Jon?"
Erik nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! Make it democratic. Everyone loves democracy!"
"Skyrim isn't even a democracy, Erik... It's more like a feudal system."
"And whose fault is that? If I were the Dragonborn, I would've brought equality to Skyrim months ago."
Thorald sighed. "Alright Erik, let's stay focused on the task at hand. Anything else?"
Erik flipped a few more pages. "There's the famous tale of Ysgramor and the Snow Elves. When Ysgramor wanted to confront the elves about their betrayal, he didn't just talk. He built a giant ship, filled it with his warriors, and sailed right up to their front door. The Snow Elves were really scared."
Thorald blinked, trying to wrap his head around the suggestion. "Are you saying I should build a ship?"
Erik shook his head vigorously. "No, no! You need to make a grand entrance. March into her room with a bunch of people behind you. Maybe with dramatic music. Really show her you mean business."
He couldn't help but wince at the thought of bursting into Olfina's room with a parade. It'd likely get him hit on the head with a hammer, "I was hoping for something more subtle, Erik. This whole thing was supposed to be a secret."
His cousin frowned at him disappointedly, "Secrecy doesn't make the history pages, Thorald!"
"Good! I'm not trying to get the story of my sister's ex in a book anyway!"
Erik sighed, pulling a new book out of his rugsack. "Oh! How about the Treaty of Stros M'Kai then? It's all about diplomacy and negotiation."
"That sounds more like it," Thorald said, hopeful.
"Great! So, first, you occupy her favorite space, like her room. Then, you refuse to leave until she agrees to talk. It's a show of strength and diplomacy!"
Thorald stared at him. "Erik, that's literally taking her hostage."
Erik shrugged. "Well, it worked for the Redguards."
He was really starting to regret asking him for advice, maybe he should just try to talk to Olfina like a normal person.
His cousin noticed his frown, and hastily continued, "Or, how about the Kvatch Summit of 1E 2308? You can summon a neutral third party to mediate the conversation. In that case, it was an ancient Daedric Prince-"
He felt a headache forming. "No Daedric Princes, Erik!"
Thorald was met with a defiant stare from the boy. He sighed, patting Erik on the head, "I'll keep your suggestions in mind, buddy. Thanks for the help."
Leaving for Olfina's room, he was just about to turn the corner, but then he turned back, "By the way Erik, if you want to connect with your dad, just talk about food. Basic men are all about basic needs."
Erik nodded thoughtfully, and Thorald felt a flicker of hope that maybe at least one of them had gotten something useful out of their conversation.
He reached Olfina's door, hesitating for a moment. But then he chided himself, this was the annoying sister that competed, and argued with him for all his life, she could handle a bit of an interrogation. And with that thought, he unceremoniously burst into the room.
It was an act he would immediately regret. All thoughts of Jon, or Erik's ideas were erased from his mind as he felt his jaw drop at the sight before him. There, against the dresser were Ysolda and Olfina, locked in a passionate embrace.
A/N: Did you know there are about 400.000 species of beetles? Erik sure does. In detail.