The room exploded in a cacophony of shrieks, curses, and the rapid, frantic movements of two women who had been caught red-handed, as the air around them almost sizzled with embarrassment. They leapt apart, faster than a dog hearing the irresistible call of a 'walk'.

Thorald considered, briefly, the merits of 'getting the fuck out', but his mother's command still rang in his ears. Ysolda's assistance was needed for the pie debacle. And in the face of culinary drama, retreat was not an option.

"Er... I was just looking for... uh... the-" he said, his tongue feeling like it had suddenly been replaced with a block of wood. "Mara's tits. What the fuck, guys?"

Olfina's embarrassment quickly turned into fury. "You idiot! Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

Thorald, still reeling, managed to sputter, "You were supposed to be discussing business plans, not… whatever that was."

Hastily attempting to smooth down her tousled hair, Ysolda spoke up, "Thorald, this isn't what it looks like."

"It's not?" Thorald raised an eyebrow. "I guess the art of blacksmithing has changed a lot since I left."

Olfina, if it was possible, turned an even deeper shade of red. "Mind your own fucking business, Thorald. What do you want?"

Realizing the leverage he now possessed, Thorald felt a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well, I needed Ysolda's help with something, but this changes everything. How long has this been going on?" His finger wavered between them in disbelief, as if the sheer motion could somehow solidify the absurdity of what he was witnessing.

Ysolda and Olfina seemed to silently communicate something to each other, their eyes flickering with a kind of electric understanding. It was one of those silent conversations that always left Thorald feeling like an idiot for not being able to decipher telepathy. Then Olfina sighed, mumbling, "A few months…"

"Months?" Thorald's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, "Does anybody even know?"

Olfina glared at him, "No, they don't. And if you tell anyone, I'll throw you in the forge myself."

"Talos, relax. Why the secrecy?"

Olfina sighed, her agitation ebbing away, "We just kept it quiet. Ysolda and I… Ugh, somethings are nicer when nobody's trying to sling shit at it, you know?"

Thorald felt a few puzzle pieces click into place. The messy breakup with Jon. The easy banter between the two women. The horror Olfina displayed at the mere suggestion of matching him with Ysolda. And that smug glimmer in Olfina's eye when their mother insisted it would be okay if Thorald was gay.

He sighed, planting his hands on his hips. "Well, if it works for you, go for it, I guess."

Olfina rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the approval, Thorald. Now, can you give us a moment of peace? We were kind of in the middle of something."

"Clearly," Thorald replied, sarcasm thick in his voice. "But since I'm already here, might as well get it over with. What the hell have you been doing with Jon Battle-Born?"

The question hung in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in as if they were the judgmental eyes of the entire household.

Olfina's eyes narrowed, her voice a low hiss, "That's none of your business."

"But it is," Thorald countered, "because you're my sister. And Jon Battle-Born is... well, he's Jon Battle-Born."

Ysolda placed a calming hand on Olfina's arm, "Thorald," she began, "That's over. Jon's a past mistake. It's me and Olfina now… we're the real deal."

"Good," Thorald muttered, his shoulders easing slightly, "because he's an idiot."

Olfina's glare softened, just a fraction. "I know. That's why I'm with Ysolda now. She's not an idiot."

Thorald's lips twitched, a reluctant smile threatening to break through. "He told me himself just earlier. He was pretty nasty about it too. But I guess you're not really bothered about it, seeing as…" he gestured vaguely at Ysolda, the motion as subtle as a brick through a window.

Ysolda looked like she was mentally calculating the distance to the nearest exit, yet she stood her ground next to Olfina. "Er, yeah. He didn't take it very well."

"Look, he's actually an okay guy when he's not a heartbroken sod." His sister said, still looking miserable for having to explain this to her brother.

"Nonsense," Thorald said with a wave of his hand, as if no further explanation was necessary. "He's a bard. He's a piece of shit."

"Thorald, shut up for a second," Olfina groaned, "Forget about Jon, okay? I need you to promise to keep quiet about this. About Jon, about me and Ysolda. And, you know, the liking women part."

Thorald shrugged again, "Fine, I won't spill. But when were you planning to tell them? They don't care who we're interested in, as long as someone is actually interested in us. They won't complain."

She sighed, and fell back on her bed. "I don't know. Soon?"

Ysolda seeing her distress, sat next to and patted her on the shoulder. "There's no rush, Olfina. But, whenever you're ready to tell them, I'll be there."

Their voices turned into a whispery hum, a soft murmur on the bed, delicate and intimate. And Thorald suddenly felt like an intruder at the sight, a stranger trespassing on sacred grounds. He tried to distract himself with studying Olfina's room, examining the chaotic mess which served as a window into her life. It had been a long while since he'd been here.

Faded tapestries clung on the stone walls, depicting mythical creatures and ancient heroes. The edges had become frayed, and the colors had become muted by time, but they still whispered their tales. Olfina had never taken them down, holding onto them like silent promises. Her bed, tucked neatly against one wall, was covered in a quilt our mother had made at Olfina's request, each patch a different hue, a riot of colors that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did. Olfina was like that, alright, an unruly rainbow in a world of gray.

His attention fell on a small, intricately crafted silver dragon, it sat proudly in the center of her desk, its wings forever poised for flight. He picked it up gently, feeling the cool weight of it. Dragons had always been admired creatures, even by his sister. That seemed to be a side effect of being an apex predator, the strongest of the strong, it was destined to become a symbol of power, of strength, of spirit. What did it say about him, that he was the one hunting them now? A new apex predator, would he become a symbol in his own right? Politically it was already happening, Jarls were stumbling over each other to award him the title of Thane, linking him to their holds.

It seemed exhausting, trying to uphold all the ideals that were being forced upon you. As if him and those dragons weren't just trying to butcher each other in muddy fields. Every encounter, a desperate struggle for survival.

A creak from the bed pulled him from his thoughts. Ysolda, lifting herself off the mattress, looked back at Olfina, "At the very least, you don't need to worry about my parents."

Olfina absorbed her words in silence. Thorald carefully placed the dragon back, "Right," he cleared his throat awkwardly, addressing Ysolda. "I, uh, heard about their passing. My condolences, Ysolda."

She stared at Thorald as if he were sprouting a second head. "What are you talking about? My parents are very much alive."

Thorald froze for a second, his mind reeling. "You're not an orphan?"

"Of course not," Ysolda replied, her brow furrowing. "They just live quite far away, in the Imperial province. Also, I'm 26 years old, why would I call myself an orphan?"

Thorald blinked, the color rising in his cheeks as he cursed aunt Sigrid's gossip. "Ahem, I seem to be misinformed. Nevermind that…" he said, awkwardly shuffling his feet, desperately hoping Olfina would interject, but she was still lost in her own thoughts.

After a while Ysolda broke the stretching silence, graciously moving past his blunder, "What did you say, you needed me for, again?"

A grateful Thorald cleared his throat, "Right, my mother needed your help in the kitchen. She'll explain everything. Just, please, don't let her convince you to take the blame for her, Ysolda."

"I see. Well, I'll see you two downstairs, then?" she said, squeezing Olfina's hand reassuringly as she made her way out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Thorald leaned against the desk, with a mischievous look, "This thing between you and Ysolda, it's not because you always tried to outcompete me, is it? Like you heard aunt Sigrid trying to play matchmaker and-"

"Oh, knock it off, Thorald. Not everything revolves around you."

"Sure, sure. Just seems awfully convenient, you know."

In response, she threw a pillow at him, her aim surprisingly accurate.

Thorald held his hands up, exasperated, "Come on, I'm your brother. Did you really expect me to not tease you endlessly about this stuff? First Jon and now Ysolda, huh?"

She huffed, "Yes Thorald. Men and women. Some people prefer stew with carrots in them, others without, I don't mind either way."

He smirked, "Since when have you been such a stew connoisseur then?"

Her gaze could have frozen a river. "You're such an ass. Aren't you supposed to save the world, and not butt into my love life?"

It was meant as a lighthearted joke, but it still came in as a sobering thought for Thorald, "True enough. But still, you haven't told anyone for months?"

"Like it's that easy!"

"It's just words, Olfina!"

"And I'm bad at them, Thorald, much better at the part where I hit things," she blurted out. "Our cousin Eirika can't even come in wearing a new hat without getting a snide comment from mom. Imagine me dropping the Ysolda topic."

"Okay look, first of all, Eirika's hats deserve those comments. But also, our parents will probably just be pleased. Surprised yes, but pleased. Your imagination's always worse than reality."

Olfina looked up challenging. "If coming clean isn't such an issue, why haven't you brought Lydia over?"

"What? I- don't! We, that is Me and Lydia, are not at all, romantically interested in each other."

"Yeah, whatever dude.

Thorald pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long-suffering sigh. "Look, just rip the band aid off. The longer you wait, the worse it'll be."

Olfina seemed to mull this over for a moment, her expression hardening with resolve. "Thorald, if I do this, I need a favor from you. I'm bad at words. But you? You've faced Jarls, you've studied with the Greybeards. You won't get nervous by a pair of crazy parents, right? Maybe you could start easing into the conversation for me?"

His sister's hopeful gaze pierced him. He knew this wasn't about saving the world, but it felt just as important. Yet, a nagging thought lingered at the back of his mind. "You know Olfina, the sister I left behind would never have even thought about asking for my help. You've always tried to do things your own way, and if your way involved pushing me in a river you would've gladly taken the opportunity."

Olfina looked at him as if he were the densest person in all of Skyrim. "You would have done the same if you were living under someone's shadow all your life. Oh, don't give me that look," she snapped, at his confused expression, "It was always expected that you were the one who was going to take over the family business, I was never in the picture until you finally left. I had to prove myself all the time."

Thorald hesitated, "I didn't even know you wanted to become a blacksmith."

"I did," she said releasing a long-held breath, "Nobody ever expected it from me. Maybe because I was the youngest child, maybe because I'm a girl. I didn't even expect it from myself until Adrianne showed up with her own business. After that, I just started doing it anyway, and I found that people don't try to question you when you're holding a hammer in your hand. Which suits me just fine."

Thorald looked at his sister, really looked at her, and saw the determination in her eyes. It was as if she had forged herself anew upon that very anvil. He thought about how often he had seen her from the corner of his eye, always in the background, always trying to find her own way. And now here she stood, spearheading a new direction for their family's legacy. And damn, if that didn't make him swell with a peculiar mix of pride and shame.

She continued, "You know, back then, when you left, it was probably the best thing that could've happened to me. I got so tunnel-visioned on beating you at everything, it was like living in a constant competition. I forgot what the hell I was even doing it for. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're back and all, but losing my main rival left me aimless. I had to find myself again, figure out what I wanted without you as my yardstick. Thorald, I don't ever want to go back to being that person. That person who measured their worth by how much better or worse they were than their brother. I just want to move on."

"Gods… sorry. I didn't know Olfina."

"Well, now you do," Olfina said, her voice softer, "So, will you help me?"

Thorald nodded slowly and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Damn it, Olf. I'll help you with our family talk."

After a pause, Thorald cracked open a wary eye, "Have you been learning how to guilt-trip people from mom?"

"You can become a master in more than one craft, can't you?" she smirked.

"Regardless, I'm very proud of you," He snorted, "I'm also definitely stealing your stew analogy."

Olfina groaned, "Maybe it was a mistake asking for your help."

"Geirmund knows about you and Jon as well, you could always have him explain it."

"Gods no! Our cousin doesn't even understand what he himself is saying, half the time."

Thorald chuckled, bumping her shoulder, "We've got this Olfina, don't worry."

A shout came from downstairs, summoning them for dinner. So, with a brief nod, and a knowing look they left the room.

When they arrived, the table was already set, cups filled to the brim with mead, and plates loaded with venison roast, gravy, and more sides than you could imagine. It was like stumbling into Sovngarde by accident. His mother didn't delay, and ordered everyone to dig into the amazing meal.

Thorald took a seat next to Ysolda, seizing the chance to escape the purgatory of sitting between Nazeem and Vignar again. But as he settled in, he noticed Ysolda looking paler than a ghost. Leaning in, he kept his voice low, "Don't worry, nothing bad's going to happen when we tell them."

Ysolda gave a weak nod, looking on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. "That's not it. Your mother roped me into this pie scheme, but I didn't know there was going to be deception. I'm an awful liar, Thorald," she said breathing heavily, "I'm going to make things worse."

"If it falls apart, it's not on you, Ysolda," he whispered back, trying to offer a comforting smile but came out more as a grimace.

"But I need your mother to think well of me, don't you see?" she insisted, a sheen of sweat forming on her forehead.

Thorald suppressed a sigh. Here was Ysolda, caught in the same web of parental approval that Nazeem was tangled in. "Look, dessert's a long way off. Just stay cool and remember, officially, you had nothing to do with the pie debacle."

Her breathing evened out slightly, and the wild look in her eyes began to recede. But then, because the gods clearly had a sense of humor, Aunt Sigrid's hawk eyes zeroed in on them. The sight of them whispering, with Ysolda practically hyperventilating, lit up her face, her eyes full of glee.

"And what's this? How are our two lovebirds doing over here?" she practically sang.

The two of them suddenly froze, eyes darting across to Olfina, who looked equally alarmed. Thorald cleared his throat, chuckling awkwardly. "Heh, no loving, or birding going on here auntie, just having a regular conversation here"

His aunt, however, was not so easily dissuaded. She leaned in, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, you should tell Ysolda the tale of how you heroically defeated that terrible dragon which assaulted Whiterun. I still remember the day it attacked," she said looking wistfully into the distance.

"Everybody remembers that day," Thorald said.

Olfina jumped in, trying to help. "It happened quite recently, really."

"Right," Ysolda added, her voice still tinged with stress. "Er- I don't need to hear it. I live in the same town as you, Sigrid. We've all heard the tales."

Aunt Sigrid, though visibly disappointed, pressed on. "Right, well Thorald is quite the gentleman, you know. He once knocked that Bard, Sven down a peg for insulting a woman's honor!"

Thorald recalled the moment fondly, but it was less about protecting the woman's honor and more about his growing annoyance with bards.

"Yeah. Everyone already heard about Sven getting his ass kicked," Olfina said, brusquely.

"Again, I live here Sigrid."

Aunt Sigrid, with a look that was almost begging, leaned toward Thorald. "Have you done anything else impressive during your time adventuring? Darling, at least tell me you baked a good pie or something?"

Thorald squirmed at the mention of pie, shooting a nervous glance around the table. "Cut it out, Aunt Sigrid. We don't need you playing matchmaker."

"Right!" Ysolda, another shade paler, blurted out, "It's not like we were doing anything suspicious in the kitchen, anyway!" Thorald saw his mother freeze out of the corner of his eye. But worse, his aunt was gleefully starting to shake at the implication of that sentence.

Thorald groaned as aunt Sigrid clapped her hands together, "You've been doing what in the kitchen?" Sigrid tried to look scandalized, but it was ruined by her expression of obvious delight.

"Get your dramatic mind out of the gutter aunt Sigrid," Thorald said flushing, "Neither Ysolda or me are that desperate for… well, you know what!"

From the side, Olfina murmured just loud enough for him to hear, "You clearly don't know Ysolda like I do"

Thorald replied with a kick to the shins under the table, and a simple, "Gross" before moving back to Sigrid. "This has to stop, aunt Sigrid. Maybe I like where I am. Ever think of that?"

Vignar snickered, as the conversation now held the attention of the entire table, "Lone wolf, eh? You'll be howling a different tune when the cold nights come. Even Nords need a warm hearth- and an even warmer..."

"For the love of Talos, Vignar, we're at the dinner table!" Thorald cut in as the table erupted in laughter, his face as red as a tomato.

"But really, Thorald, why not?" Sigrid pressed, refusing to let the topic go. "You're a healthy young man, they call you a hero, more importantly you don't have that peculiar musk the Battle-Born's seem to carry with them. What's holding you back?"

"I... it's not that simple," Thorald stumbled over his words, feeling the walls close in around him.

Sigrid, ever persistent, leaned in. "You mentioned being well-off from your adventures. Surely, you can afford to court someone?"

"I guess I'm a workaholic," he tried to quip, "Love's flame can't burn any hotter than that of a dragon, right?" Internally, he groaned. Yet it was still better than dumping his actual thoughts on the table.

"Oh, he has such a noble soul," aunt Sigrid said, pointedly looking at Ysolda, who had decided drowning herself in mead was the best way to cope with this.

Uncle Vignar huffed. "Foolish boy. Always so damn serious. You'd think you were trying to save the world or something."

Thorald shot him a look. "I am trying to save the world, Vignar."

Vignar waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, dragons and shit. Well, don't get killed. I've got a reputation to maintain. Can't have my nephew going out like a little milk drinker."

Thorald sighed; hands tangled in his hair. "I'll try to avoid inconveniencing you with my death, uncle."

"He's not wrong though, you're being an idiot." Olfina said, teasingly. "Tighten a lute's string too hard, and it snaps."

Thorald gave her a look that screamed 'stay away from lutes and bards like Jon,' but she ignored him, continuing with her usual flair.

"Maybe what Thorald needs is a lass with the same sense of responsibility. No offence Ysolda!" though Ysolda looked grateful just to be out of the discussion.

Aunt Sigrid clasped her hands, "Yes! Someone famous!"

Olfina looked taken aback for a moment, "Well no, I was more thinking of Lyd-"

But aunt Sigrid, was swept away in a new fantastical love story, "Like Queen Elisif the fair! Oh, imagine the grandeur!"

"That traitor-" Vignar grumbled, inbetween mouthfuls.

"It's a thought exercise Vignar. Shut up for a second. So, Thorald, tell me about Elisif?"

Thorald looked at her warily, lowering his fork. "What about her?"

"You've been to Solitude. I'm asking if she lives up to her title. Is she as beautiful as they say?"

He put down his fork, shaking his head slightly. "I actually don't know. Wasn't allowed to see her. The last visitor with shouting abilities left the king in a hundred pieces, remember? Besides, the Gray-Manes aren't exactly secretive about which side we support in the civil war." He cleared his throat, recalling the encounter. "No, I was just met by two dozen guards and a profusely sweating steward."

"That just makes it more romantic, a grieving widow who needs to be swept off her feet," she said her eyes getting misty. "You're a hero! You've slain dragons! Queens love that sort of thing."

"Queens love stability, Aunt Sigrid, not dragon guts and a trail of destruction," Thorald muttered, leaning back in his chair.

Vignar once again seized the opportunity to complain about Imperial cowards, his voice grumbling through the room like an old bear awakening from hibernation. And with that the discussion was over. His complaints were nothing new, a litany of grievances against the Empire that he had repeated so often they had lost their edge. It was a kind of ritual for him, like sharpening a dull blade that would never again see battle.

Thorald's mother, ever the diplomat, quickly steered the conversation toward the upcoming wedding, where a stressed-out Eirika looked ready to bolt from the room. As soon as the discussion came up, she sat there, her hands clenching and unclenching furiously in her lap. The wedding was only three months away, and the preparations were already overwhelming. Flowers, guest lists, seating arrangements- each detail seemed to weigh on her like a stone in her shoe.

"Eirika, have you decided on the color scheme yet?" his mother asked, her voice sheltering them from Vignar's grumblings.

Eirika's eyes darted around the table, landing on Nazeem for a fleeting moment before she answered. "Uh, yes. I mean, no. I mean, we're still deciding between lavender and blue."

"Lavender," Thorald's mother said decisively. "It's elegant and serene. Blue can be so cold."

Thorald took this moment to dig into his food, savoring the rich flavors that reminded him of simpler times. He kept quiet, letting the family chatter wash over him like a distant tide. He was ruminating on what his family had said earlier. Was he actually an idiot for focusing solely on Alduin? Did they see him as a fool for chasing dragons while they dealt with everyday realities?

Thorald's thoughts drifted as he chewed slowly on a piece of roast. He thought about the last dragon he had fought, its fiery breath scorching the earth around him. It all seemed so far removed from this dining room, with its clinking cutlery and murmured conversations. And he wondered if he could ever return to where Eirika was right now. A face drawn with worry over something as simple as a color scheme.

As he pondered this, Vignar's voice cut through his thoughts like a blunt axe. "...and that's why the Empire will never win. No backbone, no spirit. Just a lot of fancy words and empty promises."

Thorald's mother shot Vignar a warning look, her eyes flashing with a rare irritation. "Vignar, please. Let's focus on the positive tonight."

The conversation drifted into silence, and a gentle kick came to his shins from Olfina. She gave him a meaningful look; it was now or never. A perfect moment to come clean about her and Ysolda.

He cleared his throat, giving Olfina a subtle nod to signal he was ready. "Mom, do you know how some people have preferences for, say, stews with carrots, while others might not?"

His mother cut in with a frown. "If you don't like the food, Thorald, you can just say so."

"No, it's not about the food-"

"Some folks just don't know good food when they see it. Like that Heimskr, shouting all day about Talos. Did you know he's never tried beans?"

Uncle Vignar, who had been nodding off into his tankard, perked up, surprised and somewhat affronted. "What? He's how old and hasn't eaten beans?"

"Look," Thorald began, already feeling a headache brewing, "I wasn't interested in Heimskr's dietary-"

"About thirty, I reckon," his mother replied, ignoring him.

Vignar was incredulous. "He's in his thirties?"

"Exactly!" she nodded, pleased to have an ally in her astonishment.

Thorald pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the conversation slip further and further from his grasp. "His age aside, I wanted to talk about-"

"Beans," Vignar repeated, as if the word itself were a revelation. "How does a man avoid beans for three decades?"

His father chimed in from across the table, oblivious to Thorald's growing frustration. "Were you talking about Heimskr? He's a strange one, alright. I've heard he has never even eaten soup."

His mother nodded sagely, "He's never had soup either, yes, that's another one."

Thorald's patience snapped. "Hold on- what?!" He couldn't contain his astonishment. "That's absurd! Soup is a staple!"

Olfina slightly tugged at his tunic, whispering his name, trying to pull him back to the actual topic.

But Thorald brushed her hand away, now fully engrossed in this nonsensical argument. "No, no, this is ridiculous! If you've never eaten soup at the age of thirty, you're just doing it out of spite!"

"Forget the soup! I'm still mad about the beans." Vignar was still stuck on the bean issue.

"Forget the soup?!" Thorald exclaimed, his frustration boiling over, "To have never had soup, is like having never smelled bread. It's insane!"

Olfina whispered more persistently now, "Thorald, stop getting involved in this dumb food argument!"

But Thorald was past the point of no return, his mind was lost in the philosophical implications of a soup-less existence. "What about when he was ill? Did his mother never serve him soup?"

His father just shrugged sheepishly, "I doubt he even grasps what soup is, as a concept."

"There are so many opportunities to have been exposed to soup!" Thorald insisted, his voice rising with each word, "Look, I've never had horker stew, but not eating a whole genre of food is OUT OF CONTROL!"

Vignar banged his fist on the table, "You're damn right he's out of control! THE MAN HAS NEVER HAD BEANS!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, VIGNAR! THEY CAN BOTH BE OUT OF CONTROL!" Thorald yelled, his voice loud enough to drown out a dragon's roar.

It was too much. Right then, Thorald's eyes shot wide open. A familiar feeling swelled up from deep within his chest, rising from his lungs to his throat and soon his lips parted against his will to let a dragon-shout escape.

"FUS-"

He clamped his mouth shut with both hands, but it was too late. The shout reverberated through the room, a wave of raw power shaking the very foundations of the house. A storm of plates, mead, venison and cutlery flew through the air as the shout moved across the table taking everything in its path with it. The sheer force sent Vignar's hat flying off his head, and overturned several tankards of mead. After the ringing sounds of cutlery, broken plates and the rustle of Eirika's bell-adorned gown, had finally subsided, a long, awkward pause fell over the table.

An unamused Uncle Vignar, brushed a stray piece of lettuce from his beard, while his mother stared mouth agape, at the mess. Slowly, their gazes turned to Thorald who sat there as a terrible feeling sunk into his bones, his hands still pressed against his mouth. It was bad enough that dinner was ruined, what if someone had gotten hurt?

He saw his sister clench her fists in frustration, as their intended discussion was now miles away. He knew she wouldn't say anything about it, out of politeness, but her disappointment was palpable. And Thorald felt as if he could sink into the floor.

His father was the first to break the silence, with a stern, "What did we say about raising your voice at family, son?"

"Uh... Sorry about that," Thorald said weakly, his voice faltering. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

Geirmund eyed the spilled mead pooling around his feet and sighed, "I guess dinner is over." None of them had finished their plates, so as a result there were now ten hungry stomachs around the table mourning the venison roast that was splattered on the floor.

"Let's look on the bright side," Aunt Sigrid said with a weak smile, "This means we can start with dessert more quickly. There's more than enough of my juniper-berry pie to fill our bellies!" Thorald met Ysolda's eyes, both their faces paling at the thought of the ruined pie coming into play.

As if on cue, his mother seemed to realize the same thing, her lip trembling. "Ah yes, the juniper pie," she said, with a rueful laugh which morphed into heaving sobs, causing the table to fall silent. "I've been looking forward to this day, for so long! The one day in the year our family is finally together again, and I just wanted things to go smoothly. Is that truly too much to ask?"

The silence hanging over the table grew even heavier, and Thorald felt a surge of guilt. He stood up hastily, "Please, mom. I'll clean up the mess, I'm really sorry. Just tell me what to do."

But she didn't seem to hear him through her sobs. Aunt Sigrid rose delicately and said, "Thorald, maybe you can help by not helping this time."

He nodded weakly, feeling a heavy weight in his chest. Once again, he felt as if coming here today was a mistake, this night was never going to end well. Dejectedly, he watched as Sigrid recruited her two sons in handling brooms for the cleanup. Erik, the youngest cousin, sidled up to him, broom in hand, face smeared with gravy.

"Your advice sucked by the way, about the food small-talk. I tried to explain to dad, all the different ways to cook beetles, but he wasn't very receptive to the idea."

Thorald stared exasperated at the 10-year-old, and sighed as the boy walked off, "Sorry to hear that, Erik."

A few moments later Thorald felt a hand on his shoulder. It was his father.

"Come on, let's have a quick chat," he said, guiding him towards his workshop. Thorald followed, the silence between them growing as the walk stretched on. Thorald felt worse by the second, while his father was deep in thought, probably preparing the earful he was going to give Thorald.

His father's workshop was a place away from the forge, where Eorlund could focus on the finishing touches on his craft. Though upon entering, Thorald noticed that this room was in worse disarray than Thorald's old bedroom, now repurposed for storage. Items were precariously piled up on shelves, threatening to tumble at any moment. While the workbenches were cluttered with half-finished projects and pieces of metal in various stages of transformation.

He'd been here a couple of times in the past, mostly when his father asked for his assistance in setting up a shelve, or something likewise. Thorald wished he could say those things always went smoothly, but usually they went something like this: "Put your hands on the log. No, keep your hand there. Here, move your hand. NO- KEEP- put your hand there, keep it there! Get your hand out of the way, KEEP IT PLACED ON THE LOG BOY! You're not even looking! Alright, you're right. I'm sorry, I won't shout again. Let's start again… ARE YOU DAFT?! KEEP YOUR HANDS ON THE LOG!"

After moving aside a few scattered containers overflowing with nails, bolts, and scraps, his father managed to light a few torches, casting a warm glow across the room. Thorald sullenly closed the door behind him, bracing himself for a long lecture about how being the Dragonborn was ruining their family.

But instead, Eorlund turned and burst into laughter.

Thorald blinked in confusion, his father's laughter catching him off guard. Eorlund was holding his sides, tears of laughter in his eyes.

"What?" Thorald asked, bewildered.

Eorlund wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "Oh, son, it's not every day I see a dining table become a battlefield. That shout of yours really livened things up."

"But I ruined dinner," Thorald muttered, feeling the guilt resurface. "Mom was crying…"

"Your mother's tears were less about dinner and more about expectations," Eorlund said kindly, falling backwards to sit on an unstable tower of crates. "She wanted a perfect family gathering, but there's no such thing, is there?"

"Still-"

Thorald's father cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I've loved that woman for thirty years, son. In a few moments she'll get over it, recollect herself and realize that she's just happy you're here. And in between all that she'll probably tell someone off for being an idiot."

Thorald nodded slowly, there was some truth to that last part at least.

"We're all glad you're here, son. But she's right on one account, once a year is not nearly enough," his father added, a hint of sternness creeping into his voice.

"Yeah dad, I'll try," Thorald said, not meeting his eyes. Planning another family visit was the last thing on his mind.

Eorlund gave him a hard long look, then sighed, "Foolish boy. Just like when you decided to chase that dragon at the watchtower with half the town's guard."

Thorald cracked a smile, the memory tinged with a mix of pride and regret. "Yeah, you were furious when I returned. Yelled at me for so long that even the Battle-Borns had sympathy for me."

He remembered that day in fragments, like shards of glass reflecting chaos. The fight itself was a blur of wind, screams, fire, and blood, but the aftermath was etched in his mind with painful clarity. The rest of his family had been awestruck until his father heard the tale. Then they tactfully vanished to the furthest corners of the house while father and son argued, except for aunt Sigrid, who couldn't resist the opportunity to boast to anyone who would listen about having a Dragonborn in the family.

His father had protested, screamed and eventually begged for him to stay, but the final nail in the coffin was when his mother showed up, travelling pack in hands. She understood from the moment the tales began to spread, that he was leaving, tears brimming in her eyes as she handed it to him.

"Jarl Balgruuf…" Eorlund stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes distant. "Is he still miffed at me for giving him a piece of my mind when he sent you off to the Greybeards?"

"You did what?" Thorald said exasperated, "Is that why no-one at the Dragonsreach can look me in the eye properly?"

""Aye. Told him he had no right to send my boy off into the mountains like some sacrificial lamb. You never should have gone there," He turned away, crossing his arms defensively. "I still believe that."

"There are enough blacksmiths, Dad, Olfina can-"

"Oh, forget all that," Eorlund barked, "This isn't about you taking over the family business. It's about your safety!"

Thorald startled as his father rarely showed much emotion, "The world needs the dragonborn. I can save-"

"Nonsense!" he replied, standing abruptly, and nearly toppling the precarious tower of equipment crates he was sitting on. "There are thousands of guards and adventurers out there willing to risk their lives, let them sort it out! You are my son! I need you safe," he said his voice softening with each word, a tremor slipping through.

"I…" Thorald swallowed heavily, "If I had stayed... I wouldn't be able to call myself a Gray-Mane without feeling like a fraud. I wouldn't be the son you could be proud of."

Eorlund's eyes bore into his, a mix of frustration, love, and helplessness swirling within. "And what good is pride if it costs me my son? You've always been stubborn, just like your old man. But stubbornness won't keep you alive out there."

"I can't turn my back on this, Dad. I have to see it through," Thorald said quietly, and he saw his father's posture slump slightly at those words.

Eorlund deflated, the fight draining out of him. "Dragonborn or no, you're a hero at heart, son. That's always been something I've been proud of." Then after a slight pause he sighed and his eyes softened, "A man's heart often chooses his path for him, doesn't it? I was fearful that day the Greybeards called your name." He continued, reaching out to clasp Thorald's shoulders firmly. "The world gained a dragonborn, but every day, I fear it meant losing a son."

Thorald felt a lump forming in his throat, words failing him. He simply nodded, letting his father's hands anchor him.

"Every day, your mother and I worry that we're living on borrowed time with you," Eorlund's voice broke slightly. "So don't judge us too harshly for wanting to steal a few days extra."

Thorald took a deep breath, "Once Alduin is defeated, I'll be back all the time dad. I promise, I'll come back…" but they both knew it wasn't a promise he could really make. Alduin wasn't a back-alley thug; he was the World-Eater. And even if he did return, it might be as a completely different man.

But promises aside, he pulled his father into a strong hug, hoping it conveyed more than words ever could. And Eorlund clung to him, a silent plea for the promise to come true. Even if death was a certainty, you could still fight against the hour it would arrive. And right now, Thorald pleaded to the Gods to grant him as many hours as they could spare.

After a while they released each other, both men were silent, save for the occasional clearing of the throat. And they pretended not to notice any tears that were quickly wiped away from the corner of their eyes. When Thorald was young, he remembered his mother telling him about how eyes are the guides in love. It is shown not only in the way eyes meet each other, but also in the way eyes look away from each other. For all her sharp remarks, that one had always rung true for him.

After a short silence, his father clasped his shoulder, and cleared his throat. "Right. Time for dessert." Thorald grunted in agreement, and Eorlund started to guide him to the dining room again. Yet a sinking feeling crept up on Thorald as he remembered the pie disaster that was awaiting them at the table.

As they walked, Eorlund broke the silence with a hoarse "So… Lydia, huh?"

"Don't even start, dad- Wait a minute, hold on…" an idea suddenly burst into Thorald's mind. Maybe there still was a way out of the pie debacle. He turned to his father "Dessert's going to have to wait. Can you stall them for five minutes longer? This is really important."

For a moment, Eorlund gave him a questioning look, but then he gave a slight nod and started walking away like a dad on a mission. A father's promise to act like the biggest buffoon in Skyrim, if only it meant he could delay dessert for a few more minutes. Thorald silently made his way to the back door and snuck out, a plan forming in his mind.