Many days passed. With each cycle of the sun and moons the air grew colder. By now the people of Skyrim entered the final days of Sun's Dusk, and with it, the start of bitter winter.
Mo'aksa bathed in the icy cold river outside his tent. The cold water was a shock to him and made his hair stand on end, but by now he had grown to enjoy this ritual. He found the clear water of Skyrim was refreshing. Thanks to the fact that it was mostly runoff from snowmelt up in the mountains, it was the purest in all of Tamriel. Mo'aksa raised a handful of water to his lips and lapped it up, allowing the cool sensation to course through him.
The wounds he received from Skuli the Shameless had begun to close, but not enough time had passed to fully heal them. He cleaned the cuts daily in this stream and dressed them each night with freshly-cleaned fabric scraps, also washed in the stream. Over the years he had needed to tend his own wounds quite regularly, and as such he had grown used to the process. He had no training in restoration magic but his humble doctoring had worked thus far so he saw no need for it. His body was covered in scars, but for the most part his fur grew in thick enough to hide them. He winced as he wrapped the cut which ran from his right shoulder across his chest. This was the deepest injury he sustained that day, and thanks to its placement, it was difficult to move his dominant arm without causing pain. This one may not heal as gracefully as the others, he speculated.
Just as Mo'aksa was busily wrapping himself in bandages, he heard the crunch of leaves from near his camp. His ears followed the noise as it grew louder. He grasped a small dagger with his left hand, his weapon of choice since his axe had been destroyed in the last battle. Mo'aksa watched as a figure approached him from the front. A nord man, simply clothed, with a hemp satchel at his side. On seeing this, he relaxed his grip of the blade and slouched comfortably on the bank of the creek.
"You there! Are you the khajiit known as Mo'aksa?" called the Nord.
"Yes. What can khajiit do for you?"
"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver - your hands only. Let's see here..." he said as he fished around in his bag for a stiff parchment. "Here's a letter from the Jarl's steward. Looks like official business," he handed it to Mo'aksa, and sure enough, on the front was a seal with the head of a horse, Whiterun's symbol, pressed into it. Mo'aksa furrowed his brow.
"How… did you find Mo'aksa?" he asked, looking back up at the courier.
"Looks like that's it. Got to go!" the courier turned on his heel and began running in the other direction. Mo'aksa stopped him.
"No really. Mo'aksa lives out in the wastes. He has never seen you before. How did you find this camp?" The courier shrugged.
"Sorry, no time to chat. Got important deliveries to make!" he said before at last dashing off over the hills. Mo'aksa watched him cross the horizon, his train of thought completely broken. A breeze came and almost blew the paper from his hands, calling his attention back to the letter.
'From the jarl of Whiterun? What on earth could they want with a wanderer like Mo'aksa?' He used the side of his claw to tear the seal and unfold the letter. Inside was a summons to Dragonsreach for an audience with the Jarl and no other details. It only indicated to arrive before the Jarl promptly after receiving the note. Mo'aksa's mind raced trying to think of a reason for such a summons. It couldn't be that Ri'saad turned him in and they were collecting on a bounty, could it? Surely if that were the case they would have sent a mercenary, not a scrawny courier. But then, what other reason could there be for a local king to send for him? Mo'aksa never liked government buildings, and the last thing he wanted to do was take a chance on losing everything he had gained by walking straight into a trap.
But then again, if he made his way back to Whiterun with a summon from the Jarl, even if Ri'saad and his caravan were there, what more could they do? It wasn't as if they could turn him in if the Jarl already knew. And with this letter, the guards would have to allow him into the city, and once inside… once inside…
'Ysolda would be there.' He looked down at the note and then to his shoddy dwelling. 'Heh, a prison cell would be far more comfortable than this…' he thought, smiling to himself. In his experience, prisons actually provided a fair number of comforts which were difficult to come by as a fugitive. He folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers. He slipped the knife into a sheath at his hip and dusted himself off. After a brief stretch, he began walking towards the looming walls in the distance, leaving his camp behind. What did he have to lose, really?
l===============================l
Mo'aksa arrived at the gates of Whiterun proper within two hours. To his delight the Khajiit caravan which threatened him last time was nowhere in sight, and even more shockingly, the guards readily opened the gates for him. No questioning, no pat down, nothing. Mo'aksa found this strange but not unwelcome. He strolled into the city, looking around at the wooden buildings as he went. His posture appeared nonchalant, but inside he was extremely tense, preparing for an attack at any moment. He reached into his memory for the path to Ysolda's market stall, which as he recalled, was a brief stroll from the gates to the main market circle. However, when he arrived in this area he saw only the usual hustle and bustle. Ysolda's stall, rather than being empty, was actually completely missing. In its place was a small counter from behind which an older woman peddled fine jewelry.
A familiar melody called out to him. The fluttering intonations of her voice came rolling down the wooden steps that lead to the wind district, and just behind them was Ysolda, happily bounding down the road and abruptly into Mo'aksa's arms. He caught her as she wrapped her arms around him, but winced as she made contact with his injury. She looked up at him with a beaming face.
"Mo'aksa, I'm so glad to see you! Where have you been all this time?" she asked.
"Uh… Mo'aksa has been in his camp in the plains. Where else?" he replied.
"Do you have any idea how worried I was? You had such awful injuries last time I saw you! I heard nothing from you for weeks, so I feared the worst!" she said, burying her face in his chest. Mo'aksa leaned around to look at her leg. He remembered it looking seriously broken last time, but now just a few weeks later she was running around with no problem.
"You… have healed quickly!" he remarked, bending down to examine her right calf. Ysolda shyly tucked her leg behind her.
"Actually, it was this one," she said, sticking the toes of the left leg forward. "It was only fractured apparently, and thanks to the healers at the temple of Kynareth, it's good as new!" She raised her other leg and twirled on the previously injured one, demonstrating its strength. Mo'aksa was dumbstruck. "It took a couple of sessions, but you can't argue with the results of healing magic. There's not even a mark left behind," she said, smiling. "How about you? Did you get any treatment for your wounds?"
"Mo'aksa is always a fast healer. There is nothing a bandit could do to this one that would ever weaken him!" he said with bravado. Of course it was a complete bluff, for beneath the doublet he had on he was covered in bandages. But Ysolda smiled and nodded, none the wiser.
"Come with me, there is something I want to give you!" she said, tugging on Mo'aksa's arm.
"Khajiit is here to see the Jarl today. He has received a letter and must go quickly. Mo'aksa is not one to anger those who have armies at their command," he replied, holding out the letter he had received that morning. Ysolda glanced at it briefly and then back at Mo'aksa.
"Well you certainly can't go to the Jarl dressed like that!" Ysolda said, pointing out the grimy pelts and aforementioned doublet which had numerous holes through which his white fur poked out. Mo'aksa raised an eyebrow at her. "Just come with me. He's waited until now, another hour won't kill the man!" Mo'aksa sighed with a smile. In truth, he didn't give a toss about making the Jarl wait. In his mind it was a last hurrah before lengthy imprisonment, or perhaps worse.
He allowed Ysolda to pull him through the market, past all of the stalls and shoppers, and up to the entrance of the Bannered Mare. He smiled, remembering their first meeting in this very building. When he entered the place the smell of Nord cooking greeted his nostrils, and the warmth of the hearth kissed his fur. At this time there were no patrons in the tavern that he could see, so the usually lively atmosphere was quite calm today. Ysolda led him through the main bar and into the kitchen, and from there up a flight of steps and into a room in the back. It was a simple room with a dusty bed, an old closet, and a small polished-bronze mirror hanging on one of the walls.
Ysolda went over to the bed to pick up a pile of neatly folded clothes and hand them to Mo'aksa. He examined them and then looked at her with confusion.
"Do you know Adrienne? The blacksmith?" she asked. Mo'aksa shook his head. "Ok well Adrienne is one of my friends, and her husband, Ulfberth, happens to be one of the largest men in Whiterun. I asked her if he had any clothes he didn't need anymore, and with a few adjustments, I think we have something here that you can wear!" she explained, happily. "Go ahead and try it on, I'll be in the kitchen. Come down when you're ready."
With this she shut the door and Mo'aksa heard footsteps trail off. He looked at the neatly creased fabrics before him with bewilderment, but nonetheless he unfolded the clothing she gave him and slipped it on. Pulling on the tundra-cotton undershirt caused him pain, as trying to squeeze into the shirt pulled on his injury. He groaned, but managed to get the thing on his body. Surprisingly it fit decently, the sleeves were just a touch too short and the chest a hair too tight. Compared to the pelts he had been wearing though it was definitely an upgrade. Next was a red tunic which he slipped over his shoulders and then laced in the front. It had a lining underneath which was quite warm, and after latching a leather belt over the hip, it fit quite well. All that remained was a pair of dark trousers, which he found had an opening stitched in the back for his tail. Putting them on was a bit of a hassle since he had to try and slip his tail through the hole before he could pull them up, but once they were on he felt comfortable. After sliding back into his shoes, he took a look at himself in the mirror, and for once, he thought he looked like a real civilian.
Downstairs, Ysolda was happily setting the bench in the kitchen for a short lunch with the other girls working in the tavern. As she prepared an extra space for Mo'aksa, she was suddenly struck with a thought. She quickly bounded out of the inn and to her home not far outside it, frantically rummaging around her cabinets for something. When she returned, she found Mo'aksa had descended from the steps and was looking around for her.
"Mo'aksa has dressed. It is very warm. He thanks you for this," he said with a smile. The tip of his tail happily waved from side to side. Ysolda smiled back, admiring the patchwork she had done on the old tunic. Hopefully he would never notice all of the holes she had to close in the thing!
"You look sharp! We still have a bit before the girls are ready for lunch. Would you care to join us?" she asked. Mo'aksa looked surprised but nodded happily. Ysolda pulled a small wooden bowl with a lid from behind her back and held it up to him. With an awkward laugh she said "Since we have some time, I was thinking you could help me use this up before the guards confiscate it from me!"
Mo'aksa, puzzled, picked up the bowl. He lifted the lid to see that familiar translucent powder inside. He burst out laughing.
"Why do you still have this? Hasn't it cause you enough trouble," he said, catching his breath from laughter. Ysolda laughed back.
"Well how the heck am I supposed to get rid of it? I can't just leave outside for the trash man to take!" They both laughed together. Mo'aksa smiled tenderly. It was a genuine smile which warmed Ysolda's heart to see.
"There is one recipe Mo'aksa can show you. It is quick," he said. Ysolda nodded and led him to the cooking spit across from the table. He grabbed a number of vegetables and meats and dusted them with the powder. He explained his process as he went, expertly chopping and dicing everything before tossing it into the pot. He added a bit of water and placed a cover over it. Ysolda watched and listened, mystified by his quick and confident movements as he grabbed ingredients and spices.
After letting the pot remain covered for a bit, Ysolda began making small talk. "Where did you learn to cook?" she asked. Mo'aksa lifted the lid and stirred everything around, adding some flour to it every now and again.
"Mo'aksa learned to cook from his mother," he said warmly. Ysolda recognized again that this was the smile he had when remembering his home. "This one never knew his father, so mother and I had to get by on our own. When mother could not cook, Mo'aksa had to do it himself," he chuckled, "she had one too many burnt meals before deciding to show Mo'aksa how to cook properly."
"You must be close!"
"Oh yes," he said, stirring the pot once more. "Mo'aksa misses her greatly."
"Is she by herself in Elsweyr now?" Mo'aksa paused and set the lid down. There was a brief silence.
"She is not in Elsweyr… but wherever she is, Mo'aksa knows she is not alone," he said. Ysolda felt her face redden, realizing she had perhaps crossed a line, but when Mo'aksa turned to look at her his smile was unchanged from before. "She had many friends. Wherever she went, she could not help but make new friends."
"She sounds like a lovely person," Ysolda replied. Just then, the door clattered open, and in came the stout Nord lady Mo'aksa had spoken to weeks ago in this very tavern.
"What is that incredible smell?" she exclaimed as she walked into the kitchen. Mo'aksa smiled and Ysolda rushed up to greet her.
"Hello Hulda! Look, I got Mo'aksa to cook us an Elsweyrian dish today," said Ysolda. The two went on chatting about this and that, doting on Mo'aksa and taste-testing his moon sugar stew. Quietly, a Redguard woman also approached the room and took a seat at the table, followed by everyone else moving to their place settings. Mo'aksa poured his stew into a couple of bowls and set them out on the table. The four of them broke bread together and exchanged stories, the room filling with laughter and merriment. Now the atmosphere felt like a tavern, but more intimate. Mo'aksa was quiet for most of the duration, but he felt warm inside. Being seated at a table with friendly faces was a feeling he hadn't known in quite a long time. Ysolda looked over to him and smiled. Nervously he smiled back.
"You know, this dish reminds me a bit of the food from Hammerfell." said the Redguard woman as she took a spoonful of the stew. "I've been wondering why the Nords even have all these spices if they never use them!"
"Ah, Mo'aksa also wondered this!"
"Hey, if you feel that way then why don't you start cooking for the inn, hm, Saadia?" Hulda replied.
"Last time Saadia cooked something I could see the smoke from halfway across the hold!" Ysolda said.
"Eating food is one thing, cooking it is another okay?" Saadia said defensively. They all laughed together.
After cleaning up from their lunch, Hulda and Saadia set about preparing the tavern for that evening. Ysolda and Mo'aksa said a brief goodbye and then went out into the market, the crowd having only grown during the brief interval of their meal. Mo'aksa was uneasy in large crowds, but Ysolda was plenty accustomed to them. She confidently took him by the hand and led him up into the wind district, past the withering tree and the noisy priest, and up the stairs to Dragonsreach Hall.
"I can't go in with you, but I'll be waiting on the steps for you to come out," she said. She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing bad."
"Well, Mo'aksa is not so sure," he said, looking down at her. She laughed briefly as a guard came up to them. Mo'aksa showed his letter, and just like that, he was escorted inside the building.
l===============================l
Ysolda sat down on a ledge overlooking the small retention pond behind the statue of Talos. Overlooking the city, she watched as birds fluttered in and rested on the barren branches of the Gildergreen. From this point the noise of the market was no more than a quiet rolling sound, and the only thing she really heard was the clang of iron from the Skyforge a short distance away. She impatiently swung her legs out as they dangled over the water's surface, watching their reflection. Her mind was busy as she considered all the things she needed to say, to such an extent that she hardly noticed the passage of time. Before long, she heard the shuffle of footsteps come down the stairs, and when she looked over, she saw Mo'aksa's form, looking rather troubled. She stood to greet him.
"You're back! How did it go?" she asked expectantly. She imagined him to be elated after the news, but somehow he looked more downtrodden than when he went in. In his hands he held a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He was looking down at it with his ears folded against his head. "... Mo'aksa?"
"He thanked me…" Mo'aksa said, his voice trailing off. "The jarl said that Mo'aksa had done something even his entire guard could not accomplish. He thanked me on behalf of Whiterun and gave me this," he said, unwrapping the parcel to reveal an intricately crafted steel axe. It was decorated with traditional nordic knots, and on the hilt was an eagle, the symbol of Eorlund Gay-mane's Skyforge. It was the finest blade Mo'aksa ever had the pleasure to hold. His face seemed deeply troubled, which confused Ysolda. But she had more to share with him, so she would have to move past it and hope for the best.
"That's not all," she said. Mo'aksa's ears perked up and he looked at her with eyes full of wonder. "I talked it over with Hulda, and she said that she's willing to offer you an employee room to stay in at the Bannered Mare. I negotiated with her so she'll lower the rent for you if you promise to hunt game for them every once in a while," she said with pride. Ysolda waited to hear words of praise or gratitude, but to her shock, Mo'aksa fell to his knees. "W-what's wrong?"
"I-I have never…" he began, his voice choking up. He took a sharp inhale, and when Ysolda drew in closer, she saw tears welling in his eyes. He gripped the axe tightly, and drew another sharp breath. "Mo'aksa has never known such… kindness." Ysolda's heart ached.
"I wanted to apologize for what happened when you came to save me," Mo'aksa made eye contact with her, his breathing still punctuated by quiet sobs. "At the time I didn't know how to react. Ri'saad told me awful things about you, and after being hurt by Skuli, I couldn't trust that anyone would try to help me." She wiped her own eyes. "But I realized when I got back how awful and selfish it was for me to be afraid of your appearance… after you risked life and limb to come save me, and I couldn't even muster a simple 'thank you'!" her voice grew strained. She reached out and put her soft hand against his cheek. "And after I lost contact with you, I thought... " she paused, her fingers gently squeezing his fur. "...I thought that would be the last thing I ever said to you."
Mo'aksa cupped his hand around hers and leaned into her palm. Her skin was warm, and he could feel a hot tear dripping onto her fingers. "Never in his life has Mo'aksa ever been treated this way. He doesn't know what to say," he said quietly. Ysolda laughed and sniffled and then brought her forehead to touch his. They both rested there for a moment, the cool winter breeze rustling their hair.
"You don't have to say anything. Just being here is enough."
"But do you know who Mo'aksa is? He is not worthy…"
"Whoever you were before, it doesn't matter to me. You're here with me now, and in all the time I've known you, you have done nothing but help me and treat me with kindness. I only hope I'm able to repay you for it." Mo'aksa bit his lower lip, his eyebrows tense. "The people of Elsweyr are fools if they scorn you."
"He does not deserve it," he said quietly.
"I know," Ysolda replied.
They sat on that ledge, high above the city of Whiterun, with their foreheads pressed together. Clouds rolled by overhead and wind enveloped them. The bitter cold of winter was all around them, but neither one felt the least bit cold.
~Chapter 8 END~