Chapter Sixteen: An Outsider's Eyes (Part One)

Brand

Our honeymoon, such as it is, consists of traveling Skyrim to visit friends and let them know we're married. When we reach Whiterun, our hometown, Jarl Balgruuf and his household throw a giant feast. Dragonsreach is ablaze with light and laughter. Someone hangs garlands of flowers and greenery from the rafters and there are colorful paper lanterns on the columns.

Balgruuf slaps me on the back and shoves brimming cups of mead into our hands as we walk up to the dias. Lydia and Anoriath appear with an entire boar over their shoulders, staggering under its weight. Balgruuf's chef gets it on a spit in the central firepit and the aroma of roasting meat fills the hall. Hulda brings sticky honey treats and sweatrolls from the Bannered Mare, along with casks of ale and mead, until even Dagny seems sated. Mikael plays lively music in the corner and keeps his fingers to his lute for once. It feels like the whole town is packed into Dragonsreach to celebrate. We feast and drink and dance long into the night. Borgakh and I fall into a guest room upstairs at some ungodly hour in the morning.

I wake up to mid-morning sunlight spilling into the room with a splitting headache and little memory of where I am. Until I blink bleary eyes and look over to see Borgakh sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. Her bare back and broad shoulders intrigue me in the morning light and I watch appreciatively as she stretches, shoulder muscles pulling her skin taut. She wears only a towel loosely draped about her waist - she must've already been up and bathed.

I yawn.

She turns her head, eyeing me lazily over her shoulder. "Awake now, elf?"

"Mph." I grumble and bury my head deeper into the pillows.

She laughs. "At least Sanguine wasn't involved this time."

I groan.

Borgakh leans over and the sun streaming in through our room's lone window strikes my side of the bed.

"No, don't move," I plead, closing my eyes.

"Brand." Her voice is soft. Her tongue flickers up my ear.

I shiver. "Too bright," I mutter.

Borgakh leans closer and covers my face with her shadow. Then her lips brush mine and she kisses me. Her hands caress my shoulders a moment later, gently massaging my neck and back. I sigh.

"What did you ever do before me?" she asks playfully.

"Trashed temples, sold goats and proposed to hagravens, apparently."

She laughs, but even I have a slight smile on my lips.

"I was there for those," she reminds me.

"So you were."

She continues to massage my shoulders. "Before that, what did you do?"

I grimace. I think about refuting the fact that my head is pounding and my tongue feels like cotton, but Borgakh will call me on it. I probably look terrible. If she was paying any attention last night, she noticed how many tankards of mead I downed. There's no denying it was too many. "Avoided the sun, wished I was dead."

Borgakh's hands pause. "Wished you were dead?"

"Don't stop. Please."

She resumes. "Why would you wish you were dead?"

"It was only once."

She waits.

I sigh. "Someone spiked my drink."

"You, the Dragonborn?"

"Well, I wasn't Dragonborn then."

"You were-"

"I didn't know I was Dragonborn then." I feel something tighten in my chest, slipping in and souring my mood. I drag myself half upright, leaning on one elbow, to face Borgakh. Her hands fall to her lap as I move and she tilts her head questioningly.

"That was the night I was arrested. Back in Valenwood," I continue. "It wasn't entirely oversight on my part. There was an agent of the crown trailing me and he spiked my drinks to ensure I'd be in no condition to fight back when they made the arrest."

Borgakh is quiet for a moment. Then she simply nods. After all, there's not much to say and she does not waste words on empty apologies. I make move to get up, but she playfully pushes me back to the pillows.

I fall back with a huff.

"You stay there," she says, mock-stern. "I am going to find the steward to draw you a hot bath."

I lay back on the bed.

"Things will look better after a bath." Borgakh winks knowingly. She leans down and pulls a tunic off the floor, sliding it on. She roots around some more and finds a pair of pants. Barefoot, she pads out of the room to seek out Proventus Avenicci.

I realize that for maybe the first time I can remember, Borgakh didn't wake up and put on her armor. I roll over, my back to the window, and look at the decorative wooden screen that creates a small bathing corner. I smile as I imagine Borgakh soaking in the tub while I slept. Because all of this means that she feels relaxed here with me.

She truly feels at home.

I don't know what I did to deserve Borgakh, but whatever it is, I thank the Divines for it.

I get welcomed by the orcs as heartily as we did in Whiterun. Borgakh's family invites me into the clan with heavy slaps on the back that nearly send me to my knees and more loud revelry and drinking. As it is, I still have bruises across my shoulders by the time we ride up into the hills on the edge of The Rift to Largashbur, one of the last strongholds on our trip.

"So, Borgakh, anybody here I should watch out for?" I ask. While most of the orcs we've met have been welcoming, or at least only vaguely suspicious of me, there are a few who have been hostile and do not approve of Borgakh's decision to marry an outsider, even with my status as blood-kin.

Borgakh opens her mouth to answer, but she's interrupted by the sound of fighting coming from over the ridge. I hear what sounds like a giant's roar and somebody clanging a weapon against a shield. There are shouts and the sharp twang of a bowstring. Borgakh and I give each other a glance and spur our mounts over the hill. We ride down the other side to see a giant attacking the front gates of Largashbur. Three orcs surround the giant, harrying it from different sides.

Borgakh nods at me and we jump into the fray.

"Krii Lun Aus!" I Shout as I leap off my horse and draw my sword. A wash of purple energy hits the giant and he staggers as his life essence ebbs. The orcs at first look wary, assessing whether we're a threat or not, but when Borgakh charges into the fray, warhammer raised for a crushing blow, they shout battle cries and renew their attack. We make short work of the giant.

Afterwards, we stand over his fallen corpse, breathing heavily and giving each other relieved grins. One of the orc warriors walks up to me and Borgakh. "Thank you." She holds out a hand to Borgakh. Borgakh grips her forearm and the two shake.

She turns to me and scowls. "Outsider. We did not ask for your help."

I frown and reach into my tunic, beneath my cuirass, to pull out the bloodied orc tusk that rests against my chest. I slip the cord over my head and hold it out to her. "I did not offer it," I say. "I merely saw a chance for glory alongside my blood-kin."

Borgakh looks proud.

The orc doesn't look impressed, but she leans forward to get a better look at the tusk. She looks over at Borgakh.

"He speaks the truth?" she asks.

"Usually," Borgakh says.

The orc looks stymied as if she wasn't expecting Borgakh's answer. I bite my lip on a smile. Borgakh has picked up too much of my sarcasm.

When the orc continues to look unconvinced, Borgakh elaborates. "He speaks the truth. His name is Brand and my clan at Mor Kazghur named him blood-kin some time ago. He is also my husband."

I can't tell if the orc is more shocked by the fact that I'm blood-kin or that I'm married to Borgakh. I smile at her and put my necklace back around my neck, leaving it outside my armor for now. She narrows her eyes, but she concedes. "The orcs of Mor Kazghur are a good tribe." She looks back at Borgakh. "That would make you Borgakh the Steel-Heart, yes?"

Borgakh nods. "I'm surprised you've heard of me."

"You've become something of a…legend." I can't tell by the way she says it if she means that's good or bad. She eyes me again. "I am Ugor. I wish I could say well met, blood-kin, but this is not the time for visitors to Largashbur."

"Why not?" I ask.

Ugor's nose scrunches. "It is not a problem to burden outsiders with." She starts to turn away when another orc at the wall steps forward. She's dressed in the black robes of a priestess - the tribe's wise woman, I assume.

"Do not be so hasty, Ugor" she says.

Ugor scowls at her.

"Perhaps they can help," the wise woman murmurs.

"This is not a problem for outsiders, Atub. Yamarz will provide. We do not need meddlers."

"These are not outsiders," Atub presses. She glances over Ugor's shoulder at us.

I meet her eye. I wonder if she means for us to hear this conversation. Something tells me she does.

Ugor glares at Atub a while longer, then she grips the handle of her war axe tightly and nods once. "Fine. Butdo notspread word that they are here to help."

Atub nods. Ugor motions for the other orc warriors to follow her and the three proceed back inside the gates of Largashbur.

"Trouble, golzarga?" Borgakh asks. Though I don't know the exact meaning of the word Borgakh uses to address the wise-woman, I've heard her use it before as some sort of honorific.

Atub watches Ugor and her companion disappear inside the gates before she answers. "Yes."

I raise my eyebrows, but I let Borgakh take the lead here. After all, the orcs already seem skittish of me and she'll know how best to handle the situation.

"Can we help?" Borgakh asks.

"I hope so," Atub sighs. "Much as I might not want to seek help outside the tribe, I believe an outsider may be what we need right now." She sighs. "Our tribe is going through…growing pains. Ones that no one inside the tribe wants to acknowledge. For us to break free of this cycle, I believe we need someone who can look at the problem with a fresh eye."

"What is going on?" Borgakh asks.

"Malacath has withdrawn his favor from our tribe. Our chief grows weak and does not want to admit it. He has shamed us and will not lift a finger to restore our connection with Malacath. If he does nothing, our tribe will fall. The giants have already sensed our weakness and become a problem. Without intervention, who knows what else may assault the tribe?"

Borgakh and I nod grimly. After all, Skyrim is full of dangers. Giants are relatively small problems compared to, say, dragons. A weak Orc tribe could become a target for Stormcloaks, Thalmor, or other bands of thieves and miscreants. Maybe even other Orcs if they decide the weakness is a danger to the rest of the Orsimer.

"How do we get Malacath's favor back?" I finally ask.

Atub regards me for a long moment, but her look isn't hostile. "You do not, Outsider," she says, though she uses the term more as a matter-of-fact than an insult. "Blood-kin though you are, Malacath may not bend his ear to you."

She holds up a hand to forestall my protest.

"I am not saying you cannot help, but I will commune with Malacath. If you can procure me a daedra's heart and some troll fat, I would be most grateful. Chief Yamarz has forbidden us to leave the stronghold at this time. I will prepare what I have here and await your return."

Borgakh nods like collecting a daedra's heart is a completely normal past-time. Even in my wild rambles of Skyrim, those are rare.

"Besides," Atub smiles grimly. "Your errand will give me enough time to accustom Chief Yamarz to your presence. He is very…resistant to visitors these days."

Borgakh gives Atub a short bow and I follow suit. "Consider it done, golzarga," she says.

In the end, it doesn't take us nearly as long to find a daedra heart as I expect and the troll fat is easy. We ride back to Largashbur the following day around mid-afternoon with the ingredients. Ugor meets us at the gates and though she's still scowling (or maybe that's just the tusks), she takes us to Atub without question.

Atub is in a small hut at the edge of the stronghold, mixing ingredients and crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle. "Ah, you have returned. Do you have the ingredients?"

"We do," Borgakh hands them over.

"Good." Atub nods. "I need more time to fully prepare and we must wait for nightfall to begin the ritual. Ugor!" Atub calls out to the warrior, who lingers in the doorway.

She salutes.

"Take our guests to Yamarz and introduce them. Make sure they are well-provided for."

Ugor nods and motions for us to follow, still giving me a side-eye. As we cross the stronghold courtyard, I fall back and Borgakh matches her stride to mine.

"Would it be more helpful if I bow out of this one?" I ask in a low voice.

Borgakh looks surprised that even suggested it and shakes her head. "No. They get us both or they don't get our help at all. Besides, like Atub said, I think an outsider's fresh eyes will help most here. While I am not of this tribe, I'm still an orc. The Dragonborn may be just what they need."

Ugor looks back at us, one eyebrow raised, a question in her eyes. When neither of us answer, she frowns and motions for us to hurry up. She takes us to the longhouse and bids us wait at the door while she prepares the chief for our introduction.

I glance at Borgakh. She scowls. This isn't typical of orcish tradition. The chief's refusal to see us without an introduction from one of his tribe feels more elvish than orcish. It's a heavy-handed gesture of power or an ill-disguised attempt at hiding weakness.

Ugor returns at that moment and opens the longhouse door. "You may enter," she says to Borgakh. She pointedly ignores me.

Borgakh steps inside. I follow two steps behind, content to let her handle the chief. He is a big orc, strong and well-muscled, though there are streaks of silver in his black hair and his body shows signs of age and relaxation. He sits on a fur-draped, throne-like chair at the center of the longhouse, wearing a rust-red tunic and the gauntlets and greaves from a set of steel armor. A full set of orcish war-plate is displayed behind him, complete with a wicked looking orcish sword and bow.

Borgakh bows with one arm across her torso. "Well met, Chief Yamarz."

Yamarz grunts.

"I am Borgakh the Steel-Heart, lately of Mor Kazghur, and this is my husband, Brand Dragonborn, blood-kin." She says Dragonborn more like it's my name than a title as she steps to the side, so that Yamarz can get a good look at me.

I don't bow, but I don't posture either. I simply stand under the chief's scrutiny, my blood-stained orc-tusk once more displayed over my armor on its leather cord.

Yamarz looks displeased at our presence and not impressed by any of the names or titles Borgakh just used.

"Why are you in my stronghold?" he asks. No introductions, no niceties.

"We have come to visit our brethren and announce my marriage to Brand," Borgakh says. "We were asked to stay by your wise-woman, Atub."

Yamarz scowls at me, as if I've said or done something wrong. "Atub has no right to extend guest-law to strangers."

"We are hardly strangers," Borgakh points out.

Yamarz grunts again.

"Do you not allow guests in your stronghold?" Borgakh asks, voice low, but neutral.

"Perhaps Larak is softer, but I do not prefer guests I have not approved of," Yamarz says. "My tribe should not presume on their chief like this."

Borgakh's eyes flash, but she holds her tongue. After all, Yamarz just insulted her father. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying something angry on her behalf. Though an orcish chief holds full sway over his tribe, he's supposed to lead with their best interest in mind, not his own petty desires and eccentricities. Besides the chief, a tribe's wise-woman is pretty high on the totem pole, since she's the liaison between the tribe and Malacath. Yamarz is treading dangerous waters.

I've seen this attitude before. It is not unique to any one race on Mundus. Easy power breeds sloth and it chokes and kills faster than pure cowardice or avarice. It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to revert to a similar position. If all the legends are to be believed, I'm one of the most powerful beings to walk Mundus. It still surprises me that the Divines vested their power in someone as flawed as myself, but I suppose for all my faults, crushing those around me isn't one of them.

If Yamarz isn't careful, his people will perish under his negligent hand. They're already poised to fight amongst themselves, which leaves them more vulnerable to the giants or any other challenger who might take on the stronghold. Atub is right to be concerned.

"We do not presume on your goodwill, Chief," Borgakh finally says. "But we have been offered a place to stay the night in your tribe." Borgakh meets the Chief's gaze and holds it, daring him to contradict her.

He could throw us out right now, but it would make him look weak, as if he's afraid of us. It would elevate both Borgakh and my power in the eyes of the tribe.

Something, I am very certain, Yamarz doesn't want to do. So even though I very much want to demonstrate my power over the chief, I keep my peace.

Yamarz stares at Borgakh for a long while, weighing her words.

"We are merely here as guests," Borgakh continues when Yamarz does not. "Guests pose no harm to you or your tribe."

She's right. Guests, in orcish tradition, while honored, have no vote or power in a tribe's hierarchy.

Yamarz stands up then, the movement abrupt. It would have looked more impressive had he taken his time. "You'd best not," he says, the threat thinly veiled. "I expect you to conduct yourselves according to guest-law and cause no trouble while you are in our walls."

I raise an eyebrow. I didn't think we'd conducted ourselves in a mannerunaccordingto guest-law yet.

Yamarz glares heavily at me, though he addresses Borgakh. "I expect you have familiarized this one with our laws?"

"I'm not deaf, you know," I cut in before Borgakh can answer. "Or dumb. I do speak Tamrielic. And I do know enough about the Orcs not to get myself killed in a stronghold." I hold up my tusk amulet. "Blood-kin, remember? In fact, I've just been on a tour of pretty much all the strongholds in Skyrim, and I have yet to have anyone complain about my behavior as a guest." I meet Yamarz's eye and don't look away.

Yamarz scowls and blusters. "Very well, Dragonborn." The word, in his mouth, is a title and not a very kind one. "I expect you to refrain from any uncouth behavior while you are here. Do not meddle in the affairs of the tribe. We do not need your help or your presence. I will grant it only as a courtesy to your…" he stares at Borgakh this time, "...wife." He spits the world as barely more than an insult.

Borgakh stares him down until he looks away.

Then she bows once more. "We will be quiet guests, Chief Yamarz, and will leave as soon as our business is concluded. Where might we find quarter until then?"

"Ugor will show you your quarters. They will be outside the longhouse, you understand." He glares at me again. Yet another insult. Only ill-favored guests are quartered outside the longhouse.

"That will suit us just fine," Borgakh returns.

After some hurried preparations, Ugor takes us to a hut on the edge of the stronghold, not far from Atub's workstation. I don't know if the placement is intentional, but the snub is. The hut has obviously not been lived in for a long time and, by the smell of it, has been used as a storage room and possibly a stable until very recently. There are two sleeping skins hastily tucked against one wall of the hut, a couple of ratty-looking furs, and a crate to serve as a makeshift table, holding a candle, two chipped bowls, and a pitcher of water.

"Ah," I say after Ugor leaves. "The Imperial suite."

Borgakh laughs.

I grin.

She sobers quickly.

"What?" I tilt my head.

"Atub is right," Borgakh says softly. "There's something very wrong with this tribe."

"You mean other than the fact that they hate me?"

"That's a small thing. Other tribes hate you."

"Not tribes. Other orcs," I point out. Of the strongholds we'd visited, I'd only been shunned by some individual orcs, never by the Chief and, consequently, the tribe. And mostly the orcs I'd been shunned by were jealous, or generally distrustful of any change or un-orcish thing.

Borgakh nods, looking thoughtful.

"You think Atub will be able to find out what's going on tonight when she communes with Malacath?" I ask.

"I hope so."

"You think Yamarz is ok with it?"

Borgakh laughs again and it's fierce. "I doubt it. I think that's what Atub really wants us for - to convince the Chief to listen to Malacath."

"I'm very good at being convincing," I say brightly.

"Yes," Borgakh says, a touch more serious than I expect. "Yes, you are."

The word Borgakh uses for Atub, golzarga, means most cherished in orcish. I just thought it sounded kind of fitting for a title for the wise-women.