He didn't have to wait long after knocking, before the door was yanked open. The thin woman's piercing eyes were the first thing to greet him, before he was enveloped in a big maternal embrace.
"Thorald, my dear boy," she cooed. His mother's face was etched with one or two more lines since he'd last seen, but her eyes were as sharp and scrutinizing as ever. His mother was usually dressed in simple, practical attire, but today she was clad in her most beautifully decorated robes. Their family didn't own too many fancy clothes, but the ones they did have were maintained meticulously. As she hugged him, she seemed to delay bringing him inside for as long as possible, trying to show off her attire to anyone who had eyeballs.
As he looked her over, she was doing the same, her eagle-eyed assessment already in full swing. She didn't hesitate to tug at his beard. "You could've shaved, you know. For the one time in the year, you decide to visit."
"Err, I was on the road all day," he said, gently attempting to pry his facial hair from her clutches.
"Of course," she clucked her tongue, not believing this to be a valid reason, "And now the neighbors will think we've invited savages into our home. Quickly, come on in."
Thorald half-heartedly grunted before following her, as if Nords didn't put an absurd amount of importance on being able to grow a good beard. If there were a tenth God dedicated for beards, it would easily have the largest temple in any city.
"Everyone will be happy to see you," she said, leading him in while bombarding him a torrent of gossip. "We're all here, save for your cousin, Eirika. As always, she'll arrive fashionably late, though I'm not sure the fashion part is worth the wait."
Ah right, Eirika. She had gotten a bit of an infamous reputation for her extreme fashion choices. Half the time, Thorald couldn't tell whether she was aiming for high fashion or trying out for the role of court jester. Most of the family didn't really mind, but for his mother and aunt, it became an endless source of conversation. "Individuality is the spice of life," he said diplomatically.
"Hmm, seems like she plundered the entire spice-rack."
He pretended not to hear that. "How is she, anyway?"
"Engaged," his mother announced, as if divulging state secrets. "And she's dragging the lad here today."
Dragons have mercy on him, he thought privately, stepping over the threshold into a space of memories. The room opened up into a warmly decorated living area, in the center of the room a fire pit was already roaring, readily banishing the chill of Skyrim's winter. The upper floors formed a horseshoe, providing a perfect vantage point to overlook the bustling main floor, while a clever opening in the roof guided any smoke outside. The sound of lively chatter already filled the air, this was home.
"Speaking of engagements," his mother said, suddenly pivoting to face him, hands on her hips. "And where, pray tell, is Lydia? Why didn't you bring her along? Have you two broken up?" Her questions fired off in rapid succession.
"Mother, we're not- never were- an item," he spluttered out, his cheeks turning red. "She's visiting her own family," and if he had more sense, he would've gone with her.
She looked at him skeptical, "Pity. I've always liked her. Any woman who can swing a battle-axe has my blessing."
"Duly noted," he said dryly.
She eyed him critically for a second. "Have you tried trimming your beard? Maybe then she'd-"
"We're not touching the beard!" he declared, a hint of steel in his voice.
"Just like your father," she said, with the long-suffering sigh of all mothers. "Eorlund, your son graces us with his presence, come say hello!"
From the bowels of the house, a voice grumbled something indiscernible but likely uncomplimentary about interruptions.
"He's always hiding in his workshop, I swear he'd marry that forge if it wouldn't melt him alive," she muttered while guiding him to a cozy chair near the central firepit. Already seated there, he saw his aunt Sigrid and uncle Vignar. With their plump figures, they resembled well-fed bears in festive garb.
"Thorald! Great to have another real man in the house!" boomed his uncle, reaching out and engulfing his hand. Thorald managed a grimace-smile, noting that Vignar's shirt was only mildly stained from gravy and ale.
"If only he'd visit his mother more often, then I'd agree," his mother said, bending over to aggressively fluff a pillow.
Thorald sighed, "I'm literally saving Tamriel, mom."
"Boohoo, you do that every night. Now, sit down and behave," she said with a flourish.
He frustratedly resigned himself to a cushioned seat. As he sat down, he didn't know what weighed heavier on him, his armor, or the layers of guilt his mother threw down on him.
Uncle Vignar's eyes zeroed in on said attire. "Thorald," he said, jabbing a finger at the armor, "What in Oblivion are you wearing?"
He looked down at the armor he was wearing, "This? It's Orcish plate, sturdy stuff. I'm afraid I can't say I made it myself, had to buy it from a merch-"
"Never mind that!" uncle Vignar interrupted, "What happened to good old fashioned Nordic armor? Strong, hide armor, now that there showed strength."
Thorald looked up puzzled, "Hide? That's not flame resistant at all. It can't resist much of anything, come to think of it."
Vignar slapped Thorald's back, nearly knocking him off his chair. "Back in my day, we didn't need all this shiny stuff. We fought with what we had, and we fought damn well!"
"Yeah, and half of you probably died doing it," Thorald muttered.
His uncle, completely missing the point, continued, "Now you look like you're off to a damn fancy ball. Makes you look like a shiny turd, that's what it does!"
His mother sighed, shaking her head. "Honestly, Vignar, must you always be so crass? And Thorald, sit up straight. You look like you've been dragged through the dirt."
Thorald straightened, glaring at his uncle. "How many times did you knock your head charging into battle with that hide armor again, uncle?"
The man laughed heartily, completely unfazed. "More times than I can count, lad! Builds character."
Thorald only grunted in response. Realizing this conversation was a lost cause, he focused on the other person seated there. "It's been a while, Aunt Sigrid!"
"Thorald, darling. It's good to see you again," his aunt Sigrid said dotingly, "Did you slay any dragons on your way home?" She said it as a joke, but she was clearly hoping for some exciting tales.
In truth, his journey had been fairly uneventful, and he really didn't want to bring up the chicken story again. "Uh… Lydia did mumble something about possible Mammoth-attacks," he said racking his brain for something impressive.
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, did you encounter any?"
"Well… no," he coughed, "must have heard I was coming."
His mother clicked her tongue. "Maybe next time you can bring your imaginary mammoth home. It might make for a better conversation partner than some people I know."
Thorald gazed defeatedly into the fire pit as his aunt Sigrid's chuckles filled the room. Eager to change the subject, he turned back to his aunt, "How's the alchemy faring, anyway?"
"Oh, it's been fantastic. I've been experimenting with more exotic ingredients these days," she said excitedly.
"Yeah?" he said, warily. The last time she mentioned something exotic, she came up with some terrible Hagraven potion that the guards needed to confiscate, citing hazardous contraband.
Nodding, she went on, "Recently, I've been able to get my hands on some herbs all the way from… Rorikstead!" she said, exclaiming the last word happily.
He frowned, Rorikstead was not even a day's travel away. Taking in his expression, she hastily added, "Yes Rorikstead, and it has worked wonders for your uncle's unspeakable rash. Show him, Vignar"
Before he could say anything, she started pulling at uncle Vignar's shirt, whose protests rose to a crescendo.
Seeing as Thorald didn't want to lose his appetite before dinner even started, he sprang from his chair, "I, uh, should really go and find the rest of the family." Some subjects were best left in the realm of theoretical discussion.
As if the gods had heard his plea, a calm voice interrupted them from behind, "Good to see you, son!" His father Eorlund stood before them, his hair was as pale as Thorald's own and his shoulders just as broad. Though his were a result from hours of working at the forge, while Thorald's were honed from constant battle. The soot of the forge still clung to him, but you could tell he wore it more comfortably than the fine silks he was dressed in.
"From what I've heard in the streets, you've been… busy," he said, his voice warm.
"Hello, father," he said, as they clasped each other's forearms. "How's the Skyforge? Still sparking?" he inquired with a half-smile.
"As ever," came the short response, and Thorald mused that his father hadn't changed a thing. But that wasn't entirely true. Just like his mother, his father's face too was marred with a few more lines since the last time he saw him.
Time had a knack for sneaking up on him. Had it really been that long since he last saw them? It felt like he had visited just yesterday, but in reality, months had slipped by. He had planned to come home half a year ago, but a Forsworn conspiracy in Markarth had derailed those plans. And the trip before that had been thwarted by a new lead on a dragon's lair from the Blades. The Dragonborn's duties took precedent back then. And they still do, he reminded himself. Tomorrow at dawn, he needed to set forth once more and continue his mission to stop Alduin.
"How was the road? No bandit troubles?" his voice betraying a father's concern, veiled behind a veil of nonchalance.
But before he could say anything, his mother interjected, "Oh great, here we go with the imaginary mammoths again. He's here isn't he, Eorlund? Let's leave it at that," she said, before hurrying to prepare in the kitchen.
Thorald just shrugged at his father. "Where is everyone else, anyway?" he asked, scanning the room.
His uncle Vignar chimed in from his cozy corner, "Our Eirika is still on her way, but our boys, Geirmund and Erik, are outside again, doing Gods knows what. Maybe they could learn a thing or two from their Dragonborn cousin. Kids these days could stand to toughen up. Ain't that right, Thorald?"
Harrowing images of the civil war, cruel blizzards and violent dragons flashed before Thorald's eyes, "Oh yes, a real cakewalk compared to the good old days."
Vignar patted his shoulder, nearly smearing Thorald's tunic with the day's toils. "Knew you'd see sense."
His aunt Sigrid piped up looking at Thorald full of glee, "Oh, that's right, I've also invited your sister's friend Ysolda to join us for dinner."
The way her eyes lit up hopefully, made him wary, "Uh, I'm glad you're making friends, Sigrid."
"Don't be silly boy. The way I see it, she's unattached, you're unattached. It's a match made by Mara herself."
Thorald groaned inwardly, and he looked at his mother to see if she was involved with any of this, but she merely waved a dismissive hand, "Her battle-axe skills are non-existent. Don't pin this on me."
A sigh escaped his lips, the entire family had an unspoken consensus that his Aunt Sigrid's help was like her alchemy, potentially explosive and likely to backfire.
Undeterred, aunt Sigrid pressed on. "What's the harm? A dinner, a chat-"
He gently attempted to dissuade her, "That's very… uh… considerate, aunt Sigrid, however I really have no interest in this girl."
"That's right!" his father spoke up helpfully, "Thorald's already involved with Lydia!"
"I'm not involved with anyone!" he protested, a bit louder than intended.
"Then what's the issue?" his aunt said angrily, not understanding why Thorald was ruining the love story she had created in her mind.
"Atta boy, keeping your options open, eh?" uncle Vignar chimed in with a dirty wink, which quickly turned into a grimace when aunt Sigrid's turned her glare on him.
"Look, can you please just… uninvite her?" Thorald said before everybody had to witness a marital argument this early in the evening.
"By the Gods, Thorald, how could you?" his aunt turned on him aghast, "Turn away an orphan during the holidays? Have you no heart?"
"What-? How was I supposed to know she was an orphan?" he stammered, before his mind caught up with him, "Wait, isn't she in her late twenties? I don't think the orphan-argument has as much weight as you think it does," he added, but the cursing glare of his aunt remained.
"Fine, she stays," he sighed, giving his aunt this tiny victory. In his travels he had learned the same lesson that every wise person learns with age. You need to understand which battles to fight, and this one with his aunt would've been a long, dragged out one, where he would succumb to gossipy attrition. Death by a thousand snide remarks.
"Where is Ysolda, anyway?" he asked, hoping to at least prepare himself.
"She's conspiring with Olfina in her room," his mother said, "something about a 'business plan'"
Thorald raised an eyebrow at his mother, but it was his father who explained with a wry smile, "Your sister's been learning to shape metal, just like your old man. Seems the anvil's the only thing in Whiterun not scared of her"
"Oh…" he said, unsure how to respond. Growing up, there had always been an expectation that Thorald would be the one following in his father's footsteps. A small part of him had followed in that expectation as well, even when he had become the dragonborn. But now that seemed to vanish like sand sifting through his fingers. The Dragonborn's path kept leading him further and further away from his former life.
"I believe she'll grow to be just as good as me one day," Eorlund said proudly, "In any case, the Gray-Mane legacy endures."
He might not have meant it in that way, but all Thorald heard was 'No thanks to you'. His father had always seemed a bit disappointed that Thorald had become the Dragonborn and not a great blacksmith like himself.
Thorald masked his irritation with a practiced nod. In the past his sister Olfina, ever the rivalling sibling, had tried to outdo him at every turn. One time when he was ten, he had shown his parents a particularly pretty rock he had found, holding an intricate pattern on one side. Olfina, jealous of the attention, had then spent the entire night looking for rocks on the banks of the river, just so that she could dump more than ten similar looking rocks onto the table at breakfast. Looking back at it, their parents were probably exasperated, at having to seem impressed at a bunch of rocks regardless of who showed it to them.
So, when Thorald took up the mantle of Dragonborn and abandoned the blacksmith legacy, of course she'd jump at the chance to bask in the limelight and show that she could do it much better. "Great, can't wait for her to come gloat about it," he said making his father frown, who was about to speak when his mother interjected.
"Yes, and I of course am thrilled to have another soot-covered brute in the family. Two from the forge, and another from dragons. Do you realize how often I'll have to dust off the furniture?" she asked indignantly. "Every meal would come with a side of soot if it weren't for me!"
His father was a man of few words, however the next few words were probably the worst he could have chosen, "You're right, dear Fralia. What's for dinner anyway?"
His mother's exasperation was almost palpable. "Eorlund, if your ears weren't so full of soot, you'd know we're still waiting on Eirika!
"Soot in the ears might be a blessing at times," he mumbled quiet enough so that only Thorald heard, which earned him a reluctant, but sympathetic grimace.
"Why don't you boys clean yourselves up," she said, looking pointedly at his father's soot-covered hands. "And Thorald darling, you smell like you've done nothing but wrestle horses for the past year. A bath, with soap, mind you. Lest the Battle-Borns think we're rearing livestock in here."
Before she could launch into a tirade about the rival clan's nose for scandal, Eorlund intervened. "I'll show the boy to his old room, so he can settle in," he said, ushering Thorald toward the stairs with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"And don't forget the soap!" he heard his mother yell at them from behind.
His father guided him up the stairs to his childhood room, and when they were out of earshot of his mother, he guiltily began, "While you were away, I sort of… repurposed your room. You see, I use it as a second storage room for my forge. Your mother's been on me about tidying it up, but… well, you'll see." He pushed open the door to Thorald's old room.
The space was filled to the brim with boxes of tongs, bellows and nails. Half-finished weaponry and pieces of armor were strewn all over the floor. When he looked at the desk an old wooden chair was miraculously holding up an entire anvil, and even his old stuffed bear, Jarl Bearovich, was put into service, propping up a grinding wheel. However, in the middle of the room surrounded by all this equipment was his old familiar bed.
"So… let's keep this just between us, if you don't mind," his father said with a wry smile.
Thorald nudged a nearby box of files with his foot, nearly triggering a catastrophic domino effect. He looked back at his father in exasperation.
He swiftly replied, "Ah, but the bed's clear, see? A fine night's sleep, that's all you need."
Thorald sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Great. I'll try not to accidentally roll out of bed, and impale myself on those daggers."
"Relax, they're dull. Besides, those were some of your sister's first designs. Couldn't just toss them," his father said clapping him on the back.
Hearing about his sister again stoked Thorald's irritation. She must have loved this idea. "Why couldn't you just leave my room like it was?" he snapped, "How come you never even thought to ask me?"
His father's voice grew a bit colder, "Well, you haven't exactly been using it, what with all your... dragon business. It's has been vacant for months, a year even."
The accusation hung in the air. When guilt wars with anger, anger usually wins. It's difficult accepting your own faults, it's much easier to point out someone else's.
Right now, Thorald's temper had kicked his guilt in the crotch, and pushed itself to the forefront of the discussion. His old man was laying it on thick, still seemingly harboring dreams of Thorald trading dragons for forges. The room filled with equipment could've even been a strategic ploy, a not-so-subtle nudge to awaken the passion again. Or perhaps it really was just laziness. Either way, Thorald wasn't buying it.
"You know why I couldn't be here. I have responsibilities, Father," he said his voice echoing against the walls, "bigger than anvils and hammers! The people need me, what don't you get about that?"
"I know you're making a name for yourself out there," his father said stepping forward, "But you don't have to be out there to achieve that. Remember son, there's honor in shaping steel. Everyone in Skyrim knows my name, and I've never had to lift a sword against anyone to do so."
Thorald's temper had now suplexed his guilt through a table, and was gnawing at its chains to be released, "I'm not seeking fame, dad. I'm trying to save us all," Thorald said through clenched teeth, while his father looked on stubbornly, not budging an inch.
He was about to start yelling. But then, a familiar sensation surged through him, like the one he'd felt with the chicken and the bard. A dragon shout was bubbling up, demanding to be released. Thorald struggled to suppress it, but calming down seemed impossible in this tense environment. Not with his father here, in this room, pushing his buttons.
Abruptly, he shoved past his bewildered father and stalked out, seeking refuge in the solitude of a bath. He needed space, time to breathe, and to regain control over himself.
The Gray-Mane washroom was a modest place, but it was silent which was a balm for Thorald's frayed nerves. Steam swirled up from the bath reminiscent of the morning mist over the plains of Whiterun. Thorald wearily sank into the wooden tub with a sigh. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he tried to let the warmth seep into his bones to melt away the frustrations that clung to him. He'd barely been able to stop that last shout, and he didn't understand why it kept happening.
He thought back, his father's insistence on a life at the anvil seemed ridiculous. But he couldn't help but wonder: what if? What if he hadn't gone off, and stayed here as a blacksmith?
He tried to picture it, a life of not so quiet creation, working at the forge. Him taking over the family business instead of his sister. No shouts, no dragons, no burden of the world on his shoulders. A simpler life, a content life... perhaps.
But even as the fantasy played out, a restlessness stirred within him. That Thorald wasn't him, he laid down his sword when destiny called, he would have silenced an intrinsic part of Thorald forever. The real question was rather whether there was a version of Thorald, the Dragonborn, that could be content as well. When he thought of his responsibilities, his struggles, and the dangers in its path, that version seemed very far away.
With a deep breath, Thorald submerged himself fully, letting the water swallow him whole. For a moment, he was neither the Dragonborn, nor the blacksmith's son, just Thorald hiding away in a quiet washroom.
Resurfacing, he knew another day would come with its heap of duties, as it always did. And he would answer, as he always did. He would be content, when Alduin was defeated, he thought to himself. Every droplet that dripped from his chin, was another tick of the clock. Alduin, the World-Eater, would not rest, and so, nor could he.
Opening his eyes, Thorald's gaze settled on the small window that framed the evening sky. The stars were beginning to emerge. He briefly thought about vanishing into the night, gathering Lydia and skipping town immediately. But he knew it wouldn't be fair to her, she had her own family to reconnect with. To rob her of that, because he couldn't suffer one night of annoying remarks… it would be cruel.
It's just one night, he reminded himself as he rose up from the bath, although this might be the feat most deserving of a bard's song. Dressing swiftly in fresh clothes, he made his way out. For now, he was cleansed, renewed, and ready to face his family once more.
Thorald paused on the stairs down to the ground floor as laughter came from behind him. His sister, Olfina and her friend Ysolda were chatting on the horseshoe-shaped balcony, overlooking the living area below.
His sister stood tall with the same pale white hair as his, only hers was styled in a long braid down her back, but she looked more muscular than he remembered, most likely from her time working at the forge.
"Hey, troll-hair!" he lobbed her old nickname at her, "scaring local children with those biceps now?"
Olfina shot back a grin, "Only the one standing in front of me," she retorted, her laughter something he hadn't realized he'd missed despite their squabbeling.
Their embrace was unexpected. He half-anticipated the customary shin-kick or headlock. Gods, maybe he really had been gone for too long.
"We've missed you," she said eyes gleaming with mischief, "though the house does smell better without you in it"
"Well, go plug your malformed nose, because I'm back," he joked, "For the night, at least."
"Pity. Short visits never do justice."
Thorald eyed her warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He really hadn't expected her to act so kind, so he subtly checked his back for any tricks she might have played during their hug. But there was nothing.
Olfina mistook his suspicion for confusion, and turned to her friend, "You've met Ysolda, right? She used to come over when you still lived here. Although now, she's practically family."
Ysolda, a bit shorter than Olfina with shoulder-length auburn hair that hugged her face, smiled warmly. Thorald gave a customary nod, her presence was still an annoying reminder of his aunt's machinations. He couldn't help but compare her to Lydia, but he quickly squashed that thought.
"Yes, I've heard you've teamed up with Olfina at the forge. Congratulations," Thorald said trying not to sound sore about it.
Ysolda's laugh was light, "Forge work? I'd probably stab myself trying to pick up a dagger. No, I focus on the business side of things. Olfina's the real talent," she said, smiling at his sister.
A part of him disliked how pleased his sister looked at the blacksmithing praise, so he couldn't resist a jab, "And thank the gods for that, someone needs to have some shred of intellect in the business. Olfina is like a skeever on drugs on that account."
Olfina's smile didn't waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Always a bad sign. "Really? We're resorting to skeever talk again, are we?"
He winced, technically she hadn't done anything to deserve his ire yet, so he tried to meet her halfway, "I didn't mean it in a… bad way. Skeevers are actually remarkably resourceful creatures, they're great for… uh… sniffing out traps and treasure. Like a cool skeever, that's you Olf," he attempted, with as much conviction as he could muster.
"Wow, you're so sweet! I'm a cool, drug-addicted skeever," she nodded sarcastically.
"Fine, you're not a skeever," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'm sorry. Long day, short temper."
"Well, just don't go full Vignar on us," she said, nodding toward the downstairs crowd below the balcony where his uncle was now dramatically gesturing about the scandalous cost of ale.
"Gods forbid," he mumbled, peering over the indoor balcony at the gathering below. "What were you two giggling about up here, anyway?"
Ysolda spoke up, "Oh you just missed it. Your aunt Sigrid has just made the gravest of mistakes. She thought it would be a good idea to bring her own dessert to the feast. Even going so far as to suggest that your mother serve her homemade juniper berry pie tonight."
His blood ran cold at the words. His mother took her role as a culinary host very seriously and made sure that guests weren't to help even the tiniest bit when staying over. In her eyes this act would be akin to a war crime. Even if his aunt was probably well-intentioned.
"And her response?" Thorald inquired, with a morbid curiosity.
Olfina sniffed, "Like mom always is, a smile on her face and a silent promise of vengeance."
Thorald looked at his poor aunt Sigrid who was grinning away down there, oblivious of how much danger she was in.
"She's probably poisoning her food as we speak," he sighed, leaning on the balcony railing.
Ysolda looked thoughtful, "Knowing Sigrid she's probably immune thanks her own alchemic concoctions," she mused, triggering a chorus of snickers.
Thorald stole a glance at Ysolda, he was surprised at how integrated she seemed with his family. She used to visit occasionally, but it seemed those visits had become much more frequent in the past year. Like Olfina said, she's practically part of the family now. Perhaps even more than him these days, his conscience nagged.
He felt a tinge of regret pricking at him as he recalled his earlier reservations about her joining the feast. Ysolda had carved a niche in his absence, and who was he to take it away from her? Letting go of that thought was the first step in not going 'full Vignar', he convinced himself.
He drummed his fingers on the railing, "So, tell me about this business plan."
For the next few minutes, the three of them leaned against the balcony rails, catching up. Thorald quietly listened as his sister and Ysolda described the plans they had in store for the blacksmithing business. They seemed to be planning a major revamp, focusing on a more organized front. Their father might have been a master craftsman, but his passion never laid in logistics or inventory management and it showed. Thorald's old room was clear evidence of that.
As he heard more of their ideas, he couldn't help but admit they were good, even better than anything he would have come up with. He felt a knot loosen in his chest at that thought, maybe it really wasn't such a bad thing that someone other than him took over the family business. His sister had things more than under control, and he was surprised to feel his jealousy dissipate and even give way to a sliver of pride.
He felt himself relax more and more as the conversation went on and stories were told. Olfina and Ysolda were very familiar with each other and they bounced ideas off each other effortlessly. Every now and then he threw a lighthearted joke or outlandish suggestion into the conversation to make them laugh, but even then, he could see their gears turning, wondering if something like that could actually work.
As the banter tapered off, Olfina gave him a significant look, "You know, when you're done being the savior of Skyrim, there's always room for you here. If our business is going to expand, we might need the help."
The prospect was tempting, but he reminded himself not to think about life after Alduin. You'll be sure to lose if your mind's in the next battle instead of the current one. Though, not wanting to cruelly shoot down his sister, he playfully bumped his shoulder against hers, "The first thing I'd forge is a sturdy lock to keep the relatives out." He knew it was a non-answer but at least it got a laugh out of her.
At that moment, a knock was heard from the front door, followed by an excited shout from his aunt Sigrid as she made her way to the front door down below, "That must be Eirika and her soon-to-be husband!"
Thorald exchanged glances with Olfina and Ysolda. "We should go down and say hello before mom starts screaming at us like she did at dad earlier." The others readily agreed, and they started making their way over.
"Any intel on Eirika's mystery man?" he asked as they descended the stairs.
Olfina shook her head, "Unknown territory."
The trio landed amid the welcoming chaos, where uncle Vignar had no issue speaking his mind in front of guests, "Where are those boys?! They should welcome their sister! If they're up to shenanigans again, I'll skin 'em myself!" Vignar's voice boomed throughout the room, followed swiftly by Sigrid's hushing tones.
"Has he ever tried looking for his children instead of shouting for them?" Thorald muttered under his breath as they approached the new arrivals.
Eirika, resplendent in a beautiful gown that seemed a shade too grand for the humble abode, beamed with the kind of joy that only those deep in love, or those deep in mead, could muster. Beside her stood a Redguard man who could only be her fiancé, his attire equally fine. Yet Thorald felt shocked to recognize him. This was Nazeem.
Thorald had bumped into him in the streets of Whiterun every now and then. He was one of the major landowners in Whiterun, but Thorald usually remembered him as 'that pompous, condescending asshole who loves the cloud district way too much'.
"Nazeem?" he mouthed to Olfina, disbelief etching his features. "I trust Eirika has been briefed on what she's marrying into? Or rather, has Nazeem been briefed on what he's marrying into?" he whispered to Olfina.
She snorted. "If they haven't, they'll learn. One way or another."
His mother and aunt Sigrid took Eirika aside to discuss and observe her new garb, leaving Thorald and Olfina to approach Nazeem. With a stiffness that suggested he might not be entirely at ease with the merriment around him, Nazeem shook hands with his father and uncle Vignar.
Eorlund noticed their approach and decided to introduce them, "And here we have Ysolda and my children. Ysolda and Olfina are following in my footsteps as future masters of the Skyforge. They are my pride and joy and I'm sure they will do great things," he beamed.
Then with a little less gusto he turned to his son, "And that is… Thorald. He's, uh, exploring his options."
Thorald rolled his eyes, it seemed his father still wasn't convinced about his career choices yet. He ignored him and extended his hand, "I'm the Dragonborn, thanks. Or you could just call me an adventurer."
"Right, that's what the unemployed call themselves nowadays," his father muttered.
Nazeem's eyebrows shot up, shaking his hand, "You're the Dragonborn? Well, it's nice to meet Skyrim's famous hero."
"We've met, Nazeem. More than once," Thorald reminded him, forcing a smile.
"Ah, well, it's so hard to keep track when you mingle with so many important people every day. You know how it is."
Thorald's grip involuntary tightened, "Of course," He wasn't particularly fond of Nazeem. Though surprisingly he found an ally in uncle Vignar, who was fiercly glaring at his future son-in-law. He left Ysolda and Olfina to introduce themselves, while he moved over to Eirika who was still showcasing her gown to the two mothers.
After a quick embrace and some pleasantries, he found himself thrust into the fashion critique as his mother meaningfully lifted up Eirika's arm as if it were a Daedric artifact, while staring Thorald straight in the eye, "Thorald… It has tiny bells all over her sleeve," she said while shaking the arm to emphasize the jingling of Eirika's robe.
Refusing to get dragged into a fashion statement discussion about her jingle-jangle gown, Thorald nodded, delivering a supply of diplomatic nods and vague affirmations including an 'Ah, yes', a 'wow', and perhaps even an 'Intriguing'.
Eirika who was used to being accosted by her nosy family, gracefully managed to escape the family's grip with only a few tinkles, and clarified, "The bells represent the fallen soldiers of Skyrim. Every stride I take now represents a toll of death that the civil war has caused on our families."
Now caught between fashion critique and a way more volatile political debate, Thorald opted for a safe "Ah, yes! Wow. Intriguing."
His mother however didn't share any of his reservations, "Next up, you should fashion gloves of garden shears. For the mudcrabs, of course. A statement on the hardships of crustacean life."
This comment clearly hit a nerve, as she got a quick reply, "Oh good, then I'd finally have something capable of cutting through your dry venison roast."
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet, and Thorald could almost see the frost forming on his mother's expression. His palms grew clammy as he stood between the two glaring women. Both women were like the swords his father would make, strong, but little flexibility in them. And should you, an innocent, charming onlooker, get too close when those swords met, you're bound to get cut up yourself.
He was desperately looking to steer the conversation away, "Alright, we're supposed to be celebrating, right? So, Nazeem? How in the hells did that happen, Eirika?" he hadn't meant to sound so incredulous while saying it, but it still felt ridiculous in his head.
A glare was her response, "Oh, fuck off, Thorald. Like you're not a walking disaster. If you must know, Nazeem's got a way with words."
"And gold. Lots of gold," his mother said, snidely. Eirika crossed her arms, ready to jump right back in.
He was relieved that his aunt Sigrid was also averse to family drama, because she tried to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters again. That relief vanished like snow in the sun when she did that by throwing him under the carriage, "Talking of love. Have you spoken to Ysolda yet, Thorald? What do you think, a real prize, isn't she?"
She basically forced him to continue this conversation, because what was the alternative? Continuing down the rickety slope of fashion and politics? "Ysolda? A treasure indeed," he said his smile more strained than ever before.
"Oh, I can see it now. Bells ringing, mead flowing, and you two just like Nazeem and Eirika…" she clasped with delight, oblivious to Thorald's discomfort and disinterest.
Before Sigrid could further paint her idyllic picture, Olfina's skeptical voice cut in after overhearing this, "Match Thorald? With Ysolda?" She glanced at her friend who was still occupied with Nazeem, then back at her brother with an arch of her brow. "Really? With this oaf?"
"Exactly, no matchmaking," he interjected quickly, feeling both a little insulted and relieved. He knew that he could count on his sister to hate the idea of him dating her best friend.
"Maybe if he stopped talking to dragons, and started talking to girls his own age, he would already be married," said his mother, who had finally decided to move on from Eirika.
"What?- I talk to women all the-" he said exasperated, before she interrupted him.
"Thorald, is it… men?" his mother's voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper.
His face flushed hotter than a forge, "What? No, I'm not gay!"
"You can tell us, if you're gay."
This is all aunt Sigrid's fault, Thorald thought glumly, "I'm not-"
"You know that we love and accept you sweetheart."
"I know mom, but I'm not gay!" he reiterated pinching the bridge of his nose, he had to remind himself to breath slowly.
"Hmm," she hummed, clearly unconvinced, before delivering a reassuring pat to his cheek. "Okay, darling."
With a big exhale of resignation, he looked up only to find his sister looking very satisfied. Like a true sibling, taking enjoyment in each other's suffering, he silently vowed to get her back.
In any case this had somewhat calmed the conversation and his aunt Sigrid took this opportunity to find a graceful exit for her daughter, "Eirika dear, have you heard about Olfina and Ysolda's plans for the forge? It's really quite impressive. Besides, Ysolda could use some company," she added pointedly to Thorald, guiding Eirika and Olfina away before they could protest.
"That side of the family, they're either buffoons or unmannered," his mother huffed, looking at Eirika when they were out of earshot.
Thorald grunted non-committedly.
"Sigrid actually handed me her pathetic pie to serve as dessert for tonight, has she lost all sense? It'd be as if I showed up at her house with a jug of milk and called it a healing-potion"
"I heard," Thorald said, carefully not agreeing or disagreeing. His mother however caught on to his stubborn neutrality, and now he was the victim of her glare.
"What?" Thorald said, raising his hands defensively. "I'm not picking sides here."
"The coward's true anthem," his mother said, impatiently, "Just like Jarl Balgruuf, not picking a side in the war, delaying Whiterun's every call for action while hiding behind that very sentence. Mark my words, just like him, you need to choose a side or life will make the choice for you"
Thorald felt exasperated, "We're at a feast, mom, not in the middle of the war. It's just pie!"
But beneath the veneer of the pie debacle, he recognized she was shaken by the affront to her culinary pride. He sighed and offered, "Look, can I do anything to help?"
As if on cue, another moan went up in the crowd from uncle Vignar about 'those damn boys still playing outside'. Grateful for the diversion, Thorald turned to her, "Mother, how about I round up my cousins? In the meantime, you go make the best venison roast you can and make Eirika choke on her words."
"Hmm," His mother looked up thoughtfully, "Make Eirika… choke?"
"On her words, not the food," He added hurriedly.
She gave him a subtle wink, and Thorald walked off not entirely convinced whether his words got through to her.
The cool, crisp air felt invigorating against his skin, he didn't know what made him sweat more, the blazing fire pit inside or the tense conversations with his family. He hoped his two cousins would be easier to deal with. Before the Dragonborn-business they always looked up to him, and he always enjoyed spending time with them, even if they were younger than him. But of course, times change, and we change with them.
He did a quick tour around the Gray-Mane residence, he easily hopped the paddock fence where they held their limited livestock, and he was met with the mild annoyance of the Gray-Mane cows, having to zig-zag his way through them as they mooed accusingly. When he rounded the corner, he found them. Geirmund the older of the two, lounged on the sloping roof, gazing out over the city, while Erik, the younger, was sitting on a haybale against the stone wall, his head buried in a book.
Thorald's impromptu 'Moo!' echoed awkwardly around the farmyard. He didn't know why he moo'd at them, maybe the cows' behavior somehow got stuck in his brain, or maybe some part of him thought this would be a good icebreaker. In any case, the first thing he said after a year of absence was 'Moo!', making them look up in bewilderment. The silence stretched uncomfortably, so he hurried to explain before they concluded he had gotten brain damage.
"That's, uh, Argonian for 'Hello, dear cousins'," he lied.
"Really?" Erik, his curious 10-year-old cousin asked confused, the book in his hand now forgotten, "I've read that it resembles something more hissy, sort of like this," he made a string of grunts and squeaks which only highlighted his young age.
"Err… yes, that's usually the case," Thorald said caught off guard, "But you see, I was using a very specific dialect. Very obscure. Not in any of your books, I'm sure."
"Fascinating, does it pertain to the Lukiul, or the Saxhleel clans?" Erik said, brushing the pale hair from his eyes. Thorald silently cursed him, why couldn't he act like a normal 10-year-old and ask me how many teeth an Argonian had?
"Both!" Thorald blurted out, grasping at the lifeline. He quickly sought refuge from the interrogation by facing his other cousin still sprawled on the roof, "Geirmund, you're not going to give your old cousin Thorald a hug?"
"And miss this view? Can't man," the teen gave a languid shake of his head, looking out to the horizon.
"How about we get a view of the appetizers inside the house instead?" Thorald tried, attempting to ignore his grumbling stomach. Being on the road all day had taken its toll, and he was really looking forward to a decent meal right about now.
Geirmund, gave a non-committal shrug, "That's food for the body, but this right here," he said holding his hands out as if to make a mental painting, "This is food for the soul." Thorald made a mental note that Geirmund had gotten a little more obnoxious since the last time he saw him.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Thorald grumbled under his breath before climbing his way to the roof. He ruffled Erik's hair, navigated his way onto the haybales, and eager to show off he expertly hauled himself upon the roof with Geirmund. Disappointedly though, it went entirely unnoticed. Geirmund was still obsessed with the view and Erik had gone back to reading his book.
He took a look at the view, the sun had just set, and its last light now painted a pretty painting of pink and purple hues upon the sky, while the city streets were illuminated with torchlights mirroring the encroaching starlight from above. It was a nice view, Thorald had to admit, but it didn't make him feel any less peckish. Still, Thorald had gotten accustomed to spectacular sights in his travels, while his cousin Geirmund probably hadn't set foot further than the fields of Whiterun, he was only just nearing adolescence after all. Thorald could still recall his own awe when he first explored the world for the first time.
"You should make the trek to High-Hrotgar if you ever get the chance," Thorald said to him while sitting down next to him near the edge of the roof, "It's a grueling climb, seven thousand steps, but there are countless more beautiful sights"
That piqued his cousin's attention, and his eyes lit up, "Dude, you've actually faced that pass, right? Met those old hermits with the voices?"
"The Greybeards," he gently corrected, "are something else, voices so powerful they could probably convince this lot to shut up for a moment," he gestured to their family inside.
Geirmund eagerly motioned for him to continue, so despite his protesting stomach he went on, "Lydia and I had to overnight along the way as a blizzard hit the pass, it was brutal, one of the coldest nights we'd ever been through. When we finally arrived the next day, we were nearly frozen, bedraggled, and utterly exhausted. We were never happier to see a bunch of smelly old men."
Geirmund scratched his typical pale Gray-Mane hair, "Whoa, so they're like, legit smelly mountain dudes?"
"Their farts are as deadly as their shouts," Thorald nodded solemnly. "Think about it, isolation with no one to impress? Shouts aren't the only thing they're releasing into the wind."
He glanced over, talking about farts used to be an easy way to get a laugh out of the carefree boy, but now there was nothing, just a reflective pause while he was looking off into the distance.
"What's up?" he prodded.
Geirmund spoke up, after a while, "Seriously, you think I could make it up there one day? Dangerous, isn't it?"
"Very," Thorald nodded shortly, "But, hey, if you ever set your mind to it, I'll be there. It's always good to have someone experienced watching your back, like I had with Lydia."
Geirmund's eyes lighted up in appreciation, his mind no doubt already racing. Despite that, Thorald inwardly winced, he let himself get carried away again. Focus on Alduin, he reminded himself. That's your duty.
And right now, your duty is to get some food, his stomach stubbornly insisted.
"Come on, let's get inside before your father explodes from indignation about today's youth," he said making to get up, but Geirmund waved him away.
"All the more reason to stay out a little while longer," he said, nearly making Thorald weep from hunger, "Hang tight, cousin. Have you tried any before?" Geirmund teased, holding up something in his hands.
In the dim light, Thorald hadn't noticed what Geirmund was holding before, but now he saw it was a slender pipe made from dark pine wood. But more importantly, it was filled with a gravely substance. Thorald recognized it as Thurik- an aromatic herb traditionally used in Orcish rituals, or for partygoers wanting to enjoy how its sensations made you feel like your head was in the clouds. Thorald had in fact tried it, but was in no way going to confess such exploits to his impressionable young cousins.
He sighed, placing his hands on his hips, "Is this the actual reason why you've been outside all this time?"
"Relax, Erik wanted somewhere quiet to read anyway, and I'm just the noble brother looking after him," he said, while putting the drug-filled pipe in his mouth. Then, with a slight flick of his wrist, gentle flames shot out, lighting the pipe.
"That mage apprentice education's going to good use, I see," Thorald said dryly, as his cousin slowly inhaled.
Geirmund took a moment to close his eyes, before blowing out a wave of blue smoke escaping into the late evening sky. "Academia's all about application," he grinned at Thorald for a second, before extending the pipe as if offering a sacred relic.
He considered the absurdity of joining his cousin where he and Geirmund would stumble back into the house, in a Thurik-induced haze. Instead, Thorald took it off his hands, held it in front of his mouth and with a deft use of his Thu'um extinguished the pipe. A puff of frost replacing the smoke. "I'm keeping this pipe until the feast is over."
Geirmund should have been impressed, Thorald thought, did he even know how hard it was to shout in small, controlled bursts? Yet, he was only met with annoyance for his demonstration of the ancient dragon tongue. "Not cool, dude, I thought you were cool, dude!"
"I storm, and plunder dragon lairs on the daily, dude. I am cool. Now let's feast," he said, preparing to climb down. However, Geirmund was still content to keep lounging.
"Hold on," he said with a stubborn tone, looking off into the distance.
Thorald turned back, his patience extremely thin at this point. He was silently considering how much trouble he would be in if Geirmund suddenly found himself thrown down the roof.
"See that tree?" Geirmund said, loosely gesturing towards an entire forest outside the city.
"Please. Be more specific," Thorald said through clenched teeth.
Geirmund ignored his comment, "I've been thinking. Do you think the Divines care about trees as much as they do about us?"
Thorald sighed deeply, "Perhaps you'll get to ask them yourself," he said, as he not so gently nudged Geirmund off of the roof and onto the haybales below.
"What in Oblivion-?" the high-pitched screech echoed off the stone walls followed by a soft thump.
Thorald lowered himself to the ground, and helped his disgruntled cousin up from the ground, "Come on, you can contemplate the cosmos after dinner," he said, brushing off the loose hay from his cousin's tunic. He turned to the 10-year-old who was still reading his book as if nothing had happened. "Time to wrap it up, Erik. The pages will be here tomorrow, the food won't."
And so, he led the two reluctant cousins back to the front of the house, passing the disturbed cows with a mock salute. However, just before he hopped the livestock fence again, he caught sight of a familiar, yet unwelcome figure. Jon fucking Battle-Born…
The blond man, around Thorald age, was leaning against the wall opposed to their house tuning his lute. It wasn't a secret in Whiterun that the Gray-Mane's and Battle-Borns had a family feud caused by the civil war. Mostly, because their families wouldn't ever shut up about it, the average citizen couldn't care less. To the members of their families, however, it meant everything.
That wasn't entirely true, though, since Thorald had taken up the title of Dragonborn he'd stopped caring about the feud altogether. Local town drama had stopped being a point of interest when the fate of the world was on your shoulders. That being said, somewhere deep inside him annoyance irked at seeing his old rival again. And the feeling was mutual, judging by Jon's twisted expression at the sight of them.
"I thought I heard a little girl scream just then. Guess I was right," Jon said, his lute entirely forgotten now.
Thorald bit back a retort, determined to just move on and not to get caught up in any family drama again. However, fate, or rather Geirmund, had other plans as he stepped up to the fence.
With eloquence that not even the bards from Solitude could muster, he yelled across the street, "Just like your mother last night!"
A puffed-up Jon strode towards the fence, eyes full of anger. Thorald inwardly sighed, he wanted to blame this on teenagers, or the Thuruk, or hunger even, but he knew that those words could have just as easily come out of uncle Vignar's mouth on any given day.
Jon's fingers tensed around his lute's neck, contemplating whether it would serve better as a musical instrument or a blunt weapon. Which Thorald, honestly, couldn't blame him for, having thrown Geirmund off a roof just moments ago. Jon strutted with his chest out like a pissed off frost troll, until the only distance between them was the livestock fence, "You need to learn your place, little skeever! Talk about my mother again, and you'll regret it."
Dinner would have to wait a few more moments, Thorald thought glumly. "Enough," he stepped forward, dragging Geirmund behind him, "Jon, isn't there a tavern crowd missing their entertainment?"
"My fists would prefer another kind of entertainment right now, that's for sure," Jon growled, eyes fixed on Geirmund.
"Yeah dude, that's what your mother-" Geirmund started to say, before Thorald and Erik put their hands over his mouth.
"Not another word," he hissed into Geirmund's ear.
Jon's glare intensified, only this time on Thorald, "Here comes Thorald to save the day again. Who knows? Maybe, you can manage this one before moving on to the rest of the world. How long have the dragons been terrorizing Skyrim now? A year, right?"
"Yeah," Thorald said, growing angrier, "In the meantime, you'll have plenty of songs to sing about me in the tavern."
Jon bristled, "I have plenty already, mostly about how I was able to easily wrestle you to the ground, back in the day. I'm surprised you even returned. I thought you died in a ditch a long while ago."
A humorless laugh escaped Thorald, his memory painted a different picture, one where Jon was often the one sputtering dirt. His pride squashing his resolution not to get involved almost instantly, "Please, you couldn't get me on the ground if the entire Battle-Born clan joined in."
Jon's look of disbelief only angered Thorald further. Determined to get him to eat his words, he continued with a 'slight' exaggeration, "Even on the way here, I wrestled a wild mammoth to the ground."
This time Erik unhelpfully chimed in with his encyclopedic knowledge. "At this time of year mammoths would be hibernating, meaning they would be particularly aggressive. Although, encountering them outside their dens would be very unlikel-"
Ignoring the zoological input, Thorald continued confidently, "Yeah, extra aggressive mammoths, Jon. What do you think of that?"
"Sounds like bullshit," he said, shaking his head.
Let's cut to chase, Thorald thought, sighing. Either Jon backs off, or we're breaking lutes. Either way, this will be soon be over, and we can get to the feast. And with that he hopped the fence, heavily landing next to Jon. Drawing on all his experience intimidating bandits on the road, Thorald stood over him eyebrow cocked, daring him to start a fight. "Walk away, Jon."
Jon's fingers tightened ever so slightly around his instrument, before finally loosening. "Fine," he said retreating, but before Thorald could give a sigh of relief, the parting shot landed. "I need to show my newest song to the girls anyway. They go insane when I perform it, be sure to remind your sister of that," he finished with a devilish smirk.
Thorald frowned, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" but Jon was already walking away. He looked at Geirmund for clarification.
"Mmfh yur mrr-" Geirmund started, still muffled by Erik's hand. Erik sheepishly removed his hand at Thorald's pointed look.
"I once caught them sneaking off- they uh… might have been... a thing," Geirmund said purposefully not meeting his eyes, "Not anymore though, messy break up and such," he quickly added as if this would soften the blow.
Thorald's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "There must be a trick."
Geirmund, clearly wishing he were anywhere but here, nodded reluctantly, "Um. Yeah. Maybe. Let's eat?"
Olfina dated… Jon? That made no sense, their families had hated each other for so long, and more importantly, Jon was such an incredible douche always taking his little lute everywhere he went.
He gave a dirty look at Jon's swaggering retreating back. Somewhere deep inside him, something that he had buried within started to crawl itself up. A primal part of him called on him to take action, that this was necessary. It would be so easy to give in to his baser nature, to release the words and say that he, Thorald Gray-Mane, had also slept with Jon's mother.
But no… he was the Dragonborn, he shouldn't debase himself to immature tavern talk. His eyes fell on a nearby crow lazing on a roof till, and an idea came to mind. Yes… he was the dragonborn, wasn't he?
Quickly before it was too late, he performed a subtle thu'um of Animal Friendship, the crow cocked its head, considered him, and then took flight soaring into the direction of Jon Battle-Born. And right before Jon disappeared out of view, the three cousins could only just make out something white dropping onto Jon with a big splatter, followed by a long and sorrowful whine echoing through the streets.
"Alright, let's feast," Thorald murmured, his mood instantly lifted now that both him and the crow were a bit more relieved.
A/N: Some perceptive people may have noticed some discrepancies in the Gray-Mane family-tree here. Just to clear up any confusion, I'll clarify:
I've mutilated this poor family-tree, by cutting some branches, and sticking new ones onto it like a beautiful monster of Frankenstein.
Originally, Thorald would be imprisoned by the Thalmor, and Avulstein would be another child of the Gray-Manes. But I've rewritten this part to fit the story better. There'll be no mention of Avulstein, or said imprisonment in this story, so you can treat it as if they never happened.
Why did I do this? Because it brought a more interesting family dynamic into place. Neither did I want to bring a tense prison heist story-line into this 'cozy' short-story. If you never even noticed this discrepancy, I just wasted 10 seconds of your life. You're welcome!