#brass bar cart | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

saintsmith · 2 months

Text

The descending lift was claustrophobic. The landsaint was becoming an under-landsaint with every jagged tug towards the bowels of the earth. She kept her breath steady and long so as not to panic. A Dromag attendant in the opposite corner of the lift had his arms crossed, and she could feel his hot breath, and smell its pungent spiciness.

The light approached from beneath, piece-by-piece with each pull of the chains. (The bigger cities had automatic lift mechanisms, but these were still hand-cranked.) The landsaint must have begun to hold her breath when the light first appeared, because it escaped in a single burst once they reached the lift’s landing below.

The attendant opened the brass-barred door, letting in more light from the landing. “This floor,” he mumbled, well-practiced but bored, “Market. Shrine.” He stood on his tiptoes to check the landsaint’s irises. “You know this. Blest day, saint.”

The landsaint stepped out of the lift, which immediately began to ascend to pick up more visitors to the city’s belly.

She hated the air down here. Dry and stuffy. Even when the air was cool, it felt hot. She was going to finish her work here and return topside, as soon as possible.

Two half-halberd-wielding Greshtal guards let her through with a nod. The landsaint returned the gesture curtly. Beyond the guarded brass door was a deep-dug city of stone, four stories high, stone stairs winding up and down the sides of stone buildings to stone balconies giving landing for brass doors, wooden planks from surface trees filling in gaps and forming crossings where the stone streets were narrow. Blackflame lamps kept the streets and stairs lit, but the closer to the roof, the darker it became. Up there, tall shadows danced. Only Dromag were short enough for the low ceilings in these reaches, but children of all types daredeviled from ledge to ledge.

The lower two levels were purely commercial, various shops and stores and groceries and boutiques lining the streets and dazzling passersby with brightly painted signs and intricately-woven tapestries. The two levels above were for the homes of the merchants. But not all who did business in this district lived here. Many commuted with their stalls and carts from the lower residential levels via the bigger, industrial lift by the main gates of the surface town.

The landsaint scraped past pedestrians and took in some of the shops and stalls. She saw a smithy selling blades –

– but the smith couldn’t call them blades. It was illegal in this jurisdiction of Kolqust for most tenvo to carry weapons larger than a work-knife. But many smiths circumvented this restriction by selling sharp scraps of bronze that almost looked like blades, but by the precise wording of the law couldn’t be called weapons. All it took was some string, resin, and a suitable length of wood to manufacture a “self-defense implement” at home. The landsaints politely ignored these loopholes; it was their job to enforce laws, not argue them.

– a wooden sign, painted with the words “mostly-meat sausages” (in smaller script beneath: “accepting chit only”), indicated such meats were hawked at the rickety stall where it hung by a lanky Dromag –

– those words being all the butcher needed to claim to bypass a law regulating the use of mineral additives in such products. Dromag had sturdy teeth and hardy stomachs, and could handle a little clay or limestone in their mixed meats. (During ancient times of poverty, clay was a common food source for the Dromag, earning them the now rarely-used sobriquet “clay-eaters.”) Aajakiri and Greshtal, on the other hand, could not digest these things. But when the prices were this low, a chipped tooth or a little indigestion was worth it.

– in a dim corner, lit by an array of colored paper lanterns, sat the waterpipe lounge –

– where the only smoke of griidc could be found in these times, as individual possession and consumption of the narcotic by claypipe had been outlawed by the state about a decade ago, much to the dismay of the large smoking subculture of Kolqust. Begrudgingly, tenvo would pay to smoke in these lounges for an hour, taking up their hoses around the communal waterpipe and allowing the smokemaster to supply them with their fix.

– a beautifully engraved storefront advertised “Oshr’s Fine Jewelry.” Through the open arches of the facade were rows of glass-protected counters bearing precious jewels, rings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets, torques, tiaras, and more. In the back, at a counter operated by Oshr herself, a beautiful face-painted Aajakiri, were displayed the finely cut, delicately-faceted receptacle gems for spirits, future thoughtstones –

– illegal to fill without saint sanction, but not illegal to cut and sell beforehand. Only saints or temple priests are allowed to capture spirits or sell thoughtstones.

The landsaints brow-plates flexed as she listened vaguely in the direction of the jeweler’s shop. Something tickled her brow-plates, and she focused on it.

It spoke of mastery. It spoke of a job well done, a product complete. Satisfaction – of the mind and the chit-purse. A deal. A transaction. A bargain sworn.

The landsaint squinted at Oshr. Her neck gleamed with a brilliant ruby. Personal thoughtstone. Not for sale.

The landsaint’s brow-plates resumed a neutral position as she carried on down the street. Finally she reached her destination: the town shrine. Its set of concentric walls were beautifully engraved and brightly painted, the outer ring etched with the laws of the priests of Raam. The landsaint ascended the radial stairs, passing one circular gate as she did, leaving behind the first circle, representing Uodh, the Void. The next ring depicted the victories of local saints throughout history – this circle represented Uorh, the Word. She passed its gate, leaving her one more circle to pass – Eilh, the World – displaying the triumphs and tribulations of Raam before he ascended to bring the day. Its gate had a door, which she slowly pushed open to enter the outer sanctum, where only priests and saints could pass.

A fairly reverent tenvo, the landsaint closed the door tightly behind her. She had expected to be greeted by a priest as soon as she entered, but none appeared; all that welcomed her was the floral scent of welic incense smoke wafting from censers hanging from the high rafters. Taking a left, she walked the circular corridor, lined with shelves bearing sacred scrolls, tomes, and tablets, until she came back around to the Eilh gate. She doubled back, but stopped as she met the Raam gate, a tightly shut door to the inner sanctum, halfway down.

Her brow-plates widened, and she swallowed deep. The door of the Raam gate was of plain wood, ornamented only with a single sacred symbol etched in gold in the center. Hand shaking, she reached out for the handle…

The door burst open from the inside, and a priest rushed out. It was Jark, coadjutor of the shrine’s chief priest. The landsaint’s hands were safely behind her back, but she did catch a glimpse of the black velvet curtain behind Jark shifting – the last barrier between unsanctified eyes and divinity.

“Imreb!” snapped Jark as he nearly ran into her, clutching his chest with his large Dromag hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I was waiting for you, Holy,” Imreb replied.

“You’ve been waiting?” stormed Jark as he pushed Imreb from the Raam gate. “I got so tired of waiting for you that I went ahead and joined the other Holies for evening communion!” He made a show of straightening his beard. “Where have you been?”

“Capturing a fallen spirit topside,” Imreb explained in a rush, flustered. “For young Kheloz.” She patted the collection case on her belt.

“Ah, young Kheloz…” mused Jark, still stroking his beard. “I remember being as young and curious as him…”

Imreb wondered if Jark had, in a past life, been a miner, or logger, or wrestler; he had a sturdy physique, and was tall for a Dromag, coming halfway up Imreb’s chest. He was this shrine’s first Dromag priest – they usually selected for Aajakiri with keen brow-plates. But Jark had somehow formulated a roundabout mystical way of interpreting thoughtstones; his rate of success was high enough to be dependable.

“Nevermind that,” Jark said, taking a seat at a bench wedged between two shelves. “Have a seat, landsaint.”

Imreb obeyed, sitting next to Jark. “What troubles you, Holy?”

Jark reached into a pocket of his robes and retrieved a small sapphire thoughtstone. But Imreb didn’t need to attune her brow-plates to hear it speak.

It spoke of tears. It spoke of wailing, weeping. Wet eyes and running noses too pitiful to look at, but demanding attention regardless.

“It’s leaking,” said Imreb, having to fight back her own tears from sympathetic reaction.

“As I suspected,” Jark said with a nod. He extended a massive hand to show Imreb the stone. “See the facets, here? Asymmetrical. Imperfect cut.”

“Where did you get this?” Imreb asked, her brow-plates receding into their sockets, trying to distance themselves from the pained thoughtstone.

“One of your knights confiscated it from an Aajakiri thief. Not sure the original source.”

Imreb leaned forward. “Which knight?”

“Confidential, I’m afraid,” said Jark with an apologetic smile raising the corners of his whiskers. “But it’s not the only such thoughtstone I’ve been delivered. It’s a pattern, now.”

“‘Illicit manufacture and sale for profit of thoughtstones,’” quoted Imreb from the legal code. “Could likely append ‘improper treatment of a spirit’ due to the poor gem quality.”

“Precisely,” agreed Jark. “An investigation is in order. Too delicate for a knight. You’ll handle it personally.” He handed Imreb the thoughtstone, which she quickly pocketed to silence it. “Start with talking to Oshr, the jeweler.”

“You suspect her?”

“Raam, no. Her handiwork far surpasses this. Don’t even suggest that, she’ll just be offended. Be discreet with her. Don’t let on too much.”

“With all due respect, I know how to conduct an investigation, Holy.”

“Of course, Imreb, of course,” said Jark with a gracious nod. “Go. Do what you must.”

Imreb nodded and stood to leave the shrine. “Wait,” said Jark as she was halfway to the Eilh gate.

Imreb turned back. “Yes, Holy?”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…the knight who brought me that thoughtstone told me they suspected you. That’s why they brought it to me instead of you directly.”

Imreb’s eyes widened, her brow-plates spreading apart. “Holy, I-I…”

“Don’t worry,” said the Holy with a wave of his hand. “Mortals can be easily mistaken. Would I have discussed this with you if I believed you were the culprit?”

“I suppose not, Holy.”

“Relax, and do your duty, saint.”

Imreb nodded and left the shrine.

- - - - -

Imreb knocked on the arch bordering Oshr’s shop as the jeweler nearly finished shuttering it. Oshr spun around, eyes and brow-plates wide, clutching her chest. She exhaled sharply when she saw Imreb. “Saint! A pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“Evening, Oshr,” smiled Imreb. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind…but first, why are you so startled? What troubles you?”

“Oh, nothing,” said the jeweler with a dismissive wave of her hand. But a flutter of her brow-plates indicated she was lying. Imreb copied the flutter to show she caught on. “Okay,” admitted Oshr. “You are my landsaint, after all…” Oshr looked around nervously before coming closer to Imreb and whispering, “Lately, I’ve noticed suspicious youths leering at my wares from a distance. I don’t see them now, but I’ve seen them the past few nights, around this time. I worry they’re planning something drastic.”

Imreb, a good, stoic landsaint, kept an even expression even at this alarming news. “Do you know these youths?”

“No, no…but…is there anything you can do?”

“I’m afraid not,” Imreb sighed, “without any hard evidence. But I’ll assign one of my knights to keep watch down here at night. Would that make you feel safer?”

“That would be wonderful, landsaint,” said Oshr, smiling wide, her hands clapping together, and her brow-plates raising. “Now, sweet landsaint, what was it you needed?”

“Let’s speak on that inside,” said Imreb, gesturing through the gap still left in the storefront’s shutters.

Oshr nodded and led Imreb inside, closing the shutter behind them. Oshr stood behind the counter at the back as Imreb leaned against it from the other side.

“Allow me to begin by showing you something,” Imreb said. From her coat pocket she retrieved the leaking sapphire thoughtstone, her brow-plates clenched so as to ignore its speech.

Oshr reacted to the thoughtstone’s wailing immediately, her brow-plates seeming to nearly pull away from her face. “Raamfire,” she moaned, “what are you showing me, saint?”

“Confiscated faulty thoughtstone, as you may have guessed.” Imreb set the sapphire on the counter between them. “What can you tell me about its manufacture?”

Oshr futilely covered her brow-plates with one slender hand and delicately plucked the sapphire between thumb and forefinger. She rolled the cut stone between her fingers, eyes scanning the facets. “Yes,” she said, squinting, “there are some obvious flaws here. Rather glaring, honestly. What novice cut this?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” Imreb sighed. “Do you know any local…amateurs or enthusiasts?”

“Well…there’s of course the topside jeweler, Glaa’ib, but while insufficient to my skill –” she made a sour face “– he is not this bad…I believe he took on an apprentice lately, but I heard they had a falling out. Not sure what happened to him.”

“What was his name?” Imreb asked.

“Oh, I’m not sure…Something like ‘Druugam’ or ‘Mogram’ or…something. I’m sorry, saint, I only know through hearsay from customers.”

“Don’t worry, Oshr. You’ve been very helpful.” Imreb held out a hand to take back the thoughtstone. Oshr quickly thrust it forward, grateful to be rid of it. The landsaint put it back in her pocket, silencing it and pleasing the two Aajakiri’s brow-plates.

“Blest day,” concluded Imreb as she opened the shutters and passed through the gap.

“Blest day, saint,” responded Oshr, who resumed the process of closing up shop.

Outside, Imreb looked up at the shrine at the end of the street. A solemn group of the faithful gathered around the outer Uodh wall: some kneeling with small prayerbooks in hand, counting out repetitions on their rosary belts as they mumbled the words of ancient saints; some ran their fingers reverently over the gold-inscribed engraved laws of the wall’s surface; others partook in heated ritual debate over the dictates of the priests and Raam himself.

Imreb gazed down the rings of the gates and tried to imagine what lay beyond the last, the Raam gate, that she almost caught a glimpse of earlier. She offered a prayer to that vague image and made her way topside to return home for the night.

#my setting #my worldbuilding #aurenna #my writing #imreb #kolqust #aajakiri #dromag #greshtal

6 notes · View notes

nerevar-quote-and-star · 9 months

Text

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part VIII: Steed

ao3

masterlist

first | previous | next

Please enjoy this chapter, brought to you by my fight for A's in science and quantitative reasoning. Next semester will be easier, so things will definitely be getting back on track.

Tag list:

@ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @dakatmew @constantfyre

@kurakumi @stormbeyondreality

@blktooth @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @hungryswampdweller @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles

Content Warning: In a surprising turn of events, none.

#######

“Fresh fruits and vegetables!”

“Fine trinkets for sale!”

“Fresh meat, straight from the wild!”

Bishop sneered at that last pitch. “I bet you ten septims that meat is from last Loredas.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Leara said, looking around.

It was market day when they arrived in Whiterun. Stalls and vendors lined the streets of the Plains District as peddlers called out sales gimmicks and prices to the large crowd of passersby. Local farmers parked in rows, setting up shop in the back of their carts. Whiterun was alive with shades of green and gold, vibrant in the height of summer. The sun-warmed kiss of ripe tomatoes and the sweet tang of summer apples wafted through the air, just detectable above the muddy scents of crowd and city. The aroma of red gold apples caressed Leara’s scenes as she passed by an overladen stall. The gleam of the fruit under the sun caught her eye, and Leara almost turned back to speak to the saleswoman.

Bishop’s hand on her elbow drew her back. “Eyes on the prize, sweetness,” he whispered in her ear. His eyes were directed toward the eaves of The Bannered Mare.

Leara sighed and followed after, Karnwyr on her heels.

The Bannered Mare was much busier than it was months ago when they came through from the Reach on their way to Ivarstead. Leara paused on the threshold, Bishop just ahead of her with the door wide open. If she closed her eyes, Leara could see the barfly buzzing around Bishop’s head, the sour expression on Saadia’s face when the ranger ordered her around, the apprehensive look that grew on Mikael’s face as his eyes slid from Leara to Bishop looming over her shoulder. She could hear Hulda snapping at Bishop, her patience worn thin as he continued to prod at the security of her inn.

Leara opened her eyes. Her feet had led her to the bar. Hulda was scowling at Bishop. Again.

“How’s that little break-in problem you had a while back?” Bishop asked.

“Resolved,” the innkeeper said in clipped tones.

“You sure about that?”

“Bishop, please,” Leara whispered, cutting in before he got them thrown out of the inn. “Hello, Hulda.”

The woman’s hard face softened, but only just, as she shifted focus. “Hello, dear. Will you be staying?”

“Yes, is,” she paused for a moment. Just one, and then, “Is my old room available?” Karnwyr bumped his head against her off-hand, and absently Leara tangled her fingers in his fur.

Bishop made a noise. She ignored him.

Hulda’s nod was short, her eyes fixed on Bishop. “Just the one room, dear?” she asked Leara.

“Yes, please.”

Her lips thin, Hulda shuffled through some keys she kept hooked on a board behind the bar. She perused the rows for a moment before plucking out a familiar brass key. The Bannered Mare was large, serving as the principal inn for the city of Whiterun. Leara never bothered visiting any of the others, though the Bosmer from The Drunken Huntsman was always quick to send her a wave and friendly smile. Before the mantle of the Dragonborn was thrust onto her shoulders. Before that, she’d scraped through the winter while renting out one of the smaller upstairs bedrooms. Nothing as fancy as the balcony suite overlooking the common room, but for a few cold months, Leara called The Bannered Mare home. Leara’s thin fingers folded over the key almost as soon as Hulda deposited it in her palm, its short length and brass loops more familiar to her hand than Words of Power were in her mouth.

Its weight grounded her.

For a moment.

“Wait, so you’ve had a room here this whole time?” Bishop’s voice cut in, and again Leara was drifting.

She swallowed. “You never asked. Last time you were pretty insistent that we sleep on sacks of cabbages.”

Bishop’s scowl did nothing to stop Hulda’s bark of laughter. Leara shot her a small smile as she slipped the requisite ten septims across the counter. Hulda scooped them up. “How long this time, dear?”

“Just a day, maybe two. I have some business with the Jarl,” Leara said.

Hulda nodded. She didn’t press about the business – she never did, despite being an innkeeper. As central as taverns were for the gossip mill, Hulda always knew when not to ask questions. Her discretion was something Leara always appreciated about her. Actually, it was one of the key reasons why Leara continued coming to The Bannered Mare after all this time.

It was probably also why Jarl Balgruuf continued to sneak into this particular barroom out of all the rest in Whiterun. Not that Leara knew anything about that.

“Speaking of which,” Bishop said, “we better be off.”

“Thank you, Hulda,” Leara coughed. Hulda nodded to her, turning back to the ledger behind the counter. “Actually,” Leara said softly as she and Bishop made their way to the stairs. She could feel Bishop’s eyes burning under her skin. “I need you to stay here.”

“What.”

Around them, the barroom bustled. The cheerful song of Mikael’s lute rose and fell above the hum of patrons dining and drinking. It was hardly an hour past noon: Many were catching a bite to eat before returning to the hustle of the market stalls. No one could hear Leara’s soft whisper or Bishop’s hot hiss above the clatter of dishes and mugs and the scrape of chairs that punctuated friendly conversations.

Her feet planted firmly on the first step, Leara turned to face Bishop. From this vantage point, she could look directly into his eyes without having to crane her neck. It was a little dizzying. She didn’t expect that. Karnwyr darted passed her up the stairs and Leara took that moment to steel herself. “Are you familiar with Jarl Balgruuf’s temper?”

Bishop crossed his arms, shifting his weight back on one leg as he did so. “I’ve heard the rumors.”

Leara jutted out her chin. “Well, they’re true. It is a delicate matter that I have to discuss with the Jarl. I am here not only for myself, but the Greybeards as well—” Bishop rolled his eyes; Leara continued, “—and it may go more smoothly if I went alone to Dragonsreach.”

Bishop stared at her. “There’s a joke in there somewhere about my manners, isn’t there?”

Leara gave a half-hearted shrug. “The joke is my ability to persuade the Jarl to agree to the Greybeards’ plan.”

They walked up the stairs. “And what is this all-important, top-secret plan, anyway? You haven’t said a word about it since we left that frozen hellhole.”

Leara winced. “Trust me, you’ll know soon enough, and when you do, you’ll wish you didn’t.”

“Sounds promising!” Bishop laughed as they crested the stairs. Karnwyr sat waiting for them, his tail wagging.

“It promises something, all right,” Leara murmured, her feet tracing the old familiar path down the hall to her room. It promised disaster, definitely. Death, probably. Fire . . . Leara cringed, memories of Helgen blazing across her mind as phantom smoke choked her throat and dragon fire scorched her skin. There would be fire, and fire was death.

Even with the peace conference as an incentive, fear of Jarl Balgruuf’s rejection of the plan churned inside her.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Leara jolted, only to find Bishop staring down at her, his face crinkled in perplexity. “You okay there, ladyship?”

No. “Yes, thank you.”

Slipping by him, Leara made her way nearly to the end of the hall, sliding the key into the lock as she went. It wasn’t a large room by any means. There was a chest at the end of the bed, a nightstand, and a single chair in the corner. It wasn’t much, the double bed comfortable, if a bit worn. The musty smell of hay and horsehair burrowed its way into her nose, its familiarity both a comfort and a pain. Her nostrils were stopped up with it the night after she slayed Mirmulnir. There was no trace on the thin pillow of her tearstains, just as there was no mark left on her body from that raging wind that tore through Mirmulnir’s body, dragging his soul into the depths of her own.

Setting her bag on the chest, Leara sighed. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’ll meet you back here for dinner,” she told Bishop. She fiddled with the loose hairs that fell curling from her bun. With a few twirls of her fingers, the loose strands settled into place, appearing as if they were meant to frame her face.

Sitting on the bed, Bishop watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself presentable,” Leara said, retrieving a cloth to wipe down her armor. A few passes along her gauntlets, chest plate, and war skirt were the best she could do. Akatosh, but she was weary of wearing armor.

She wiped the palms of her gloves before dumping the now dusty cloth on top of her satchel. “Dinner,” she reminded Bishop.

He said nothing as she left. Leara couldn’t say she wasn’t relieved. She thought for sure he would press to accompany her, but he surprised her. Ever since they left High Hrothgar, Bishop had been strangely mellow. If Leara didn’t know any better, she would say he was pensive. After their heated discussion before departing the monastery, Leara was sure she didn’t want to unpack whatever Bishop was carrying around that made him of all people pensive.

Karnwyr rose to follow her as she moved toward the door. Shaking her head, Leara scratched the wolf’s head. “You have to stay here, with your master,” she told him softly.

“Here, boy!” Bishop called from where he now lay sprawled on the bed. “Don’t be such a chaser.”

Clearly reluctant, Karnwyr shuffled back to Bishop’s side as Leara slipped out the door.

·•★•·

“Dragonborn,” the guards at the doors of Dragonsreach nodded to her. Their faces were obscured by cage helmets; Leara wondered to herself if either man had been there when she fought Mirmulnir. Returning their greeting with a soft smile and gentle nod, Leara pushed through one of the mighty doors.

Dragonsreach was truly magnificent and almost comforting. Especially after attending that poor excuse of a concert in the Palace of the Kings, Leara found herself drawn more to the warm woods and roaring fires of Whiterun’s palace than many of the other great places she visited. Out of everywhere in Skyrim, save perhaps High Hrothgar, whose stones sang with a peace and tranquility that rose above the cares and stresses of the world below, warming her heart despite the frigid air, Dragonsreach had a way of pulling her in, coaxing her with its merry hearth and the heady smells of roasting meat and baking bread. The keep was grand, but not garish, decorated with Nordic carvings in the living wood of its pillars and beams that recalled images of horses in the wind and dragons in flight. If the Palace of the Kings was a frozen fortress of stone and strength, then Dragonsreach was a home, inviting people into its heart to seek comfort in its warmth and plenty.

Knowing Jarl Balgruuf as she did, Leara wanted to believe that invitation still extended to her. Their last meeting, however, was just one more shadow cast by the ever-growing forest of doubt overrunning her mind. If the Jarl didn’t agree to the peace council for the sake of trapping a dragon and stopping Alduin, then Leara didn’t know what she would do. Figure something else out, certainly, but at what cost? Where else could she turn?

Neither her face nor her gait showed the weeds of her worry as the Dragonborn glided across the sunshine-yellow rug that dominated the keep’s foyer, passing the maids at their chores with a brief nod of acknowledgment before sweeping up the great stairs. The silver of her armor gleamed golden in the glow of the hearth fire, and Leara was privately relieved that she thought to wipe off the dust from the road. She wanted to appear put together before the Jarl if nothing else. Usually, men seemed more willing to listen to women who didn’t look like vagrants. Her thoughts turned to the faded state of her hair, its mahogany shine dulled into shades of chestnut. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She resolved then to buy more hair dye off Arcadia on her way back to the inn.

The feasting tables stretched before her, already set for dinner, though it was hardly the second hour since noon, and she knew that Jarl Balgruuf and his court didn’t take their dinner until nearly seven in the evening. Leara passed these by, making her way toward the throne dais. Balgruuf himself was seated, hunched to the side with his elbow propped on the armrest and his bearded chin balanced on his closed fist as he listened to whatever his steward was prattling on about. Off to the left, his housecarl, Irileth, stood back with her arms crossed, her ashen face creased at whatever Avenicci was saying. However, more than half her attention was marking Leara’s progress across the room as she drew ever closer to the Jarl’s throne. Few would notice the attention, but Leara was trained to spy slights of eyes and shifts in attention. In another life, she thought Irileth might have made an excellent Knight-Sister. Certainly, a more rational one than Delphine, at any rate.

“My Jarl,” the housecarl said, cutting off Avenicci’s spiel about road patrols growing too close to the other Holds. Funny, Leara thought, hadn’t he used that same argument to try and dissuade the Jarl from sending aid to Riverwood the previous fall? “The Dragonborn is here.”

At once Leara found the attention of Balgruuf the Greater directed at her, his arm falling from its perch on the chair as he straightened in his seat. As if his actions pulled a lever, Leara dropped to one knee at the base of the short steps to the throne dais, her right arm barred over her chest with her fist over her heart. It was a Bretic stance, but despite being hailed as a Nordic hero, Leara couldn’t persuade herself to adopt their court etiquette. Akatosh knew she wasn’t going to kowtow to Balgruuf like she once did before Lord Naarfin or, Divines forbid, Lord Varlarata. Not today – or ever, for that matter.

“Dragonborn,” Balgruuf the Greater said, a note of surprise evident in his greeting. “Leara, I did not expect you.”

Dropping her arm, Leara rose to her feet. “I apologize, Jarl Balgruuf, but I’ve been on the road a long time. My pilgrimage to High Hrothgar was only the first of many places I’ve visited in Skyrim since the Greybeards summoned me.”

“Of course,” Balgruuf said, his steel eyes watching her. The last time he watched her, Leara had walked out of Dragonsreach in embarrassment, its comfortable atmosphere blown from around her by a cold wind. “I won’t ask if you have found Skyrim well because, between the dragons and the war, I’m afraid she is in a bit of a crisis.”

Proventus Avenicci coughed. Leara thought she heard a grumbled, “‘A bit of a crisis’ is putting it mildly,” but she dismissed the comment.

“Actually, Jarl Balgruuf, with your permission, it’s the dragons and the war which I would like to discuss with you,” she said, concern creasing her forehead and drawing at her mouth just so.

Balgruuf’s shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh. “It would be the dragons and that blasted war that would bring you back here,” he said, almost to himself.

From the corner of her eye, Leara saw Irileth roll her eyes in that quick, up-down motion that was almost undetectable in its speed. She imaged the Dunmer’s eyes got as much exercise as her sword arm these days. Goodness knows Leara’s did whenever Bishop was nearby.

Her arms loose at her sides, Leara tilted her chin up and relaxed her shoulders back. “I won’t insult your intelligence network by regaling you with tales of the dragons’ devastation across Skyrim. The havoc and chaos they leave in their wake is second only to the fear people feel at their coming. The dragon threat needs to be resolved, swiftly.”

“Aye,” Balgruuf said, with a grunt. “As Dragonborn, I was hoping you would have a solution that would solve at least one of Skyrim’s problems.”

A demure smile pulled at Leara’s lips as she bowed her head lightly. “I have learned a great deal with the Greybeards, and in my travels besides,” she said, dancing toward her proposal and leading the Jarl after her. Irileth was watching her, she knew, and Avenicci was biting at the bit to insert some comment. If Hrongar were present, Leara didn’t doubt the Jarl’s brother would take the imitative. “I now know how the dragons have returned.” The still-healing skin of her hands and forearms ached at the memory of her ill-turned battle atop the Throat of the World. At the memory of Alduin’s thundering voice and poisonous breath coiling around her, constricting. “It is Alduin. He has returned and he’s resurrecting the dragons.”

The effect of her words was instantaneous. Balgruuf sat rigid, the steel of his eyes glinting and the line of his mouth dropping. The hand on his lap closed into a tight fist, then flexed open. To the side, Irileth frowned, her mouth pinched, but she showed no other reaction. Avenicci, on the other hand, gaped like a fish, his hands flapping at his sides in a strong imitation of a hummingbird. For a moment, Leara wondered what the Dunmer and Imperial might know about the World-Eater and how their knowledge, being transplanted from other cultures as they were and neither being scholars nor particularly religious, must fall short compared to Balgruuf’s. To hers.

Fire and death flashed in a blazing wind through her mind’s eye. Smoke and blood strangled her tongue.

“The World-Eater,” breathed Balgruuf. His eyes were distant, darting back and forth as if reading a memory. “Then, surely this means the end times are upon us.”

Leara stepped forward, one step, two, leaving the cloud of battle behind her as she drew the Jarl’s attention back to her. Splintering steel and shattering crystal. Good. He knew how grievous news of Alduin was. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” she said.

The Jarl nodded to himself, “Of course not. What’s your plan? What do you need?”

Help, Leara thought, then, “I’ve spoken to the Greybeards, and in our mediation—” or rather, her nagging, “—we discovered that Whiterun is central to stopping Alduin. It’s imperative that we take the opportunity presented to bring an end to his reign of terror. Without your help, there’s a chance that—”

“Leara,” Balgruuf said, a note of finality in his voice. The Dragonborn’s jaw clamped halfway closed at the flare of temper. “Get on with it, girl. You already know I would help bring an end to this dragon menace if I could. You don’t need to dance around the subject like a damn butterfly,” this last was spoken with a touch of gentleness. “What do you propose?”

Did she know that? The ring of her own laughter resounded in her ears, echoing with disbelief and no small amount of Alinor-flavored ridicule. She brushed the memory aside like an afterthought. “I would like to trap a dragon in your keep.”

Spluttering to her left. A snort to her right. In front of her, Balgruuf was frozen. “I didn’t hear you right,” he shook his head. “Did you say you need to trap a dragon in my keep?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf.”

Balgruuf slumped back in his chair, his face in his hands. His shoulders shook and for a fleeting moment, Leara feared she actually drove the Jarl of Whiterun to tears. Then a hoarse laugh slipped through his fingers. Leara stood there, stunned. Whatever she did, she certainly drove him to hysterics! “Jarl Balgruuf—”

“You come in here,” began the Jarl, his hands slipping from his face. One hand twisted into the end of his beard as the other fell limp to his side, “declaring that the World-Eater himself has returned and that the only way to stop the end of the world is to trap a dragon in my keep!”

“It’s absurd,” Avenicci sniffed, glaring at the Dragonborn. “My Jarl, this—”

“But you say you meditated with the Greybeards,” Balgruuf pressed on, ignoring his steward. “They do not do things in haste. Surely, they must have shared their reasoning with you.”

Their reasoning was hers, but the Jarl didn’t need to know Leara talked the Greybeards into helping. She nodded. “We know how precarious the war has left Whiterun. Both sides vie for your loyalty while your continued neutrality not only holds both sides at bay but has effectively brought much of the major fighting to a stalemate. But the tension is building. Neither General Tullius nor Ulfric Stormcloak will wait forever. We know your concern,” she said, rushing ahead as Balgruuf again moved to speak, “that should you agree to help me that they will take the opportunity to march on Whiterun should things go south.”

“What do the Greybeards suggest, then?”

“Jarl Balgruuf!” Irileth cut in, and at once she was so much closer, almost between her Jarl and the Dragonborn whose presence threatened the safety of the hold and her Jarl. “You can’t possibly agree to such a breach of security—"

Irileth’s place as Balgruuf’s shield and therefore the bulwark of Whiterun was not lost on Leara. But her hands were tied.

With ice and frostbite.

“Settle down, Irileth! I haven’t agreed to anything yet!” He turned back to Leara. “What do the Greybeards say?”

“It has been proposed that a peace council take place at High Hrothgar. Given the Greybeards’ historic neutrality and the respect both sides hold for them, it is our belief that negotiating a ceasefire would be in everyone’s best interest, at least until the dragons are taken care of. Perhaps,” she added, “such a peace council might open the door to further peace talks down the road.”

Balgruuf looked like he very much doubted that, and Leara couldn’t say she didn’t agree with him, either. She’d never met General Tullius, as she didn’t really count her almost-execution under his nose at the hands of an overzealous captain, but Ulfric she knew. His storming spirit would simmer for a time, a looming threat of rain, but the clouds would burst and sweep through Skyrim again. The Empire, she knew, would rise to meet him with all the tenacity of a house that, being built on a rock, refuses to be swept away in the flood.

“A ceasefire,” Balgruuf mused.

Leara nodded.

“It seems you anticipated me, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf said, back straight once more. “A guarantee of peace would be the one bargain I would accept to agree to such an astounding plan. To trap a dragon in my keep . . . pah!”

Avenicci’s head was shaking back and forth. “This is a bad idea, my Jarl,” he said.

But Balgruuf waved him off. “Of course, it is,” he said, dismissive. Beside the throne, Irileth looked resigned. “Aye, but it’s the only way, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara said. It was the only idea Paarthurnax could come up with, and Blade or not, Leara trusted the withered dragon.

The Jarl drummed his fingers on his leg. “I take it you haven’t brought this matter to General Tullius or Ulfric yet.” It wasn’t a question.

“I wouldn’t do you the discourtesy, Jarl Balgruuf,” Leara dropped her chin in difference. Still, she could see Avenicci’s scowl on the edge of her vision. Irileth’s eye roll was felt without sight. Leara blamed neither of them. They all knew just how discourteous she could be to the Jarl of Whiterun.

Silence, the Jarl was in thought, then, “If they will both agree to the council, then I will agree to this plan to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach.” A wry smile curved through his wheat-blond beard. “The Greybeards have been thorough in your studies, then, I wager. Having you read the legend of old Olaf One-Eye,” he chuckled.

Leara gave a dry laugh. When she visited Solitude, she would have to find a bookshop where she could buy an anthology of old Nordic stories. Maybe then she’d be able to appreciate the humor in this Olaf One-Eye capturing a dragon. It almost reminded her of Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus. She cast a wary eye on the dragon’s crest mounted high above the Jarl’s throne, suddenly doubting the belief she nurtured upon her first visit that it was fake. There was every possibility that the skull was real and that it once belonged to the dragon that Olaf held captive in this very palace. Dragonsreach. Yes, just like Tiber Septim and Nafaalilargus, with just as tragic an ending. By Akatosh, she hoped that if she managed to capture a dragon his skull wouldn’t become just another decoration in Dragonsreach.

“Yes, they have,” she said at length. Her gaze fell back on the Jarl. “I will leave word if General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak both agree to attend the council.” Leara bowed her head, her fisted hand over her heart though she didn’t drop to her knee as she did before. “That’s all I wanted to discuss with you, Jarl Balgruuf. I won’t trouble you any longer.” With that, Leara turned to go.

“Leara.”

With a rod fused to her spine, Leara again faced the throne. Balgruuf frowned at her, though to her relief, Leara couldn’t detect any real anger. Only some resignation of his own.

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?”

“Before,” he said, “when you refused . . . Well, given the circumstances, for Whiterun, especially, I don’t suppose you’d reconsider my offer?”

Her face remained passive, but the question blew through her nerves, biting and chilling them to the quick. “I’m sorry, no. Thank you, but no.”

Balgruuf nodded to himself, almost as if he expected as much. “I thought as much. Well, safe travels, Dragonborn.” And he waved her away.

“Thank you, my jarl,” Leara bobbed her head, the steward’s upturned nose directing her path to the doors like a compass needle.

No, she couldn’t accept the Thaneship of Whiterun. That was, that was not for her.

At least she didn’t laugh in his face this time!

·•★•·

“You look a bit tired, dear,” Arcadia said, wrapping the bottles of hair dye.

“The road’s been hard,” Leara said. She dropped a handful of septims on the counter and, accepting the wrapped vials, slipped them into a pouch on her belt.

Pale lips pursed; Arcadia shook her head. “No one should have to hunt dragons on their own. What happens if you get hurt?”

“I’m not alone!” Leara said, perhaps too quickly. The alchemist lifted a dark eyebrow. “I’m not. I have Karnwyr and Bishop.”

“Bishop?” Arcadia repeated. His name sounded sour coming from her mouth. Leara refused to examine how discordant it sounded coming from her own. “Isn’t he that ranger that’s always bragging about his, ahem—” Arcadia made a vague downward gesture. At Leara’s confused stare, she coughed, “his ‘equipment.’”

Leara was still. Then she shrugged because honestly, it sounded so like him. “Probably, yeah.’”

“And you’re traveling with him?” Arcadia squawked. “Why in Oblivion?”

“I—” Leara swallowed. “I owe him.”

Arcadia’s hands were in the air as if she were singing a psalm to Kynareth. “Leara, Divines have mercy, what could you possibly owe a pig like that to agree to travel with him? Alone!”

The words “I killed him” lodged in her throat like stale bread, dusty and choking. She nearly had, hadn’t she? Bishop never told her much about his experience in Blackreach after she sent him over the cliffside with the blind creatures, save that the water was “nasty as giant piss” and that he woke washed up on a shore like “some kind of rumlogged pirate”, but that was enough, wasn’t it? She almost killed him. And it didn’t bother her as much as it should, either. The least she could do was let him live on in his little hero fantasy where he was “protecting” her from the Thalmor and thugs hunting her. And who did it hurt if she let him? No one. No one at all.

“He did me a favor a while back,” Leara said at last, recalling the Thalmor agents in the Ratway and his company in the long dark of Alftand. “This is me paying him back.”

A hand stained from years of handling alchemical ingredients hovered near Leara’s arm, then fell. Even on the platform the counter was built on, Arcadia was shorter than Leara, but still, her Colovian green eyes reached across the distance to Leara’s, like Lake Rumare in their turbulence. People like Arcadia made Leara miss Cyrodiil. Oftentimes she missed her homeland of High Rock, but other times, she longed for the sunshine and urbanization of the Heartlands. Once upon a time, Cyrodiil was her home. She once had family there. Arcadia reminded her of that.

Leara patted the alchemist’s hand and mustered a reassuring smile to accompany the gesture. “I won’t let him take advantage of me, Arcadia.”

“I know,” she said as if trying to convince herself of that. “You’re the Dragonborn.”

Being the Dragonborn meant something different to Arcadia – to Leara herself – than it did to the Nords. They saw a legendary warrior hero, while Leara, who spent years studying under Blades masters, saw the incarnation of Akatosh’s divine blessing meant to guide mortals, as once fulfilled through Talos. Arcadia, just like many Imperials, saw the symbol of the Empire, how strong it was and how easily it was sacrificed.

Leara fought to seal the cracks fracturing her smile. “Quite right.”

·•★•·

It was after six when she finally slipped back into The Bannered Mare. In the morning she would go to the general goods store and sell the abundance of soul gems from the Dwemer ruins. Part of her wished there was time to deliver them to the College of Winterhold to be studied, but her short coffers screamed louder than her inquisitive mind. There was nothing special about these particular samples anyway, she’d decided while still on the road from Mzark. They resembled to the usual light stones used by northern mages. The only significant difference between the soul gems she picked up in Alftand and those sold by shops was when they were harvested – that and the soul captured in the gem, she thought, recalling the brief glimpses she’d had into the souls of the blind creatures lurking down in the underground. Perhaps when she found a bookshop in Solitude, she could find something on those creatures as well. Didn’t Bishop say they were something out of folk stories?

Yes, it was best she sold the soul gems, she thought, as her gaze swept the room for her brooding companion.

Where was he? She wondered, making her way to the bar. “Hello, Hulda,” she said, sliding onto a stool.

Hulda, who was jotting some down in the ledger, looked up at the greeting. “Shor’s bones, dear! But you’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“I am?”

“Yeah, that friend of yours, he was getting antsy while you were gone, pacing up and down the upstairs hall like some kind of caged dog. I finally told him to go out back and spend that energy on something useful like chopping wood for the fire,” Hulda said. Reaching under the counter, she lifted a bottle of Surilie Brothers Wine. The cork was dusty, and Leara wondered if it’d been touched since she drank half the bottle the night after slaying Mirmulnir. So distracted was she by the familiar vintage that it took a moment for Hulda’s statement to register.

“You . . . sent Bishop to chop wood? And he listened?”

“Aye,” Hulda said, uncorking the bottle. A glass was brought up next and quickly Leara found her hands full of the sweet wine. “He spat and spewed like a kettle, but one of the Companions was in – Vilkas – and he set him straight.” Hulda gave Leara a look, one the elf was familiar with. While wintering in Whiterun, Hulda frequently suggested that Leara join the Companions and secure a better place for herself than living hand-to-mouth off bounty money in the inn. And if she’d stayed any longer, Leara might have taken her up on the idea. But then the dragon attacked, followed quickly by the Greybeards’ thunderous summons, and Leara couldn’t stay in Whiterun. With the fate of the world on her shoulders, she didn’t think she could just “stay” anywhere, anyway.

“I’d have loved to see that,” Leara smiled, cradling her glass. With the poised hands of an Altmer mage, she lifted it and took a dainty sip, the kind that always had Hulda shaking her head when she saw her.

Hulda chuckled, “Anytime you want to see that boy thrown around, just take him to Jorrvaskr. I’m sure Vilkas will give you a repeat performance!” And went back to her ledger.

Giggling to herself, a manic bubble danced in Leara’s chest. She sipped at her wine and turned to watch the room. Folks were trickling in for dinner in ones, twos, and threes. Some were already seated. Speaking of the Companions, she spied Vilkas’ twin, Farkas, and his girlfriend sequestered off at a corner table, making eyes over a plate of red mutton. Fingers tapping along her glass, Leara decided against saying hello. There was something about her that seemed to rub Farkas’ girlfriend the wrong way, but for the life of her, Leara couldn’t imagine what she’d done to make Artanis disdain her so. It was a mystery Leara didn’t have time to unravel, no matter how much she might want to. There was a time when she thought she could make a home in Whiterun, but that time was over.

Across the common room, Saadia slipped from the kitchen, a bundle of firewood settled in her arms. The waitress settled the wood across the fire and, taking the iron poker of the end of the spit, stoked the embers into a merry blaze. The fire crackled in time with chirps and lilting notes of Mikael’s flute as he played a soaring tune that Leara recognized as “The Dance of Torchbugs”. Not his usual dinner catalogue, but it was a cheery melody that remined Leara of camping under the auroras while the torchbugs and luna moths fluttered across the tundra on midnight paths.

Someone called for more ale, and Saadia disappeared again into the kitchen, emerging again minutes later with a laden platter of tankards.

“I’d rather have what you’re having,” a voice commented.

Leara started, and turning, found the stool beside her occupied with by a Breton with curly dark hair and a mischievous glint in his black eyes. He grinned at her, the sort of roguish grin a man delivers when he knows he’s taken a woman by surprise and is pleased with himself for doing so. There was a cherry tint high on his cheeks, as if he’d already been drinking. He had an air of levity about him, and Leara, despite herself, found herself drawn in at once.

“Hulda, another glass of Surilie, please?”

The innkeeper looked up, frowning slightly when she saw the Breton beside Leara. Shrugging, she poured another glass of the Cyrodilic vintage.

“Put hers on my tab,” the man said, catching Hulda’s wrist with a deft touch, half-gesturing toward Leara with a jerk of his head as he did so. Hulda stared at him, and nodded silently. The glass of wine exchanged hands, and then she went back, drawing her ledger further down the counter and leaving Leara alone with the stranger.

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do that,” she told him.

He shrugged and went to drink. To her surprise, the stranger’s movements with the glass were as practiced and graceful as her own – hardly the motions of a man already deep in his cups.

Lowering the glass, he eyed its contents critically. “Not quite the depth of the 399 vintage, but this’ll do.”

Leara stared at him. “Are you a wine connoisseur?”

The man laughed, a golden laugh like the churning of bubbles in a glass of Evermore Doré. “You could say I’m an appreciator of fine things,” he told her, a dimple teasing her from the far side of his face.

“Would they we could all take the time to appreciate fine things,” Leara said, mock-toasting her glass to him before taking another delicate taste. The wine slipped down her tongue, full of the sweet nostalgia of dead summers long buried beneath the forests of the West Weald in the south. She caught the watchful eye of the stranger, then, and lowered her glass. So cheerful was his appearance that it was only now that she saw the sad light twinkling in his eyes. All the sadness of the world, the thought struck her.

Leara set her glass on the bar.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sam,” he said at once, cradling his own glass like a rosebud in his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Quite, I’m Leara.”

He didn’t say anything about her being Dragonborn, for which she was grateful, but he did continue gazing at her with sadness, and somehow that seemed heavier than her mantle of hero. Straightening her spine, Leara felt her vertebrae crack, releasing pressure throughout her back. The pinch was back in her hip, so she slipped her left leg from the wrung on her stool to stretch it toward the floor. Glancing up, she caught Sam shaking his head.

“You’re fractured,” he said, half to himself.

She’s – what?

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

With his elbow on the counter and his chin nestled in his palm, Sam shook his head. “I can see the lines clawing up your limbs and converging on your heart. Who hurt you, kid?”

“No one!” came Leara’s quick reply.

He was already shaking his head, mumbling to himself. “When he finds out, I’ll catch flack for it, I know it! Everyone always blames me for this family’s issues. Are they forgetting that’s Bal’s domain?” His eyes cut back to her, jet searching her like an open book. Heat crawled up Leara’s neck, flushing her skin as pale red as the washed-out roots of her hair. “Oh, that sucks.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I hate that for you.”

Striking the counter with the flat of her palm, Leara leaned forward. “What,” she hissed, “in the name of Akatosh are you going on about?”

“Oh, kid!” Sam laughed. “I do nothing in the name of Akatosh. His champion, however, well, you never know what you have until you’ve lost it, yeah? No,” he raised a finger, “No, you don’t know yet. Or maybe you do, but not enough.”

Unnerved, Leara got to her feet, her wine in hand. “You’re mad,” she whispered.

Sam looked up at her, startled, as if seeing her for the first time. Then the roguish grin returned. “Lea, Lea, Lea, don’tcha know? Only the best people are!”

“Right,” she stepped back. “Thank you for buying my drink. It was nice talking to you.” Not. It was actually rather disconcerting.

“You too, kid,” Sam waved her off, and Leara, with all the decorum of a Dominion officer escaping an undesirable social function, marched lightly across the room to an empty table.

Sanguine watched her go, sparing a glance to her lithe hips and the sway of her war skirt. “Oh, Sheo ol’ boy, if you could see the state she’s in, your anger might drive you sane.”

·•★•·

She was rinsing the excess dye from her hair by the time Bishop finally trudged into the room. The jacket of his hunting leathers was flung over one shoulder, leaving him in the thin linen shirt he usually wore. His shoulders and forehead glittered with sweat. Honestly, he stunk more than usual, Leara thought. Spying Karnwyr cover his nose with a paw, spread out as he was on the bed, Leara knew the wolf agreed with her. And they said dogs were man’s best friend!

“Move over, I want to wipe down,” Bishop grunted, flinging his jacket over the chest. He plopped down on the edge of the bed and began untying his boot laces.

From where she stood bent over the water basin, Leara caught the ripe stench of Bishop’s socks. Her grimace reflected back at her from the rust-colored water. “Give me a minute. I’m almost done.”

She felt more than saw Bishop’s eyes rove over her backside where the fur-lined weave of her trousers hugged her hips and rear. A shiver shuddered down her spine, unrelated to the water she was pouring over her scalp.

“You know what, sweetness? Take your time. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

“You do that,” she muttered. Setting aside the water cup, she took the ratty old towel she’d got off Saadia and began drying her hair. Next time, she resolved, she was dying her hair sitting down, no matter how terribly her hip cramped! “You were out there a long time,” she began conversationally. “Did you chop a lot of wood?”

“What do you think?” Bishop scoffed. “Every bushel I chopped, that damn barmaid scurried away with like she owned it or something! Really, how much firewood could an inn need in one night? Nah, I must’ve chopped half a forest.”

Leara straightened just in time to catch Bishop flexing his biceps at her. Her nose wrinkled at the disturbed scent of sweat coming from his underarms. “Aren’t you so impressive,” she rolled her eyes, tossing the towel at his head. “Clean up, won’t you?”

“Hey!” he cried, only just catching the towel. “You know,” he began as Leara dumped the basic out the window and filled it with clean water from the pitcher. “I wouldn’t’ve had to chop wood if you’d just come back here after your little ‘meeting’ with Balgruuf the Lesser!”

A muscle in her jaw ticked at the insult. “I took a walk to clear my head. You should try it sometime!”

“I’ve been walking behind you clear across Skyrim, and you want me to take a walk?” He took the basin from her, setting it none too gently on top of the nightstand. “Spare me the health check, ladyship. I got enough out of the bossy healer who was with that damn Companion your little innkeeper friend sent after me!”

Leara passed him the bar of lye soap. “Oh, I’m so sorry she asked you to do something useful rather than terrorize her patrons!”

“You know, I don’t appreciate your tone!”

“I don’t appreciate yours!”

Bishop scowled, the wet bar of soap clenched in a tight fist. Then shlick! It shot out of his hand. Leara ducked just in time to watch it sail overhead before slamming into the closed bedroom door with a thud! Stunned, Leara and Bishop watched it slide down the wood, leaving a sudsy trail in its wake.

A giggle escaped Leara, followed by Bishop’s own bark of laughter.

“Gracious,” Leara breathed, hands cradling her face as humor at the absurdity of the scene overtook her.

“That’s one way to put it,” Bishop snorted. He made his way to the door and stooping, retrieved the soap. “Haven’t had that happen before.”

“I have,” Leara said between guffaws of laughter. “One of my, ah, fellow students was traipsing around the room with the soap,” she said, recalling the atmosphere in the women’s barracks at Cloud Ruler Temple between the knight-apprentices. “She swore it would serve as a talisman to keep the boys out of our dormitory. I made the mistake of telling her that if they were that serious about getting in, a little soap wasn’t going to deter them. She threw it at me, only, it hit the window instead of the door. We were a week without soap. By the end of it, the boys smelled divine in comparison, honestly. Akatosh, but that was decades ago,” Then Leara trailed off, grounded by the peculiar look twisting his features. “What?”

“That’s not the first comment you’ve made about ‘decades’,” he said.

“No, of course not! Haven’t—” here Leara hesitated, “—haven’t I mentioned being in the war?”

“What, you mean the Great War?”

“Yes! What other ware would I mean but the Great War?”

Bishop shrugged, his usually temperamental bravado not in it. Leara drew back, her arms crossed as she studied him. His hair was rumpled, and his face streaks of dirt and sweat. A tired scowl distorted his mouth, drawing lines across his usually handsome face. He mirrored her stance, his bare arms barred across his sweat stained shirt. Lifting her chin, Leara met his pale stare, a crease appearing between her own brows.

“How old are you?”

Leara froze, having not expected the question. How old was she? It was summer again – had she really let another birthday slip her by? The years were growing so fleeting now. Here she was, over halfway to her next birthday, and she hadn’t even observed the previous one, had she? Leara swallowed. “Sixty-four,” she whispered. Her fingers sought out the cold moonstone band, enchanted to open her deep magicka wells and regenerate her otherwise stunted resources. The blessing and curse of the Atronach.

Bishop swore, startling the redhead. “You’re a cradle-robbing saber cat, sweetness! Ha!” He laughed again, wolfish as he wasn’t before.

Leara blinked, then shook her head. This time, her laugh was mixed with confusion. “On the contrary, I’ve kidnapped no one, nor am I part cat. I’m Dragonborn, remember? Not Khajiitborn, or some nonsense like that.”

Bishop sobered. “Yeah, I remember all about you being Dragonborn!” He stripped off his shirt and flung it into the corner. “How could I forget your desperation to help every idiot in Skyrim find their crap, like some kind of damn hero detective service! I can’t, because not only do you not shut up about it, but every sorry place we stop is full of simpletons clamoring for your attention! And where does that leave me, your ladyship?”

She wilted. And they were getting along so well, too, weren’t they? “I don’t know,” she whispered.

Karnwyr lifted his head, his brown eyes swimming as they met hers. “I’m going to sleep,” she told Bishop, her attention fixed on the comforting form of Karnwyr. Exhaustion seeped into her bones with a growing familiarity. She wanted to bury her face in the wolf’s fur and cry, just as she did that night in Windhelm after the bloody embarrassing performance. After she saw Ulfric.

Her breath stilled in her lungs. The peace council. She had to invite Ulfric.

“Sweetness—”

Shooing Karnwyr off the bed, Leara scratched the wolf’s ears. Pulling back the covers, she scooted up against the wall, her arms crossed as her forehead met the cool paneling. Guilt over the ruddy letter she never read joined the exhaustion and weariness already drowning her soul.

“Darling—”

“Goodnight, Bishop.”

She dreamed of grey storms and golden liquor.

#fanfic #ao3 #i didn't know you were keeping count #oc: leara roseblade #last dragonborn #balgruuf the greater #Bishop #karnwyr #sanguine #whiterun #the elder scrolls #tes #skyrim #mod post

16 notes · View notes