[Introduction and Author's Note]
A collection of eleven flash shorts following the journey of Cordelia Summer-Moon, both through Skyrim and her own heart. These serve as the basis for at least some of the plot in the full fiction I've been working on, but due to the ever mercurial nature of writing, decisions made for the sake of the whole demand that many of the details (like Lydia and the name of Cordelia's horse) will not make it to the final version.
I apologize for the time skips. The stories are in chronological order, both in when they were written and the order in which they occur in the plot, so you can feel the actual progression, but each of these was written while playing Skyrim as stand-alone vignettes, and as such serve more as inspiration than final product, so the pieces that would marry them together do not yet exist.
There is a spoiler regarding the Companion's quest line. I think most of us have either figured it out, or gone through it ourselves, but if you haven't, the spoiler does exist in part five, and is referenced in parts eight and nine.
What you can expect to see in the final version are roughly similar events, and the relationship between Cordelia and her mercenary; whether he remains Vorstag or becomes an entirely original character is yet to be decided. I encourage you to give me your opinions on using canon characters vs. the idea of replacing them with original, and the pros and cons you'd foresee for each option. It would go a long way in helping me decide, but, of course, all feedback is welcome.
Eleven pieces are all that exist, so let them serve as a teaser for what you can expect, and as a monument to my progress through this project which has so captivated me, and which I hope captivates you as well.
Enjoy,
- Cordelia
Adalind Monroe
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1. Ultimatum
She agreed to meet Farkas at Dustman's Cairn, but when she turned to inform Vorstag of their change of plans, he had vanished. She searched the city, such as she could until continued searching would mean delaying her meeting with the Companion. Concerned, disheartened, and more than a little frustrated, she left Whiterun.
With Artax saddled and ready, she headed down the main road to the West, thoughts of Vorstag lingering in her mind. What could have caused him to depart so suddenly, and without even a word of parting. At once her stomach churned with apprehension and burned with unrealized fury.
As she passed the last torches of Whiterun, she spied him. It was with no small amount of irritation she recognized the mercenary's lazy gait as he sauntered through the spreading evening gloom.
That idiot! She thought venomously, spurring Artax to intercept him. She dismounted to the jingling chorus of her elven armor, an acerbic quip at the ready as she confronted him about leaving so abruptly.
“I'd happily fight at your side,” he said, his pace hardly slowing, “but it looks like you've already got a companion. Get rid of him, and I'll gladly rejoin you.” He turned from her and continued down the road, she knew, toward Markarth; his home. Not once did he look back. Not once did his step falter.
She was stunned. Her heart raced, and it ached. Her mind swirled in silent chaos as she watched the light of his torch bob into the distance until it disappeared around a bend, and once again all was night.
An ultimatum. The thought echoed through her mind again and again. An ultimatum. How dare he issue an ultimatum! He had no right! He – A dull throbbing in her chest emphasized the hollowness growing inside her. The thick steel walls she had felt so easily melting away while sharing his company began to rebuild themselves around her heart. As she stared into the night, her jaw slowly set, and her resolve darkened.
And so, let him leave. The arrogant beast can go back to his inn and live out his days as the unscrupulous sell-sword he was when I found him!
I don't need him.
The thought was a hiss that burned her, cauterizing the ragged, bleeding edges of her trust.
She didn't need him. She would never need him.
2. Consequences
Whose child was this anyway? She had been given nothing but sass and disrespect from the guttersnipe from the moment they'd met. Unprovoked harassment from the snot-nosed little brat greeted any and all who entered a twelve-foot radius, and she had reached the breaking point. Losing Vorstag to what she could only call arrogance and jealousy, and learning the truth about Farkas and the Companions' inner Circle had taken a heavy toll on her. She was at the end of a very long rope, and her grip was tenuous at best.
“I'll fight anyone,” she heard the child say as from a great distance. “I don't care if they are my elders!”
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
Moving without thought or fear of consequence, she swung. The resultant cry of pain and surprise was music to her ears. The child reeled away from her, nose bloodied and broken from the fist that had landed a solid blow right to the center of her face. She knew it was wrong, but it was so very satisfying to give the girl such a mighty wallop. The vendors in the market square gasped and called for help as the sobbing child fled in terror. Within seconds she was surrounded, both by city guards and disenfranchised soldiers looking for any excuse to fight and win the Jarl's favor. There would be no call for surrender this time, only blood.
In a flash she was armed, the air singing like a malachite bell as her elven axe-blade cut through it; one soldier of fortune fell before the moonstone arc, his spirit bound for Sovngarde.
Lydia, loyal housecarl and dearest friend, jumped into the fray without hesitation and drew several guards away from her. Together they would go down in a blaze of infamy and disgrace with the name of the last Dragonborn staining the proud history of Whiterun and Skyrim forever; a fittingly ignoble way to die given her mood.
Two guards fell by her blade, their blood mixing with the first drops of rain as they fell from a bleak and angry sky, but quick as she was, strong as she was, she was not without injury, and it began to show. Attacks once fluid became stilted and short; though still effective, they would not save her. Lydia was holding up far better than she, but there was no way they could reach the city gates alive.
The pitched sounds of battle filled the market square, steel against steel against moonstone. Consumed by the fever of combat, she never felt the guard's blade as it slipped beneath the gap between her cuirass and leggings at her back. A sigh of surprise escaped her lips as the world pitched onto its side to slam the ground against her. She couldn't feel her legs. The guard above gave his sword a vicious twist before ripping it from her body. Without a second glance, he dove into the chaos once more, leaving her to die.
Cold crept in to fill the void once occupied by the heat of battle and a tide of red drowned the pitiless stones beneath her. It happened so fast.
The last thing she saw as the shadows wrapped her in their clammy embrace, was Lydia valiantly fending off another wave of city guardsmen swarming merchant's row. The woman was a hurricane of death, but her efforts would still be in vain.
One final thought as the world became an indistinct frenzy washed in fading black and grey:
Goodbye, my friend . . . .
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“Did you hear me?” The child's voice was grating, but a smile began to spread across her lips as the knot of anger in her belly slowly began to relax. Without another word, she turned away from the precious ball of venom and looked to Lydia.
“Your smile concerns me,” Lydia said, visibly uneasy.
She continued to smile her dreamy smile, walking past Lydia to reach Breezehome for a nice hot meal and a good long sleep in a real bed. Perhaps she would next imagine Vorstag's face before being eaten by a dragon. Yes, Vorstag eaten by a dragon; now that would bring true bliss and very pleasant dreams.
3. Artax
The cold stone of dread in her stomach ached as the storm worsened around them.
“Artax!” she called, the wind whipping her voice away before it had a chance to carry. Undeterred, compelled by a rising tide of panic, she continued, shouting into the blizzard. “Artax, please!”
Her eyes stung with tears frozen in the violence of the Windhelm gales. The ice wraith attack had sent Artax running, as attacks of its kind always did when her rider was unseated, but the weather had taken a turn for the worse before the fiend was finished, and in the chaos of the battle she had lost track of her only friend. She didn't even know in which direction the terrified mare had fled, and as the flakes fell fatter and more frequent, the odds of finding her grew slimmer and less likely.
“Arta–” The wind picked up, buffeting her toward the edge of a sheer drop. By the grace of Stendarr was she able to keep her footing, but if the god was truly merciful, he would lead her to her steed, and shelter her until then.
For more than an hour she roamed the snow-littered cliffs surrounding the Forsaken Cave. Her muscles ached, her extremities burned with cold, and she could no longer feel her face, but she would not stop. She could not stop. Not Artax, she pleaded. Take anything from me, but not Artax!
“My Thane!” Lydia's voice broke through the wind, distant despite her proximity. “My Thane, we must seek shelter!”
“Not without Artax!”
“If she has not found shelter herself, then there is nothing we can do for her now!” Lydia took her arm firmly, but did not force her to move.
“We can't leave her!” Though she turned to hide her grief, she couldn't keep the sob from her voice. In her mind she knew Lydia was right, but in her heart she couldn't bear to acknowledge the truth.
“Whatever her fate may be, we will surely all share the same it if we don't leave now!”
Silently, for she could not muster the strength to fight the storm for the right to speak, she allowed the housecarl to lead her from the search, but only for the sake of their lives. She let the stinging wind destroy her tears, and though she cursed the bitter cold for the trembling that wracked her body, she knew deep down before the first tear had the fire to break through the frost, that she was only lying for comfort.
4. Candlehearth Brawl
“You shouldn't drink,” said Lydia to her as the third bottle of Black-Briar Mead joined its fellows on the table at her side. For her part, she was silent, her gaze fixed upon the fire, but distant. Somehow Lydia had managed to get them both out of the blizzard and back to Windhelm alive, a little frostbitten, but none the worse for wear. She had purchased them a room at the Candlehearth Hall, and they had retired to the great room occupying the inn's upper floor. Despite the warmth of the fire and the cheer of the Dunmer bard's lute, she could think only of Artax lost to the elements beyond Windhelm's stony walls.
Ignoring Lydia's wishes, she opened a fourth bottle of mead and took a deep drought of the sweet drink; a testament to the brewer, she couldn't even feel it burn as it slipped down her throat, and for that she wished she'd asked for a common ale instead.
“You.” A man's voice threatened, pulling her attention back to the room. “You a Dark Elf lover?” Though she hadn't given him any acknowledgment he continued, taking the seat beside her. “Get out of our city, you filthy piece of trash!”
With a dangerous calm, she turned her head to regard him. “I don't much care for your attitude,” she said, her voice deceptively cool.
“Don't like it? Too bad. This is our city. Ours! Don't think I can take you? One hundred septims says I can punch you back where you came from.”
An unexpected sea of desire flooded into her at the thought of a willing target for her to exorcise her pain upon.
“Yeah, alright. You're on.”
From the corner of her eye she watched Lydia's shoulders sink in resignation before she took a spot against the wall to watch and to wait.
For each blow he landed against her, she got in two and three more, every bruise blossoming into release and relief. This pain, this discomfort she could understand, and welcomed its assault on her senses. All too soon, though, it was done. The racist was down, defeated and disappointed, but not nearly as disappointed as she was to see it end.
“Pay up,” she said, a hint of disgust in her voice as she watched him stumble to his feet. Grumbling, he handed over the coins, and shuffled off to soothe his bruised body and ego with ale.
“Useless,” she muttered, tossing the coin purse to Lydia, and resumed her seat at the fire. Raising it to the ever-burning candle on the hearth in bitter toast, she lay into her fifth bottle of the night. She might regret her choices in the morning, but for now drowning her sorrows in fights and mead was as close to pleasure as she was likely to get for a while.
Closing out the memory of Artax in the storm, she let the sweet mead carry her away.
5. Blood Curse
Her heart raced as she stood before the beast. It terrified her to think what commitment to the Circle truly meant, but she would stop at nothing to see Ulfric defeated.
She had overheard his plans, how he spoke of storming Whiterun, of unseating Balgruuf for choosing neither one side over the other, and she could take it no more. He fed his people with his hatred and disguised it behind national pride. The proud Nords of the so-called “Stormcloak Rebellion” spat on “outsiders” and wore their xenophobia like a badge of honor, as though they could somehow be justified in the open mistreatment of other living beings. She could no longer stand to see them abuse the Dunmer, and cry obscenities at any who dared stick up for those without Nordic blood in their veins. Were they content to wallow in their own bigotry she might have managed to keep more or less to the middle path, but Ulfric's determination to win Skyrim by force could not be allowed to flourish.
It wouldn't be enough to join the Imperial Legion. Though she had decided to throw her lot in with their forces, she didn't trust that might alone would see it done; she would need to tip the odds in her favor. That was why she found herself in the Underforge, staring at the fur-covered maw of her future in the fully transformed figure of Aela.
“Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast-world, friend?” Skjar's hopeful excitement rendered his battle ready voice somewhat more boyish, and filled it with a kind of irrepressible joy that made it difficult not to flee on a vain quest for alternatives.
“I'm ready,” was all she could manage, but as he turned from her, drawing a blade from his belt, she immediately questioned the validity of her statement. She tried to ignore the voice that warned that she was in over her head. Only by remembering Ulfric Stormcloak's face as he discussed conquest of Whiterun could she find the resolve necessary to stay.
She winced as Skjar sliced open Aela's thick, hair-covered wrist, and was surprised when there was no protest. Bleeding profusely, Aela moved to the stone font in the center of the chamber; the blood quickly pooled in its long-stained basin.
Cupping her hands, she submerged them in the slick, hot liquid, and shuddered at the reality of what she was doing. Suppressing a revulsion she refused to give strength, she closed her eyes, and, raising crimson hands to her lips, drank in the curse of the beast.
6. Return to Markarth
Markarth called to her, like a siren's echo drifting through the canyons and plains of Skyrim it beckoned her to return. She hadn't left in very high spirits, and the thought of returning made her stomach churn. That it was where he found a tavern to call home was incidental. At least, that's what she told herself as she stood in the perpetual swirling spray just inside the formidable gates of Markarth. The mist of the ancient falls was refreshing and cool, but she wanted to vomit and run. She had business, though, and could no longer put it off, so with a roll of her shoulders, she set her will to the task at hand.
“Who is Klepper again?” She asked Jenassa, keeping her eyes everywhere but where they wanted most to go.
“The keeper at the Silver-Blood Inn, sirrah,” Jenassa said, her dusky tones conveying concern for her friend's memory without speaking the question.
Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach and refused to climb back out.
“I see. Well.” She adjusted the dragon priest's mask, now more grateful for the anonymity it offered than ever. “Nothing for it but to see it through.”
Into the tavern they strode together, two strangers, for all the patrons would know, with glittering glass armor and a mission. The purpose that kept her spine stiff and straight, however, soon withered once she stood in the flickering shadows of the Silver-Blood Inn. Idly she waved a hand, signaling Jenassa to hang back, and slowly approached the bar. Taking a seat on the only stool that put her back to the door – not normally an option she would have happily taken, but with Jenassa on watch she took the only seat that offered a unobstructed view of the sell-sword by the fire –, she slid the note of purchase to Klepper. The man said something obsequious and dull she didn't really hear, but assuming it had something to do with receiving his goods, she waved Jenassa over to make the delivery without moving her gaze from the man at the hearth.
He looked the same. The chiseled Nordic contours of his face were no less handsome than she recalled, if perhaps a bit melancholy in cast, but it was entirely possible she only wanted him to appear so to assuage her own bruised heart, and was only superimposing the sad look of distance in his eyes so she wouldn't have to acknowledge how shallow and content he must be in reality. If he couldn't be eaten by dragons, she thought, then maybe sad was just as good. Better even. Yes, sad was better, because it would last longer than being a dragon's snack.
“Time . . . ,” Jenassa said at her shoulder, reminding her that others still existed. “Time has a way of granting us perspective . . . don't you think?”
“Perspective?” She said after a pause.
“Mm. Sometimes we regret the actions of the past, but it is only when given the time to consider those actions that we come to realize the folly. Perhaps you are not the only one who has been unable to forget.”
She turned in her seat to face her friend. “Do you really think so?”
“There is but one way to know for certain, sirrah.” The dunmer woman turned her gaze to the ceiling in an exaggeration of thought. “You have more business in Markarth hold, do you not? I am afraid I will be of little help to you here. The dangers are numerous beyond the city gates, that much I know, but not whence or how great. I believe it would follow your best interest to hire someone who knows the land much more intimately than I.”
She smiled behind her mask, and reached out to squeeze her friend's hand in silent thanks. “I think you may be right.” Her heart flipped with apprehensive excitement at the very thought, but she kept her emotions in check as she had always done, and would continue to do until the day she died.
As Jenassa quietly withdrew, she stood on legs not quite unsteady, but not quite stable, and moved around the bar to the hearth. Less than a pace away, her breath caught as he turned his gaze upon her.
A lifetime passed in the single beat of her heart as she lifted the mask to reveal her face in the tavern's flickering light.
7. Reunions
“It is good to see you again!” Vorstag's solemn expression erupted in good cheer as recognition glittered in his eyes.
She set aside the mask of the dragon priest Krosis and took a seat beside him, surprised at the smile that blossomed on her own lips from his warm reception. She was glad for the mercy of the shadows, which hid her blush from his sharp and eager gaze. “It is good to see you as well, my friend. It seems I will have need of your services again. I hope that is not an imposition?”
“Not at all, not at all. I was just reminiscing to myself about the adventures we had. I have sold my services for most of my life, but never until I met you did I have a reason to hope for danger.” Something flickered behind his eyes, but was gone before she could identify it. Still, her heart fluttered and for a moment she had to resist the urge to glance away.
“Well, there's plenty of adventure left to be had. I promised you a dragon's nest, and Dwemer ruins, did I not?”
“Ah, yes!”
“Then I intend to make good these promises. The Jarl of Windhelm asked me to take care of a dragon at Northwind Summit, as it happens, and there are several unexplored Dwemer ruins in the vicinity.”
“Ulfric Stormcloak asked you?”
She blinked, momentarily confused before she remembered that it was, indeed, Ulfric Stormcloak who ruled Windhelm. She had to fight to suppress the anger welling within her at the thought of him. “Yes,” she said, her tone darker than before. “Among other things, he wished me to kill the dragon. I only accepted as there's no reason not to be paid for a job I intended to do anyway, and I don't mind robbing his coffers bare to get it done.”
A tense moment passed before Vorstag tossed back his head to let loose a mighty laugh. “He could use a little robbing for all the chaos he's caused! Here, here!” He said, raising the tankard at his side. “I should be more than happy to help you rob him blind!”
She couldn't help but laugh, and not one to be left out, she flagged down the bar maid to order herself a mead or two. Or three. Before the sun rose and they headed out across Markarth to finish the business she'd promised to see done, she was going to drink to their reunion and enjoy the unexpected new warmth of his company, or pass out trying.
8. The View
She leaped up the stairs of the dragon's tower two at a time. The wind created by her own speed whipped at her hair and burnished her cheeks with the blessed chill of Skyrim until they glowed with the healthy pink of exuberance and youth. Until moments ago, a Blood Dragon had occupied a crumbling tower, which no doubt had served as fortress untold ages ago, but faintly luminescent bones and the lingering scent of burnt earth were now all that remained of the fort's former tenant. Arriving in the crow's nest, she finally slowed to a walk and approached the edge of the outlook's high wall. A thrill of awe stirred in her heart as she took in the stunning vista.
“Just look at it,” she exhaled as the steps behind her groaned beneath Vorstag's weight. “It's not even my favorite view, but . . . by the Eight, it's beautiful.”
Silently he moved to stand at her shoulder. Though a layer of moonstone-tempered glass shielded them from each other, she could still feel him, the subtle masculine energy teasing at the periphery of her senses, but her awareness of it was dulled by the landscape stretching before her eyes.
On all sides the mountains rose up, rocky and sharp where they weren't softened by determined patches of grass or punctured by tree-spires. Stormcloak soldiers now patrolled the footpath leading down and away from the tower, some of them lollygagging at the seared bones that had been the tower's occupant, and she frowned.
She hadn't yet found the time for a journey to Solitude, but as she watched the Stormcloaks patrol their little patch of stolen territory, she felt the desire to join the Imperial Legion burning inside her as fresh as the moment she'd crossed His path in Windhelm; a slow, simmering outrage born of the close-minded, blind, ignorant loyalty of his followers, and the deceitful power-hungry machinations of the man himself. Soon, she told herself. Soon she would help put an end to the turmoil of Skyrim, and put an end to the usurper, Ulfric Stormcloak.
Electricity coursed through her body, momentarily robbing her of breath at the touch of Vorstag's fingers at her temple. Consumed by dark thoughts of Ulfric and his hateful rebellion, she hadn't heard him slip the gauntlet from his hand, but he must have, for bare, callused fingers brushed the hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. A tingling trail lingered in the wake of his touch, and her heart raced beneath the glistening green breast of her cuirass.
Silence hovered in the crow's nest of the tower as she turned to watch him. The silence was amiable, she could even call it easy, and didn't seem to stretch so much as sigh between them, as the sun blazed its cheery way through the frigid blue sky. For long moments they gazed, the rugged beauty of the mountains fading to little more than a pleasant, if undefined, suggestion of Place. Unbidden, the image of Mara's amulet rose in her mind's eye as she gripped the pouch at her hip in which it sat.
Could she? The panic which lanced her heart and tightened her chest said “no”; she had set herself two tasks, and until she had seen them through she couldn't ask him something so life altering. She knew in that moment, though, if there was anyone in the world who would hear the words from her lips, it would be him.
“Come!” She said, the word exploding on an excited breath as she danced away from from the crow's nest wall to fly down the tower steps. “I still owe you some dwarven ruins!”
His easy smile helped melt away some of the damage done by her years of isolation, and soon all thoughts of marriage had faded back into the sacred corners of her mind; there would be time enough for everything, but that time was not now.
9. Day of Grace
He always looked peaceful when he slept, even when all they had was a bedroll and each other for warmth. He appeared so content. She had spent many a night watching him, unable to maintain any kind of restful sleep since accepting the curse, and often found herself wondering what dreams he lived when his head hit the pillow. Did he dream of great adventures, the dark and violent encounters they met on a daily basis? Or did he dream of quiet things – a night at home with a well-cooked mammoth steak; star gazing on Proudspire's patio; the perfect night in at Vlindrel Hall? She drew her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she lay her cheek atop her knees to watch and wonder.
Sometimes she wished she'd never brought him into her life, her world. Of course she'd had no clue what path lay before her, but to look back now on everything they'd done, everything they'd encountered and just how many times she could have lost him, it made her heart sick. She suspected very strongly, though, that without him by her side, she would have died a hundred times over, and she could no longer imagine a life lived without him. For whatever danger lay ahead, it was too late to pardon him, and though she knew he would never willingly leave her side anyway, she also knew that her desire to keep him there was selfish. However, she had no qualms with that selfishness, especially when it meant she could steal moments, as she did now, to appreciate his presence.
Time was short, though. Looking toward the windows, she rose from the bed, gripping the tangled sheet where it overlapped on her chest, and moved to gaze through the mullioned panes onto the quiet street below. Though their room was located on the inn's upper floor, the walls of Solitude still towered and blocked her view of the East. Despite this, she found her gaze wandering toward Riften, toward the unseen horizon where the first glow of predawn would be warming the ragged edges of sky and earth. Her day of grace was nearly at an end.
The bed sighed softly as Vorstag shifted. Though she continued to look out the window, her attention and thoughts became only of her husband. He was silent, but she knew he had awoken and now watched her as she so often watched him.
“What troubles you, love?” He asked at length, no trace of sleep in his voice. She envied him that; no matter how deep his sleep, once he awoke he was completely awake.
“Everything,” she said softly. “And nothing.” She heard him moving, sliding across the bed, and his feet made an almost imperceptible sound as they met the floor. With a single step he was behind her, his body heat seeping into her before his arms encircled her hips to pull her close. Neither of them spoke another word until the night's aurora began to fade. She still couldn't see dawn break for the walls in the way, but it could not be far off.
“Do you wish this moment could last forever?” He asked, his lips finding her shoulder as he spoke, his warm breath washing across the exposed flesh to send a thrill down her spine. She didn't have to think long to know the answer.
“No.” She threaded her fingers between those of the hand he held against her stomach. “I imagine eternity would be rather dull, even if spent with you.” She felt his lips curl into a smile against her, and she followed suit, smiling out at the still-dark morning.
“Then let's not waste the time we have. Come back to bed. We only have a few more hours before our lives require us again, and I would like to make the most of them.” He shifted toward the bed, drawing her along with his lingering touch, but waiting at the edge of the simple wooden frame for her decision.
Letting the sheet slip from her body, she lowered herself onto the bed. Wordlessly, she reached out to him, legs shifting to accommodate his form as he moved in to hover above her. Though shadows reigned within the domain of their room, they watched each other in silence. Bracing himself on one hand, he slowly moved the other between them, letting his fingers paint a tingling trail across her body before wrapping them around his shaft to guide himself inside her.
10. The Parting of Ways
She tugged at the soft doe-skin leather of his jerkin, the early morning sun warming her back as it bestowed a golden halo upon him.
"I'm no more keen to see you go than you are to leave," she said, forcing her hands to still as she looked up to him.
"Are you certain you would not rather I stay?" He said with a gentle smile, his hands at her shoulders then, squeezing reassuringly.
"Of course I'd rather you stay, Vors, but --"
"I know."
"It isn't just the two of us anymore. If it were, we'd never be apart, because there's nowhere safer in all of Tamriel than wherever you are, but that's exactly why I need you to be with the children."
"I know," he said again, his voice even more tender than before. "But are you certain a--" he paused, glancing around the still-deserted street for ears that might overhear, and dropped his voice to a near whisper. "--a Wolf is the answer?"
Cordelia sighed. No, she wasn't sure asking one of the Companions was the answer -- they both knew what trouble the beast blood could be --, but there was no better answer she could find. And he knew that. "We share blood, Vors. Short of you, I trust no one else's strength and loyalty for something as vital as keeping Sofie and Blaise safe from harm. I know that any one of them would die before they'd let harm come to the kids."
Vorstag nodded solemnly. For everything Solitude had to offer a couple of kids whose lives and families had been ripped away from them, there was only so much the Legion could defend against. Miraak and his agents were not something the Empire was prepared to face, and given how often both Cordelia and Soren had gotten in his way recently, they had grown increasingly concerned for the lives of their loved ones. So it was they made their deal; to Falkreath would Cordelia look for secluded land to build a new home -- one that could be off all known maps, and defended by those capable of handling anything that came their way--, while Soren would do the same, only his choice would be in the North, in Morthal, so if, gods forbid, either family was found, it would not be both families killed.
Vorstag leaned in, kissing her forehead and pulling her into his arms. "Meeko stays with you."
She laughed, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "Blaise won't be happy about that."
"He'll be happy when I take him on that hunting trip I promised him weeks ago."
"Ah," she smiled. "That he will. Just don't stay out too long; while you're off bonding with Blaise, that leaves Jordis alone with Sofie, and for all that I trust the woman can use a sword, I often question her judgement." Cordelia sobered as she thought of Jordis. "I wouldn't be sending you back if I trusted she could keep them safe." The presence of Vorstag's chin on her head was all the "I know" she needed. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, stealing his scent to remember until she could see him again.
Sensing that their moment was drawing to an end, Vorstag loosed her from his arms. "I won't let anything happen to them."
It was her turn to say "I know," which she did with a smile.
"Just don't let anything happen to you." His lips twisted in a wry little smile as he watched her. "And don't start any trouble without me."
Cordelia laughed, a sound bright enough to match the sun, and stretched to kiss him on the cheek one last time. "I'll do my best, but I make no promises."
"You never do," he smiled.
For a moment, he lingered on, watching her as if to memorize the contours of her face. She took the chance to do the same before he reluctantly skipped down the steps of Breezehome. As she had the night he'd left her service in a fit so many years ago, she watched his back as he walked away from her, headed once again to the West of Skyrim, only this time he headed home.
11. To Falkreath
"Come to think of it, where is that sell-sword of yours? Shouldn't he be here as well?"
Cordelia was silent for a while as she squinted up at clouds heavy with rain. She wondered how far he would get before the rain finally caught them. "He should be," she said at last, "but he isn't."
Aela was silent then, in the way that suggested she assumed the worst.
"He's alive, Aela. He's just elsewhere. Where I need him to be."
"And where is that, exactly?"
"With the children."
"You have children?" Aela's eyebrows rose in surprise, and she looked Cordelia over as if to see if she could spot the lingering evidence of a recent pregnancy. "No wonder."
Cordelia smiled, but shook her head. "They're adopted, Aela. The war was hard on everyone, especially the children of those who died. Sofie found me in Windhelm shortly after the new Jarl had settled in, and Blaise tended Artax in Solitude."
"Adopted," Aela repeated, as if tasting the word. She didn't know of Cordelia's past -- few did --, so she could never understand exactly how well Cordelia knew their circumstances, how intimately she felt their pain. "Adopted and you still sent him away to be with them? Why him?"
"Well," she started, adjusting the reins around her gauntlet to make them more secure. "Because I married him, for one."
"You -- you what?" Aela exploded with incredulity and jogged ahead of the horse to get a better look at her face. "You married a mercenary? And then you put him in charge of children? Are you mad?"
"Are you? You've met him on numerous occasions, and did you ever feel he was a common blackguard? A street-thug lingering only as long as the money kept flowing?" Cordelia's fist tightened around the reins, the leather within the elven cuff creaking beneath the strain. Aela blinked, and fell in step with Artax.
"No, I suppose he didn't. In fact, I always suspected he harbored deep affection for you."
"Well, let's not be so quick to judge, shall we? Especially when he was willing to trust my judgement of you so readily." It was a slight exaggeration, but really only the barest stretching of the truth, and Aela deserved a little extra shame on top of her chagrin after such a reaction.
"Was he?" she mused. "Hm. What is this task you mentioned before? Are we far enough from Whiterun for you to share the facts?"
Cordelia stared ahead, calculating the distance left to Falkreath. "Not yet. I don't know that anywhere is safe, but I'll feel more comfortable when we reach our destination. Then I'll tell you what I need."
Aela nodded and offered no more questions regarding the mysterious Task. She even avoided discussing Vorstag, which was just as well, since she wasn't certain she could tolerate even the insinuation of insult. It wasn't until that moment she realized just how much she relied on him to keep her steady. Beneath the elven gauntlet she was certain her knuckles would be white with the severity of her hold on the reins. She rode with a stiff back and muscles tensed, her ears straining to pick up the distant sound of dragon shouts, or the scuffling feet of Miraak's priests.
