Oh man. I've reached 100,000 character limit on a single post. Didn't even know it existed. 0.0
So...
Chapter III: Lydia, continued
Tanniel felt like a cranky troll emerging from a dank cave. Ordinary sunlight burned her bleary eyes and her stiff joints ached after such a long time without exercise. She thought herself feeble and weak and unready to rejoin the land of the living. Lydia had fished the broom handle out of Dragonreach’s moat and she carried it now, more out of fear of falling and distrust of her own body than any real need.
It was nerve-wracking to walk down the steps of the Bannered Mare into the crowded marketplace. It was the pressing noise and the density of the market crowd. Even the normally benign smell of it was an assault on her senses. Familiar faces caught her eye all around, nodding in greeting or patting her on the back. She found herself keeping her head down and passing them all by as speedily as she could manage, heading down the quieter street that led to the main gate. She had to admit that moving again did feel good. The wind on her face, the sun on her back – she’d forgotten how nice they were and was just beginning to wonder why she’d ever been so nervous about leaving her cave of a room in the inn.
The reassuring sound of Lydia’s steel boots clonked in her ears on the road behind her. She didn’t know what she would have done if the housecarl hadn’t been there to take care of her during her long incarceration. Lydia had done everything she was asked to do, all of the most menial tasks that were plainly unsuited to the skill set of a warrior like her. But that didn’t mean that her every word wasn’t layered with sarcasm or that her quick sideways glances weren’t filled with spite. She was a sullen, silent presence that occupied the bedroll in the corner of the inn room. When loneliness was consuming Tanniel as she lay in her sickbed and listened to the people down below, drinking and laughing amongst themselves, Lydia had been no help whatsoever. All friendly attempts at conversation were ended with a series of half-hearted grunts. Comments on the weather, thoughts on the civil war, discussion about dragons – they all came to nothing. The two of them just had zilch to converse about. They lived in worlds that were the polar opposite of one another and could not seem to forge a connection between them. The only way she could ever get the housecarl to say much of anything was by asking her a direct question. And the prospect of asking her anything but “Could you get that book for me?” terrified her to a startling extent.
Despite everything, Tanniel could not bring herself to trust Lydia. In all aspects they were strangers under the same roof. The housecarl seemed constantly angry and frustrated. She moved with violence and purpose, always slamming things down on tables rather than setting them down gently like a normal person. The sound always startled Tanniel from a snooze with a jolt and gripped her with fear before she realized what it was. There were times when she was afraid to be at the mercy of Lydia – when she thought she’d abandon her to struggle down the stairs alone or even worse, do something awful while she slept. It was foolish and paranoid, but with nothing else to dwell on in the attic room, it consumed her waking thoughts.
One morning, several days ago, she had been awakened by the sound of a blade being drawn. Her eyes had snapped open and her breath was caught in her throat. She had laid very still, pretending to be asleep, but squinting through the corners of her eyelids. When no gruesome shadow appeared above her, she had slowly raised herself on her elbows, being careful to not disturb her wounds and found Lydia sitting cross-legged on her bedroll. Her bright steel sword was in her hand, reflecting the light of the candles illuminating the room. She was polishing it lovingly, tenderly stroking it with an old rag with more care than she’d ever shown another human being. It chilled Tanniel to see it, though she couldn’t communicate why. She had laid back down and tried to return to sleep.
But outside of the stuffy inn, in the fresh air, the sunlight burned away her bad memories as though they had never existed. Everything was bright and beautiful now and her heart sang in the midst of it. She wanted to frolic down the street and probably would have, had there been no one watching.
A commotion at the front gate suddenly took her attention. A fiery-haired farmer, with an upside-down hoe as a walking stick was making a fuss at passers by and seemed to be advertising something.
“Hey!” Tanniel called out, waving in his direction and hobbling toward him, “What is this about?”
“It’s planting season in Rorikstead.” he answered jovially, smiling and holding out a flier, “We’re in dire need of extra farm hands for the next few days. A carriage ride, room and board at my father’s inn and fair wages are in it for you.”
“Really now?” she murmured, the bit about fair wages catching her notice, “Hmm.”
Lydia came trotting up behind her, before sliding to a halt and standing at a respectable distance. Tanniel turned to her.
“What do you say?” she asked, thinking of undulating fields and moist dirt, “I’ve never been to Rorikstead before. And he said they’ll be money in it. Wouldn’t it be nice to spend a few days away from the city?”
“I honor your decision, my Thane.” she answered noncommittally, her tone flat, as she rolled her eyes.
Tanniel sighed under her breath as she turned away from her. She was getting nothing from her. Turning back to the farmer, she hastily pasted a big grin on her face.
“You’ve got a deal then. Make room on that carriage for two.”
***
The walls were closing in around Lilija. The clammy air of the Palace of the Kings dungeon stuck in her throat and caused her to cough as she slowly shuffled ever closer to the bowels of the palace. She had been feeling sick already. She was nauseous with fear and dread toward what she’d find at the end of this staircase. But deep down, churning in her roiling belly, securely locked away in a cluster of memories she didn’t want to ever return to, she knew that there was another reason for it. So long as she didn’t mention it, so long as she ignored the signs, so long as she forgot that atrocious day – then she would be safe. None of it would be true if none of it had ever happened. That was what she had been chanting to herself in all the hours she had spent in Windhelm. She was on the verge of believing it.
Lydia had bought her a bundle of lavender from an alchemist’s shop the day before. She hadn’t said what she was doing or where she was going. She’d just taken off for a time and when she’d returned to the Candlehearth to find Lilija resting in bed, fighting to keep breakfast down, she’d sullenly dropped it on her pillow without a word. Lilija had found a scrap of fabric and made a sachet out of it. She didn’t leave the inn without it now. It was constantly in the pouch at her waist, ready to be pulled out and placed against her nose at a moment’s notice. This she did now, as the air of Windhelm’s prison only got worse as she headed into it. Her guard escorts seemed unaffected by the stench. They led her down in cold silence, their torches lighting the way, their weapons sometimes scraping hollowly against the close walls.
Before she realized what had happened, her foot had left the last step and the murky dungeon spread out before her. The place stank of stale urine, feces, sweaty bodies and lying in wait beneath it all was the iron tang of blood. She pressed the sachet firmly to her nose and took a deep whiff of lavender, but even that didn’t entirely block out the smell. Her breakfast churned in her stomach and crept up the back of her throat.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two racks sitting sedately, one on either side of the room, their messes of leather straps relaxed, unused, but their presence speaking of past atrocities. Lilija found herself shivering despite her Nord blood. She turned to one of the guards who had led her there. Silently, her handed her his torch and pointed to the line of cells along the back wall.
One by one, she slowly passed them by, inspecting their contents by the light of her torch. Sad faces with sunken eyes and longing stares looked out at her. Every so often an arm clothed in rags made a grab for her or a hoarse voice cried out. She closed her eyes, pushed them out of her mind and moved on.
As she walked toward the last cell in the row, it appeared empty to her. Her heart didn’t know whether to sink or soar. She’d been given misinformation! Lydia was innocent and had never come here at all! Or maybe she had died sometime during the night. Or was she being dragged to Cidha Mine right this minute? Underneath it all, she knew what she really and truly didn’t want to see – her friend in chains. For a moment, she lost her resolve. She actually turned away and began walking back to the passage from whence she had come. But then she stubbed her toe on a jutting stone and remembered jagged rocks in an icy river. She saw herself falling in a snowstorm, an impossible weight of despair pulling her down by the throat, squeezing the vital breath from her body. She had thought that she was going to die there. In her limited line of sight, she had seen nothing worthwhile in her future – only a long procession of shame and heartache stretching endlessly into an abyss. And then rough hands had snatched her off the ice. A voice so low and angry that it had sounded like a wolf’s snarl had sounded in her ear. “
You don’t stop here.” it growled, hauling her sad body through the night. Just like that – she had spoken as though that day were only one day in a lifetime of years. There would be another day after it, a fresh sun and a soaring sky and yet another after it…
She turned on her heel, vigorously stuffed the sachet into her pouch, clenched her fist and stomped back toward the farthest cell. Her knees turning to jelly the moment she reached it, she gradually drew closer to it, eyes straining in the thick darkness beyond the torch’s little circle of light. She saw a ragged form slumped against the back wall of the cell, its breathing shallow and disturbed.
The first thing she noticed was the arrow was stuck in its limp forearm, its cruel tip coated in dark blood. There was a nasty-looking gash on its extended knee too. Dried blood from the wound had soaked down the figure’s leg and clotted in the fur of its boots.
“Lydia!” she hissed under her breath, throwing herself against the bars that separated them.
The figure twitched but made no other movement.
“Come on!” Lilija squeaked desperately, making a motion with her free hand, “If you move toward me, I’ll heal you.”
The shape in the shadows was perfectly still. Lilija grunted with effort and stuck her arm through the bars of the cell as far as it would go. She stretched and squeezed and waved her fingers around, but the best she could do was brush the hem of Lydia’s jacket. Her arm dropped weakly and she sighed, placing her forehead on the icy iron bars.
“Please…” she whispered, a sob in her voice, “Please, I just want to help you. I can do that much, if nothing else.”
“I don’t think I’m worth it.”
Lilija jumped at the sound of her hoarse, grating voice.
“No.” she answered firmly, rising to her full height, “I don’t believe any of that. You got out of that ambush with your life. You picked up my trail and followed it. You tracked my captors to the end of the map and dispatched them against overwhelming odds. But
why? Why would you come so far only to stop here?”
“I killed an innocent old man in a drunken rage.” Lydia said, her words flat and toneless. Groaning, she carefully sat up, squinting as the light of the torch hit her bloodshot eyes. “What use am I to anyone without honor? I’ve done nothing worthwhile. I couldn’t prevent Susanna’s death and I couldn’t stop
them from…hurting you.”
“Lydia…” Lilija croaked, swallowing her sob. The smell was getting to her again. The taste of it was seeping through her nose onto her tongue. “There are things…that you can’t control.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to breathe too deeply and put a hand on her tender stomach.
“Disasters that can’t be prevented.” she went on, “But you can’t make it your fault. All you can do is what you can. Please, think of tomorrow. This isn’t the only day you’ll ever live through.”
Lydia sat unmoving in the back of her cell, a dark veil of tangled hair obscuring her face. Against her will, Lilija hiccupped. She quickly drew the sachet from her pouch and took a deep whiff of it before any more could follow. The long silence stretched on.
“I’m leaving Windhelm in an hour.” Lilija blurted out, suddenly feeling very homesick for a city she’d spent so little time in, “I’ve made an arrangement with a Khajiit caravan outside the city. If I work for them and heal any injuries they sustain on the road, they’ll get me to the Reach. I’m…” her words trailed off. She was having trouble fitting her thoughts into the meager confines of sound. “I’m really going to miss you.”
She stuck her hand through the cell bars one last time, her waiting fingers outstretched.
“Won’t you please let me heal you before I go?”
Still, she got no response. It was like speaking to a corpse. And then, just as she was about to give up, Lydia moved. She scooted forward like a mudcrab, crawling on the palms of her hands and pushing her useless knee ahead of her. She sat heavily when she reached the front of the cell, when her arms gave out from under her. Lilija jumped at the opportunity, quickly sticking her torch in a crack in the stonework and bending down on one knee to inspect the damage.
Looking at it closer and ripping the fabric of her leggings, she saw that the ragged cut on Lydia’s knee wasn’t as bad as it had looked. It was just a little dirty and had bled more than its fair share. She touched it and the pink edges of the wound leapt together.
Amid the cries for help, the sobs and moans and the harsh words of the guards who told their charges to shut up – through the dank darkness, the hints of torture and the overpowering gloom – Lilija saw a small smile spread across Lydia’s cracked and bleeding lips.
***
Rorikstead was a beautiful place. The air was so clean and fresh. Spending time here was so different than spending time in a walled city or inside Riverwood’s mountainous valley. The empty land surrounding the settlement seemed to go on forever, lending an air of boundless freedom to the small village that didn’t quite match any other place Tanniel had ever been. Starting here, she thought, the dusty road could lead anyone anywhere.
On the bumpy cart ride there, Tanniel had been awestruck by the savage beauty of Skyrim. Up until now, all she had seen of it was claustrophobic caves, dim forests and the insides of city walls. They passed through miles and miles of nothing but scrub and bare stones, empty wind and howling wolves. It was amazing how far the nothingness went on, devoid of human settlements and most other life. The exception to that rule had been the giant whose camp the cart had skirted very gingerly. He was the first she had ever seen and she gushed over him aloud. It was his rough garb and massive size, the foreign proportions of his lanky body and his wind-burned skin. He was just so at home in the magnificently barbaric landscape, fitting in to the scene like the most well-placed puzzle piece she’d ever seen. She caught Lydia rolling her eyes at all these statements, no doubt wondering at exactly how much of a greenhorn a Thane could possibly be.
And then, when they had reached the village, with its rustic cottages and sprawling fields, it was as though Tanniel had returned home. Her and all of the other hired hands were welcomed with open arms. Problems faded away and meant nothing when there was work to be done. And she enjoyed the good, hard labor immensely. It soothed her guilty conscience and blotted out the conundrums that had harassed her mind for weeks as she lay in bed. The moist earth between her fingers, the feel of the crisp new seedlings that she tucked into the ground, the soothing rhythm of other workers around her – she had never been so content since leaving Riverwood, or leaving Cyrodiil for that matter. She had no idea how much she had missed the countryside and the mindless, repetitive tasks that it offered.
Lydia was entirely un-amused by the endeavor. She paced up and down the village’s main thoroughfare, occasionally patrolling or chatting with the few guards that made their post here. When she tired of that, she went back to standing protectively at attention at Tanniel’s side, leaning on a fencepost as she did her work in the fields. As an absolute last resort and after some friendly prodding, she had attempted to dig a furrow in the stony soil exactly once. The mechanics behind the process seemed to escape her. She wielded the hoe like a weapon and sweated more profusely than anyone else doing the same task. Her heavy armor had to be dragging at her limbs as she worked. In the end, she completed the row, but it had taken longer than it should have and could have stood to be slightly deeper.
As the sun set and the day’s labor ceased, everyone poured into the Frostfruit Inn for their hard-earned meal. The red-headed innkeeper’s son skipped around the hearth, wearily passing out tankards of mead and bowls of stew to the famished crowd. As the night deepened and the mead flowed, wild song and dance broke out among the temporary field hands. Tanniel was regretting her decision to spend her first day out of her sickbed working so hard just a little bit. She was exhausted beyond belief by the effort she had put forth and was by then far too tired to join in the revelry. But she relaxed on a bench clapping and laughing at the antics of her fellows and sipping from her flagon. Lydia sat wearily in the dark corner behind her, playing with a tankard that she had been given an hour ago but never drunk from.
And then, in between the dancers’ clumsy movements, through the mesh of their waving arms and stomping feet, Tanniel sighted an elf talking to an excited guard near the doorway. She was an Altmer named Reldith, a farmer who had been giving the field hands trouble all day. Her farm was something she was very particular and proud about and she didn’t take kindly to strangers tramping through her property. Tanniel had been doing her best to stay out of her sight all day.
The guard waved his arms excitedly as he related his story to her, sometimes flapping them like a bird. She chuckled as she watched him doing it and wondered what sort of story he could be telling that made him so animated. But then he made what looked like a toothy mouth out of the fingers of his hand. The mouth sunk its teeth into his other wrist and flew over his head for a moment, before crashing near his waist. His arms shot out and shook as he raised them above his head. She could hear him making the sound of an explosion through his teeth all the way across the room. Reldith looked on in amusement, nodding as he talked and laughing at his act. And then the guard turned around, extending his pointer finger, to Tanniel’s great horror, to pick her out in the crowd. The elf began walking toward her.
“Oh, no…” she muttered under her breath, grabbing her walking stick protectively, though there was nothing that it could do against a verbal onslaught.
Lydia perked up, alertly watching the scene.
“So!” Reldith said, lowering herself languidly down on the bench beside Tanniel, her tone high and patronizing, “There’s a high-and-mighty dragon slayer among my meager company tonight, is that right? And a Thane to boot!”
“…perhaps.” Tanniel answered, choking on the word.
“Ha.” she went on, her golden features cruel and sneering, “Dragonborn? I don’t think you’re anything but a jarl’s pet. Now answer me this, what have you ever done to earn your title, hmm?”
“Wha…?”
“Everything we have here, we’ve had to
earn with our own sweat and blood.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Her height was immense. She towered a head over just about everyone else in the room. Her alien yellow eyes glowered down her nose coldly. “Nothing is more honorable than that. You think I jest? And what have you ever done but arrive in the right place at the right time? Why, if I just throw myself in front of a dangerous animal, maybe I’ll become a titled noble too!”
In a huff, she turned and wandered away, passing between the dancing bodies and being lost among them. A Redguard man shoved a fresh flagon into Tanniel’s shaking hand.
“Please don’t take her to heart.” he said gently, sitting down beside her, “Reldith…suffered in the Great War. She was not treated fairly by the ruling jarls on account of her race. She’s really the kindest woman I’ve ever met – like a mother to me. Name’s Ennis.”
“Tanniel.” she answered nervously, setting the flagon down and shaking his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry. I…need fresh air.”
She heaved herself to her feet, gripped her walking stick tighter and tottered out the inn door. Sighing, Lydia stretched, stood up and languorously strode after her.
***
The light from the torches scorched Lydia’s eyes. She groaned and squeezed them shut, silently willing whoever it was to just leave her be. But the light only grew brighter and the sound of a key turning in the lock of her cell snapped her out of her half-sleep in the dank dungeon. Two guards surrounded her, hauling her to her feet and dragging her from the pile of hay that had been her bed. She stumbled between them, gasping in pain as the feathered end of the arrow still embedded in her arm brushed the close wall. Lilija hadn’t been confident enough to remove it the day before and feared that she’d do more harm than good if she disturbed it in the present circumstances. Lydia couldn’t say that she blamed her. She’d already done far more for her than she thought was possible.
The guards half-carried her up the twisting, ice-flecked steps back to the surface. She stumbled between, trying to regain her footing, but found that her limbs were stiff and uncooperative, as they’d spent who knew how many hours of darkness unmoving in that cell. Her stomach growled and her head was pounding. She wished desperately for a drink of water or a moment to rest. But the guards forced her doggedly onward, saying nothing. And she didn’t dare to ask what this was about, even if she could make her swollen tongue obey her.
They drove her straight through a wooden door and into the guards’ barracks. The brightness of the place blinded her momentarily and left her faltering in the dark. As her eyes adjusted, she saw all the off-duty guards staring with a sort of bored curiosity at her as she limped through. Among them, she spied Gunjar, his mouth open in a hearty laugh as he threw dice with another man over flagons of mead. When he saw her, his face fell and he rested his hand solemnly on the table, the un-thrown dice clenched in his fist. He turned his chair around so that his back was facing her as she passed.
They rushed through and into the great hall of the Palace of the Kings. Lydia saw a grand table spread for a feast. The wood bowed under the weight of all that food. Succulent roasts, bowls overflowing with crisp apples, bottle upon bottle of wine and mead – her head turned involuntarily toward it and her mouth watered with passionate longing. She would have stared, transfixed by the sight for hours, had the guards not jerked her away and made a sharp right turn into the palace kitchens.
Helgird was standing in the doorway, her presence as startling as a stone wall in the dark. Lydia’s heart stopped and she must have shown her fear on her face because Helgird took her gently by the hand and softly said “I’m not here to give you your last rites. I served with Jarl Ulfric as a healer during the Great War. Though, coincidentally, that was the place where I learned to tend to bodies as well.”
She led her over to a chair by the fire and sat her down tenderly in it. “Now, then.” she muttered, kneeling on the floor and picking up Lydia’s limp wrist, “Let’s have a look at this.”
She carefully turned it over between her cool hands, frowning at the angle of the arrow stuck in her arm. Slowly, she slit Lydia’s sleeve with an Elven dagger and pushed the ragged scraps of fabric away from the wound.
“What’s going on?” Lydia coughed, shocked at the roughness of her own voice.
Helgird sighed. Her bowed shoulders slumped. “Jarl Ulfric wants to see you. I don’t know why. But I volunteered to get you healed and cleaned up before then.”
She stood up, her old bones creaking and cracking and wrapped a soothing arm around Lydia’s shoulder. “I wanted to be with you on this day. And if I have to bury you on the morrow too, then so be it.”
A clammy sweat broke out on the back of Lydia’s neck. She bit her bottom lip to stop it from quivering and hoped that no one saw her dread. Helgird jumped backwards clapped her hands together.
“Now, then.” she said, cracking her bony knuckles, “Let’s see if I can’t get this thing out. I’m going to break off the tip. You’ll have to sit very still. Are you ready?”
Lydia nodded vigorously, gulping. The two guards, who had been hovering at the kitchen door, watching everything, crept closer to hold her down.
“One…two…” Helgird whispered, taking hold of the arrow with both hands.
Lydia cried out in spite of herself at the sound of the resulting snap and gasped when the priestess pulled the shaft from her flesh. Helgird wrapped her hands around the injured arm and gradually, the pain receded. Slowly, the guards let go and the tension drained from Lydia’s body.
“How’s that?” Helgird asked, squinting at her handiwork in the dim light, “See how it moves. It’s been a long while since I’ve done this.”
Lydia twisted her wrist experimentally, fearing the worst. The place where the wound had been was still sore, but everything moved just fine. She made a fist and a twinge of pain shot down her arm.
“Good, good.” Helgird murmured, watching her closely, “Now then, I’ve got hot water on the fire and a change of clothes over here. I assume you can do the rest on your own?”
“Y-Yes.” she croaked in answer, carefully standing up on her shaking legs.
Helgird turned to the two guards, who watched and waited at the ready, their hands always on their weapons.
“Now, you two can wait outside.” she told them off, making shooing motions with her hands, “She won’t be leaving this room while I’m here. Got it?”
“We have orders, priestess.” one of them answered, tapping his toe, “She’s a dangerous criminal and a threat to the Jarl’s safety.”
Helgird crossed her arms and pursed her lips.
“It’s only an old woman and an injured child in here . And there isn’t more than one exit from this chamber. Barricade the door if you like. But the least you can give us is some privacy.”
The guards looked at one another, nodded cagily and turned around, their broad backs blocking the entrance to the great hall.
Twenty minutes later, Lydia was bathed and dressed. She’d rubbed her skin raw trying to scrub the stench of the dungeon from her skin. Still, she smelt it clinging to her, turning her grumbling stomach. Or maybe that effect was due to her nerves. She couldn’t stop shaking no matter what she did and a puddle of cold sweat was already pooling in the collar of her clean jacket.
Helgird gingerly ran a comb through her damp hair, parting the tangles as gently as a mother would and braiding it with care. When all was said and done, she held Lydia’s chin in her hand and looked sadly upon her handiwork, as though they would never meet again. Lydia jerked away from her touch, suddenly ashamed to be in the presence of such kindness from anyone. She couldn’t help but feel that she was being prepared for the grave.
“One more touch.” Helgird said, turning away to dig through the folds of her robe. She came back with a gold necklace hanging from her fingers, which she fastened abruptly around Lydia’s neck, before she could react. Lydia ran a hand over its smooth pendants, icy cold to the touch. She’d seen it last around Susanna’s frozen throat, half-buried in snow and bloody ice.
Helgird crept up behind her and massaged her tight shoulders, crushing the knots in her muscles beneath her skeletal fingers.
“Both of us are going with you now.” she whispered in her ear, leaning in close, “Understand? Are you ready?”
Lydia nodded. Her throat had closed up and she couldn’t speak. She stood up; with Helgird following close behind and took her first trembling steps toward the door. The guards turned around at the sound and parted to let her through. As she walked toward the Jarl’s throne, looming large in front of her, they flanked her on either side, their presence stern and unforgiving.
There was Ulfric, just ahead, slumped nonchalantly in his throne, his heavy head resting in his hand. He watched her intently as she drew closer, his features dark and searching. Terror coursed through her veins. Looking at him was like staring down Ysgramor or Tiber Septim – he was a hero out of myth, a legendary figure walking among mortals on Nirn. Since birth, she had idolized him, followed wherever he led and respected him unconditionally. Whenever she looked at him, she was awed and thoroughly cowed.
And yet, now, as she stumbled toward him, a thin thread of hatred ignited in her heart. It was bizarre and confusing and she was momentarily shocked by it. Then she realized what it was that she had known all along and kept suppressed beneath layers of fine ideals and grand plans. Windhelm was unraveling at the seams. A killer had been picking off the hold’s own citizens one by one within the city’s crumbling stone walls. Not once had Jarl Ulfric lifted a finger to stop the slaughter. Oh, she had heard excuses – every able-bodied warrior was involved in the war effort, resources were stretched to the breaking point, everything was spread too thin to do anything about the immediate problem. None of that mattered, as the thread burst into flame and became an inferno. Ulfric’s own city was being destroyed from the inside out and he had done nothing to stop its devastation. If he could not maintain the peace in his own hold, she thought sacrilegiously, gleefully, how could he expect to be High King of Skyrim?
The sight of Galmar Stone-Fist stopped her train of thought cold. He stood frigidly at Ulfric’s side, his arms crossed, his jagged features giving away nothing. She could feel the disappointment leaching off of him like a poisonous miasma. Her knees began to buckle under her and her head grew light. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, wishing to be far away, anywhere but here. This couldn’t be happening – none of the past few days should have ever happened. Human cruelty could not be so great, men should not lack so much honor and a Butcher had no right to exist. She raised a quivering hand and ran her fingers over Susanna’s necklace. It was still cold. Cold as the blood-filled night that had claimed its owner’s life. It was solid and real. It existed in this hard reality and the events that had led up to it being placed around her neck had happened whether she had wanted them to or not. Horrors that she had never dreamt of before in her sheltered, short life subsisted just beyond the boundaries of rational thought. That was a certainty, she now knew. The potential for human callousness had no limits and no shame. That fact was permanently inescapable.
What was not was how one faced it. She saw Calixto’s lustful stare in her mind’s eye, his animal hunger at the site of Susanna’s murder. There was a voice, faint and frail in the back of her head. Her fist clenched around the golden pendants and all of her doubt melted away. Her eyes narrowed in determination and renewed resolve. She resisted the impulse to kneel before Ulfric, though her legs were wobbly and she wanted nothing more than to rest. Still as a stone and strong before him, she clenched her fist as she looked him in the face with a steely glare.
“Lydia Shield-Maiden…” he said, sounding out the words in that rich tone of his, “You have dishonored the oath you took as a Stormcloak, to swear your blood and honor to my service. You have murdered an unarmed citizen of the hold in cold blood and without provocation. Speak in your defense.”
“The man I killed was a murderer who preyed on the flesh of the women of the hold.”
Ulfric sighed, rubbing the skin of his forehead between his eyebrows, as though he had a nasty headache. “On what grounds do you accuse Calixto Corrium of murder?”
Lydia stood up straighter, feeling as though she were about to faint. Her vision was doubling and she saw two Jarls, one dancing around the other, mimicking his doppelganger’s every movement.
“I accuse him because I saw the proof of his crimes in his eyes and knew in my gut that he was the criminal. I acted…” she paused and glanced up, casting an accusing eye upon Jarl Ulfric, “…because no one else would have.”
Ulfric smirked at her boldness.
“Your cause cannot be proven.” he answered, his voice like liquid honey. It was so easy to get drunk on it, to listen and be filled with courage, to do anything he asked with it.
Lydia closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.
“Then…” she said softly, the words piercing her heavy tongue, “I will take the consequences of my actions.”
Her face was burning hot and sweat poured down the back of her neck. She jumped when Ulfric languidly rose up and walked toward her. He circled around her twice, his searing eyes running over every crevice of her body. She bit her lip and swallowed her bile, willing herself to stay calm. The act of watching his movement was making her dizzy and sick. Finally, he halted in front of her, impatiently tugging at his bearded chin.
“You are a peculiar woman, Lydia Shield-Maiden.” he said smoothly, the look on his face faraway and contemplative, “You are a proud warrior with the courage and will of Ysgramor. Again and again have I been informed of your prowess on the battlefield, of your selfless acts for the freedom of Skyrim.”
He glanced at Galmar Stone-Fist and then turned around and seated himself back on his throne.
“And yet you become a paltry criminal. A murderer has no place in the Stormcloaks, among heroes and the makers of legends. You deserve imprisonment at the very least for your crime. Death in equal share at most. What am I to do with one such as you?”
“You are an uncommon murderer and an uncommon fighter. You are alike to your father in the latter regard. To honor his title and memory, I have decided to send you on one final mission as a Stormcloak. You will go alone and have no help.”
He gestured to his steward, a little man whom Lydia hadn’t noticed in the process of the doings, who strode out of the shadows, nodded at him and threw an undersized pouch at Lydia. To her great surprise, she caught it between her unsteady hands and heard the jingle of coins between her quaking fingers.
“I have provided you with expenses for your journey and a letter of recommendation.” the Jarl went on, “There my assistance will end. After this passage, you will be stripped of your title and rank. Your presence will not be tolerated in Eastmarch any longer.”
“My Jarl…” Lydia asked, her voice small and weak, “Where am I to go?”
Ulfric smirked sadly. “You are to serve in the household of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. He refuses to pick a side in the war, though his allegiance is owed to the people of Skyrim. Everything rests on Whiterun – it is the tipping point of the war and the heart of Skyrim. You are to show him the rightness of our motives and the strength of our honor. Do you swear to aid me in this final endeavor, Lydia Shield-Maiden?”
Lydia dropped at last down to one knee, her resolve finally giving out, weariness overwhelming her, her hand shaking as it clutched the Jarl’s coin purse. “Yes, my Jarl.”
“Then begone from my sight.”
He turned his back to her without another word and left the hall.
She wandered outdoors in a daze, her stamina drained, squinting as the glare off of the freshly fallen snow hit her tender eyes. As she walked through the city, she was amazed by how nothing had changed in the outside world. The merchants still set up their shops and hawked their wares in the cold. The gossipy housewives still chattered in their dim corners. The blacksmiths pounded away at their sheets of metal. Lydia felt as though she had just come back from Oblivion. The physical plane was alien to her now and strange in its familiarity. It was still the same after everything else had changed in inexplicable ways.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of panting and pounding footsteps racing behind her. Helgird came charging in, her robes streaming behind her.
“Lydia!” she called out, stopping to catch her breath when Lydia noticed her, “Don’t…forget…this…”
She held out the sword that Hermir had made her when she first became a Stormcloak.
Dumbly, she took it and immediately felt as though a lost limb had returned to her. Helgird slapped her on the back in good humor and then to her great horror, hugged her in the middle of the marketplace.
“Arkay, god of Life and Death, guide you, daughter.” she whispered in her ear in her scratchy voice as she rubbed her back.
She released her slowly and unwillingly, patted her shoulder one last time and waved as she walked away, disappearing as she walked down the steps of the graveyard.
Dimly, Lydia realized that the marketplace had grown quieter. She whirled around and met Hermir, who was staring at her, mouth agape, hammer hanging in midair over a piece of armor she was working on. Her face was sooty, as always and wild bits of singed hair framed her head.
“You’re alive!” she gasped, dropping the hammer at last. “What’s going on? How did you –”
“I’m leaving the hold.” Lydia broke in, the full force of the words hitting her in the stomach, “Never to return.”
Hermir’s face fell. “Then...” she said, turning around and rummaging through a pile of finished pieces, “…these are yours.”
She stacked a new suit of steel armor, a pair of armored boots and a set of gauntlets into her overburdened arms. Lydia staggered under the weight and tried to shift it to make it more comfortable of her.
“But I can’t pay you for any of this. Won’t your master…”
Hermir put a finger to her lips and pointed at Oengul’s turned back. She leaned in close, until her lips brushed Lydia’s ear.
“Look at it as a fee for services rendered.” she whispered, “I don’t believe that you were wrong in what you did. It could just as easily have been me as Susanna or Friga. I want to thank you for that.”
She cast a wary eye on her master’s hulking form, waved goodbye silently and turned back to her relentless work. Lydia nodded, feeling thankful and ashamed for taking so much and scurried to Candlehearth Hall as fast as her load would let her.
She bought a meal from the innkeeper immediately and devoured it at the front counter while Elda studied her with accusing eyes, never taking her out of her sight. With the feeling of being watched still prickling on the back of her neck, she returned to the room she had shared with Lilija.
It seemed so empty now that Lilija had packed up and left. Even the snowberries were gone and their absence left a dark hole in the place. As she rummaged through her meager belongings, she found that her possessions were not where she had left them and got the distinct feeling that the suspicious innkeeper had been going through her things. But everything, so far as she could tell was still intact. She dressed herself quickly; slipping into her new gear like it was a second skin that had been made just for her. Everything else, every single thing she owned in the world, she hurriedly packed into a sack and slung over her shoulder. She stopped at the front counter again on her way out and bought a few loaves of bread to take with her on the road. And just like that, as she propelled herself through the front door of Candlehearth Hall and found herself staring down the iron gate of Windhelm, all pretense was done.
This was it. A dozen more steps and Windhelm would lay behind her, its door forever slammed behind her despairing back. Her feet were stuck to the ground. She couldn’t make them move any further.
She looked around wonderingly, breathing in the crisp winter air and catching the delicately falling snowflakes on her upturned face. She admired the ancient stonework and the tight corridors she’d run down so often as a child. She soaked in the sounds of the city – its confusion, its clanging, its violence, its peace.
She put her head down and ran down the Candlehearth’s front steps.
***
Tanniel stumbled ahead in the dark, her walking stick scraping the ground with every step. Lydia strolled leisurely behind, yawning as they walked. She wished she’d just stayed put. It was getting late and the bed in the inn was calling her name faintly through the night. The very least she could do was stop right here, take her breather and then head to bed. But the Thane just kept charging forward, tripping over unseen rocks and shrubs in her way, panting with the effort and gripping her walking stick so hard that her knuckles were drained of blood.
She soon left the village entirely, entering the barren terrain that circled the oasis that was Rorikstead. Dry grass crackled under their feet and Lydia’s ears pricked at the sound of wolves howling in the distance. A tingle of nervousness ran down her spine. The town night guards were just small figures in the distance now, their torches pinpricks of light in the thick darkness that had consumed the area. Out here, there were almost certainly wild animals lying in wait to make a meal out of the silly girl. She was unarmed and unprepared and still faltering blindly ahead. Lydia sped up and stuck a little closer to her, her hand on her sword, her eyes darting around, squinting at shadows that looked to her like vicious creatures.
Abruptly, Tanniel stopped in her tracks and raised her face to the heavens. Lydia slid to a halt half a second before she would have bumped into her and silently cursed herself again for agreeing to be housecarl to a complete fool. It had all been so sudden. On that day, Dragonsreach had been in the midst of a sustained uproar. First it was dragons, then it was earthquakes and the damage that followed that. She’d spent that day fretfully watching the skies from the Great Porch along with the group of guards who’d remained behind to defend the Jarl if need be, her bow drawn with shaking hands. She’d never felt so useless in her life. Every day in Dragonsreach had been a bad one but that had topped them all. She had no doubts in her mind that if a dragon had attacked the keep; the other guards would have thrown her between its jaws without hesitation. Such was the fate of a known Stormcloak living in an Imperial hold.
And then, in the midst of the fear and panic, in the crushing disappointment that dyed every wall of Dragonsreach, Jarl Balgruuf had called her name. She was reasonably certain that this was the first time he’d ever said it and the only time he’d acknowledged her presence since she’d arrived. Dumbly, she’d trotted toward him in answer and with the sound of wind rushing between her dazed ears, found herself speaking the words that bound her life to another.
Tanniel was still standing absolutely immobile; her face turned upward, a strange tranquility relaxing her tight muscles. At least she wasn’t charging forward any longer. Any farther and they’d have left Whiterun Hold entirely and entered Wild Country, with its population of mad Reachmen. She just wished she’d turn back already and go to sleep in safety.
What was she staring at anyway that had so transfixed her? Curiosity and boredom getting the better of her tired mind, Lydia followed her line of sight and found herself staring with wide eyes at the vast array of stars above her head. Everything was so clear tonight. In the deep darkness of the wilderness, the celestial bodies shone sharper than a polished blade. The cosmos seemed richer and vaster and stretched farther into the distant horizon than she’d ever thought possible. She thought that if she looked hard enough, if she squinted and tilted her head in just the right manner, she might just be able to see clear through to a few planes of Oblivion.
When was the last time she’d just stopped to stare at the sky? She couldn’t recall. All the lonely time in her journey between Windhelm and Whiterun was spent embroiled in her own personal cloud of despair that blocked out everything in her vision but the dusty road at her feet. She’d spent a night camping in the wilderness, far from mortal society, but had done very little besides setting up her bedroll and falling into it. And before that, when she’d camped in the wilds of the Rift with Gunjar and Lilija and the half-dozen others who hadn’t made it, there had never been any time for sightseeing. It had always been one crisis after another with them. Someone was sick and needed herbs gathered for treatment. Food stores were running low again and everyone was running on empty bellies. A group of Imperials too big to handle had been sighted approaching the camp and the only thing to do was haphazardly pack up and flee. She couldn’t quite say that she missed those dire days – those months where she had never once stopped feeling like an animal being hunted. At night, when it was quiet and she struggled in her tent to get another hour of sleep before it was her turn to keep watch, when lonesomeness and desolation consumed her, when she wept in grief when no one was watching, the only thing that had kept her going was her memory of her father.
The times when he had sparred with her, teaching her how to defend herself. His enthusiastic war stories about his time spent in the Legion during the Great War and the bitterness in his voice when he recalled the results of it. The lonely solitude he had never quite shaken off after Lydia’s mother had left him years before her daughter could know her. And then at last, she dwelled on their camping trips in the plains of Eastmarch, the peace she felt when she was near him and the wonder they shared as they stared up at the sky above the wilds surrounding them.
She had watched him die in her head a hundred times. Sometimes he was stabbed with delicate swords, his death-wound only a small incision in his chest. Or perhaps his face was smashed in with a mace. But more often than not, his attacker wielded a war-hammer and beat him to bits with it, hitting him over and over until he was not even recognizable as human anymore. It didn’t help that she hadn’t seen his body before it was hastily buried in Windhelm, before the first winter frosts could harden the ground into its usual stone-like consistency.
In times like these that she remembered painfully that she really was alone in the world now. Skyrim is a cold place and its harsh winds give no forgiveness for weakness.
“Lydia…” a small, thin voice startled her and interrupted her thoughts.
She came back to reality, blinked away the stars in her eyes and squinted at Tanniel, the shadow standing beside her. The girl turned around, clenching her walking stick between both hands.
“Lydia…” she said again, her voice laden with sorrow and worry, “…do you think I am Dragonborn?”
Lydia rolled the question around in her sleepy head, unsure of what answer could possibly be right to give.
“I can’t help but think that Reldith is right.” Tanniel went on, feeling around for a boulder to sit on and finding one, “I don’t want to believe it myself. I’m afraid to think about it. There was so much that I wanted to do…”
She trailed off and her gaze shifted back to the sky as a shooting star streaked across it. Pent-up anger and frustration roiled in Lydia’s brain. The empty darkness pressed in around her. At last, in the cold desolation with no one close and not a soul living beyond the borders of Rorikstead for miles around, the words she wanted to say reached the tip of her tongue.
She exhaled through her nose loudly, causing Tanniel to look up from her perch. “No.” she breathed in answer, “I don’t.”
It was like a dam had broken in her mind, although the deluge it caused was halting and staggered.
“The Dragonborn…” she went on, stepping forward and sitting beside Tanniel, “…is a warrior. A king. An emperor. A…a conqueror. A god among mortals. The Dragonborn…”
She couldn’t stop herself. She was taking out everything on this stranger – the despair she’d felt when she’d heard that her father was dead, the helplessness of watching her friends die one by one, the rage, the betrayal, the boredom, the feeling of being hopelessly ensnared in a conflict too large for the likes of one person. She glanced at Tanniel’s walking stick, cradled between her arms like a child and her eyes narrowed.
“…is not a cripple.” she finished, regretting the words the second they came out of her mouth. She slapped a hand over her blabbering lips but it was far too late.
Tanniel curled up into herself, sliding to the ground and hiding her face in her knees.
“I’m sorry!” Lydia cried, jumping to her feet. She didn’t know what to do. Her mind was racing miles a minute, but couldn’t discover an apology that could possibly cover what she’d said.
A low snarl suddenly grabbed the attention of both of them. Lydia’s gut clenched in terror. She drew her sword before she even realized she was doing it. There it was – she could see it now in the moonlight, creeping languidly toward them, well-disguised in the long, dry grass. A sabertooth cat as big as a bear, its dripping jaws open in a savage growl. Lydia scrambled for her shield but her fumbling fingers couldn’t quite untie it from her back. She saw it lunge and begin bounding toward them, its scimitar-like claws extended.
Tanniel leaped to her feet, winged her walking stick violently into the horizon and with a sweep of her hand, set a half-moon of grass ablaze in front of her. For a split second, Lydia watched in utter shock, staring at the small figure before her, surrounded by crackling flames and flying sparks. She extricated her shield and hurriedly jammed it on her arm.
The cat circled the barrier of fire, pawing at the flames and jumping back when they stung him. Tanniel lobbed a blazing ball at him and hit him square in the face, singeing his ears and nose and causing him to howl in rage. He lunged through the fire blindly, screaming his hurt as he was burned again. Every instinct telling her not to, Lydia ran toward it, her shield held forward, her sword like a lance, as she shoved Tanniel roughly out of the way.
Its heavy paws crushed her and knocked her to the ground. She felt something snap in her torso as she fell under its considerable weight, but her shield blocked the worst of its claws and teeth. Its heavy weight was utterly still as it lay of top of her. Shaking, her hand tingling, she let go of her sword. It was buried hilt-deep in the creature’s throat, driven there by the force of the cat’s own momentum.
Hurling her body against it, Tanniel shifted the weight of the sabertooth cat’s corpse and extricated Lydia from under it. Bracing her foot against its singed face, she dumbly pulled her sword free and wiped it clean on the dry grass.
The two of them collapsed, exhausted on the nearby boulder, panting and coughing from the smoke hanging in the night air. Lydia was suddenly feeling very light-headed and she wasn’t sure if the smoke was the only thing to blame for that. In the distance, she spied a group of people approaching from the direction of Rorikstead, a shadowy mass that charged toward them at running speed. No doubt the farm hands and owners who’d seen the fiery commotion and wanted to know what was happening.
“A-A…cat!” Lydia coughed, standing up and stumbling toward them, “It was a c-cat. P-Probably after the livestock. But we killed it.”
Ennis, the one who seemed to be leading the crowd, had a look of abject horror on his fire-lit face.
“And then it what…” he said breathlessly, his jaw hanging open, as he stared at something right behind her shoulder, “…farted flames when it died?”
“No…” Tanniel said softly, getting up and standing beside Lydia, her face turned down, “That was me.”
“Casting wench!” a slurred voice screeched, its owner hurling a metal flagon at Tanniel. Lydia jumped in front of her, blocking the projectile with her shield and sending it bouncing off into the shadows.
“Hey!” Lydia barked, bewildered, “This is the Thane of Whiterun! You’d do better to show her some respect!”
“I don’t care if she’s the emperor himself.” Ennis growled, his voice tinged with horror, “She’s set the whole place on fire!”
Slowly, Lydia turned around. It had been a very dry summer in Whiterun Hold. The long grass and parched shrubs that covered most of the Jarl’s holdings were exactly like kindling this time of year. The fire had leapt from blade to blade, igniting a vast inferno that spread far beyond Tanniel’s little circle of flame.
Someone lobbed a pebble and it hit Tanniel in the temple, sending a small trickle of blood running down her face.
“Go!” Lydia hissed at her, raising her shield protectively, “Just run! I’ve got your back!”
Tanniel nodded, her face pale and her features tight and stumbled off into the night as fast as she could go. After an hour or so of darting and weaving, of huffing and puffing, they finally appeared to have lost the unruly mob. The two of them collapsed in the scratchy grass beside an old war monument. Lydia was more exhausted than she she’d been in a long time. She wanted to drift off to sleep right then and there, no matter how open the clearing was to attack. And then she heard laughter. It was like bells, light and childish. She opened her eyes and turned to her companion and found her laughing so hard that tears were pouring down her face.
“B-Bhaha!” she snorted, lifting herself up on her elbows, “Ohohoho, I-I s-shouldn’t l-laugh. P-People are probably g-getting hurt and R-Rorikstead m-might be b-burning down. B-But I-I’m just so glad!”
She fell back heavily on the ground sighing.
“After all that…” she breathed, smiling widely, “…we’re still alive.”
Lydia cracked a smile and chuckled. The sound was awkward and hoarse in her throat. Almost against her will, it turned into a full-fledged laugh, rich and deep.
“You’re right!” she guffawed, thinking back to a cramped cell and a gentle hand slipping through its enclosing iron bars, “If we make it through this day, we can make it through anything.”
Tanniel got quiet then. Groaning, Lydia sat up and looked at her. She lay back in the long grass, her arms crossed over her chest, a pensive look on her face.
“Anything…” she repeated quietly, “Anything, including High Hrothgar? Including Oblivion? Or beyond?”
Lydia took her pale hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
“Yes, my Thane.” she answered sternly, “I am your sword and your shield, after all.”
Tanniel smiled a little and her soot-covered face brightened.
“Could you…” she asked carefully, picking out her words one by one, “…call me by my name? I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself to you. Shall we start over?”
She sprang up and shook Lydia’s hand warmly.
“Name’s Tanniel. Nice to meet you!”
Lydia smirked.
“All right, then. And I’m Lydia. Hello.”
Lydia let go of her hand and slowly got up.
“Ooh.” she groaned, feeling her broken rib twinge as she moved, “Damn, but I’m tired. We’ve got to find some cover before the night ends.”
Tanniel smiled as she staggered after her in the dark.
***
The bodies piled up without cease, day and night, morning and evening, in storm and sunlight. They were dragged in by comrades, moaning and crying and covered in blood and tossed at Lilija’s feet for healing.
She had an entire cave to herself for the time being, a crack in the stone canyon carved out by the Karth River. The chilly river flowed at the entrance of the small cavern and sometimes breached the entrance to flood the cave all too often after a heavy rain. Days like that were beyond awful. All of the sick soldiers who were spending time snoozing on their bedrolls were drenched in the deluge and pinched by the occasional mudcrab caught in the flow. And it wasn’t just part of the cave that was frequently swamped. As the floor was fairly level, it was always the entire thing that flooded, leaving no dry spots to stand in and chilling the people she was trying so hard to heal to the bone.
But there was one saving grace of the horrible cave. It was probably the only reason she had put up with it so long – its fortification. Her comrades always made sure that she was well-protected. The entrance to the cave was concealed with hanging moss and branches, making it look like just another section of the canyon wall. There was an archer out front whose sole job was to sit in a hollow in the ravine and keep an eye on everyone that passed by. In a place as staggeringly dangerous as the Reach, Lilija might just have been the most valuable asset to the Stormcloaks stationed there.
Things were just about as bad as she’d ever seen them. Here, it wasn’t just Imperial patrols that caused issues. Attacks came from all sides, the most prominent among them being the rabid packs of Forsworn that ravaged every single Stormcloak encampment they found. They were terrifying to behold, with their severed animal heads for helms and terrifying magic that created wounds that she didn’t know how to heal.
She tried so hard, day in and day out to help everyone who came to her, before falling, exhausted and sick herself to the floor for an hour or so of sleep when she could get it. It was getting much harder to manage, now that her pregnancy was beginning to show and the swiftly growing baby was consuming what little energy she had left. She had been considering calling it quits for several weeks now – perhaps dropping her Stormcloak persona and slipping away in the night to find a job in Karthwasten or Left Hand Mine until her term was over. She was reasonably certain that her comrades would understand. But they wouldn’t like it. They needed her desperately, direly. To lose her would be a significant blow to the cause and because of that, Lilija couldn’t bring herself to abandon them just yet.
So she stayed in the dripping cave, behind her layers of camouflage, in the ankle-deep puddle that was the floor, relentlessly healing whoever fell at her feet and resting when she could. She did her best to brighten the gloomy place up – filling it with sweet-smelling lavender and mountain flowers, building her own little shrine to Talos in the driest corner available. It reminded her of home, of her mother weeding their garden around the shrine in the back end of Riften, of her brother and father excitedly arguing politics every single night over dinner. She missed them all terribly. She wanted to tell them about everything she’d seen and done, about all the miles she’d crossed and friends she’d made. Several times, when she had gotten a hold of dry paper, she’d written letters to them. But roads were far worse than usual in this part of Skyrim and it was extremely doubtful that any of her writings had made it as far as Riften. Perhaps it was for the best. She still didn’t know how she’d go about telling her parents that they were due to be grandparents soon.
That thought scared her just about as much as the mad Forsworn. Whatever happened, it was a hurdle that had to be crossed. When the baby came, he would be their responsibility as well and a part of the family, regardless of his origin. She’d thought about concealing the truth from them many times, of hiding somewhere in the wilds and raising the child herself, away from prying eyes and snide looks. It seemed like such an easy thing to do, to run from trouble and never look back.
But then she would remember one day in Windhelm. A wonderful, dreadful day, the worst and the best that she’d ever had. She’d spent it with a friend, touring the city and running everything that had happened the day before through her bewildered head. Blurred images and words had drifted in and out of her consciousness. And then, in the Temple of Talos, as Lydia lit a candle for the friend she’d just seen murdered, she had remembered the words that the girl had spoken to her the night before. The only thing her parents would worry about would be her safety. Everything else came secondary to love.
She picked up the dried twig of snowberries that she’d placed in a bowl at the shrine and held it to her nose. Sometimes she thought she could still smell the freshness of Windhelm’s snow on it. It was on that day that she had plucked it from a crack in the city’s ancient cobblestones and kept it as souvenir of her short time spent there with a friend.
She wondered where Lydia was now and what she was doing. She wished every day that she could have been more help to her, that she hadn’t had to leave her behind in such dire straits. Wherever she was, she had to be in a better place than the Reach.
The clash of weapons outside startled her out of her thoughts. She put a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Her half-dozen sleeping patients stirred from their slumber and glanced worriedly around. The better-off ones snatched up their weapons and slowly stood up, making motions to everyone to remain quiet. If they stayed silent, if they held their ground and didn’t panic, the cave would remain secure and whatever was causing the disturbance would pass right on by, unaware that they even existed.
Lilija stood beside the Talos shrine, her back to the damp stone wall, her heart pounding in her chest. This had happened before, many times. It was terrifying, but it would go away eventually. The guard posted on the cliff would draw them away from the riverbank like he always did and everyone would be safe.
She heard a gurgling cry and a man she recognized came tumbling through the barrier of moss, his body slashed and bloody, tearing it down as he fell. Daylight streamed in to the dank cave, illuminating the horrified faces of its denizens. For a second, the Imperial soldiers standing outside gawked in, in shock, frozen in their tracks by what they had discovered.
They were on them in an instant, hacking and slashing through the injured crowd’s feeble resistance. Severed limbs flew and thick blood pooled on the damp floor. They reached Lilija last, as she huddled in the back of the cave, her arms around the shrine, sniffling in terror.
For a moment, she met the eyes of the soldier who was to be her doom. He stared her down with a pitying look, his bloody sword hanging limply in his hand. With a fearsome, wild roar, she lunged at him, drawing her dagger and plunging it deep into his stomach. She heard him cry out and watched him slowly keel over as she withdrew her weapon with a shaking hand.
As he fell, something shifted in her own body. She watched the soldier’s sword, its tip jammed between the links of her armor, drop from her chest and the wound well up with blood. The motions of a healing spell passed through her mind, but her arms suddenly felt too heavy to do any of that. She leaned back against the cave wall, drowsiness dragging on her limbs and pulling down the lids of her eyes. The moisture from the floor was seeping into her undergarments, cold and slimy. She found herself wishing that that wasn’t the last thing she had thought before dying. There was so much more that she had wanted to do, to be. She tasted salt as her own tear slid into her open mouth.
And then she was a bit of ash on the wind, her breath sparks and flame, her body blown to pieces and scattered across the Reach in passing storm clouds.
