Her first and most obvious problem was the same one that had plagued her from the beginning, and had made it obvious that she was not built for this life – she was not a fighter. Based on her previous experience, dungeon delving into an ancient ruin did not seem like the safest activity. With Ralof gone, she would need some new friends.
Over the following few days, she fell into step with Gerdur and Hod, and discovered she was terrible at chopping firewood, not strong enough to feed the logs into the mill, and didn’t know the first thing about growing potatoes.
She spent the first day getting blisters on her hands and mud in her hair, as Gerdur tried to find some use for her.
With the gold from the Jarl, she rented a room at the inn. The Sleeping Giant was a big wooden building with a single main room for cooking, eating and drinking, and several offshoot bedrooms. A parttime bard by the name of Sven played a variety of instruments and sang in the evenings. Hod, the blacksmith Alvor, and the village drunk Embrys piled in each night to drink mead and laugh with Orgnar, the cook and bartender.
Her room was small. It comprised of a single bed, a chair and table, and a wardrobe. But it was cosy, and she was grateful to be able to leave Gerdur and Hod’s space, even with the racket of the drinkers and the music.
Delphine, the innkeeper, was strange. She noticed Delphine watching her, more than twice. But she never bothered her, and their brief conversation was polite.
She took the morning and evening meals at Gerdur and Hod’s house, at their invitation. Fresh bread was bought and eaten with seared salmon, meat broths and vegetable soups. She even allowed herself a bottle of vinegary wine, which she struggled to finish, and spent the following hours laid in bed, watching the ceiling spin and finding herself humming to one of Sven’s favourite songs.
She thought about Irileth, and dragons, and wars she knew nothing about.
[]
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” she’d said. “I just- I’ve never seen an elf before.”
During her second day, she was supposed to be cutting logs with the village’s only elf, Faendal.
“You must not have travelled much, then. I’ve been all over Tamriel and seen all sorts of people.” He said, lining up a hunk of wood on the block. “But you don’t have to venture far to meet an elf. Or a human, I suppose.”
“Have you ever seen a dragon?”
“Never. And I don’t want to.” She watched as he raised the axe and brought it down, slicing the wood clean in half. “See how I bend my knees as I bring the axe down?”
“I just don’t think I’m built for this, Faendal. All this adventuring and walking and chopping, it makes my legs ache. And I’m cold all the time.” She looked across the village from where she sat on a log pile. She’d changed out of the long dress into a simple canvas tunic and trousers for the day at work, leant to her by Sven, who was supposed to be working at the mill, but seemed to have disappeared again. Not that she could exactly fault him.
The day was glorious. Golden sunlight dripped into the valley, warming her face in spite of the nibbles of cold breeze. The sky was completely clear, but for the rings of mist obscuring the mountain peaks, way above them.
“You complain too often,” Faendal said, as he bent down and picked up another log. “I wish I could spend all day adventuring. I try to get away to the forest whenever I can.”
“So, why are you here, then?”
“I need the gold. I used to hunt a lot more, but with the war on, it’s much more dangerous.” He lined up the log. “And Gerdur needs all the help she can get, supplying the soldiers.”
“Gerdur supplies the Imperials?”
“Of course, she does. It’s not like the Stormcloak rebels are going to come knocking. Are you watching me?”
She sighed. Faendal was just trying to help her when he could have been working harder on his own. “I feel like a burden. People keep feeding me and helping me, and I have nothing to offer in return.”
Faendal regarded her, then lowered the axe to the ground, leaning on it. “I’m sure you’re good at some things, you’re just out of your depth. This place is wild, and Skyrim is dangerous. Where did you say you were from, again?”
“I haven’t told you.”
“Right. Are you going to?”
“Probably not.”
He shrugged and lifted the axe again. “Maybe you should come for a walk with me, into the woods?”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Hitting on you? What does that mean?”
“Flirting, I guess. Forget it – I was just making a stupid joke.”
“Hah!” He laughed, and looked back to her before making sure the log was still in place. “No. I mean to gather ingredients.”
“Ingredients? We already have plenty of food at Hod and Gerdur’s, I think they’d-“
“Not for cooking.” He said, and swung the axe down, again. “For potions.”
“Potions?” She blinked at him. “Oh, like this one?” She pulled out the small red bottle from her pouch. The stained glass glinted in the sunlight, and she watched the indiscriminate liquid within distort the view on the other side.
“Yes, like that one. That looks like a healing potion. Good if you cut yourself, or worse.”
“How does it work?”
“You drink it. How do you think?”
“No, I mean, how does it heal you? Does it take a while?”
“No, it’s pretty quick. I’m not much of an alchemist, so I can’t explain it very well, but there’s something about it speeding up your natural healing. A cut can be closed in a matter of minutes.”
“Minutes?”
“Yes. Why?”
She tipped it one way and then the other, before putting it back in the pouch. “What does it taste like?”
Faendel considered her for a moment. “It depends on what you put in it. They’re commonly made with wheat and a type of mushroom common to the caves around here, so imagine that, but mixed with water.”
“That sounds kind of gross. Wait, there’s caves around here?”
“You won’t mind if you get cut. And yes, there are caves all over Skyrim. The mountains and hills are perfect for it.”
Faendal continued to chop wood, and she continued to sit on the log pile.
“Listen,” he said. “I can teach you a bit about making potions, if you’re interested.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, but I need your help with something.”
“My help? What can I possibly help with?”
“Well- you see-“ He stood up, wiping his brow, and she got the distinct impression he was embarrassed about something.
“There’s-“
“A girl?” She said.
“Yes, how did you-“
“Because you’re blushing, and I know there’s only one other younger person here. Unless you’re talking about Sven?”
“Sven? What? No!” He coughed.
“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. Somehow, stuck in a village in the middle of nowhere with amnesia, she’d managed to get wedged in romance drama. For reasons she couldn’t explain, it was amusing to her. “Wait, are you just asking me this because I’m also a woman? I wouldn’t put all your faith in me for that reason. If I was great at love, do you think I’d be here right now?”
“What does that … no, hang on. That’s not important!” He said, turning away to hide his blush. “I already know what I need to do about it, I just need someone to do it for me.”
“Faendal, I can’t profess your love to Camilla for you. You need to do that yourself.”
“I’m not going to do that, not yet.” He placed another log on the block. “I just need to get Sven out of the picture.”
“Ah, eliminate the competition.”
“I’ve got a note,” he said, and brought the axe down again. “Sven likes to write her these stupid little poems, thinking it’ll woo her…”
“Ah yes,” she said. “Because famously, writing people love poems is a bad way to show affection.”
“Yes, very good,” he said, and she laughed. “So, I wrote a note, pretending to be Sven, that I need you to give to her.”
“A note pretending to be Sven…?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you giving him a-“ And then she realised what he was trying to do. “Oh! Hang on, that’s- that’s awful, I’m not giving her your mean note!”
“Listen,” he snapped, the blush returning. “If you promise to do that for me, I’ll teach you how to make potions. That’s the deal.”
“Faendal, you can’t just betray someone like that, it’s awful! Can’t you just tell her how you feel?”
“Clearly not. Besides, it won’t be me, will it? It’ll be Sven.”
“No, Faendal, it’ll be me. What if she turns around and takes it out on me?”
“I’ve studied his handwriting. She won’t know the difference.”
“You’ve done what? How?”
“You help me, I’ll help you.” He chopped another log and threw the axe down in the grass. “Unless you want to learn how to cut firewood.”
[]
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The following day, they took the south road out of Riverwood, back up the river to the waterfalls and rapids, and into the forest. Faendal had gifted her a pair of well-worn leather gloves. “You’ll need them to avoid thorns,” he’d said.
He’d also dug out an elegant bow, which he shouldered along with an embroidered leather arrow quiver. Several arrow shafts and feathers poked out of the top. “In case we come across any wolves,” he’d said. They usually keep their distance if there’s more than one of you, but you can never be too careful.”
After some time, they’d branched off into the trees, and Faendal had begun to point out different flowers and growths on tree trunks. “Here,” he said, as he grasped the thorny stem of a thistle and cut it with his knife. “Thistles, these different mountain flowers, those mushrooms over there, they’re all good for making potions, provided you use the ones that work well together.”
Their first day was unfortunately cut short as a rumble of thunder sounded overhead, and rain began to fall in sheets, quickly picking up in intensity. They’d had to run back to the village. The rain was freezing cold, and they hadn’t brought any rain gear.
As they crashed back into Faendal’s little cottage, they laughed. “That rain came out of nowhere!”
“You’ve got to be careful – it’s a good job we weren’t too far from the village. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the lake.”
Faendal lit the campfire in the centre of the single-room home, and she sat in front of it, drying off as he changed.
[]
The next day rolled around, and they left earlier – the sun barely scraping the sky as she exited the inn. She shivered in the cold morning air, but she was too excited to let it bother her.
They took the south road again, passing the standing stones Ralof had shown her previously, rounding a large rock formation, and taking the road down to the lake’s edge. The old cobbles ran the length of one shore. She looked out over the glistening ripples of the quietly lapping water and saw more forest on the other side, and what looked like a sunken fort, its circular towers crumbling into the lake.
At Faendal’s direction, she inspected fallen logs for mora tapinella mushrooms, blue and orange mountain flowers, thistles, and more. On a shoal beach, Faendal identified the eggs of some scary man-eating fish that he proceeded to warn her relentlessly about, and caught a butterfly out of the air. “Their wings are good in certain poisons.”
“Poisons? Potions, and now poisons? Are you turning me into a witch?”
As she stuck her head into a bush, looking for more flowers, she heard a strange scratching sound. Moments later, an enormous rat lunged out at her, between the branches and leaves. She yelled and jumped back just in time.
“Run!” Faendal said, and pulled his bow from his shoulders.
She did as he told, her hand going to the handle of Hod’s dagger. But Faendal had already loosed an arrow, expertly aimed at the horrible creature, piercing its neck. She watched as it stumbled and struggled, spitting blood into the road. Faendal pulled out a small dagger, knelt next to it, and stabbed it once in the side. It went still.
“That thing is so horrible! Eugh!”
“A skeever. Big, mangey rats. It’s a good job it didn’t bite you, they carry all sorts of diseases.”
She stepped closer, looking the thing over. Big clumps of greasy, wiry fur were missing from its sides, its eyes blank and enveloped in cataracts.
Faendal lifted the creature into the middle of the road, and began to cut away at it with his knife.
“What are you doing?” She said, as he pulled a lump of guts from the opening in its belly.
“Skeever meat.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all, it’s good, if you roast it properly.”
“I’m not eating that.”
“You’ll be surprised.”
“I’m not eating that.”
She had to look away as he finished skinning and cutting steaks from the creature. He chopped off its tail, too, insisting it would be great for a poison they could make, later.
After moving the carcass from the road and washing his gloves in the lake, they carried on down the road.
As the sun peaked in the sky and began to descend towards the mountain peaks once more, Faendal pointed out a small island, just off the shore. “We can wade to that island, over there. I’ve made camp there a few times.”
As they neared, a thin plume of smoke became visible, rising up from behind a grassy verge.
“Ah,” Faendal said, “Looks like there might be a fisher there already. Let’s ask if we can use his fire.”
“Won’t they mind?”
“Not if we ask graciously.”
They reached a fallen tree trunk that looked as though it had been dragged into the water from the treeline. It lay half submerged, and Faendal headed to it. “We can use this tree as a way to tell how deep the water is, see?”
He pulled off his boots and rolled up his trousers. Holding the boots in one hand and the bloodied skeever stakes and tail in the other, he waded the short distance to the log, and signalled for her to follow.
She did the same, pulling off her new boots, not wanting to get them waterlogged, and rolling up the borrowed trousers.
The water was cold – colder than she expected, for such a sunny day – but she got used to it as she went. The water only came up to her knees, and she placed one hand on the bark of the tree trunk to guide her. Underfoot, she felt smooth pebbles roll away to accommodate her steps.
“So, we don’t have to worry about those scary fish here?”
“Slaughterfish nest in the lake, but feed in the rivers. You could swim here and you’d probably be alright.”
She didn’t like the sound of ‘probably’.
They reached the island and Faendal called out. A man called back, and a head appeared over the verge, roofed in an ugly, stitched, brown leather cap.
“Faendal!” He shouted back. “It’s been a long time!”
“Greetings, Honri, it’s good to see you again.”
Honri happily let them use his fire. Faendal laid out the skeever stakes on sharpened wooden sticks and left them to roast over the flames. As he worked and chatted with Honri, exchanging stories about work, Riverwood and the lake, she sat back against a tree and watched the sun’s reflection ripple in the gentle breeze. At the far end of the lake, a few thatched rooves implied another small settlement. Smoke rose from a chimney and the clanking and thuds of what must have been another lumbermill carried on the wind. She watched as birds rose from treetops and soared across the sky, some dipping towards the lake, maybe hunting for fish in the shallows. By her right foot, a honeybee buzzed between buttercups.
She breathed the clear air deep. It was likely that the following days were not going to be so calm. Looking over at the mountain peak behind which she knew Bleak Falls Barrow lurked, she tried to push the thoughts of massive creatures diving from the sky out of her mind.
Honri didn’t stay much longer. He had a wooden paddleboat beached and upturned on the shore of the island. Gathering up a rack on which he’d hung freshly caught fish, he bundled his belongings into the boat and pushed it out into the water, jumping in with a splash of his boots. He waved goodbye to the pair, and set off towards the opposite shoreline.
When the skeever steaks were charred, Faendel brought one over to her, still skewered on its stick. He took a bite of his own to reassure her, and she tried tentatively. It was a bit tough, but he’d produced some salt from somewhere, and done a decent job of disguising the meat’s texture.
After they finished eating, they sat for a while.
“So, elves, right?”
“Yes?”
“Tell me more about elves.” She said, and he laughed.
“Well,” he said, “where to begin? ‘Elf’ is quite a general word. There are different races of elf, just like there are for humans. Altmer – what humans call the high elves, Dunmer – or dark elves, and Bosmer – that’s me, a wood elf. Those are the most common three, but there are some others.”
“It’s not offensive to call you an elf, is it?”
“No, it’s not. It’s like how we generally define you as humans, but there are different types. Nords – from right here in Skyrim, Imperials - from the heartland, Cyrodiil, Redguard - from the sands of Hammerfell, and Bretons – which, I would guess, is you.”
“I’ve been called that before. Why can you tell I’m a Breton?” She felt the word in her mouth as she spoke it.
“Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but most Nords are heavily built and very tall. They’re easy to identify.”
“Okay.”
“And Bretons are … typically … well, the opposite.”
“You think I’m a Breton because I’m short?”
“Well, yes, kind of.” He laughed. “Unless I’m wrong?” He corrected himself quickly.
“What I’ve I’m none of those?”
“Well,” he thought for a moment. “What else would you be? What are your parents?”
Parents. Homeland. Race and species. All these identifiers, and the only lead she had was her height and stature. “I’m- I’m not sure.”
“Listen, if we’re going to be friends, I’m going to need something to call you. Can you really not remember a single thing before Helgen? Did you get hit in the head, or something?”
“How am I supposed to know? You can just call me ‘Girl’, like every other man seems to.”
“I don’t want to call you ‘Girl’,” he sighed.
“Yes, I agree. It’s reductive.”
“Reductive?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“What does reductive mean?”
“Yes. I’ve never heard that word before.”
“It means … like … to take away from something. Like, ‘reduce’. Calling me a ‘Girl’ is condescending and makes me feel like I’m worth less, or immature,” she said, then added: “I suppose.”
He nodded. “Okay then, friend. We can leave it for now, but it’s going to get confusing.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” she sighed, and they did.
He told her about Valenwood – the home of the Bosmer, and how his family lived in a great tree. He told her that he’d travelled much – he’d been across Cyrodiil’s warm beaches and lush forests, and even to the ash-covered lands of Morrowind - the home of the Dunmer.
“It’s like a different world, in Morrowind,” he’d said. “The ash from Red Mountain covers everything, and there are strange creatures and dangers to be found. Skyrim is dangerous in many ways, but right here, in Whiterun, it’s simpler. It reminds me of home.”
“Why don’t you want to go back home?”
He thought for a minute. “I will, when I grow older. But this is nice, for now.”
The sun began to dip further, grazing the mountaintops in the distance, and she thought of Ralof. She wondered whether he’d made it to the city of Windhelm, and whether Ulfric had been there, waiting for him.
“Alright then,” Faendal said, and stood. “We’d better head back to the village before night falls.”
He stomped out the fire and gathered up his bow and arrows. They waded back across the lake and wandered down the lakeside road. The wind whistled through the treeline to their right, but no giant rodents or wolves jumped out at them.
But as they neared the end of the lake, Faendel put a hand out, motioning for her to stop. “Stand to the side,” he said, and moved to the side of the road. She followed, looking ahead, trying to see what he had seen.
In the rapidly dimming light, she saw a glint of metal armour, maybe ten metres ahead of them, down the road. As it neared, she made out four figures, two in armour, one in robes, and one in rags – a prisoner.
Where Faendal and her stood left them a wide berth with which to pass.
She saw that the prisoner, who’s hands were bound and walked with a limp, was a tall, muscled man with braided ginger hair, closely shaved on one side. He looked like a warrior. His face was blackened with bruises, all down one side. His nose sat at an odd angle, and one of his arms was covered in dry blood. He didn’t look at them as they walked closer.
But the leading, hooded figure did. Tall – taller than even Ralof or Hod she looked down her nose at them. They were adorned in smart, black robes, with sharp edges and a gold trim cut into them. Even under the her hood, her expression of superiority and distain was clear.
The other two soldiers’ armour shone greeny-yellow in the dimming light. Exquisite patterns had been carved and hammered into the plate, flowing like leaves or feathers. Underneath, their limbs were protected by glittering, overlapping scales. At each of their hips, they wielded maces of that same flowing metal, comparatively ugly by purpose.
They said nothing as they marched past, and Faendal didn’t move again until they had put plenty of distance between them.
“Thalmor agents,” he said, before she could ask. “There’s an old shrine to Talos around here, somewhere. They must have raided it.”
“Thalmor? Talos?”
He looked at her, doubt and suspicion crossing his face once again, but he explained with as little disbelief in his words as he could. “The forces of the elves. The Thalmor won the great war, against the Empire of Man, and they’re trying to outlaw the worship of the god, Talos. It’s messy. It’s why the Stormcloaks have rebelled.”
“Right.” She thought of Ralof and his simple padded armour. How could he ever hope to stand up to such magnificent and terrifying foes as these ‘Thalmor’?
“It’s best to stay well out of it. Here, we’re usually quite far from any of the trouble, but with the dragon attack at Helgen …” He trailed off, but she understood his meaning.
“Are the Wood El- I mean, the Bosmer, from Valenwood, part of the Thalmor?” She asked.
“Sadly, yes.”
She didn’t push any further.
[]
They made it to Riverwood just as the last light of the sun disappeared from the sky.
At his forge, Alvor packed away his tools, and Sven corralled his mother into their house from her chair at the porch.
Faendal took her to the inn. The firepit was roaring healthily, a spit of meats roasting above it. Orgnar clinked a few bottles, arranging them at the bar.
They walked over to the corner of the room, where there sat a battered looking worktable. On small scaffolds, glass baubles and jars, measuring beakers and bottles were propped up. It was an alchemy station, like the one in Farengar’s room at Dragonsreach, but much less well-maintained.
“Here,” Faendal said. “We have everything we need to brew some potions.”
“And poisons.”
“And poisons,” he said.
He lit a splint of wood from the main fireplace and ignited a small furnace on the desk. He explained that here was still some water left over from its last use. From a small drawer, he produced a mortar bowl and a stone pestle. Into the bowl, he placed some of the mountain flowers they had collected earlier, as well as a handful of mushrooms. He mushed them together in the bowl, explaining his process as he went, and showing her the consistencies of the paste he was creating.
Then, he poured the paste into one of the glass jars, which connected to the top of the burner. He took some of the water, and poured it in, too. As the burner heated the jar, the mixture began to dissolve, first, becoming thinner, and then into a gas.
Once it was ready, the gas travelled along a glass-ceilinged pipe as condensation, and out into a bottle, that he placed below the drip feeder.
“Sometimes,” he said, “my potions don’t come out well and I waste the ingredients. That depends on the measurements and, if I’m honest, some luck.”
When he was satisfied, he held the potion bottle up to the light.
“Hmm. This one looks good.” He showed it to her. “You see how I can just about see through the liquid, and how it fizzes slightly. That means the reaction is still happening, and it’s settling.”
“What is the potion for?” She asked, looking it over. The bottle he’d used was similar to the one she had in her pouch.
“This is a good potion for those looking to cast spells.”
“Spells?” She said, her ears perking up.
“Yes,” he said. “It helps to focus the mind, keeping the user connected to the energies. At least, that’s what I assume it does.”
“Could it help me to cast spells?”
“I’m not sure, can you do magic?”
“I’m … I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever done it. Well, at least as far as I can remember.” She tapped her head.
“Well, this potion isn’t very powerful. It will be best for those casting smaller spells. You know, to help with healing small wounds, or to cast small lights. That sort of thing.”
“So, magic can heal you as well as potions?”
He laughed. “Of course, it can.”
“Can you cast spells?”
“No. Not really.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said, setting down the bottle and beginning to clear out the remainder of the leftover paste from the mortar bowl. “There’s small things that I can do, but it isn’t really casting magic in the way you’re thinking. It’s just … natural things that Bosmer can do. Some people believe it’s to do with the worship of a god. I’ve spent enough time in far-off places to think it’s my heritage. But you can never be sure.”
“So, if I was a Breton, I could maybe do something similar?”
“Maybe. I know those from High Rock are often naturally strong at weaving magic.”
It was her turn to brew a potion, and she followed his instructions. She took the same ingredients and mashed them in the bowl. When they were ready, she poured the paste into the glass jar. She waited for the mist to form and trail along the tube, and then it dripped into another glass bottle that Faendal produced.
When she held it up to the light, it bubbled gently, just like Faendal’s had.
“That’s,” he scratched his head. “Impressive. It took me months to learn how to do that. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
They spent a few more hours at the workbench. They managed to produce a few more potions of varying effects, according to Faendal. As they worked, Embrys and Hod came into the inn and chatted with Orgnar. Delphine looked about the place and argued with Orgnar about something.
“There,” said Faendal, finally. “That should be enough stock to get some decent coin from Lucian. He’ll be interested in the magic ones the most, I reckon. And hey, if you can get hold of some wheat for healing potions, he’ll likely pay extra for those.”
“Great, thanks Faendal. This has been … surprisingly fun,” she said, and he dipped his head. But then he locked her with a stern gaze. “I hope you haven’t forgotten about our deal, though.”
She sighed. “I haven’t. I’ll go over to the trader tomorrow and talk to Camilla.”
He grunted in response, said his goodbyes, saying he needed to go eat, and left. She watched him go, and put the handful of the small bottles into her pouch, just to carry them back to her room. She left them in the chest at the end of her small bed, and headed for Gerdur and Hod’s house to eat, too.
She stepped out of the inn and looked up. Above her, hundreds of stars twinkled in the dark sky. A constellation ripped across the deep black like scar of brilliant purples and blues. Two moons, massive and differing in colours – one grey and one red – loomed above. Something about this fact made her feel strange, but her amnesia did not relent.
“You!” She jumped at the sudden shout. Whipping round to her left, she saw a man stood at the top of the short staircase, his finger outstretched, pointing right at her. “You!” He shouted it, again, his voice hoarse. It quivered with disbelief and panic and … and anger.
In the low light of the burning lanterns that hung on the inn’s wall, she saw his brown leather armour, and the seething expression on his face. He was covered in dust and mud, bruises and cuts, and he stank of burning wood and something else she couldn’t place.
And she recognised him as the Imperial soldier who had called their names, and sentenced her to death, at Helgen.
Hadvar had survived.